Anson Cameron, a regular Age scribbler, obviously knows a thing or two about hangovers. He constructed a ripper column this last weekend, just as I was completing Winton’s latest. Anson reckons at his age (and Winton’s, as well as certainly mine) a heavy night on the turps is not for the faint hearted when ‘…your alimentary canal is a Babylonian reticulation, your liver has come unlaced at the seams and your brain has shrunk in your skull like a bladder in a wine cask.’ Great similes/metaphors – almost Wintonian.

Alcohol is lovely, lovely stuff – either in the form of a pale ale, a jaunty shiraz or the juice of the peat – I just adore it. There is so much delight in seeking out the next big thing in craft beer or cider, or being attracted by an artistic label on an affordable bottle of wine – to me labels are as important as the quality of the stuff inside (silly, I know). The joys of the grape and hop I can share with my son and son-in-law. They are not lushes – just genuine students of decent brews and fruits of the grape – they appreciate the finer points. I also pace myself. Four days on, three off. On ‘wet’ days I am also circumspect in intake. Although on occasions I can transform into Mr Wobbly, its been decades since I have been royally drunk out of my skull – to me there’s no fun in that any more. I don’t think I’ve been on a bender since I turned thirty half a lifetime ago!

So the sulphur-yellow hued mornings that the author’s Tom Keely confronts, day after day, are unknown to me. In any case, the cooler climes of my island would perhaps be kinder than the frying pan of a Fremantle summer. Here Keely resides in a residential tower, the Mirabel, that has seen better days. In this novel Winton does what he is great at – spitting out the adjectives that fully, exactly express the flint hard glare of such brain addled awakenings after having, yet again in Keely’s case, being written off the night before – a writing off that erases memory of large chunks of his solo debauchery, aided by copious pill taking. It is about as seedy as it can get with the novel’s opening seeing our bloated, despondent hero contemplating a large, mysterious and wet stain on his top storey living room floor. My God! What is it – is it urine? If so, whose? Surely not his own!!!

This former eco-warrior has humiliated himself on national television, bringing his world crashing down – gone are his missus, his job and his McMansion. He is at ground zero of a deep abyss, with ‘Eyrie’ charting how he climbs out – or attempts to, often one rung up followed by two down. On his way back to self respect he is abetted by a cast-out kid, the grandson of a fellow Mirabel resident, a woman who once upon a time shared a little of his past. The deeply life-scarred Gemma is a double edged sword. She gives him a tad of womanly tenderness but, just as he feels he is making progress, she drags him down into Freo’s dark underbelly – and what a shit-heap that underbelly is!

It’s not Winton’s best. It won’t measure up to the remarkable ‘Cloudstreet’ or my favourites, ‘Dirt Music’ and ‘The Riders’. As for the Miles Franklin – well in my view it is behind Flanagan’s ‘The Narrow Road To The Deep North’.At his local launch here in Hobs, Winton even seemed to concede this. It’ll be interesting how it also stacks up against Christos Tsiolkas’ and Alex Miller’s latest, which I’ve yet to read. For my money though, these four are at the apex of our literary tree, at least as far a the male of the writerly species is concerned.

Some reviewers have remarked on the ending, and sadly I concur with them. To my mind it was in the form of a literary cliché that is akin to ‘…and then I woke up and it was only a dream.’ It is a cliché that a writer of Winton’s class didn’t pull off very well either. It is almost as though he’d written the number of pages he’d set himself and decided at that point it was time to pull up stumps. I would have liked to have seen it wind down a little more. As Winton has done in the past, he has dashed readers’ hopes for his characters –otherwise, though, is Hollywood, not the real world. Winton only deals in the real world, with perhaps a little magic realism thrown in for good measure.

In the second chapter Winton let’s fly with a killer rant, through his mouthpiece Keely, railing at all that is amiss in the post-digital age – his home state’s propensity for digging itself up and rampant greed being only two of the topics. He lets out a verbal barrage of bile on bogan street life, harassing charity workers on corners, buskers, bland shopping, rat-tailed infants and the lattefication of Freo. It is a cracker – it is Hillsian in class this invective-ridden fusillade. It was my favourite bit. Perhaps it should of come further in for it was all a bit downhill after that.

Am I being too harsh? It is still a beaut read. If you want someone to go for the jugular in wordsmithery to describe the resulting impact on the human psyche of repeated nights of cellar-dwellering, then this is the book. Winton is a living national treasure and this tome does nothing to wipe any of his sheen off!

An interview with Tim Winton = http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/books/interview-tim-winton-20131010-2v99d.html

The start of my timidity came that day on the beach; it marked the time from which my reduction had its beginnings. At least it does in my mind. Perhaps it was also age creeping up on me, but the surety I had prided myself on slowly started to dissipate from that event on, gathering momentum markedly in my last few years. But it could have been so much worse – it could have turned out as with James in Gail Jones’ remarkable ‘Five Bells’.

By that time I was in my fifties – and the final decade of my teaching career. The camp to that point had gone smoothly – only a few minor hiccups to be expected when a large group of students are in each other’s company for three days and two nights. I had an experienced crew with me and after having led so many during my previous thirty years, my organisation was down pat. In the back of my mind, though, was always the law of averages. I’d done so many without major incident, would my luck continue to hold. As it turned out – it didn’t.

It was the last morning. We’d packed up the students at Detention River and took the buses to Boat Harbour Beach for a swim, lunch and culminating in a return to school by three – a laid back day to wind down after the frenetic activity of the previous two.

Camps have a pattern – or at least mine did. We were dealing with students on the cusp of teenagehood – youngsters with the juices of adolescence already flowing, for the most part – always extremely pent up about being away from families and with their mates for such a period of time. Some were new to the school, being understandably nervous about the new cohort they found themselves in. The aim of the first day was to push the students reasonably hard in their activities in daylight, as well as keeping them up as late as reasonably possible before bed to cut down on the amount of post lights out misdemeanours. Sometimes it worked, invariably it didn’t – but generally tiredness prevented much that was untoward from occurring. We would have them up very early the next morning as well, ready for another full day. By the end of that second day, usually finished off with a social, the campers were well and truly out on their feet and the second night was a doddle. But still, all of this took its toll on the supervisory staff as well, but at least a better night’s sleep was had. I was starting to feel the pinch after all these camps – I wasn’t getting any younger. The weekend following usually was a write off and I struggled to be fresh come Monday, the start of another teaching week. I was already thinking of pulling the plug. The events of that last day gave me the excuse – at least to myself.

Boat Harbour Beach is one of the most beautiful on the island. A narrow road wends its way down a steep decline to its dazzling white sand and when Bass Strait is blue, its little cove is a glorious vista – as it was that Friday morn. It is also notably safe – a constant venue for school events. I had the usual arrangements in place – a senior member of the local surf club to oversee, the other staff changed and ready, just in case. Being a non-swimmer, I excused myself from that role and attended to other duties.

Soon after we arrived Bruce, the life saver, bought his surf-ski out from where it was stored. A little later he moved it down onto the beach. Just before I started to get lunch ready for the horde, I noticed he had moved it to the water’s edge. I found out later he was reacting to changing conditions, imperceptible to the untrained. He was deeply attuned to wind and tide, with his prescience being one of the reasons I never became a ‘James’. The second was the lunch siren which I rang shortly after. It bought the bulk of the students out of the water where they were having a ball – but when tucker is in the offing all else for most becomes secondary.

It was then the rip hit. Unbeknown to myself, whilst I was serving up, Bruce and the other staff had gone into the sea, urging out the stragglers to shore quick smart. Still a few became caught and Bruce used the ski to get them in. One lad was a fair way out and starting to panic. Bruce was onto it in a flash and retrieved him before he was in any real danger. Still he was in shock and we rang the school to get his parents, as well as those of a few others who seemed somewhat affected by the scare, to come and retrieve them. It was whilst I was comforting that lad, in the warmth of the club rooms, that it finally hit me how lucky I’d been, how fortunate for us all we had Bruce and the lunch siren. There was no going back for me after that. I didn’t want to push the odds any further.

Claiming age and the intrusion into staff’s family life, the following year I changed tack to a series of day excursions for the students under my care – and that seemed to work just as well, without the risks. Boat Harbour still cast its shadow over me as annually the school picnic was held at the beach. As part of the management team I often found myself on these days again responsible for large numbers of swimming students as other senior people would find reasons to keep themselves at school on picnic days. It gave me the heebie jeebies. I began to dread that day. I came increasingly insistent that when large numbers left the school for excursions etc, more than one management person went along. As time went on and I more and more reflected on that day at the beach, the more the wind was put up me when it came to student safety – particularly when a nearby school actually lost a student to drowning on an excursion. Reading of James in ‘Five Bells’ bought it all back to me in the ‘safety’ of retirement.

At just over two hundred pages, Jones compresses much into a day in the life of Sydney’s fulcrum – Circular Quay. I recently stayed in a Rocks hostelry, just across the road from the Museum for Contemporary Art, which features in the book but was sadly closed whilst I was there. I can attest to the vibrancy of this sweep of urban, harbour fringed land around from the Coat-hanger to the Opera House. Jones zeros in on four visitors to the hub, relays to the reader their back stories, then uses a fifth, a missing child, as the lever to bring the disparate quartet together at the one point in time. It is so beautifully done, with glowing prose. This is, as one would expect, a story of love and loss, as well as of reconnecting. Also featuring are the Cultural Revolution, Victoria Guerin and Kurt Cobain, The lovemaking between the youthful James and Ellie is lyrically wrought – ‘He could feel her own breathing like it was lodged in his own chest; the union had not broken but there was the warm pounding of their hearts, almost pressed into each other, like a new organ shared.’

Of course there are parallels to Slessor’s iconic 1939 elegy on the 1927death of his mate Joe Lynch. His fate is similar to one of the novel’s foursome, without giving too much away. I am sure a discerning reader will nut others out as well. This somewhat (hopefully) discerning scribe couldn’t find a false note in this engrossing read and was sorry he had waited so long to get to it on his bedside pile. He just thanks She up in heaven that a man wise to the sea and a screeching siren prevented the James thing afflicting his later years too. ‘Five Bells’ is terrific.

The Sydney Morning Herald on the author = http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/novelist-gail-jones-explores-tacky-tourist-traps-20110204-1agdg.html

I am so blessed. One of my DLP’s (Darling Loving Partner) many talents is the fact the she is a kitchen goddess. She produces delectable meals, always thoughtfully presented. She has a knack for turning fridge leftovers into flash tucker with, unlike your scribe, not being a slave to a recipe. I am no match for DLP in the culinary stakes, although I enjoy putting together a meal and I do have to force myself to not buy endless cooking books/magazines.

Another aspect of my darling lady is that she likes the same type of foodie programmes on the tele as I do. Neither of us are into the hoopla of Master Chef or MKR – no, we delight in great cooks telling us mere peons how it is done. Keith Floyd was the first I personally took a shine to; it being a tad saddening reading of the pretensions of his later years in ‘Under a Mackerel Sky’. Nick Nairn, The Hairy Bikers and Two Fat Ladies have also been favs in the past. I cannot abide swearing for swearings sake so Gordon Ramsey has largely past me by, but in those shows where he moderates that predilection he can be quite entertaining. Nor am I a huge fan of Heston Blumenthal’s excesses, although I admire his ‘out of left field thinking’. My current preferences largely reside in the SBS stable – Maeve O’Meara and her Good Food Guide, Peter Kuruvita, Luke Nguyen, Shane Delia and the Gourmet Farmer, Matthew Evans. I am also partial to the enthusiasm of the ‘Two Greedy Italians’ – Gennaro Contaldo and Antonio Carluccio. Then there’s Poh – very delicious herself (can’t wait for a new show) – and the ‘River Cottage’ guy Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstal. The only difference DLP and I have in all this is that we do not see eye to eye on the attributes of Nigella.

Both of us are attracted to the work of Rick Stein, perhaps I marginally more so than DLP. I enjoy his style on the small screen, the relationship he has with the camera and therefore, by definition, his viewers. He seems very human, with human foibles like all of us – foibles he is not afraid to leave unedited. Whereas Floyd liked to quaff a fruity red whilst he taught the world to cook, Stein is just as likely to recite poetry or quote the classics. He is as attached to Cornwall as I am to my beautiful island in the southern seas, particularly to ‘Padstein’ (Padstow). His commentary on any part of the world he finds himself in for a series is always worthwhile – naturally there is always something to enthuse about with the local tucker – something he can adapt for his own purposes back in his own kitchens. He is now getting on a bit, but he’s one of these people you hope that, in a Cohenesque manner, can keep going on forever – as with the likes of David Attenborough, Clive James, Willie Nelson – those that make our globe so much the richer for their presence. How I’d love to visit his Cornwall. Once upon a time I nearly got there. I guess it will not happen now – but a man can dream.

‘Under a Mackerel Sky’ is Stein’s evocative memoir – the word ‘evocative’ apt for those early chapters on his upbringing in post-war UK and his formative years in Oz. Now he is almost one of us, marrying an Aussie lass later in life and living for as much time as he can squeeze in on the southern New South Wales coast where he owns an eatery with his partner.

I found the book to be largely delightful. He is not a great wordsmith, but is as earnest in his scribing as he is expounding the glories of regional cuisine in France, Spain or anywhere that has a coast and a fishing boat. It is a given that a familiarity with his television work is a prerequisite. This gives his grand tales a context. Like most who look back on their earthly endeavours in written form, this is largely a vanity project and Stein is no exception. He is not backward in coming forward and quoting those who sing his praises. In his own words, though, he seems a genuine, genial enough fellow who possesses mundane doubts and insecurities despite his success in building his culinary brand. It is refreshing to know he does have a temper – seemingly that goes with the territory – and for Stein to be an exception would be a stretch.

His writing is at its best when describing his Cornish coast and its people – a populace he clearly adores, reserving a special place for the original and fast disappearing Cornishman (and woman). Then there is Chalky – his beloved canine who became an integral part of so many of his adventures. No Stein series was complete without the feisty terrier stealing a scene or two, being a natural in front of the camera. We all felt for Stein when he announced Chalky’s demise to the world. A mini-review of the book in the Age describes it as being somewhat melancholic in tone. Certainly his father’s supposed suicide casts a constant pall. His self doubt is emphasised – although it is hard at time to match this with the larger than life man on our screens. He writes of his early sexual exploits with an innocent frankness, but once he met the right woman, in the form of Jill, his career spiralled ever upwards.

She does seem to be the loser in all this – but then we can never be privy to the inner workings of a marriage and the author understandably is not overly forthcoming in what went wrong. He never disses her, but one suspects that in his effusiveness for how gloriously happy he is with his Aussie Sass would not be music to Jill’s ears – but who knows? Reading on-line, it seems Jill was initially very incensed about the new woman in her man’s life. Hopefully she has now moved on to a similar state of ecstasy to his as well.

The added photographs are charming as well as revelatory. I especially enjoyed his forthcomings on the goings on behind the scenes on his shows, particularly when applied to his good mate/producer David Pritchard. With so many years behind him, he has so many stories – they all being eminently readable. Let’s just hope the story itself doesn’t end for some time yet.

My beautiful DLP is doing one of her signature dishes for our evening meal. She weaves magic with a piece of Atlantic salmon. I am salivating at the thought. I doubt if even the great Rick Stein could match what DLP will soon be doing with that piece of fish!

Jill’s take on the breakup of the marriage = http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1082231/Why-I-hit-woman-stole-husband–gave-slap-Rick-Steins-wife-reveals-truth-split.html