You see, Mr Salt, I blame Hugh – Hugh Grant. It was his performance in the inspired opening scenes to ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’ that bought the F-Bomb in from the cold, I reckon. From out of the mouths of Salt’s ne’er-do-wells and into the oral orifices of the mainstream it came and came again until now it is a torrent. You see Grant’s repeated utterances of the expletive, as he belatedly readied himself for an engagement, went a great deal of the way into making that vehicle for his limited, but exceedingly engaging, acting talents into a romantic, much adored classic.

Then along came Ian McShane who turned the F-Bomb into an art form. His late career signature role in ‘Deadwood’, as the aptly named Al Swearengen, made it a hit. His foul blasphemies, centred on the four-lettered once reviled word, as he orchestrated his latest dastardly deed, I have little doubt will ever be equalled, despite Peter Capaldi’s best efforts in ‘The Thick Of It’.

Now that f**k is off the leash, romping unrestrained in society, it is bringing, from the outer, like terms in in its wake. It is in everyday conversation, even though in living memory it was only once uttered by those beyond the pale. But, nowadays. even the c-word is getting in on the act. The question is: what will fill the void as the outliers of the English language? The candidates, as put forward by Salt, do not seem to roll off the tongue as well as those which were once ignored by truly proper people.

But, despite its popularity in the digital age’s vernacular, I, like BS, still in some circumstances, consider it offensive. I have ceased to be shocked by a f-word up on the big screen or down on the little, but still find it hard to take when popular music is repeatedly peppered with them. Something like ‘Little Lion King’ is fine, or the glorious refrain to ‘Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again’ (No Way Get Fruited). But the abomination of some rap supposed tunes is a bridge too far, with it and other low-life terms, shouted out ad nauseam and with gay abandon, being an anathema to me. Nor do I prefer to use it in my everyday speech. I may, on occasion, utter it with a fair amount of liquid on board. I may quietly exclaim it to myself when untangling a knotty problem (usually associated with modern technology). But for some it seems it is as common now in everyday lingo as much as the ubiquitous ‘like’ between every phrase with the younger brigade is. For me, its continual usage by somebody marks that person as one that ideally I wouldn’t like to have any dealings with. Is that my age, or perhaps the teacher in me? Once upon a time I fought a losing battle against it in the school playground, but never tolerated it in my classroom. Perhaps it is because deep, deep down I may be just a tad prudish. I was certainly never brought up to use it and I too find it’s use by pretty young lasses quite confronting. I am sure the younger me would never have been attracted to such potty mouthed girls, despite the number of other attractive assets they may have had at their disposal.

So, yes, I am in Mr Salt’s camp here, being somewhat perplexed by its commonplaceness and being not prone to use it in my scribblings. And if anyone doesn’t like that they can, well, get fruitcaked!

Bernard Salt’s Column – http://www.theaustralian.com.au/life/weekend-australian-magazine/on-the-offensive-the-fword/news-story/8f59619eacb94eec39ff0b2958401eb8

My father was a tinkerer when it came to cars. He’d spend hours under a bonnet, often with me at his elbow at his beck and call to pass him what he required as he adjusted and fine tuned various components that made a car get from A to B. But none of that has rubbed off – these days I’d now struggle to accurately identify those parts that once fascinated my Dad. Nor have I ever possessed the remote inclination to make those numerous automobiles I have possessed over the decades to go more efficiently or, heaven forbid, faster.

My dear old father was also a serious exchanger of cars. It seemed that, as soon as he had tinkered one to peak condition; to getting a motor purring to perfection, he’d be looking around for the next challenge. Each generation of vehicles, as they added on greater complexity of innovation, would provide more opportunity for an even higher level of tinkering.

I had no idea where those genes of his had disappeared to in the family until, only recently, it was revealed to me that my youngest brother is a member of the fair dinkum ‘Top Gear’ club. I am glad they went somewhere. They certainly didn’t come in this direction. My latest car is a Protege; that I do know. But when asked I struggle to recall whether it is a Mitsubishi, Mazda or Ford. At least I know it isn’t a Holden. I barely noticed that, over the years, every time I’ve caught up with brother Dean, he is behind the wheel of a different, perhaps even flashier, make or model – just like Dad.

But I must admit, as with Jan Etherington, initially owning an automobile meant freedom. Typical of my father, before I even gained my licence, he had already purchased a succession of cars for me ready for the big day. What I actually ended up with, going for that rite of passage, was a blue, or was it grey, Fiat – a model that had suicide doors at the front. After some time researching in the ether, I think it may have been a 110/103 model. With a pleasant copper by my side I proceeded to drive said car around the block, nearly knocking some poor sod on his push bike into a ditch. The guy in blue pronounced that, apart from giving him a scare, I had done exceedingly well and eventually a little book arrived in the mail allowing me to take to the byways of Tassie. They were different days. A mate of mine simply received his because an officer of the constabulary had seen him driving around in his dad’s paddock.

Yep, the Fiat, with the suicide doors, was my ticket to cart around my less fortunate mates, pick up (admittedly very few) girls and it got me to and from uni. But I soon found that being in control of an auto wasn’t all it was cracked up to be for, you see, I kept running into things or, inexplicably, driving off the road. Over the years I’ve connected with letter boxes, flying ducks and a pole in Burnie K-Mart – twice. I once, with a very loud noise, collected the impressive car of Tasmania’s chief magistrate. He was none too pleased and later sued me. The highlight of all my mis-endeavours, the one that still has all those who know me shaking their heads in disbelief, occurred one dark and stormy night. I cannot reverse in a straight line to save myself and the manoeuvre I was attempting was simply to back down a driveway – one that was just a tad on the steep side. With the weather and incline limiting my vision, I managed to park my jalopy on a low wall between my partner’s property and the one next door. My car – it was orange, don’t ask the make – was stuck fast, immovable, resulting in a call to the RACT. The guy who turned up initially was gobsmacked, but in the end he had the solution. This was a combination of a complicated pulley system and tree that eventually worked, to the applause of a small crowd who had gathered to watch proceedings. I have it on good authority that I was referred to as a dip-stick by my saviour who related the tale to all and sundry.

The thought of attempting a reverse park gives me the heebie jeebies and city driving the palpitations. I hate the boredom of the Midlands Highway as my mind wanders all over the place to various reveries, especially if I’m doing it alone without my lovely lady to keep me focused. Nah, for this fellow the driving experience quickly palled.

The figures Jan E based her column on are obviously ones for the UK where choices for public transport and small distances abound. Here in Oz it is the opposite. I often dream what a joy it would be to live in a place, say Melbourne, where a reasonably functional transport system would mean far less reliance on private means of getting around – not that I’d ever swap Hobs in reality. I’m eternally thankful that Leigh is a great driver and confident/competent enough to give me stress free transport on many occasions, She also has a son who knows one or two things about what goes on in the mystery to me that is a car’s engine – for, you see, driving has completely lost its romance for me.

Jan Etherington’s column = http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/life/no-wonder-teens-have-given-driving-lost-romance/

Bernard has posed a few queries. A couple of them caused me to cast my mind back into the dim distant. And all because he reckoned he’d like to do a survey of centurions – no, not cricketers, but those who’ve reached a century of years. He has a series of probings he’d like to ask them. Reaching one’s hundredth birthday would be truly remarkable, but Salt states that one in a thousand of us do it. My physical health is okay, so I figure I am in with a chance. Maybe I’ll join the club – but would I want to? Well that’s another matter. But at this point in life, with thirty-five years to go, I’m already reckoning that my brain is turning to mush. Many, many memories are already lost to me – how many more will be gone after those three and a half decades? So, in case I do not get anywhere near it, I thought I’d respond to a few that he posed – the ones I’d mulled over in the days since his column appeared in the Australian’s weekend magazine insert. Maybe, if you also have the time to read this, you may also have the time to ponder on those questions as well – that is, if like me, you too have attained a goodly age. Or, on the other hand, maybe you may think that this silly old retired person has too many hours on his hands.

First Kiss? That’s clear as a bell in my synapses – even though it occurred an incredibly long time ago now, but then, it was my coming of age so to speak. I wish my mind was as clear about some of the other significant moments in my life. I had a youthful body once upon a time that had been thirsting for just that first kiss moment. Sandy, sweaty, salty – and it was totally, totally delicious. It set off all sorts of reactions. The local strand, two beach towels close together, a girl in a bikini wet from the sea. Bells and whistles. Fireworks.

Then there was another first kiss – decades further on and just as magically life affirming. Not a beach this time but a kitchen. That kiss has taken me to a very contented place in life in my autumn years – the opposite end of the journey I guess. The effect was just as the same as that very first time, but so very much more came of it.

Wedding Night? Now I am assuming, perhaps naively, that Mr Salt isn’t interested in any of the between the sheets stuff – but it did get me thinking. In recent years I’ve attended a goodly few weddings and they’re invariably magical events, none more so when my dear Kate and Rich made the commitment to their wonderful partners. It was at such an event that my brother seemed taken aback when I commented that I had only the very haziest of memory of his wedding many, many years ago now. It remains the case too with my own, as well as those of my other siblings. Numerous mates have been similarly wedded over the decades and there’s nothing there of those either. It’s as if, from the seventies to the nineties, my memory banks were in lock-down mode. That being said, I cannot conceive of my son’s or daughter’s ever disappearing for as long as I remain. And I had a ball at those ceremonies of my nieces and nephews in the new millennium, as well as those of some of my teaching colleagues. But maybe these will fade too. It saddens me that I’ve lost so much that’s clearly worth recalling.

Caused the Most Pain? There’s a simple answer to that. Death. Not only of those I’ve deeply loved in a personal capacity but, these days, it’s also the demise of many heroes of my generation – especially those of the musical variety. I’m rendered tearful, speechless and in need of time to get my emotions back in order.

The Best Decade? Well, that’s easy Mr Salt. This one. And it’s for the opposite of above – birth. This sexagenarian is incredibly blessed to be able to be around to see his granddaughters come into the world. A couple of days ago I was in Bridport, my second favourite place in the whole world, peering into the stunning blue eyes of Olivia, only a couple of months old, giving her her bottle. She fixated herself on me, her jaws working away at the teat, unwaveringly regarding me as if trying to work out where exactly I fitted in her ever expanding orb. She will work it out soon enough. My adored Tessa Tiger tells me in so many ways that I am important to her world and I feel so chuffed. My lovely lady’s two lads are descending on us for a few days over the Easter period and it will be such fun having them fill the house by the river with their zest and many, many charms. My Leigh is at her happiest when she is with those two little men. I find myself regarding babies and toddlers when I am out and about in Hobs, smiling at them, making eye contact. Maybe I’ll even pass on an appreciative comment to a parent about his or her tiny cherub. So yes, my old body isn’t what it used to be and clearly my mental acumen has gone down a notch or two, but having these four aforementioned small people around in my dotage – well, I wouldn’t be dead for quids. And how I’d love to live on and on to see their worlds unfold.

Happiest in my Life? Reading the above surely it is obvious. It really has to be the here and now, doesn’t it? As well as the love of those I hold most dear, I have our spot by the river here, my man cave, time and a gorgeous city to frequent. There’s a cruise beckoning as well as other trips beyond hazily forming, a ton of good books, DVDs to peruse and not even the woes of the Hawks can take away the pleasure of another footy season up and running. Man, am I ever lucky.

There are other questions that Bernard S requires answers to – but those will have to wait for another day. And the point of the exercise has been, as if I need reminding, that for all the awfulness on this planet, it is mainly filled with good people and they give to me far more than I could ever repay.

Bernard Salt’s column = http://www.theaustralian.com.au/life/weekend-australian-magazine/beam-me-up-grandma-learning-from-centenarians/news-story/7a5611e099c0a40d1838d96de704a417

SAD. I used to discuss it with a wise and lovely woman who was once my boss, but is now my beautiful friend. We came to the conclusion that I had it – seasonal affective disorder – not badly, just a small dose. She advised me what to do about it. Winter weighed me down. Winter ate into my joints and my summertime sunny self struggled to get out. I became flat in the classroom. When the sun was shining in through the windows I’d bounce around, engaging with wackiness and unpredictability. It was so much harder in the cloudy chillsome months to get myself up, in both senses of the word, for a day fronting my cherubs.

But then I cruised on up the coast of Mangoland, retired and moved south with, as a result, the SAD in my life dissipating. Where once I dreaded the turning of the leaves, the cranking up of another footy season and moving from white to red in my wines, they became something to take to with some relish. Now the air off the Great Southern Ocean, if brisker, seemed lighter than when the westerlies blew in on northern environs – and don’t even mention those from the direction of the Tasman. It’s as if the Bass Strait salted brine was gathered up, on the air currents, to make the air thicker, coarser – seemingly confining my world and hunkering me down. Down here there’s a more nuanced tone to the winter atmosphere – it’s discernibly colder, but more alluring to the senses in spite of that.

I see now there is much to celebrate as autumn hands over to the darker days. Salads and spritzers are retired and replaced with roasts, hearty stews and darker ales. There’s a wood fire when I am on house sitting duties at Bridport and around this seaside ville there’s nothing quite as bracing as a beach walk to make one feel alive. Back home, one day we might have the Bridgewater jerry embracing the city in its whispy Siberian fingers, with the next seeing the atmosphere crystal clear, exposing a heavy layering of snow on kunanyi. If there’s icing as well atop Dromedary, out the back, then I know it’s going to be a four layer day rather than three – and that’s fine too. There are snugs in pubs where I can savour craft cider and beer, as well as my favourite cafés for a caffeine hit.

For a time, not so long ago, it seemed Hobart only came alive for the summer, remaining a backwater the remaining three seasons. Now, with the advent of Dark Mofo, a heady mix has been added to the numerous warmer weather festivals. I don’t think I’d ever freeze my goolies at the soltice nuddy swim or parade around an art gallery starkers, but there’s plenty for the less adventurous too. So all year round we, these days, find the CBD, the docks and Salamanca alive with activity. And I am out and about, too, at the time when the puffer jacket is king. With my favourite beanie pulled down low, my Mack boots – too stingy for Blunnies – replacing my treasured crocs and four layers adorning upper body, I may not be fashionable, but I’m ready for action – at a sedate pace, mind you. These wintry days, with single digit temps and exhaling frostified breath, I’m as happy as whoever Larry was.

And now that I can afford it, there’s an excursion, around the time the winter sun signals the solstice, to look forward to. It’s across the Strait to annually take in some Yarra City offerings. Usually I’m keen for the NGV Winter Masterpiece. Can’t wait for this year’s – Van Gogh. There’s footy at the ‘G or Etihad and there’s just wandering the streets, taking in the hipsters and the rest of the cosmopolitan mix, forever pointing my camera at something of interest. It’s no wonder that this city is considered by experts to be the world’s most liveable – and I cannot but agree with Clare Boyd-Macrae’s declaration that her city is at it’s most comely in the winter months.

But I have my own theory on liveability. Sorry Ms CBM – sure Melbourne’s great in winter, but thanks to Hobs, I’m not SAD anymore.

Clare Boyd-Macrae’e column = http://www.canberratimes.com.au/comment/good-riddance-to-summer–now-its-melbournes-time-to-shine-20170411-gvilma.html

Dear Danny
I am a fan. Admittedly I am not the fan I used to be – but there you go. You have been off the boil for quite some time now. Your move to Saturdays has not, it seems, done you any favours. Back in the day, when you were a mid-week regular of the former broadsheet that runs second to the Murdoch press in Yarra City, you were the highlight of my newspaper reading week You outshone all other columnists. You made me laugh – so much so that on occasions I took the paper to school and read your contribution out to my students – making them also chortle with glee, giving them something of joy to remember as they plodded through the hours to freedom.

And now I am going to be brutally frank, Danny. On Saturdays you have come back to the pack – not so bad, I guess, given the quality of my other favs – Flanagan,, Wright and Squires. But even worse, once in a blue moon you also write total drivel. Once upon a time your shtick was consistently delightful – now, not so much. Why, sometimes I do not even bother to complete your contribution. I turn to the other ‘Insight’ columnists, mentioned above, instead. They rarely let me down. But, Danny, even if you have lost your edge, I will never completely forsake you. Each week I do return and on occasions, you still richly reward me to the degree I think, that perhaps, you are back on song.

I suspect doing it for as long as you have it must be supremely difficult to come up with something fresh and original to riff about for each deadline, thus your waning. Some of your fellow regular wordsmiths have now departed – I’d reckon for similar reasons. I lament the passing of Kate Holden still and I now also miss Bob Murphy. I live in hope that’s only because he’s ascended to the captaincy of the Doggies and will return once he’s hung up his boots. But I diverge…

Now I’m about to congratulate you on last week’s effort, Danny. Your rumination on the delicious treats of your youth, when growing up in the sixties – yes I did check on your vintage – was a sparkling gem, brightening a wintery Saturday. It spoke of what you could look forward to being treated to, as a child, when there was some excess money available for such luxuries. You were almost Pythonesque in this memory piece and you inspired me to do similar. Well done.

For you, Danny, in that golden age when the world turned on its head momentarily, before righting itself again, your treats took the form of cashews, mangoes and smoked salmon.

My dear darling Leigh loves cashews too – but unlike your scribe, she is very strong. I’ll often buy her a packet for a treat too – although, in your recollection, they came to you as single units. And you also reported to us that these days, even while composing the very column under examination, you now stuff them down en masse – just as I would if I was let loose on them. No, my Leigh can just allow herself a handful a day and leave it at that. She is an inspiration to me that I can never live up to, so when she offers me the packet to partake of a modicum of its contents, I always decline. A couple are never enough. I truly love cashews, macadamias and pistachios but, as it is no doubt for you too, Danny,once I sample I am then invariably overcome by that dreaded disease from which there is no escape – the munchies. Once I start I can never stop until the receptacle containing the blissful offering is empty.

I am a fifties child, my friend, so therefore I cannot remember cashews ever being around the shelves of our corner grocery shop – supermarkets were a long way off appearing in my regional corner of Tasmania. Peanuts would be there I would think – and mixed nuts, but they were reserved as a Yuletide only attraction. As for mangos and smoked salmon – they were exotica beyond imagination. For the former read a whole pineapple rather than the tinned variety; for the latter a good feed of couta, locally caught, so devoured more or less straight from the sea.

So what were the special treats of my childhood. My parents were by no means rolling in pounds, shillings and pence but we did okay. Here are some of my recollections – not only of the stuff that made me salivate, but of general tucker as well.

Roast chook. Yes, roast chook. Back then the fowl itself came from backyard coops, its flesh a rich yellow in hue. It was served biannually – at Christmas and Easter, wrapped in brown paper and aromatically cooked in the electric frying pan. Just the smell alone tantalised the taste buds beyond belief. Accompanying it on the table were fizzy drinks, originating from a small factory run by Cooee Cordials. Initially they were for only birthdays and other special occasions. I always chose the green – that colour didn’t send me troppo as did the red invariably selected by my mini-mates. There were also the joys of Choo Choo and White Knight bars, as well as the marvellous Cadbury Snack assortment. And clinkers, don’t forget clinkers. But don’t get me stated on the glory years of lolly treats.

These days scallops are a rare treat and crayfish beyond this scribe’s budgetary means – but back in the day they were common fare – albeit still incredibly delicious. Whitebait patties were a regular when in season, as was the greasy, but delectable, mutton bird. Rabbit was either stuffed and placed in the oven for and hour or so, or stewed with a flavoursome bacon gravy. Roo and wallaby were not unheard of either on the table – an acceptable patty could be made from them as the meat was considered rather strong and gamy.

For desserts, Danny, my mother was a dab hand at trifles and sago plum pud and I adored them. Ice cream was generally home-made from condensed milk, but the commercial variety came in cardboard bricks, rather than tubs. We all jostled for the chocolate part in these Neapolitan confections. Jelly contained fruit and I also treasured junket. Rice and macaroni were also considered as sweets, served with copious sugar and milk.

There were Sunday lamb roasts and lamb’s fry with bacon. Much could be done with Belgium sausage, even fried – as was the afore-recalled pineapple. I can remember the first icy poles putting in an appearance, a more sophisticated version of the fruity ice blocks we produced ourselves, or so we thought. I recall the first frozen peas and best of all, the arrival of potato crisps. My father produced from his work case the first I ever laid eyes on – a packet a Samboy barbecue flavoured. I though I’d died and gone to heaven and that taste sensation was probably the cause, for me, of the contagion that is the munchies.

And for breakfast – what else but dripping on toast.

All those memories came back to me, Danny, as I read ‘Remember when Cashews were a Special Treat’ – so thank you for returning me to my own days of yore, in culinary terms. And you are forgiven, Mr Katz, for any past loss of zing – as long as you can still come up with such excellent content, now and again.
Your Still Fan
Steve from the Blue Room

Danny’s column that Saturday = http://www.theage.com.au/comment/precious-childhood-treats-lost-in-bulk-bin-buy-now-any-season-world-20150626-ghx5s1

One of life’s great pleasures used to be going to the footy with family or mates, barracking and participating in the banter, and discussing the game at the breaks. Not any more. The loud music, the ads and the stupid spruiker combine to ensure that any conversation during the breaks is near impossible. The moving fence ads are a constant and annoying distraction and the moronic, US-style, electronic goal zingers are incredibly irritating. To quote the Coodabeens – “get rid of it”.

So writes John Gerrard of Rosanna. He was doing so in response to Brendan O’Riley’s recent column in the Melbourne newspaper that once was a broadsheet. The latter’s words made me very sad – and they were supported by a Caroline Wilson tirade (Caro’s Arrow) the following Monday night on ‘Footy Classified’. Later other commentators, including Martin Flanagan, joined in the chorus. To my mind our great game can stand on its own as a spectacle without the necessity of the embellishments we have come to associate with the travesty of a sport that is American gridiron. With the exception of Port’s ‘Never Tear Us Apart’, from what I can discern from the small screen, none of the recent additions to jazz up the game day experience have succeeded in making it a better spectacle in any way. They’ve only served to get people’s backs up and diminish it. What we love about Aussie Rules, in terms of witnessing the game first hand at the highest level, at least at the ‘G, is being taken away from us. The average punter is being pushed aside, with the sport being handed over to the big end of town – where the money is. If it continues, it means a visit to watch a game at the home of footy will no longer be on my agenda for a trip to Yarra City.

On an associated note, thanks to the bean counters at Southern Cross, we here in Tassie are now subjected to inane ads after every goal. I know this has been the usual practice of its mother network for some time but, gee, it ruins the game as a pleasurable way to spend a weekend night. In a recent match a team had a run-on, kicking three goals in less than a couple a minutes – and every time the flow was buggered by someone yelling at me to buy a car. The same ad, break after break – only a moron would be convinced by that to rush out and buy the product! I am now considering Foxtel as a result. I suspect thousands of others across the island are making the same decision. But it seems going to the match itself would have been no better – someone would still be yelling at me to buy a car.

I love our indigenous game. To my mind it stands as one of the greatest sporting spectacles on the planet. And, please don’t listen to those of my generation who harp on about how much better it was back in the old days. I reckon it’s every bit as good, if not better, despite all the changes in the way teams play it these days. Not so long ago I watched a couple of grand finals on DVD back to back. The first was Hawthorn’s ’08 triumph over hot favourites, the Cats. I closely followed that up (I must have been blessed with time that day) with the ’89 classic between the same combatants, praised as one of the great GFs of all time. Honestly, appraising the two, in the latter the players looked as though they were running on the spot, in the former they were Energiser bunnies. There was no comparison. I know some complain about the roving scrums that seem to dominate some matches, but when that is dispensed with for open, free-flowing footy, such as most top teams play when on song, it is exhilarating to watch. And there are still the freaks of the game, if not so much the characters – Stevie J, Ablett, Buddy, Cyril dancing through packs, Jeremy Howe reaching for the heavens. There’s still the hard nuts to marvel at with their courage and then there’s power forwards taking pack grabs and converting. Remember back to those cold winter days on suburban glue-pots – there was little finesse in those games of yore either. Want to go back to that? And this season, to top it off, as well as having our fair share of cracker games, the unexpected is cropping up – the Saints great comeback, GWS defeating the reigning premiers and the Doggies showing they are back in town beating the Swans. There’s the drama over, at this stage, Mickey’s lamentable Blues and the Tigers are still causing their long suffering supporters on-going frustration. Don’t tell me there’s not plenty of spice left in proceedings to enthuse any true lover of Australian Rules.

So please AFL hierarchy take heed. We’re told that wussiest game of all is on the march, scooping our youngsters into its arms with the cry of ‘no contact here’. Soccer – don’t get me started. Through the ineptitude in taking away the atmosphere that has been part and parcel of our magic game we run the risk of driving the masses towards that wretched farce where games are decided by who can swan dive and feign injury the best. Give real footy back to the people please.

Brendan O”Reilly on how the AFL is killing footy for the fans = http://www.theage.com.au/comment/how-the-afl-is-killing-footy-for-the-fans-20150508-ggw7di.html

Greg Baum on the same subject = http://www.theage.com.au/afl/afl-news/gameday-no-experience-necessary-20150515-gh2qug.html

Martin Flanagan on the same subject = http://www.theage.com.au/afl/afl-news/afl-marketing-fiction-of-its-own-making-with-flashing-lights-20150515-gh1hj7

I don’t see how they can be allowed to get away with it – what with truth in advertising and all that. Claim they have the best chips – or is it fries – in the nation. Some sun-drenched, stereotypically knockabout Aussie beach-type lads walking towards a car, skylarking over a cup of chips (or fries), with a voice over making that claim. The good life = KFC chips. How can they be the most delectable in the country – what proof is there? What surveys have been done? Just gives me the pip.

Advertising is yet another reason free to air television annoys the heebies out of me – well at least on the commercial channels. It’s no wonder the punters are turning off in droves. And now it seems you cannot enjoy a quarter of footy without them trying to squeeze in not one, but two, ads after each goal. To my mind people would be so peed off that they’d deliberately not go out and buy that product. Sure there are ads with a modicum of intelligence about them – the Jeep campaign for instance – but any effectiveness they might have are killed off by repeated exposure. But having inanities shouted at you after each six-pointer – that is just beyond the pale. But enough of railing about that – I’m off topic. That rubbish from the Colonel – that’s what I need to be focused on.

I suppose, really, I should put it to the test and actually buy some of them before I rant away – but I haven’t been in a KFC, or a Maccas, this century and I don’t plan to start now. I do not have a great deal of respect for my stomach in terms of what I put in it, but going to any one of those generic fast-food outlets is a step too far over to the dark side. But I like fish ‘n’ chips, I really do. I envy Dave O’Neil who, when he’s not scribing about all the great pub rock bands he saw back in the day when he and they were in their pomp, he’s rattling on about what he can stick in his ample gut. He’s a great columnist though, I reckon. He usually raises a smile or more from me. Living, as he does, in Melbourne, he can still seek out the old fashioned variety of fish ‘n’ chips – the type I yearn for. He has to drive a distance for it, though, to get to a place where ‘…the man behind the counter dumped a big load of flake and chips on the paper and shaked salt over the fried goodness.’ Read the attached article ‘Fish and Chip Heartbreak Served Without Salt’. If you’re pining, like me, for the good ol’ days, it’ll take you back. It sure took me back.

I’m a Burnie boy and proud of it. But back when I was a lad every ‘burb, big or small, had them – the take-away shop, usually run by Greeks or Italians. These served up fish ‘n’ chips in the way that has all but disappeared. Salt, of course, was a given – the only choice then was vinegar or no vinegar. I remember the one I used to frequent, way back in the mists when I was in primary school. I can picture it now. After class had finished for the day I made a beeline for it. You could never see what was on offer from the outside as the plate glass was so steamed up from the hot expectant breath of dozens of children waiting, the younger ones repeatedly forced to the back by the pushy grade sixers. Then there were the super hot vats of boiling, infrequently-changed, oil to increase the fug. But you didn’t need to see in – just open the door, feel the exhale of warmth, particularly if it was winter, then make your way, as best you could, to order your shilling’s worth at the counter. Flake was not affordable, reserved for family occasions on the weekend. There would be dark haired, swarthy men in singlets serving it all out, the sweat oozing down from hairy armpits, what with the effort required to keep up with demand. It was like the six o’clock swill in the pubs of the day. A bob’s worth in the chilly season would keep you toasty all the way up the hill to home – no helicopter parenting in those days. And they were wrapped in raw newspaper, soon to be punctured at the top for hand dipping. In cold weather you would tuck the package under your jacket. This would serve two purposes – firstly to protect it from the elements and secondly, to warm you from the chill winds. You’d wonder how the chips would be on any given occasion. Would they be exquisitely soggy, or deliciously crunch-inducing? If you came up with a particularly long one you’d show it to your mates to see if they could outdo it from their yesterday’s news package. Some chips would invariably have big black spots of god only knows what on their skins. The finicky would chuck them – I wasn’t finicky. And when you had scoffed them all down, at the bottom would be more delight – the salty, oily scrag ends and crumbs.

During my uni days, in the seventies, it was still possible to enjoy the same binge as I had the previous decade. From my residential hall there was the ten o’clock nightly run down to the Monaco on Sandy Bay Road. There’d be a rota, orders were taken and if it was your turn, off you’d go, returning with a steaming mass of chip orders. If you were flush, added to it would be dim sims, chicko rolls and flake. If not, probably a potato cake or two. A scallop was pure ecstasy

When I finally moved back to Hobs, a few years ago now, there was a place along the Main Road, at Austin’s Ferry, that still retained a semblance of the old ways. From his stock, though, you could tell the sole owner was struggling. He eventually merged with the pizza place next door, but the last time I looked both had gone the way of so many small businesses these days.

Yes, ‘…slices of lemon are the new potato cakes and it all comes in small cardboard boxes.’ Leigh and I have gone with the flow and now frequent a ‘Fish and Chippery’, as Dave puts it. Ours isn’t bad. Sure, it’s not like the old days, but the blokes who run it, John Caire and Giovanni Bertelle, are friendly, the prices are not over-inflated and what they produce is tasty – not old-fashioned tasty, but good enough. It still warms the cockles and is probably a darn sight healthier. And it also takes me back to Sandy Bay Road – 479 in fact. Like Dave O’N’s new place, it is a bit of a drive from our abode by the river in Bridgewater, but we combine lunch there with a trip to the casino once every couple of months or so. Leigh can have a flutter and I take my newspapers to enjoy the river views from the Sportsman’s Bar. If you’re in those parts you could do worse that a cheap repast at the old petrol station, the site for our tucker on such occasions. Leigh reckons their pizzas are pretty delectable as well, but I’ll stick to my simple ‘two pieces of flake, battered, with chips.’ The light tempura batter is not the same as the floury overload of earlier times. Its all fried in cotton seed oil, regularly changed, which I guess is a bonus on the cholesterol. And I’ve even taken to their sweet potato cakes. Despite my yearnings, Maning Reef Cafe, licensed, does it for me. I’ll see if they’re interested in putting Thai fish cakes with dill sauce on the menu.

Dave O’Neil’s column = http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/comedy/dave-oneils-fish-and-chip-heartbreak-served-without-salt-20150324-1m67to.html

Maning Reef Cafe website = http://maningreefcafe.com.au/

You have moved around a bit. Just when I’d gotten used to looking out for you on a Monday, here’s a glamorous view of you on a Sunday. Will you be in the same spot next Sunday, or revert back to the following day? A whole week till I find out. Maybe Ms Lynne Segal is just a one off and you’ll resume your rightful position. You see, I am just the tiniest bit in love with you – well not exactly you, but with your words. And through them I feel I’ve come to know that part of you you allow yourself to share with the outside world. With your readers – with your fans like me. You’re up there with Flanagan and Wright, Ms Squires; you have been a salve to my disappointment that the beauteous Kate gave it away. Kate Holden that is. I had similar affection for her.

But back to our meeting last Sunday. I wonder why it didn’t work out, your ‘…most enduring relationship?’ To tell would be a step too far and I know, it is impertinent of me to inquire. After all, he did have his shed where he could ‘…hide and renew, ruminate, relax and write…’ And he had you as well, dear Wendy. What more could that man have wanted?

I feel I am almost one up on him though. I have the perfect mix. There’s your words on a Monday, or is it to be Sunday? Then there are Martin F’s and Tony W’s, as well, at various times too – plus other of your colleagues keeping the execrable Abbott and his obnoxious offsiders honest on a weekly basis. I have a beautiful woman to share my world, and yes, I too have a bolt hole. And as with your case, it is a room rather than a shed that I term my man-cave. I am not manly male enough to warrant a shed. No, dear Wendy, I don’t tinkle with muscle cars nor fashion wood nor weld nor make flies to tantalise trout nor have my private bar where my male mates can gather to be all blokey and discuss the footy or cricket. And I don’t really need to hide for my DLP (Darling Loving Partner) gives me all the space I require. It is also akin to your ‘…small spare room.’ I adore it so. In it I have the freedom to be me. I’ve never really had such a space before – mainly because my working life gave me so many other outlets. But now with it – and being somewhat like you, the more retiring type as well as retired – I treasure my good fortune.

Friend and former colleague Jan visited last week and I proudly presented my man-cave to her for the first time. ‘Why, it’s just like your classroom,’ she exclaimed. And that’s true. After being a secondary teacher, with rarely a room to call my own for most of my career, towards the end of my vocational life I started teaching upper primary. This was around the same time I discovered the joys of photography. My classroom was an array of images, plastered on every space amongst all the educational stuff. Thankfully my students were always very respectful of my attempts to brighten their lives visually – so, dear Wendy, I have used the same rule of thumb with said bolt-hole.

There are nudes in my room – exquisitely tasteful ones, or so I consider, I hasten to add – the largest drawn by my DLP’s own fair hand. Another is of Fleur who has allowed me to gaze on her vintage curvy assets for decades now. There are other art works by friends and family, a wonderful gift from DLP by a rising star of the local art scene and a cherished signed team photo of that amazing AFL team seeking a three-peat this newly minted year. And there are dozens and dozens of my own humble snaps, many featuring the world’s most photogenic granddaughter. But, dear Wendy, I do wonder what will happen when I completely run out of wall space. There’s a bed to recline, cogitate and even nanny-nap on and yes, Wendy, I am not adverse to producing ‘…the unmissable ordure of kebab.’ on occasions, within its confines, as well.

As with you, Wendy, I also ‘…like people, and most of the time I enjoy socialising.’ but I like aloneness too. My precious DLP is far more gregarious – having the ability to chat to anyone at any time. She amazes me in that and so many other regards. She tolerates my idiosyncrasies and I adore her.

Dear Wendy, it is perhaps unlikely that we will ever meet although, who knows? A couple of years ago I had the good fortune of having a chinwag with, as well as shaking the hands of, both Flanagan brothers, so… Just promise me you’ll remain on the pages of the Age and not move on to other pastures, as did the aforementioned Kate. For this luckiest of men you are one of the many icings on his cake,
Your avid fan
Steve

Wendy’s column  = http://www.dailylife.com.au/life-and-love/what-you-should-know-before-moving-in-with-an-introvert-20150115-12qoam.html