announcement

You are hereby notified that my attitude towards team sports has changed somewhat in the last 24 hours.

Somewhat - because I still can’t abide all that abject worship of overpaid manboys - but that aside. You may consider me the newest-born Fan of the Freo Dockers.

I have less than no idea of the actual Rules of Aussie Rules. Luckily, the Dockers ticket people had obligingly selected a seat for me in close proximity to A SHOUTAHHH!!!! So I can provide for you full commentary and thorough, pinpoint-accurate analysis of yesterday evening’s match against THE FILTHY TIGAAAAHS!!! Richmond.

The facts ascertained:
There are four quarters of half an hour each
Everyone is very tall
It’s a bit like rugby, only not very, because the whole thing is a lot more streamlined and there is much less biffing and pointlessness
The refs all look ludicrous, no matter what they are doing, but especially on a throw-in, where they practically upend themselves in a spectacularly comical over-the-head backwards dive manoeuvre
There appear to be eighteen players per team on the field, which seems an awful lot
There are no sleeves
The kick-off involves the ref slamming the ball as hard as he can physically manage into the ground, as if chucking a major tantrum

(The Dockers mascot, who appears for approximately nine seconds at the start of the match and subsequently never again, is rubbish. He is simply a Dockers player made out of foam. He looks like a bad children’s book superhero character who has a name composed of lots of Z’z and exclamation marks.)

First quarter
The match begins. Four seconds later:
Shoutah: (NAME I COULDN’T MAKE OUT), YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A HAAAAACKK!!!!!
By the eleventh second:
Shoutah: (SOME OTHER NAME), YOU'RE PLAYING LIKE A GALAAAAAHHHH!!
At approximately twenty four seconds:
Shoutah: (THIRD NAME), PISS OFF BACK TO VICTORIA, YOU IDIOT!!!
Bloke sitting nearby: Mate, save some for later, ay?
Shoutah: Sorry, coach.

Seems to me offence is doing okay, defence sucks. Freo ends the quarter in the lead.

Second quarter
Much the same, but in the opposite direction. The FILTHY TIGAAAHS are a bit quicker with the ball.

Guy in the Number 31 jersey: Hello, anklebiters. I am approximately fortyseven feet tall. My whole job here is to reach over everyone’s heads and simply knock the ball towards someone in my team who can do something with it.

A bloke behind me yells at the Dockers to play it forwards, not backwards. Then yells that they’re going in the wrong direction. Then suggests they should stop playing backwards. He is so monstrously pleased with this excellent joke that it will continue throughout the entire rest of the match.

Once the Dockers get ahold of themselves, and it, they pop a few nice goals. Defence still appears to me to be fumbling like absolute crap, but they finish ahead.

Third quarter
The Dockers pack it in. Apparently there have been some substitutions that I didn’t notice so they have ‘no bench’. This is a bad thing, especially as everyone is apparently out of puff and has had it up to here with those swift-footed, glue-handed FILTHY TIGAAAHS who are zigzagging about like Harry Potter chasing a particularly madcap Snitch. It is quite impressive, but I am wearing a purple shirt (I actually was, by the way. On purpose), so I must despise it. The Dockers are playing like A BUNCH OF GALAAAAHHHSS!!! and Shoutah thinks they should USE THEIR EEYYYEESS!!! as well as KICK IT LOOOONGGGG!!! An eleven-year-old girl in the next section giggles, wide-eyed, at every increasingly apoplectic outburst. But the Dockers refuse to take Shoutah’s advice, and also keep dropping the ball. Right before the klaxon, they hoof in two field goals (terminology, anyone? Field goals? Just goals?) within about three seconds, but are still way behind.

Fourth quarter

We all start in a slough of despond and can barely muster the energy to care. But a la Tim Henman at Wimbledon in the 1990s, this appears to be the only position from which the Dockers can sit up straight, brush their hair and achieve something, because they start clawing it back and actually manage to hold onto the ball a few times. A kick that goes into the side bit rather than the centre bit of the goal brings them back within a point. This means that every time a FILTHY TIGAH so much as touches the ball, we must boo like crazy. We bite our nails. Shoutah loses his shit completely, and the previously-giggly eleven-year-old girl in the next section quietly switches seats with her dad to be further away. The Dockers somehow manage to pull ahead and even I get that all they need to do now is play for time.

And yet. They do not.

The TIGAAAAHS win it, and the match ends just as a Docker aims a kick on goal that wouldn’t have gone anywhere near. As one, we clutch our heads in despair. Shoutah digs for a heart pill.

Dudes, I am hooked.

not joking

..."including - but not limited to - death"???

Manly Council does not kid around.

notes from the seaside

Danger! Is! Everywhere!:





Even the beaches here are trying to keel you dead.

Sydney is currrvy

Those of us who are women, but are not strictly woman-shaped; those of us who are a bit plankish up and down; those of us who don't undulate in and out where we ought to; we are those who notice a nice curve when we see one.

I suspect Sydney of blossoming from a straight-hipped past, because it sure likes to show off its curves:

je me souviens

O, friends,

I have truly seen the best Sydney has to offer. The quality of awful souvenirage is high. The term 'Authentic' is employed both widely and inaccurately. The best of the best? You decide:

1. Kookaburras-in-a-can
2. 'Convict soap' (no, I don't know either)
3. Ned Kelly action figures
4. Authentic dot art oven mitts
5. Anything with the word "g'day" followed by the word "mate" embroidered on it

(Writers' Festival by the numbers, for those who are interested? Number of times I have moved my own weight in books in the last four days: fifty-nine million. Also, Morris Gleitzman? happily bears out the rule about the loveliness of bald men.)

Sydney by the numbers

I know. I KNOW, all right? I quite understand how my chronic, economy-sized disorganisation in the face of this trip led some of you to question whether I would get here in one piece. I do see that, despite successfully getting myself across the globe lock, stock and barrel as many times as I have, this time, my making it here seems worthy of nothing less than a set of commemorative stamps.

Worry not. I can currently be found entirely in the place they call Australia, for that is its name.

So. Sunday morning walk in the suburb of Cream Horn: discoveries.

Large trees successfully identified as Moreton Bay figs: 4

Large trees incorrectly identified as Moreton Bay figs: 40

Scary blue-black dinosaurish birds that sound like a strangled lamb with a cold: 8

Astonishingly bright, fast-moving, noisy green and red birds: 8 zillion

Successful photos of astonishingly bright, fast-moving, noisy green and red birds: zero

Spider webs walked into: 1

Spider web-induced nervous breakdowns suffered: 1

Deadly Australian spiders encountered (imaginary): 50

Deadly Australian spiders encountered (actual): zero (yet)

Steep hills descended: 3

Steep hills climbed: 6

Unexpected sudden panoramas of Sydney: 5

Unexpected sudden views of Harbour Bridge:1

Nearby pedestrians surprised by shout of "holy mother of f***, that's the Harbour Bridge": 1

Apologies issued: 1

Spontaneous little jigs of joy danced: 3

Mysteries unsolved: 1

Wax-tipped bananas.

Anyone want to hazard a guess?

Mr Pastry

I absolutely want to kiss the internet and offer to have its babies today, because I was able to find this. If you remember Mr Pastry, well, then you will Know. If you don't, well, then now you Know.

lucky Rachel

Joan points us at this BBC report about a new book that says Van Gogh didn't cut off his own ear in a fit of crazy after all.

The Beeb says:

"[The writers] looked at witness accounts and letters sent by the two artists, concluding that the row ended with Gauguin - a keen fencer - cutting his friend's ear off.

Van Gogh then apparently wrapped it in cloth and handed it to a prostitute, called Rachel.

Mr Kaufmann said it was not clear whether it was an accident or a deliberate attempt to injure Van Gogh, but afterwards both men agreed to tell the police the self-harm story to protect Gauguin...Gauguin later moved to Tahiti, where he produced some of his most famous works."

VAN GOGH: Rachel, honey, you are both bewitching and awesome at your job. Please accept this gift as a token of my affection for your services.
RACHEL: Well, you didn't have to...I mean, the invoice is in the mail as usual. (opens it) WTF is this?
VAN GOGH: It’s my severed ear wrapped in a hanky. Buddy here just cut it off, but we’re keeping it a secret.
RACHEL: …
GAUGIN: Last one to Tahiti’s a lemon!
VAN GOGH: This world was never meant for one as beautiful as me.
RACHEL: Dude, y’all are a pair of freaks.

bonny green garters. etc.

In England, you will rarely come across so joyous an occasion as Mayday morning, when morris dancers and their cheery musicians welcome the summertime at dawn.

You can see why I miss this riotous, fun-filled occasion.

(They're 'concentrating', I'm told. Presumably on how to escape the sixth circle of hell they apparently feel they are currently occupying.)


Edited to add: Thank you to anyone who dutifully went running for their copy of the Inferno (always on the bedside table, no doubt) and wondered if I purposely picked the sixth circle because that's where the heretics go. I would like to set you straight on this score, because my translation indicates that actually the sixth circle is reserved exclusively for those who play either the accordion or the banjo.