Published Messenger Newspapers, Adelaide, August 27, 2003
ARMED, READY AND HALF-COCKED
TWO Messenger ex-journalists have worked on the staff of Senator Robert Hill - one when he was Federal Environment Minister and another now in Defence - and I presumed one of them must have been behind an invitation for me to have lunch with him. Strange, though. I had never formally been introduced to the man although we both were guests at the wedding of one of the staffers. On that occasion we were too slow off the mark and found ourselves standing alongside each other staring down at a wasteland of scraps left on the smorgasbord table. We each muttered something about making sure to be quicker when the desserts arrived and that was the full extent of our conversation. I could have chatted to him some more but I had been warned off earlier by the bride, who had ordered me not to harass or harangue Robert and spoil her big day. I resembled that remark. So let's just say the invitation to lunch was unexpected. While I could understand him wanting to pick my brains on the defence of the realm, on the procurement of the next generation of fighter jets and the role of the intelligence community in misleading us into Iraq, it seemed unlikely. I emailed the staffer bride - who now works in London - asking if she knew why I had been chosen? She replied that Robert liked a good red wine and perhaps he was just looking for entertaining company. It, too, seemed unlikely. If he were that desperate, surely he had plenty of other people to choose from before asking a stranger, and a newspaper editor to boot? Not that journalists have nothing to contribute to the country's defence. In the same week, the Australian Defence Association made a public criticism about the quality - or lack of it - of advice being provided by the spy agencies to the Federal Government. The Office of National Assessments was singled out for having too many former journalists on staff instead of spies. Old journos never die, they become spooks. Anyway, having briefed myself on Australia's defence capability by land, sea and air, I was standing at the restaurant bar waiting to impress Senator Hill and who should walk through the door? John Hill, State Environment Minister. Groan. "You don't want to discuss defence by any chance, do you, John?" I asked.
"If you like - why?" I explained how, owing to multiple levels of office confusion, I had been expecting the Defence Minister, not him. Never mind, John said, other people had made the same mistake and he was often called Senator or asked if he wore camouflaged underpants. We had a discussion about water, salinity, burnoffs and bushfires. No offence, John, but the problem of feral olive trees in the Hills did not provide the same level of thrill as the Joint Strike Fighter project for which I had come prepared.
Monday, August 18, 2003
Published Messenger Newspapers, Adelaide, August 20, 2003
HERITAGE KEY TO ADELAIDE'S FUTURE
THE lobby wall of the Stamford hotel, opposite Parliament House on North Tce, carries a brass plaque of tribute to the old South Australian Hotel. It bears a depiction of the hotel's three-storey, ornately verandahed facade, along with the words: "The South Australian Hotel was erected on this site in 1894 and until 1971 was an intrinsic part of the cultural life of the City of Adelaide." The South, as it was known, was said to be the epitome of splendour and elegance for Adelaide high society. The Beatles stayed there in 1964 but some people who remember eating there tell me the food was ordinary. Ansett Airlines bulldozed The South and in its place erected a lump known as the Gateway, whose dingy basement bar always reeked of stale cooking fat. Ansett who? Through deliberate neglect, ignorance or greed, much of our heritage - including Aboriginal - has vanished. Grrr. I do not remember The South. It was knocked down in the year before I arrived in town but its demolition produced a lingering shockwave that aroused public determination to save what was left of Adelaide's architectural heritage. Which brings me to the Gordon Curve, a theory that a building is most valued by the community when it is new but slowly declines in value until, aged 70, it is most likely to be razed. The South was 77. However, the Gordon Curve also contends that should a building be fortunate enough to survive beyond 70, its value rises again until, at 100, it is back at its maximum level and likely to be saved for its heritage value. The South missed by that much. I do not know the identity of Gordon but I wish he/she been around to argue The South's case in '71. It is too late now but if more buildings had been saved from the free-wheeling wrecker's ball in the 1960s, we would have been spared multi-level carparks and Adelaide would now be a world class tourist attraction similar to, say, Bath in England. Bath's curved row of Georgian terrace houses, made from the golden limestone mined locally, are still treasured almost 200 years after they were built. Mind, Bath had a few other handy historic links as well, any one of which by itself would have laid the foundation of a lucrative tourism industry in Adelaide. The Romans, for example, developed the natural hot springs into a number of healing baths - hence the name Bath - as well as building a temple to Minerva. In the Middle Ages, according to a contemporary account, one of the baths was still being used by diseased men and women who bathed naked together while onlookers jeered and threw animals into the water. Fashions change, thankfully. Remarkably, although 900 Bath buildings were destroyed and 12,500 damaged in the Blitz during WWII, the old section of town remained virtually untouched by the bombs. Thank God, Ansett was not running the Blitz.
HERITAGE KEY TO ADELAIDE'S FUTURE
THE lobby wall of the Stamford hotel, opposite Parliament House on North Tce, carries a brass plaque of tribute to the old South Australian Hotel. It bears a depiction of the hotel's three-storey, ornately verandahed facade, along with the words: "The South Australian Hotel was erected on this site in 1894 and until 1971 was an intrinsic part of the cultural life of the City of Adelaide." The South, as it was known, was said to be the epitome of splendour and elegance for Adelaide high society. The Beatles stayed there in 1964 but some people who remember eating there tell me the food was ordinary. Ansett Airlines bulldozed The South and in its place erected a lump known as the Gateway, whose dingy basement bar always reeked of stale cooking fat. Ansett who? Through deliberate neglect, ignorance or greed, much of our heritage - including Aboriginal - has vanished. Grrr. I do not remember The South. It was knocked down in the year before I arrived in town but its demolition produced a lingering shockwave that aroused public determination to save what was left of Adelaide's architectural heritage. Which brings me to the Gordon Curve, a theory that a building is most valued by the community when it is new but slowly declines in value until, aged 70, it is most likely to be razed. The South was 77. However, the Gordon Curve also contends that should a building be fortunate enough to survive beyond 70, its value rises again until, at 100, it is back at its maximum level and likely to be saved for its heritage value. The South missed by that much. I do not know the identity of Gordon but I wish he/she been around to argue The South's case in '71. It is too late now but if more buildings had been saved from the free-wheeling wrecker's ball in the 1960s, we would have been spared multi-level carparks and Adelaide would now be a world class tourist attraction similar to, say, Bath in England. Bath's curved row of Georgian terrace houses, made from the golden limestone mined locally, are still treasured almost 200 years after they were built. Mind, Bath had a few other handy historic links as well, any one of which by itself would have laid the foundation of a lucrative tourism industry in Adelaide. The Romans, for example, developed the natural hot springs into a number of healing baths - hence the name Bath - as well as building a temple to Minerva. In the Middle Ages, according to a contemporary account, one of the baths was still being used by diseased men and women who bathed naked together while onlookers jeered and threw animals into the water. Fashions change, thankfully. Remarkably, although 900 Bath buildings were destroyed and 12,500 damaged in the Blitz during WWII, the old section of town remained virtually untouched by the bombs. Thank God, Ansett was not running the Blitz.
Published Messenger Newspapers, Adelaide, August 13, 2003
SECRET SHAKE A SLEIGHT OF HAND
A FORMER suburban mayor, who I knew to be a Freemason, gave me an unusual handshake at our first meeting that I took to be the Mason's secret grip. It felt quite normal except he used his thumb and forefinger to firmly squeeze the fleshy webbing of my thumb, twice. Obvious and yet undetectable by onlookers. Getting no reaction, the mayor never repeated it when we shook hands on later occasions, leaving me with the impression that I had failed a secret test, Masonic or otherwise. It may have been a gay sign although, so far as I knew, the mayor was straight. Anyway, I thought the gay handshake was a tickle on the palm by a wiggled hidden finger. Or is that the Masonic shake? A handshake is one of the few forms of physical human contact that is permitted among strangers without risking sexual connotations or an assault charge. Hugs and kisses are not so easily exchanged at first meetings. Yet a handshake, for its apparently innocent simplicity, can be full of meaning. It might be damp, lingering, limp wristed; or a hard bone-crusher; or offered palm down as if the victim were expected to genuflect and kiss it; or a sudden, painful twist of the wrist like a wrestling hold. Former Prime Minister Paul Keating never extends his arm full out. Instead, keeping the upper arm by his side, he simply cocks the elbow to offer a hand, making people come close to him. As a form of psychological domination, it has to be deliberate. His predecessor Bob Hawke, on the other hand, not only shakes hands aggressively but he also uses his left hand to clutch the victim's shoulder or elbow at the same time. There is no escape. I have also shaken hands with the current Prime Minister but, brooding on it now, I cannot for the life of me remember what it felt like. Immigration Minister Philip Ruddock has a two-handed technique, one shaking while the other one detains your wrist. My roughest handshake was with a stockman at Parachilna, in the Flinders Ranges, who used a bush knife to pare away the callouses on his palm; and the largest hand I shook was that of US president Bill Clinton when he was in Adelaide last year. It was the size of a baseball mitt. A handshake covers many purposes, from its origin as proof that a person was unarmed, to confirming a deal or a bet, as a sign of friendship and loyalty, or as a greeting. The Aboriginal handshake is something else again. I was watching members of ATSIC greet each other on TV the other night and their convoluted hand movements - thumb locking, fist bumping, palm brushing - looked like a magic trick. It was a good example of how something a highly visible could also have a hidden meaning. Still, nothing quite compares to the Biblical greeting, from Genesis, that doubles as an oath of obedience: "Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh and I will make thee swear..." Not on your nelly - but the Masons must be puce with envy.
SECRET SHAKE A SLEIGHT OF HAND
A FORMER suburban mayor, who I knew to be a Freemason, gave me an unusual handshake at our first meeting that I took to be the Mason's secret grip. It felt quite normal except he used his thumb and forefinger to firmly squeeze the fleshy webbing of my thumb, twice. Obvious and yet undetectable by onlookers. Getting no reaction, the mayor never repeated it when we shook hands on later occasions, leaving me with the impression that I had failed a secret test, Masonic or otherwise. It may have been a gay sign although, so far as I knew, the mayor was straight. Anyway, I thought the gay handshake was a tickle on the palm by a wiggled hidden finger. Or is that the Masonic shake? A handshake is one of the few forms of physical human contact that is permitted among strangers without risking sexual connotations or an assault charge. Hugs and kisses are not so easily exchanged at first meetings. Yet a handshake, for its apparently innocent simplicity, can be full of meaning. It might be damp, lingering, limp wristed; or a hard bone-crusher; or offered palm down as if the victim were expected to genuflect and kiss it; or a sudden, painful twist of the wrist like a wrestling hold. Former Prime Minister Paul Keating never extends his arm full out. Instead, keeping the upper arm by his side, he simply cocks the elbow to offer a hand, making people come close to him. As a form of psychological domination, it has to be deliberate. His predecessor Bob Hawke, on the other hand, not only shakes hands aggressively but he also uses his left hand to clutch the victim's shoulder or elbow at the same time. There is no escape. I have also shaken hands with the current Prime Minister but, brooding on it now, I cannot for the life of me remember what it felt like. Immigration Minister Philip Ruddock has a two-handed technique, one shaking while the other one detains your wrist. My roughest handshake was with a stockman at Parachilna, in the Flinders Ranges, who used a bush knife to pare away the callouses on his palm; and the largest hand I shook was that of US president Bill Clinton when he was in Adelaide last year. It was the size of a baseball mitt. A handshake covers many purposes, from its origin as proof that a person was unarmed, to confirming a deal or a bet, as a sign of friendship and loyalty, or as a greeting. The Aboriginal handshake is something else again. I was watching members of ATSIC greet each other on TV the other night and their convoluted hand movements - thumb locking, fist bumping, palm brushing - looked like a magic trick. It was a good example of how something a highly visible could also have a hidden meaning. Still, nothing quite compares to the Biblical greeting, from Genesis, that doubles as an oath of obedience: "Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh and I will make thee swear..." Not on your nelly - but the Masons must be puce with envy.
Published Messenger Newspapers, Adelaide, August 6, 2003.
GETTING YOUR 5 CENTS WORTH
THE exasperated young man at the Coles checkout was telling Bernie there was nothing in the supermarket he could buy for five cents. "Don't worry, I won't steal anything," Bernie said, scurrying past the checkout towards the back aisles. His clothes were filthy, his left eye was half closed and he had streaks of dried blood on his neck and cheek. For a man in his sixties, Bernie looked as if he had seen a big night. The Coles security guard had gone off duty at 6am and the checkout lad was alone for the moment having to deal with Bernie as well as serving insomniac customers like me. Bernie, who I suspect was having a bit of perverse fun with the lad, returned with a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. The lad kept respectfully calling him "sir", which I admired, and pointed out that Worcestershire sauce "cost a lot more than five cents, sir". Bernie left the bottle on the bench and disappeared again among the brightly-lit aisles, an Aladdin's Cave of consumerism, afire with the challenge of finding even one item for five cents. He was not drunk. He had been standing by the checkout jabbering away to no-one in particular when I turned up with my trolley of groceries to be scanned. A woman had walked in, saw Bernie, and walked out again. I said hello, Bernie, remember me? And he said, "What's your name?" That is the first question people like Bernie ask if someone ever bothers to speak to them. A name is the one thing everyone has in common irrespective of wealth or social status. I said we had spoken a couple of weeks earlier at the same supermarket and told him my name again. "Ryan? Ryan? That's right, yeah, you work in TV." He obviously had me confused me with the actor Gary Sweet, an easy mistake to make. On our first meeting, in the hour before dawn outside Coles, Bernie had been standing with a mug of hot tea and could not explain how it happened to be in his hand. He had revealed he worked as a railway fettler at Port Augusta in better days. Shaking hands, I had gone inside the supermarket and the security guard had told me to be sure to wash my hands before I handled the fruit. I suspected the guard had also provided Bernie with the mug of tea, a heart of gold beating under the stern, grey uniform. Afterwards, Bernie had followed me to the car, prattling about whatever came into his head as I put the bags in the boot. With nothing better to say, I had suggested that being a fettler on the Alice Springs to Darwin rail line would be a pretty good job for a man of his talents and good looks. He had stared at me as if I were completely mad. "Y'reckon I'd get a job, dooya? Too late for that now, couldn' do it." True enough. Bernie looked no better now than he did a fortnight earlier. I gave him a banana, something with skin on it that could be eaten without him running the risk of catching germs from my hands.
GETTING YOUR 5 CENTS WORTH
THE exasperated young man at the Coles checkout was telling Bernie there was nothing in the supermarket he could buy for five cents. "Don't worry, I won't steal anything," Bernie said, scurrying past the checkout towards the back aisles. His clothes were filthy, his left eye was half closed and he had streaks of dried blood on his neck and cheek. For a man in his sixties, Bernie looked as if he had seen a big night. The Coles security guard had gone off duty at 6am and the checkout lad was alone for the moment having to deal with Bernie as well as serving insomniac customers like me. Bernie, who I suspect was having a bit of perverse fun with the lad, returned with a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. The lad kept respectfully calling him "sir", which I admired, and pointed out that Worcestershire sauce "cost a lot more than five cents, sir". Bernie left the bottle on the bench and disappeared again among the brightly-lit aisles, an Aladdin's Cave of consumerism, afire with the challenge of finding even one item for five cents. He was not drunk. He had been standing by the checkout jabbering away to no-one in particular when I turned up with my trolley of groceries to be scanned. A woman had walked in, saw Bernie, and walked out again. I said hello, Bernie, remember me? And he said, "What's your name?" That is the first question people like Bernie ask if someone ever bothers to speak to them. A name is the one thing everyone has in common irrespective of wealth or social status. I said we had spoken a couple of weeks earlier at the same supermarket and told him my name again. "Ryan? Ryan? That's right, yeah, you work in TV." He obviously had me confused me with the actor Gary Sweet, an easy mistake to make. On our first meeting, in the hour before dawn outside Coles, Bernie had been standing with a mug of hot tea and could not explain how it happened to be in his hand. He had revealed he worked as a railway fettler at Port Augusta in better days. Shaking hands, I had gone inside the supermarket and the security guard had told me to be sure to wash my hands before I handled the fruit. I suspected the guard had also provided Bernie with the mug of tea, a heart of gold beating under the stern, grey uniform. Afterwards, Bernie had followed me to the car, prattling about whatever came into his head as I put the bags in the boot. With nothing better to say, I had suggested that being a fettler on the Alice Springs to Darwin rail line would be a pretty good job for a man of his talents and good looks. He had stared at me as if I were completely mad. "Y'reckon I'd get a job, dooya? Too late for that now, couldn' do it." True enough. Bernie looked no better now than he did a fortnight earlier. I gave him a banana, something with skin on it that could be eaten without him running the risk of catching germs from my hands.
Published Messenger Newspapers, Adelaide, July 30, 2003.
THERE'S A WAITER IN MY SOUP
AFTER a month of non-stop dining out, playing host to a constant flow of interstate guests and being the unofficial meeter and greeter for just about anyone else who happened to be in town, I have had a gutsful. Literally. My circumference has expanded to the size where, were I a tree, I would now be declared "significant" and saved from the axe. What I have gained in girth, however, I seem to have lost in mirth when it comes to Fawlty Towers service levels in restaurants. I took an interstate couple to a noted seafood restaurant because they had wanted King George Whiting, which by the way I personally think is not a patch on garfish. We were having an interesting chat about Biggles - the woman had a full set of original volumes - until a young waiter barely out of his teens interrupted us to list the menu specials starting with seafood chowder. Leaving us to ponder our choices, he quickly returned with apologies saying the chef had changed the soup special, which was now asparagus and crab cake. Had he only left it there, I would have happily settled for the asparagus soup but, nooo ... the young fool went on to say: "The chef has told me not to let you have the chowder because we are having a large crowd in tonight and there won't be enough to go around." He was so tactless that it could only be the truth, that he was indeed repeating what the chef had told him. I ordered the chowder. "But what if we run out?" I did not give a crab's cake, I said, unless he could explain what possible difference it would make whether I had the last bowl of chowder or someone else did. "But what if there's not enough to go around?" he said in a rising falsetto. Care factor, zero. Chowder. The restaurant had an open kitchen where the diners could see the kitchen hands at work. The waiter leaned across the counter towards the chef who, to give him his due, kept a deadpan look on his face but his unblinking eyes read: "You told him WHAT!?" The waiter returned with, good news, sir, the chowder was still available, as if there were any doubts. He then took the rest of our orders inserting his own innane blather: "Excellent choice, madam, my favourite, too." Why are the new batch of waiters such irritating, ingratiating pests? Personally, I blame Regency TAFE, which does most of Adelaide's hospitality training. Someone there must be teaching them to do it because such inanities do not come naturally. Our waiter kept returning every few minutes. "Would sir prefer tap, still or sparkling water? Plain bread, foccacia or polenta? Oil or butter? Ground pepper?" And after each intrusion, my guests had giggling fits and, misreading the signs, the waiter thought he was the life of the party. "Are there enough bubbles in your mineral water, sir? And how's that soup?" As a matter of fact, I said, it was milky rather than creamy, contained hardly any pieces of fish and no doubt would have been a lot better before the chef watered it down. Yes, he said, personally he would have chosen the asparagus soup. Grrr.
THERE'S A WAITER IN MY SOUP
AFTER a month of non-stop dining out, playing host to a constant flow of interstate guests and being the unofficial meeter and greeter for just about anyone else who happened to be in town, I have had a gutsful. Literally. My circumference has expanded to the size where, were I a tree, I would now be declared "significant" and saved from the axe. What I have gained in girth, however, I seem to have lost in mirth when it comes to Fawlty Towers service levels in restaurants. I took an interstate couple to a noted seafood restaurant because they had wanted King George Whiting, which by the way I personally think is not a patch on garfish. We were having an interesting chat about Biggles - the woman had a full set of original volumes - until a young waiter barely out of his teens interrupted us to list the menu specials starting with seafood chowder. Leaving us to ponder our choices, he quickly returned with apologies saying the chef had changed the soup special, which was now asparagus and crab cake. Had he only left it there, I would have happily settled for the asparagus soup but, nooo ... the young fool went on to say: "The chef has told me not to let you have the chowder because we are having a large crowd in tonight and there won't be enough to go around." He was so tactless that it could only be the truth, that he was indeed repeating what the chef had told him. I ordered the chowder. "But what if we run out?" I did not give a crab's cake, I said, unless he could explain what possible difference it would make whether I had the last bowl of chowder or someone else did. "But what if there's not enough to go around?" he said in a rising falsetto. Care factor, zero. Chowder. The restaurant had an open kitchen where the diners could see the kitchen hands at work. The waiter leaned across the counter towards the chef who, to give him his due, kept a deadpan look on his face but his unblinking eyes read: "You told him WHAT!?" The waiter returned with, good news, sir, the chowder was still available, as if there were any doubts. He then took the rest of our orders inserting his own innane blather: "Excellent choice, madam, my favourite, too." Why are the new batch of waiters such irritating, ingratiating pests? Personally, I blame Regency TAFE, which does most of Adelaide's hospitality training. Someone there must be teaching them to do it because such inanities do not come naturally. Our waiter kept returning every few minutes. "Would sir prefer tap, still or sparkling water? Plain bread, foccacia or polenta? Oil or butter? Ground pepper?" And after each intrusion, my guests had giggling fits and, misreading the signs, the waiter thought he was the life of the party. "Are there enough bubbles in your mineral water, sir? And how's that soup?" As a matter of fact, I said, it was milky rather than creamy, contained hardly any pieces of fish and no doubt would have been a lot better before the chef watered it down. Yes, he said, personally he would have chosen the asparagus soup. Grrr.