Published Messenger Newspapers, Adelaide, October 29, 2003
THE ELOPEMENT OF PAUL AND JANE
NOWADAYS, when a couple already living together in sin decides on wedlock, it often comes as a surprise to their family and friends, especially when the nuptials occur overseas and almost no-one else knows about it. Live-in lovers Paul and Jane were married early this year in New York and they forgot to tell me. I forgive them. They did not act on a whim. Oh, no. I have never known Paul to act on anything without first carefully analysing all possible options and consequences, and then having second thoughts. No, this was a meticulously planned elopement, which Paul kept to himself. Not even Jane knew. Everyone except Paul believed the pair of them was going on a Italian holiday last Christmas. In Rome, however, he proposed marriage at the Fontana di Trevi, as you do. OK, Jane replied, and they went and bought rings and had dinner in a fancy restaurant to celebrate. At this stage, she thought they were travelling on to Venice but over dinner Paul announced he had organised a surprise wedding in New York, if she were interested, almost immediately. OK, Jane replied. They could have chosen to marry in Central Park. Instead they were married by a Federal Court judge during the lunch break in a Mafia mobster trial. There were two witnesses - possibly from the witness protection program - and the wedding licence apparently was cheaper than a gun licence. Afterwards, they had lunch at a pizza joint near the Brooklyn Bridge and emailed back a photograph of themselves standing under the bridge, without mentioning they were newlyweds. Their family and friends gathered recently at the National Wine Centre in Adelaide to belatedly celebrate the nuptials. Paul's mother told me she was not in the least fazed about not being there for the wedding. Having only sons, she was delighted to gain Jane and her four sisters as new daughters and, best of all, to have five new drinking buddies. Have another drink, mum. "We just wanted to do something different and with a minimum of ceremony," Paul told the gathering. It's called an elopement, Paul. He went on to recount how, at a low ebb in his personal life, a mate had reassured him that when the right girl came along, he would know it. Spotting Jane working as a waitress in Rundle St, he had experienced his "A-ha! That's the one!" moment. "Yeah, so did the rest of the footy team!" joked someone from the back. Weddings always provoke drunken interjections. Jane began her speech by immediately and repeatedly expressing love and devotion to both their mothers - a sure sign, in my view, of lingering guilt over the in absentia wedding, which Jane later denied and threatened to punch my lights out if I repeated it in print. Everything in life is structured to the advantage of couples, from twin-share holiday discounts to tax splitting. But is marriage really necessary? Sure. Any excuse for a party.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Published Messenger Newspapers, Adelaide, October 22, 2003
RUGBY FAN BORN BY THE ROADSIDE
THE year was 1991. Late afternoon, driving through a heavy rain squall on a motorway towards Portsmouth, in southern England, and the hire car just conked out. The Rover's electrics failed completely in the wet. One would have thought an English car was designed to cope with rain as a bare minimum. Fortunately, the car rolled to a dead stop near an emergency phone from where I was able to call for roadside assistance. No sooner had I spoken my first few words than a cheery Cockney voice at the other end interrupted with an imitation strine accent: "Goodonya, cobber! Bee-luddy bewdy mate!" Standing shivering by the side of the road in the dark, lashed by a howling gale and drenched from the backwash of every passing truck, and I had a madman on the line. I thought it must be a wrong number even though the phone had connected itself. "You must be right chuffed!" he said. No, as a matter of fact, not since I was in danger of dying from exposure on the M27 unless he quickly found someone to help me. "What, have you not heard, man? Your lads gave Wales a royal walloping this afternoon at Cardiff Arms Park, 38-3." Racking my icy brain, it took a while to realise he was talking about the Rugby World Cup being played that year in the UK. So Australia had beaten Wales, big deal, as if I cared. Rugby Union barely rated as a blip on the sports screen where I came from, except among the hooray-henrys. In fact, it was a very big deal indeed in London. The next day's papers carried pages and pages on the illustrious Australians including Nick Farr-Jones, Michael Lynagh and David "Campo" Campese. Campo, who flipped cheeky passes over his shoulder and double stepped his way around heaving defenders, rated a full page in The Independent. Recovering from the Portsmouth flu, I began to take more notice of the World Cup as Australia scraped home against Ireland in the quarter finals and then crushed the fancied Kiwis in the semis. Well and truly hooked by then, I was an eye witness to the final between England and Australia at Twickenham, seated on a bar stool at the King Henry VIII pub in Bayswater. We won 12-6. I chanted and cheered with my Aussie Rules mates who, like me, had suddenly become rugby union experts and the hero worshippers of players who we barely knew existed a fortnight earlier. Two Rugby World Cup games are being staged next weekend in Adelaide. I wish I were in London to watch them. And another thing: At the opening ceremony in Sydney, did you hear the crowd boo when the Prime Minister went to the microphone? The boos were soon drowned out by the PM's cheer squad but did we witness for just a moment the turning of the political tide in Australia? Hmm, I wonder might the 2003 World Cup be remembered for triggering the collapsed scrum of a different kind altogether?
RUGBY FAN BORN BY THE ROADSIDE
THE year was 1991. Late afternoon, driving through a heavy rain squall on a motorway towards Portsmouth, in southern England, and the hire car just conked out. The Rover's electrics failed completely in the wet. One would have thought an English car was designed to cope with rain as a bare minimum. Fortunately, the car rolled to a dead stop near an emergency phone from where I was able to call for roadside assistance. No sooner had I spoken my first few words than a cheery Cockney voice at the other end interrupted with an imitation strine accent: "Goodonya, cobber! Bee-luddy bewdy mate!" Standing shivering by the side of the road in the dark, lashed by a howling gale and drenched from the backwash of every passing truck, and I had a madman on the line. I thought it must be a wrong number even though the phone had connected itself. "You must be right chuffed!" he said. No, as a matter of fact, not since I was in danger of dying from exposure on the M27 unless he quickly found someone to help me. "What, have you not heard, man? Your lads gave Wales a royal walloping this afternoon at Cardiff Arms Park, 38-3." Racking my icy brain, it took a while to realise he was talking about the Rugby World Cup being played that year in the UK. So Australia had beaten Wales, big deal, as if I cared. Rugby Union barely rated as a blip on the sports screen where I came from, except among the hooray-henrys. In fact, it was a very big deal indeed in London. The next day's papers carried pages and pages on the illustrious Australians including Nick Farr-Jones, Michael Lynagh and David "Campo" Campese. Campo, who flipped cheeky passes over his shoulder and double stepped his way around heaving defenders, rated a full page in The Independent. Recovering from the Portsmouth flu, I began to take more notice of the World Cup as Australia scraped home against Ireland in the quarter finals and then crushed the fancied Kiwis in the semis. Well and truly hooked by then, I was an eye witness to the final between England and Australia at Twickenham, seated on a bar stool at the King Henry VIII pub in Bayswater. We won 12-6. I chanted and cheered with my Aussie Rules mates who, like me, had suddenly become rugby union experts and the hero worshippers of players who we barely knew existed a fortnight earlier. Two Rugby World Cup games are being staged next weekend in Adelaide. I wish I were in London to watch them. And another thing: At the opening ceremony in Sydney, did you hear the crowd boo when the Prime Minister went to the microphone? The boos were soon drowned out by the PM's cheer squad but did we witness for just a moment the turning of the political tide in Australia? Hmm, I wonder might the 2003 World Cup be remembered for triggering the collapsed scrum of a different kind altogether?
