(Two columns June 18 & 25)

Published The Advocate, June 25, 2005


GONE are the days when a footy umpire could stand back like a boxing referee while two ruckmen took swings at each other, until finally intervening: "Okay, by my count you're even, now can we get on with the game?" Also gone is the time when a player could front the tribunal with a busted nose and say the opponent charged with striking him had in fact missed by a country mile. The video replay from five different angle changed everything - whatever happened to trust anyway? - and the TV viewing audience demands its pound of flesh. Forced to take matters seriously, the AFL tribunal has raised the stakes to the point where a player can now plea bargain, admitting his guilt and copping a one match suspension, or risk defending himself and being outed for three weeks. Lawyers, heaven forbid, are even allowed to appear before the tribunal to offer a clean playing record, good character, contrition, an apology ... and how much Biff's mum loves him. Off-field, the clubs have a player code of behaviour that is supposed to control embarrassments such as drunken carousing, drink driving, assaults, vandalism, indecent exposure and very possibly rape. Public apologies are even offered, which by now should be included in each team's media training. Forced to 'fess up under the glare of the TV lights, the player knows he has to sound and look guilty even if, deep inside, he reckons the whole thing is a farce. The level of regret has become almost as formulaic as a well-rehearsed TV soapie. "I feel really bad," the player says, unclear if it is the drunken idiocy or having to apologise hungover that makes him feel bad. "I didn't feel bad about it at the time but I sure feel bad now.'' It has the same air of false contrition as often seen in the law courts in the hope of receiving sympathy and a lighter sentence. "I was a fool. I acted stupidly. I got caught. Can I go now?" The only thing missing is the lighting of devotional candles. In all likelihood, the club president or captain has already given the player a TV lashing about letting himself down, letting his team mates down and letting down the club, which somehow always manages to cope. And even more painfully, of embarrassing the club sponsors. Earlier this season the Richmond Football Club lost a $500,000 sponsorship from the Victorian Transport Accident Commission after one of its players, Jay Schulz, was found to be driving with a blood alcohol reading of .065. Never mind, in Richmond's case the Australian Finance Group quickly stepped into the breach with a $800,000 sponsorship. Such is the buying power of an AFL franchise, and well done, young Jay. The AFL season boasts the Mark of the Year, the Goal of the Year, even the Best Smother, and more media awards than you can shake a Brownlow Medal at. Time for a Best Apology of the Year.

Published The Advocate, June 18, 2005


SITTING in The Republic bar, North Hobart, killing time waiting for a dinner guest, my eyes were fixed on the drinks fridge stacked with bottles of an apple cider labelled Mercury. Now there’s a thought: Must get the brewery to bottle a beer called Advocate. Speaking of branding, a young woman in Ugg boots was wearing a T-shirt with the printed message across her chest: "Make Time – Sulk Every Day." My life had lowly beginnings and has been tapering off ever since. Even so, the world is not bad enough to turn me into a sulky billboard. My guest was B, a divorce lawyer. What a dispiriting job she must have, dealing with the same problems every single working day of her life; sharing other people’s nightmarish existence; the squabbling over the kids; and the vicious pettiness right down to the last piece of cracked china. How does B cope dealing with the same battles, time and again? How does she turn off? She drinks triple vodkas and tonic. B’s own life is far removed from the concerns of most of her clients and she is no whinger: "Never complain about your misfortunes because half the people couldn’t care less and the other half think you are getting exactly what you deserve." Exactly. Nor does she have much time for psycho-prattle. To thine own self be true? Live according to your values? "Blah. The Nazis were true to their values and six million died in the gas chambers. Blah-blah." I passed on telling her about my own hairshirt existence and went back to my hotel room under the snowy brow of Mt Wellington, to be awoken by the sound of loud voices on the street. "I rooly-rooly loves you!" a girl was sobbing-yelling. A boy mumbled something drunkenly in reply. The heavy rain glowed orange in the street lights. It was too wet even for battling young lovers to be standing in the open. "No, I rooly-rooly loves you!" she insisted. Mumble-mumble. The odd thing about sound is the higher up you are in a building, the louder are the voices on the street below. Lying in bed on the fifth floor was like having them sit on the window sill. Mumble-mumble. "No, I rooly-rooly…" And on it went, interrupted finally by the strangled heave of the boy vomiting. Or it might have been the girl. At 4.30a.m. I was woken by the squealing and shrieking of girls carousing along the street. Buh-luddy hell, is there no end? "We’ve got the whole world, in our hands; we’ve got the whole world, in our hands…" they were singing over and over. Then, unable to remember the next verse, they shrieked again. Teenage girls, nominally under the care of their parents, running wild and drunk with exposed midriffs. It is not wise to categorise people by their postcode but the whole of 7000, which looks nice and neat when written down like that, is an unruly place that should not be visited alone in winter.