Tagged with Australia

You’re unAustralian if…

To celebrate Australia Day, one gazillion rainforests have been slaughtered creating weighty tomes of “what it means to be Australian”. Bugger that.

As a Wattle-waving Aussie, I reckon you’re unAustralian if…

If you don’t know what this bloke is, you’re unAustralian

*You don’t use “yeah, no” regularly in a sentence.

*You know the mysterious second verse of the Australian national anthem.

*You don’t return from a Bali holiday wearing a Bintang beer singlet and / or braided hair.

*You use the word “sheila”.

*You don’t know what Wattle is.

*You think Australian cricket captain Michael Clarke is still some “up himself wanker” (even though he has scored about 7,003 runs this season and won test, one day and backyard matches).

*You don’t know what “wanker” means.

*You don’t drown your meat pie in tomato sauce.

*You don’t eat meat pies.

*You prefer a Sauvignon Blanc with a melon and ripe gooseberry nose to a stubbie you’ve opened with your eye socket.

*You don’t know what a stubbie is.

*You don’t think Kylie is bunging on that pommie accent.

*You don’t know what “bunging on” means.

*You drink Foster’s beer.

*You call a “prawn” anything other than a “prawn”.

*You’ve never had a bindi stuck in your foot (not the Indian forehead decoration or Steve Irwin’s daughter).

*You like the song I Still Call Australia Home even with Peter Allen bunging on that crap American accent.

*You prefer to sit on the grass at the beach rather than the sand.

*You take a soccer ball to the beach.

*You call a soccer ball a “football”.

*You respond when some bogan chants “Aussie!, Aussie!, Aussie!…”.

*You don’t know what a “bogan” is.

*You don’t think the lead singer of AC/DC is still “the new bloke”.

*You don’t return from overseas bitching about how everything is better / cheaper / tastier / bigger / less crowded / less smelly / less foreign than here at home.

*You actually enjoyed the movie Australia.

Words and image ©Steve Williams 2013

 

 

 

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Boy of Summer

Having spent the last eight years living in a country with only one season — ok, one and a bit at a stretch — it was a refreshing and welcome assault on the senses to recently spend two weeks back in a Sydney summer.

Balmoral Beach sky the colour of ” ” (via iPhone)

I always find it fascinating how sights, sounds and smells can conjure up images in your mind, like one of those old clattering film projectors you had in school several lifetimes ago. That was when you felt totally trapped in a sweaty, sweltering demountable classroom with no air conditioning, willing the bell to ring while fidgetingly-enduring some tedious nature documentary you’d probably find quite interesting now almost forty years later — but I digress.

The first flashback of summers past was triggered by that truly unique fragrance of wet beach towels, then in no particular order the smell of a real Christmas tree, coconut oil, and sights of kids riding their new bikes from Santa with the pristine paint glinting — but not for long after a few inevitable “stacks”. You can never erase that wonderful aroma of vinegar on take away chips by the beach, accompanied of course by the obligatory cranky seagull, the searing sensation of hot sand burning feet pathetically softened by years trapped in shoes and offices. There’s that stunning colour of the summer sky, so blue they haven’t invented an adjective for it yet… and sadly the threat and devastating reality of bushfires, which evoked memories of still-smouldering Eucalyptus leaves falling out of a ominously smoke-hazed sky at Palm Beach years ago.

On a slightly brighter note, who can forget that valiant quest for a parking spot in a shopping centre or at the beach — with the moment of unbridled joy when you see the magnificent white aura of reversing lights appear before you.

In case I needed any reminding I was smack bang back in the middle of a glorious Sydney summer, this announcement was made on the ferry to Watson’s Bay, “If anyone’s interested in the cricket, Australia are 4 for 251”.

Words and image ©Steve Williams 2012

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Random Swill beach images

“Beach (/bēCH/), n., a shore of a body of water covered by sand, gravel, or larger rock fragments.”

Images ©Steve Williams 2012

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Rugby League — Greatest Memories of All

As it’s the clichéd “business end of the season” for the NRL — Australia’s National Rugby League (one of the most popular winter sports in the country and dubbed “the greatest game of all”) I’m in a disturbingly reflective mood. Here are a few random snapshot memories of rugby league from when I was a kid growing up in Sydney.

The greatest team in the history of sport (www.nma.gov.au and Melba Studios)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Getting splinters in your arse from those wooden seats at Cumberland Oval. The exuberant Eels fans that torched it after the 1981 premiership win did us all a favour.

*Running onto the ground as the fulltime siren sounded to try and grab the black and white striped cardboard corner post. I was successful a few times.

*The halftime entertainment malfunctions that have plagued Grand Finals — the busted TV allegedly to promote Optus Vision (which was actually quite prophetic), John Williamson serenading an inflatable rubber tree with “Rip Rip Woodchip” after loggers had threatened a blockade of the SCG, the cast of “42nd Street” standing forlornly in the centre of the ground waiting in vain for their music to start, and more recently, Billy Idol’s hovercraft cutting the power, which was a good thing.

*The sensational prizes bestowed on guests of TV’s “Controversy Corner” — including a Pelaco shirt, vouchers for a Viking Sauna and Kevin Junee’s Run For Your Life sports store and the piece of resistance — a bottle of Patra orange juice.

*“The Theme From Shaft” used over the closing credits of Channel Seven’s Sunday night footy coverage with Rex Mossop. Not sure what a “blaxploitation” film had to do with footy, but there’s probably a parallel. “Chips and eggs” was the standard Sunday night fare in the Williams household.

*The Chook Army (diehard supporters of Eastern Suburbs) singing “We hate Ray Price and we hate Ray Price / We hate Ray Price and we hate Ray Price / We hate Ray Price and we hate Ray Price / we are the Ray Price haters”. One actually threw a grapefruit at him while he was in his petrified praying mantis pose — he didn’t budge.

*The “sand boy” running on with a small bucket of sand to for the ball to sit on before conversions and penalty kicks at goal.

*Scanlen’s footy cards — that sweet smell of the thin pink strip of bubble gum lingering on the cards… and still lingers with me. Some bastard kid knocking the cards out of another kids’ hands in the school playground yelling “Scramble!!!” which meant a mad free-for-all.

*Having a birthday party with a few mates when I was about ten at Lidcombe Oval, we were sitting behind the try line and were captured in mid-try celebration mode in a photo on the back page of the next day’s Daily Mirror.

*The arse following out of your meat pie at a brass monkey-inducing Sydney Sports Ground.

*The trainer scurrying on to the field with his “magic sponge” dunked in a bucket of water, mopping up a horrific head gash, then redunking it in the same bucket, primed for the next injury.

*One of my most prized possessions — the autographs of the entire victorious Roosters 1975 side (on an Easts Leagues Club wine list — thanks Uncle Pete).

For all its faults — and there are a few, it’s a bloody good game.

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Random Swill Red Centre Australia images

Famed Australian writer and poet Dorothea Mackellar wrote of a “sunburnt country”.

She wasn’t exaggerating. Some of my random images of Australia’s magnificent “Red Centre”…


©Steve Williams 2012

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Going (Slightly) Gaga

So I became an honorary “Little Monster” for a few hours last night. Lady Gaga brought The Born This Way Ball to Singapore and without going into what is apparently called “paws up” mode (ask a hardcore Gaga fan, they’ll tell you), I have to say it was a brilliant show. This was one of the very early stops of the massive world tour before she heads to New Zealand, then Australia and the rest of the cosmos.

*This may not be an actual part of Gaga’s meat lounge

Love her or hate her, whether you think she’s some weird meat-dress wearing psycho Madonna wannabe who seems to constantly forget her bra, or the much revered “Mother Monster”, you have to admire her talent. Seriously.

Without getting into major spoiler territory, expect to see a unicorn, an elaborate medieval castle set that opens and closes revealing numerous scenes and characters kind of like Gothic Barbie on acid, a meat lounge, a Gaga / Max Headroom lovechild, a rather unique way of riding a motorbike, spectacular costumes (loved the manic bee-keeper outfit) with a mesmerising number of über-quick changes, exceptional choreography from Gaga and her sickeningly buff and talented troupe of dancers, an interesting flavour of sausages emerging from a meat grinder, a machine gun bra and… more. That is possibly selling the rather involved storyline a fraction short, but personally, I was there for the music, not so much the theatrics, but Gaga delivered that and then some.

Expect to hear an extremely tight band, personable, actually rather heartfelt dialogue from Gaga (you might think I’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid, but I can’t really see an issue with her messages of love, tolerance, unity, support for gay rights, anti-bullying etc) plus the occasional f-word, and the random religious-esque reference.

Then there’s that voice… her power and range is quite incredible, all while riding a unicorn, a motorbike, scaling the battlements of her castle, performing outrageously intricate and I-desperately-need-to-lie-down inducing dance moves — all a total lip-synching free zone — in her chats between songs she is literally trying to catch her breath. Speaking of songs, all her hits are there — Born This Way, Poker Face, Paparazzi, Judas, Hair, You and I, Edge of Glory, Marry The Night, Bad Romance, Alejandro (I’ve probably left out a couple) and all faithful to the originals — no bullshit Gregorian chant meets John Williamson weird-arse reworking because “I’m an artiste” here.

If you get a chance, buy a ticket to the Ball. You don’t see or hear talent like this every day (or a unicorn or meat lounge).

©Steve Williams 2012

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