27 December 2008
christmas day is....
..... equal parts aperol and champagne with soda, ice and fresh orange.... one reason christmas is better in the sunny half of the world.
30 September 2008
Grand final 2008 - not what we expected!
The papers have chosen their narrative: Hawks valiant; Cats caught napping; goliath taught a lesson. Fair enough. But while the scribes luxuriate in their warm bath of hindsight, the believers are left in search of a more sophisticated tale. For mine, Saturday 27 September was the day Shakespeare returned to walk the earth and scripted Geelong’s players in a tragedy.
The raw material was there. A long suffering kingdom had conquered vast unknown lands; wrestled crocodiles in the swamps; tamed lions in the desert; stared down its inner demons and emerged stronger. Everyone believed. Geelong had discovered alchemy and would never again suffer the indignity of talent squandered. The stubborn path of history had been altered, permanently. And the message reinforced itself in a spin cycle of columnist/believer feedback. Perfect conditions for imperial overstretch if ever there was.
When we broke the drought in 2007 the sheer emphatic-ness of it all was overwhelming. We were a million miles ahead. We’d crossed a bridge to the ranks of those who win grand finals. Behind us lay the romantics, St Kilda, Footscray, the ghost of Fitzroy. Ahead lay the hard-nuts, Hawthorn, West Coast etc. We were in for a decade of fearsome conquest. Other teams would bow to our will, and loath us. We’d all become cocky. The prospect was glorious. We reloaded our wardrobes with merchandise, new logos, shiny silver dvd box-sets. The club treasure chest overflowed; we were rich from the pillaging. We sported team colours in summer and eagerly anticipated the coming season.
And true to our expectations, more conquest came. The victories piled up like carcases on a sausage factory floor. We were a machine. From coast to coast we danced gracefully around our prey, hypnotising them with lightning fast handball and surprising them with bone-tickling tackles. West Coast was humiliated - so spectacularly that the locals stayed to watch the chain gang marching through the streets. Whole seasons were redeemed in single matches – ’92. ‘94. ’95.
Shakespeare became a Geelong supporter on the 23rd of May when Geelong sauntered like half-cut sailors into the MCG and were ravaged by a team of Popeyes in Collingwood jumpers. Where we saw an anomaly, Shakespeare saw hubris, flawed-genius, variegated motivation. Geelong beanie pulled low on his brow, he scribbled some notes and shuffled into the cool autumnal night; a script in the making.
The season rolled on through winter and the columnists lined up to pronounce Geelong a premier in all bar cup. Such rhetorical excess was not consistent with old-Geelong, but maybe new Geelong was different. We were that good, so why not just speak the truth rather than mumbled, heavily caveated, jinx-avoiding half-statements.
Shakespeare attended training these past few weeks, scribbling in his notebook at the back of the past players stand. He saw the cracks that didn’t appear on any x-ray. He was prodding and probing the character of our stars. Behind the confidence, and the uniform devotion to team rules hummed a familiar tune.... we’re still Geelong.
Gary Ablett, was destined for casting as the valiant gladiator, sold out by his comrades on the field of battle; like father like son. Cameron Mooney played the court jester, whose commitment to the court could never be discerned through his riddles. Tom Harley: the righteous king who died on the battle field, dream of empire abandoned, but honour intact. And Joel Selwood, the young prince who will one day be king, proved his worth to maidens and minions alike, accompanied by his hard-toiling friends Joel Corey and Jimmy Bartel. Someone had to play the beautiful princess - who better than Matty Scarlett, so sensitive and supportive, and loyal to the death. And then the others, unnamed, who ran from the fight and took off to France in disgrace, perhaps they’ll return, but if they do, they’ve a lot to prove.
We’re left feeling cheated, as though the glorious sunshine we’ve basked in for the past 12 months, the generous praise of fellow football fans, the certainty of victory, were all permanent fixtures – as if this was a new way of living, a transformation of norms and expectations. I’d adjusted to the new way, attributing superhuman capabilities to our players. Our princes had cracked the code and discovered how to spin mortal football acts into gold. Geelong was a glamour port, a gateway to the architectural porn of the surf coast and a city of artists. This new way felt too good to be mere complacency dressed up in fancy clothes. It was nouveau football. It was a mirage.
So onward to 2009, with the hope of Shakespearean revenge to keep our chastened heros on track. Some scores get settled, some lie dormant for decades, some evaporate with the passing of generations. This one, I hope, will be swiftly dealt with. But those who know old-Geelong fear it might take a while for the sublime to return and sweep away the disappointment. We have hope.
Legend has it that Shah Jahan, the Mughal Emperor who built the Taj Mahal, had intended to build an identical palace on the opposite bank of the Yamuna River, entirely of black marble. This dark palace would complement the soaring lightness and purity of the Taj - capturing the dark side of life. It's easy to understand such a gesture as we contemplate the Shakespearean disaster of Geelong in 2008. After the white-marble radiance of 2007 it’s time to embrace the black-marble of Grand Final Day 2008.
The raw material was there. A long suffering kingdom had conquered vast unknown lands; wrestled crocodiles in the swamps; tamed lions in the desert; stared down its inner demons and emerged stronger. Everyone believed. Geelong had discovered alchemy and would never again suffer the indignity of talent squandered. The stubborn path of history had been altered, permanently. And the message reinforced itself in a spin cycle of columnist/believer feedback. Perfect conditions for imperial overstretch if ever there was.
When we broke the drought in 2007 the sheer emphatic-ness of it all was overwhelming. We were a million miles ahead. We’d crossed a bridge to the ranks of those who win grand finals. Behind us lay the romantics, St Kilda, Footscray, the ghost of Fitzroy. Ahead lay the hard-nuts, Hawthorn, West Coast etc. We were in for a decade of fearsome conquest. Other teams would bow to our will, and loath us. We’d all become cocky. The prospect was glorious. We reloaded our wardrobes with merchandise, new logos, shiny silver dvd box-sets. The club treasure chest overflowed; we were rich from the pillaging. We sported team colours in summer and eagerly anticipated the coming season.
And true to our expectations, more conquest came. The victories piled up like carcases on a sausage factory floor. We were a machine. From coast to coast we danced gracefully around our prey, hypnotising them with lightning fast handball and surprising them with bone-tickling tackles. West Coast was humiliated - so spectacularly that the locals stayed to watch the chain gang marching through the streets. Whole seasons were redeemed in single matches – ’92. ‘94. ’95.
Shakespeare became a Geelong supporter on the 23rd of May when Geelong sauntered like half-cut sailors into the MCG and were ravaged by a team of Popeyes in Collingwood jumpers. Where we saw an anomaly, Shakespeare saw hubris, flawed-genius, variegated motivation. Geelong beanie pulled low on his brow, he scribbled some notes and shuffled into the cool autumnal night; a script in the making.
The season rolled on through winter and the columnists lined up to pronounce Geelong a premier in all bar cup. Such rhetorical excess was not consistent with old-Geelong, but maybe new Geelong was different. We were that good, so why not just speak the truth rather than mumbled, heavily caveated, jinx-avoiding half-statements.
Shakespeare attended training these past few weeks, scribbling in his notebook at the back of the past players stand. He saw the cracks that didn’t appear on any x-ray. He was prodding and probing the character of our stars. Behind the confidence, and the uniform devotion to team rules hummed a familiar tune.... we’re still Geelong.
Gary Ablett, was destined for casting as the valiant gladiator, sold out by his comrades on the field of battle; like father like son. Cameron Mooney played the court jester, whose commitment to the court could never be discerned through his riddles. Tom Harley: the righteous king who died on the battle field, dream of empire abandoned, but honour intact. And Joel Selwood, the young prince who will one day be king, proved his worth to maidens and minions alike, accompanied by his hard-toiling friends Joel Corey and Jimmy Bartel. Someone had to play the beautiful princess - who better than Matty Scarlett, so sensitive and supportive, and loyal to the death. And then the others, unnamed, who ran from the fight and took off to France in disgrace, perhaps they’ll return, but if they do, they’ve a lot to prove.
We’re left feeling cheated, as though the glorious sunshine we’ve basked in for the past 12 months, the generous praise of fellow football fans, the certainty of victory, were all permanent fixtures – as if this was a new way of living, a transformation of norms and expectations. I’d adjusted to the new way, attributing superhuman capabilities to our players. Our princes had cracked the code and discovered how to spin mortal football acts into gold. Geelong was a glamour port, a gateway to the architectural porn of the surf coast and a city of artists. This new way felt too good to be mere complacency dressed up in fancy clothes. It was nouveau football. It was a mirage.
So onward to 2009, with the hope of Shakespearean revenge to keep our chastened heros on track. Some scores get settled, some lie dormant for decades, some evaporate with the passing of generations. This one, I hope, will be swiftly dealt with. But those who know old-Geelong fear it might take a while for the sublime to return and sweep away the disappointment. We have hope.
Legend has it that Shah Jahan, the Mughal Emperor who built the Taj Mahal, had intended to build an identical palace on the opposite bank of the Yamuna River, entirely of black marble. This dark palace would complement the soaring lightness and purity of the Taj - capturing the dark side of life. It's easy to understand such a gesture as we contemplate the Shakespearean disaster of Geelong in 2008. After the white-marble radiance of 2007 it’s time to embrace the black-marble of Grand Final Day 2008.
22 September 2008
Out of hibernation.... Onward to india
Bidip took a year out, returned to the grindstone, and has been blessed with an opportunity of a lifetime: three bouts of three hundred days in incredible india. I'll be tapping from the wintry mists of Delhi from January 09....
Here is a taste of what's to come:
27 April 2007
Into hibernation....
Three things to note:
a) Zimbabwe is a mess - nuff said.
b) Exams are imminent, and mild fear is coursing through my veins
c) Bidip and exam brilliance are highly incompatible.
Noting the above, Bidip shall be retired until at least July. The real world is there for the living.
Thanks for listening to my musings!
a) Zimbabwe is a mess - nuff said.
b) Exams are imminent, and mild fear is coursing through my veins
c) Bidip and exam brilliance are highly incompatible.
Noting the above, Bidip shall be retired until at least July. The real world is there for the living.
Thanks for listening to my musings!
15 March 2007
Out of the ice, into the fire
I'm taking a holiday (of sorts) in a certain repressive country in southern Africa, a place where aformentioned films are seemingly being re-enacted.
I'll be in touch.
I'll be in touch.
5 March 2007
Five Nights of Bleeding
The solace of cinema proved elusive this weekend. By accident more than design I watched two films on Africa's brutal tendencies. In 'Blood Diamond' the horrors of civil war and child soldiers tore through Sierra Leone. In 'Last King of Scotland' Idi Amin's insanity tore through Uganda. Meanwhile in South Africa a dear friend recovered in hospital after being shot in a robbery. None of these stories have a silver lining, none depart from reality, and none reflect well on Africa.
For some reason I was reminded of Jamaican-Brit poet Linton Kwesi Johnson's 'Five Nights of Bleeding.' (imagine a thick Jamaican accent and a slow, rhythic cadence - its about riots in London).
For some reason I was reminded of Jamaican-Brit poet Linton Kwesi Johnson's 'Five Nights of Bleeding.' (imagine a thick Jamaican accent and a slow, rhythic cadence - its about riots in London).
Madness, madness
Madness tight on the heads of the rebels
The bitterness erup's like a heart blas'
Broke glass, ritual of blood an' a-burnin'
Served by a cruelin' fighting
5 nights of horror and of bleeding
Broke glass, cold blades as sharp as the eyes of hate
And the stabbin', it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
-
Night number one was in Brixton
Sofrano B sound system
'im was a-beatin' up the riddim with a fire
'im comin' down his reggae reggae wire
It was a sound checkin' down your spinal column
A bad music tearin' up your flesh
An' the rebels dem start a fighting
De youth dem just tun wild, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
-
Night number two down at Sheppard's
Right up Railton road
It was a night name friday when ev'ryone was high on brew or drew(?)
A pound or two worth of Kali
A pound or two worth of Kali
Sound comin' down of the king's music iron
The riddim just bubblin' an' backfirin'
Ragin' an' risin'
When suddenly the music cut -
Steelblade drinkin' blood in darkness, it's
Steelblade drinkin' blood in darkness, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
-
Night number three, over the river
Right outside the Rainbow
Inside James Brown was screamin soul
Outside the rebels were freezin' cold
Babylonian tyrants descended
Bounced on the brothers who were bold
So with a flick of the wris', a jab and a stab
The song of hate was sounded
The pile of oppression was vomited
And two policemen wounded
Righteous, righteous war
-
Night number four at the blues dance, abuse dance
Two rooms packed and the pressure pushin' up
Hot, hotheads
Ritual of blood in the blues dance
Broke glass splintering, fire
Axes, blades, brain blas'
Rebellion rushin' down the wrong road
Storm blowin' down the wrong tree
And Leroy bleeds near death on the fourth night
In a blues dance, on a black rebellious night, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
-
Night number five at the telegraph
Vengeance walk thru de doors
So slow, so smooth
So tight and ripe and -smash!
Broke glass, a bottle finds a head
And the shell of the fire heard -crack!
The victim feels fear
Finds hands, holds knife, finds throat
Oh, the stabbins and the bleedin' and the blood, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
2 March 2007
Madness applied
This man is a friggin saint and a fabulous mate. The picture was taken in 2003 in Attridgeville Township outside Pretoria. Since then on this site he has built a hospice to care for dying HIV/AIDS patients. He raised the money and runs it. It granted the gift of dignity to the dying where there was little. Why someone would invade this place and shoot him is beyond my capacity for comprehension. All thoughts towards a speedy recovery.
Conclusive evidence that the world is ****ed up
Irish priest shot in South Africa
Thursday, 1 March 2007 16:22
A missionary priest who is originally from Belfast has been shot in South Africa. Father Kieran Creagh, who works with Aids sufferers, was attacked at the hospice he built in Johannesburg. He is now said to be in a stable condition in hospital. Father Creagh's brother Liam said it was a traumatic experience: 'Two men came in and over-powered the guards. 'They went up to the apartment where he stays at the hospice and they rang the bell. He thought it was a patient coming to get him. 'He opened the door and I think there was a bit of a struggle. 'They fired two shots at least. One shot hit him in one of his lungs, and it is lodged there, and the other shot went through his arm.'
_______________________________________________
South Africa: Gang Shoots Priest in Hospice Attack
Cape Argus (Cape Town)
March 1, 2007
The Irish priest who was the first person in South Africa and Africa to volunteer to take part in the country's first HIV vaccine trial run by the South African Aids Vaccine Initiative in 2003, is fighting for his life after being shot three times. Father Kieran Creagh heard a bell ring at his flat at the Leratong Hospice in Soshanguve, near Pretoria, last night and thought it was a nurse summoning him to come and pray with a dying patient. But when he opened the door he was confronted by eight gunmen. He was shot three times. Creagh, director of the hospice and who lives on the premises, was alone in his flat when he was attacked by the gang, which appears to have taken his cellphone and DVD player.
This morning Creagh was in critical condition in ICU at the Zuid Afrikaans Hospital. Matron Ramigia Tloubatla, who accompanied him in the ambulance and was at his side throughout the night, said surgeons were planning to operate soon. She said Creagh had remained awake and had spoken to her about what had happened. "He said somebody rang the bell and he thought it was a nurse calling him to a patient. But when he opened the door he was confronted with a gun ... and then they were all on top of him. About eight guys," she said. - Staff Reporter
__________________________________
Please keep Kieran in your thoughts and prayers (of whatever brand).
Thursday, 1 March 2007 16:22
A missionary priest who is originally from Belfast has been shot in South Africa. Father Kieran Creagh, who works with Aids sufferers, was attacked at the hospice he built in Johannesburg. He is now said to be in a stable condition in hospital. Father Creagh's brother Liam said it was a traumatic experience: 'Two men came in and over-powered the guards. 'They went up to the apartment where he stays at the hospice and they rang the bell. He thought it was a patient coming to get him. 'He opened the door and I think there was a bit of a struggle. 'They fired two shots at least. One shot hit him in one of his lungs, and it is lodged there, and the other shot went through his arm.'
_______________________________________________
South Africa: Gang Shoots Priest in Hospice Attack
Cape Argus (Cape Town)
March 1, 2007
The Irish priest who was the first person in South Africa and Africa to volunteer to take part in the country's first HIV vaccine trial run by the South African Aids Vaccine Initiative in 2003, is fighting for his life after being shot three times. Father Kieran Creagh heard a bell ring at his flat at the Leratong Hospice in Soshanguve, near Pretoria, last night and thought it was a nurse summoning him to come and pray with a dying patient. But when he opened the door he was confronted by eight gunmen. He was shot three times. Creagh, director of the hospice and who lives on the premises, was alone in his flat when he was attacked by the gang, which appears to have taken his cellphone and DVD player.
This morning Creagh was in critical condition in ICU at the Zuid Afrikaans Hospital. Matron Ramigia Tloubatla, who accompanied him in the ambulance and was at his side throughout the night, said surgeons were planning to operate soon. She said Creagh had remained awake and had spoken to her about what had happened. "He said somebody rang the bell and he thought it was a nurse calling him to a patient. But when he opened the door he was confronted with a gun ... and then they were all on top of him. About eight guys," she said. - Staff Reporter
__________________________________
Please keep Kieran in your thoughts and prayers (of whatever brand).
1 March 2007
Random London
Every minute in this manic city a thousand unusual things unveil themselves. Alas, most disappear in the moment of their discovery. On the way to school this morning I was lucky enough to spot three.
1) A quiet balding man, resplendent in track pants and a belly-bloated t-shirt, stepped out of the silverlink carriage at Caladonia Road Station, turned on a sixpence, and waved goodbye to the train until it disappeared around the bend.
2) At Kings Cross Station, a girl of 20 grinned at the world through double dimples. In the middle of each dimple she wore a metal stud, the perfect complement to her multiple nose rings, her tattooed neck and her boyfriend's gravity defying mohawk.
3) In covent garden two monocyles were chained to adjacent lamp posts.
1) A quiet balding man, resplendent in track pants and a belly-bloated t-shirt, stepped out of the silverlink carriage at Caladonia Road Station, turned on a sixpence, and waved goodbye to the train until it disappeared around the bend.
2) At Kings Cross Station, a girl of 20 grinned at the world through double dimples. In the middle of each dimple she wore a metal stud, the perfect complement to her multiple nose rings, her tattooed neck and her boyfriend's gravity defying mohawk.
3) In covent garden two monocyles were chained to adjacent lamp posts.
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