These Pretzels are Making me Thirsty!

Despite the fact that fair weather prevails and winter seems reluctant to show its hand any time soon I have managed to settle into a little bit of TV watching. Once you peel back the thin layer of Australian-made shows, documentaries and news programmes, you are left with a wealth of hand-me-downs and reruns fresh off the ship from Britain. If you aren’t watching The Graham Norton Show, Antiques Road Show, Ruddy Hell it’s Harry and Paul, Lead Balloon, or The Bill, you are instead watching Australia’s very own interpretations. Much like Marmite has a petulant little sister in (the arguably superior) Vegemite, so the BBC’s Question Time has an acne-riddled brother in ABC’s Q&A. Never Mind the Buzzcocks probably isn’t aware it has a distant cousin in Spicks and Specks, and the influence shows like Pop Idol and X-Factor have had the world over isn’t lost on Australia, with So You Think You Can Dance and Australia’s Got Talent tapping into that failsafe recipe.

Ignoring this residual television and the flood of American favourites like CSI and 24, Australia does actually hold its own and produces some genuinely classy stuff that would thrill British and American audiences. If stars like Cate Blanchett, Hugh Jackman and Danni Minogue can strike gold overseas, there’s no suggestion Aussie productions couldn’t do the same. Underbelly is a slick and stylish execution depicting the real life story of one of New Zealand’s most notorious drug dealers, who plied his trade in Australia in the seventies and eighties. We already know the success of Kath and Kim in the UK, but I’ve never really been sure just how close to the bone it reaches in certain parts of Australia. I was proud to introduce the word ‘bogan’ into my life in London, and it was likely you would hear it being bandied about liberally at my old workplace, or on a Sussex golf course. It essentially means ‘uncultured buffoon’ and is a word I picked up when I studied here in Perth in the late nineties. Kath and Kim are perhaps Australia’s most famous bogans but I’m thrilled to announce there is a new satirical comedy show running at the moment called Bogan Pride. I’m surprised I haven’t been cast in it. Unfortunately, much like Lou and Andy from Little Britain, who resemble a number of real people in Britain, there is a lot of truth behind the characters and it is for that reason I believe these shows have limited shelf lives.

One thing is for sure though, despite welcoming foreign content with open arms Australia does come up with some outlandish material and ideas that only they could get away with. The Farmer Wants a Wife is perhaps the finest example of just how Aussie TV can get – it’s exactly what it says it is; a reality show of real farmers looking for a partner. The Farmer Wants a Sheep probably wouldn’t make it past the censors. It’s not just programming, it’s the attitude of newscasters and presenters that is also uniquely Australian. The Socceroos (Australia’s national football team) had a World Cup qualifier a couple of weeks back and on one morning news station the sports presenter had donned a Socceroos scarf in support. This would not be allowed on the culturally oversensitive BBC. On another news bulletin the presenter began a story about North Korea launching a missile for what they claimed was a test aimed at perfecting their ability to put satellites in space. The presenter paused momentarily at this point and inserted the sarcastic comment, “Yeah, if you can believe that.”

Australia has perfected the art of taking the best other countries have to offer and improving it – sometimes. The American method of painting words in reverse on highways has always frustrated me. The idea is that when you are driving at speed you read the bottom word first, rather than from the top as you would a book. For example, rather than say BUS LANE, with BUS appearing above LANE in large letters in the centre of the road, it will be painted as LANE BUS, which is just how you read it! You end up double-checking in your rear-view mirror, by which time you’ve realised anyway what it was saying as you park you radiator on the backseat of a 48-seater Mercedes. But then there is the inspired decision by Perth’s Public Transport Authority to allow bus passengers to request a stop anywhere on their route after 9pm. It’s a luxury late at night when you’ve had a few too many drinks.

As a final note on popular culture, there are occasions when one simple idea or occurrence crosses borders and appeals globally to viewers and listeners alike. I am not the world’s biggest fan of talent shows, but the appearance of Susan Boyle on Britain’s Got Talent has lit up the souls of all those who enjoy a rags-to-riches story. What a heart-warming and stunning moment. If she never goes on to achieve anything else in her life she will have that moment to remember for the rest of it. Demi Moore apparently had tears in her eyes watching the clip on YouTube so here’s hoping Ms Boyle, who has admitted to having never even kissed another person, can muster up her very own Demi-like mid-forties dream of finding young love with this new found fame and talent.

There are alternative sources of entertainment in abundance in Perth. I spent the Easter weekend in Mandurah with family and during my return train trip I shared an elevator with a young chap clad in a cowboy hat and fluorescent orange jacket shepherding an old bicycle. I enquired whether he had enjoyed his Easter weekend and in a broad Australian drawl he responded, “No mate, I work for a circus.” I’m sure we all as kids had a dream at some point that we would work in a circus, but for this lad that dream has either turned into a nightmare or his dream is the exact opposite; to work in a field that doesn’t involve clowns, tents, cannons and lions. He needed a shower badly, that’s for sure. If circuses aren’t your thing, there are plenty of great Australian authors out there. A very good friend of mine in London introduced me to Tim Winton, author of such tales as Cloudstreet and Breath. I have read several of his books now and find his storytelling enchanting, luxurious and capable of invigorating even the dullest of imaginations. But along came a teacher I met the other day who suggested Mr Winton is incapable of finishing a story and I suddenly realised that it’s actually true. The Riders describes an epic journey taken by a father and daughter in search of their wife and mother who has absconded. I could barely put the book down and turned furiously from page to page until, about three pages from the end, I realised there was no way they would possibly find her. They didn’t. Sorry, have I ruined it for you?

Peter Carey is another Australian author about whom I have heard great things. Unfortunately, however, I have only read one of his books; The True History of the Kelly Gang. It is essentially a collection of Ned Kelly’s autobiographical diaries written in the lead up to his death at the hands of the police. Despite the pages taking you on an undulating ride through an incredible period in Australia’s history, the writing (Kelly’s own with a hint of Carey’s artistic licence) begins to grate after a while and the characters become so plentiful and similar that I found myself willing the end to come quicker. As it happens, much like Kelly’s own life, I ended the story before I finished it. It’s true to say that Australia’s past is full of colourful tales and legends. My cousin has in his possession a collection of some of the most wonderful Australian fishing anecdotes. One such account occurred some decades ago, and it’s safe to assume it served as a lesson for future generations. It’s not uncommon in coastal areas of the country to find long jetties stretching out into deep water with railway tracks running all the way to the end. These constructions played an important part in local history as they allowed ships to pull into town after town to collect such things as sheep wool. Naturally, with the water being too shallow near the shore, it was the deep water found at the end of a jetty that enabled vessels with deep hulls to pull up and drop anchor. Many years ago some locals who had taken to using their jetty as a diving board spotted a tiger shark lurking under the planks around the base of the struts. Not to be deterred, one of them decided to draw on his old war experience and dispose of this predatory fish with a generous serving of dynamite. So, after a few preparatory throws of kangaroo meat, which had been gradually further and further from the jetty, he loaded one up with the explosive and chucked it as far as he could into the sea. The shark swam off to collect his easy meal and, with kangaroo and sparkling fuse, returned casually to his shady retreat beneath the planks. Sure enough the plan worked brilliantly. The shark exploded into bits, as did the section of jetty under which it resided. This left the man and his associates stranded at the end of the jetty, surrounded by water that was now infested with sharks arriving to feast off the bloody mess left behind.

I am pleased to say I had a far more relaxing engagement with some Australian fish the other day. For Easter I joined my cousin and his lovely family on the fringes of a coastal town known as Mandurah. This is a popular area for those who like to flaunt their money, for it has miles and miles of canals and rivers lined with huge houses, private moorings and aptly named luxury boats. My favourite so far has to be Source of Divorce. The canals, my cousin discovered, also house a number of healthy black bream (oddly pronounced ‘brim’ in these parts) and I am proud to say I yanked two of these silvery black fish out of the algae-riddled water. They weren’t as large as my cousin’s effort, but it was all part of the fun. Of course we threw them back. Catch and release is a popular idea here when it comes to certain species, and rightly so.

After Easter, it was back to my humble abode in Scarborough. I am beginning to feel like I live in my own version of The Truman Show. It doesn’t matter what time of day I walk through my suburb, I always seem to see the same people at exactly the same place. There is the bespectacled lady forever coming around the corner with her baby, the dreadlocked man carrying milk across the same curb, and the rabble of ruffians gathering on the same veranda to drink, smoke, and generally look menacing. Having said that, I am worried about my sanity and think perhaps I may be imagining all this. I made fun of David Beckham recently for his quote referring to the number of caps he has achieved for England; “I was pleased to make it to one-o-nine, but now I’ve made it to one-o-ten.” The smile vanished from my face in the kitchen the other day when I realised, during counting for something I was cooking, that I had gone from one-hundred-and-fifty-nine to one-hundred-and-fifty-ten. Perhaps it was the knock I took on the chin while bodysurfing a week ago. I’ve been walking around with a lovely sand burn, a great excuse not to shave. The jokes have been coming in thick mostly along the lines of “keep your chin up, Michael”. My cousin is worse off. He nearly put a tooth through his lip while bodysurfing. I took my first day trip to Margaret River not so long ago. What a wonderful part of the world, full of stunning coastland and vineyards. It is defnitely a place to see again, and for longer, particularly the wine region. I won't be shy next time. Pass me the pretzels!

Love Cricket, Hate Crickets

They say your life flashes before you when your maker has scheduled an appointment, but I can confirm, having recently cheated Mr G. Reaper, that this is not the case. Consider the fact it has been three years since I last rode a bicycle. Now imagine me riding a bicycle off-road. I want to point out at this stage that I spent five minutes reacquainting myself with one of these wheeled contraptions on a nice, smooth, tar road before pointing the wheel at the start of a sandy track and hoping for the best. I was off the bitumen for no more than two yards before being distracted by what I thought was a charging, rabid dog. Needless to say I ground to a sudden ungainly halt in some soft sand and, as the Aussies say, stacked it. I laughed it off (even the dog did I recall) and pressed on after my cousin, who had left me in a cloud of dust and was climbing the steep track to the summit of a limestone dune.

I at last made it to the top, breathless and exhilarated at once. What my cousin had in mind suddenly dawned on me and I barely had time to protest before he charged over the edge and vanished down a rocky, pebbly chute in a spray of sand, yelling and hollering as his rear wheel slid and slipped all over the place. I had no helmet, no gloves, sandals on my feet, and a ladies’ bike between my legs (off which I had fallen only minutes prior). Not to be shown up by my younger, more agile relative, I plucked up the courage and tipped the front wheel over the edge. The steepness I cannot underestimate. I’m talking forty-five or fifty degrees here. All sound disappeared and the rush of wind thundered in my ears. The rear wheel took on a life of its own and it didn’t take me long to realise the fatal error would be to apply the brakes, for whenever I tentatively tickled them the bike would lurch madly, doing its best to disassociate itself from its rider. My arms rattled like strummed rubber bands. God only knows what speed I was doing. It felt like a million miles an hour. Stones kicked up and branches brushed dangerously around my ankles. I had only one thought flash through my mind: stay upright. Eventually the decline began to level out and my speed lessened. At last the bike felt like it was again under my control and not about to spear head-long into some of Australia’s finest undergrowth. If you’re thinking this all sounds a little sedate and nothing you would describe as near-death, you’re right. It wasn’t this thrilling descent of a grainy beach path that nearly killed me. It was the climb back up again. This particular part of the Bunbury coast is replete with miles and miles of pristine coastal bushland, and I was required to power my bike up several thick-sanded trails, the last of which induced blurry vision and a heart beat like a two-stroke engine.

I was last in Bunbury about four years ago and I must confess I didn’t think much of it back then. These days however, I am spending a lot of time visiting family there and whether I have changed or Bunbury has, I don’t know. I just know that I like it. It’s about two hours drive south of Perth (more by train if, like me, you don’t have a car and have to catch the curious Transwa Australind service). Bunbury was ranked by the Australian Bureau of Statistics in 2007 as the fastest growing city in Australia. That tells you how much it has changed, largely for the better. I suspect I still had the London bug on my earlier visit, but as that wore off and my desire to seek out sunnier climes grew, so places like Bunbury appealed more and more. It has a wonderful, stunning stretch of shoreline and is a gateway to the gorgeous South West, which I have yet to explore. I managed to take a far tamer trip on the bicycle around the main area of town – it’s not that big; about the size of Brighton in the south of England – and on my travels I discovered some incredible real-estate. There’s one hill consisting of immaculate houses overlooking the Indian Ocean and it was in this area that my bicycle’s chain decided to relieve itself of duty, sending me careering uncontrollably down towards the beach (I’m spotting a trend here). Not the smooth image I was trying to give off to the local council gardeners, who on this particular street were tanned, lean, pretty, brown-haired women. Is this Bunbury law?! The city’s most notable features are what the locals refer to as the Milk Carton (a rather ugly office block that resembles an open carton of milk) and the old grain silos, which have been converted into accommodation. My cousin and his wife have been living happily in Bunbury for a number of years, and it’s not hard to see why.

Their daily commute is a thirty minute drive inland to the town of Donnybrook. Much smaller than Bunbury, Donnybrook is largely a farming town. As you enter you are surrounded by immaculate fruit orchards on either side of the road. Rows and rows of perfectly manicured apple and pear trees wherever you look. I have passed through a lot of Australian farmland in the two months I have been here and I constantly marvel at what can be coaxed out of the land when man puts his mind to it. I have visited fruity little Donnybrook a handful of times, largely for golf and cricket. I’m not complaining. My cousin plays for the Donnybrook First XI, which is a wonderful mix of characters hell-bent on achieving one familiar goal: to play cricket as well as they possibly can. It was a joy to sit alongside the picket-fenced field, after wandering down from eighteen holes on the adjacent golf course, and watch some genuinely entertaining limited-overs cricket. They played their Grand Final against a neighbouring town, but this was no gentle weekend knockabout. I’m talking forty-five overs each on the first day, to be repeated the following day, and again the following weekend if the score is one apiece after the first two matches. They take their cricket seriously in Australia. I therefore didn’t feel any shame shouting like a tipsy member of the Barmy Army. I was the only person yelling for my cousin and his teammates; receiving plaudits from them all after they won the match in thrilling fashion. My cousin excels as opening bowler and part-time pitch roller. For a collection of amateurs, they must be pretty fit to play this much cricket over one weekend. I managed about five deliveries in the nets and I was stuffed, so I have huge respect.

Unfortunately, having left London and fulltime employment behind me over three months ago, all this holidaying and gallivanting had to come to an end at some point. So as much as I have been enjoying my trips on weekends down to Bunbury, it was back to Perth a few weeks ago to a new flat and new job. I have taken up residence in a rather dingy little complex in the suburb of Scarborough. The joy of the location is its proximity to the beach, but quite how important that is going to be to me with the onset of winter and the departure of summer daylight saving, I don’t really know. The flat is equipped with one room, a bathroom, and a kitchen-cum-lounge. I have two housemates in the shape of a couple of elusive and monotonous crickets. Many a night I have bounced about starkers trying to locate these pesky creatures, but they continue to mock me with their cocky little chirrups. I don’t mind them too much as the sound reminds me of Zimbabwe. It’s just one thing to hear them in the distant recesses of a tropical garden, and another to have them languishing behind a washing machine, echoing off the tiled walls and floors.

I was determined to enjoy the last of the long summer days last weekend by taking the five minute walk to Brighton Beach (nothing like its British namesake, for it has sand not boulders, and the sea is blue, not the colour of recycled engine oil). I spent most of the day bodysurfing, which prompted me to look into the sport further and discover that there is actually a world championship! It was wonderful to be able to frolic in the waves and be only five minutes from my own shower. Alas, my new place of work is not so easy to reach. In fact, I have been appalled at the standard of Perth’s public transport these past seven days. On two occasions I have had to wait for three trains to pass at Glendalough station before finding room to board. And don’t get me started on the 400 bus to Scarborough! I feel I may have to revisit my penchant for complaint letters shortly, having been made to wait for nearly an hour for a bus earlier this week. It’s going to get a whole lot more interesting shortly, as I have been seconded to another organisation which is twice the distance away from my flat. Still, it’s nice to be earning some money and doing something exciting at the same time. I had to chuckle the other day when I looked back through my diary to the empty pages of January, which had a scattering of appointments like: collect spark plug for generator; Borrowdale Brook – tee off 7.30; find diesel. Space in my diary these days is at a premium, with pages being taken over by acronyms: WIP (work in progress) meeting; CMU (customer management unit) to consider FAQs; DMU (digital media unit) to discuss content.

Wherever you are in the western world, weekends are surely the highlight of any worker’s week. The Aussies sure know how to make the most of them and I was amazed to see, when meeting a friend for a Sunday afternoon drink at my favourite beachside bar, crowds of dressed up people warming up for an all-nighter. Sunday Sessions are huge here, as are Friday Frenzies, which seem to be weekly occurrences in the troubled Perth nightspot of Northbridge. Violence reportedly breaks out there every week, with street brawls, stabbings, and general drunk and disorderly behaviour. I’m thankful that I have neither the budget, nor the desire to accommodate a clubbing lifestyle, which is not to suggest I haven’t enjoyed it in the past, but I don’t recall indulging in Molotov cocktails all those years ago, only expensive ones.

My new workplace is one of Perth’s largest universities, and it was on the bus back home the other day that I realised there are more Zimbabweans and South Africans in Perth than ever before. I am glad to see they are doing things the way they always have; not taking anything too seriously and concentrating on the good stuff. A student climbed on the bus, took her seat and flipped open her mobile. Breaking into a broad southern African accent, she remarked, “I just had chemistry. Not bad, but I left my lab coat at home. Oh, and my protective shoes too. No, I just carried on regardless. Hey, what’s for dinner? Have you made that biltong yet?” I’m sure as long as she doesn’t get her butchery and chemistry mixed up she will have a successful life ahead of her.

Autumn is here, which means slightly cooler mornings and evenings, but the cloudless days and high twenties temperatures live on. What it does mean though is that winter is just around the corner, and that means AFL (Australian Football League) is well underway. To the uninitiated, this sport looks like it is being played by a bunch of deranged prison escapees chasing a bag of money. I can assure you, however, that this is a serious game, for serious athletes, and serious fans. These guys play for two hours, running around endlessly on a field the size of a cricket ground. Skill and stamina is required in bucket loads. Those Rugby Union fans out there will be interested to note that the majority of kicks for touch these days in Union are of the end-over-end type, which has, in recent years, replaced the torpedo kick. This end-over-end technique has been copied from AFL, and enables the kicker to cover up to sixty metres in a relatively straight line. It’s impressive to watch AFL, as it is to watch Australians play any sport. It inspires me to engage in it more and more, which is why I am ever thankful for the invention of the remote control and the new free to air Channel One dedicated sports channel. Come on Liverpool. Pass the kangaroo biltong.