How now, spotted cow
"One of the greatest bands ever to have come out of Australia" played at Fremantle on Sunday night. Crowded House is one we considered an iconic Kiwi band but clearly this isn’t the case, they topped the bill at the “Freo” Blues and Roots festival, the great Aussie band label affixed to concert publicity. It was perhaps as well that band founder Tim Finn made it very clear to the audience that he was from Te Awamutu, not yet an Australian territory.
That aside, and it may be disloyal to fellow countrymen, but it is an unusual Blues Festival when a pop band from Te Awamutu tops the bill and another, the John Butler Trio, take second spot while the genuine blues and roots artists are relegated to side stages and lower billings. It may be just a commercial reality.
But what a line-up for a one day show; the legendary British guitar virtuoso Jeff Beck, the American Old Crow Medicine Show, Bluesman Taj Mahal and a dozen or so other rising stars or fading artists. Hardly fading, on one of the side stages, late afternoon, was the seventy-six year old John Mayall. Credited as the father of British Blues, Mayall has helped launch the careers of dozens of blues players including the legendary Eric Clapton, Cream bassist Jack Bruce, Peter Green, Mick Fleetwood and John McVie of Fleetwood Mac (when it was a blues band), former Rolling Stone Mick Taylor and the aforementioned Jeff Beck.
He may be older, slightly stooped, white-haired and bespectacled and, it must be observed, the white singlet stretched over a slight paunch isn’t a flattering look, but that music still rocks. Mayall disbanded his old band, The Bluesbreakers, in 2008 because of the physical toll constant touring was taking, but clearly the blues cannot be contained. We saw him with his new band in London last year; he was in Perth last night and he’s about to embark on a nine gig tour of New Zealand before moving on to California and then Europe. With Hamilton the last stop on his New Zealand tour though, it may be that he really is tired of living.
If Mayall was good, the show stealer was Buddy Guy. Lucky enough to get an early billing on the main stage, perhaps because he’s two years younger than Mayall, Guy tore the place apart with his searing blues guitar and showmanship including playing guitar with a drumstick and taking the Mickey, kindly so, out of other guitarists such as Clapton and Hendrix. This man was absolutely sensational.
If it was a good day musically at Fremantle, their local AFL or Aussie Rules team had an exceptional one just up the road at the Subiaco Oval. The Fremantle Dockers are the sort of team that enjoys the staunch parochial support that would be expected of a port town, but as in the book Fever Pitch that loyalty is stretched, hope turns to disappointment every time they run onto a pitch; their usual place is at the bottom of the national league table and the joy of winning only an occasional emotion. It’s the sort of feeling a Chief’s or Hurricane’s rugby supported would know only too well. But this was the Dockers’ weekend; against every expectation, not only did they beat Adelaide, they thrashed them by 56 points and after week one of the competition, they are in second place on the table, the highest they have ever been. Locals are petitioning the league to declare the competition at an end while they’re still on top.
But life isn’t all one of sport and hedonistic pleasure; there was an unusual chap on the train the other day. Between Perth Central and Bayswater this well dressed young man regaled other passengers with a number of his views, in a sort of relentless, inescapable way. Among his theories an interesting notion that politicians go to university to learn to become alcoholics. In an animated fashion, he told his fellow travellers why and how, and had quite an elaborate, conspiratorial theory, so elaborate that, during the twelve minute journey, at least one passenger had called the security number resulting in the railway police waiting for our carriage doors to open at Bayswater to interrupt his journey, remove and escort him away, presumably to somewhere with padded walls.
There was no doubt he was a bit strange, but not at all dangerous or threatening, and certainly not enough to be dragged off a train. But if it was enough for him to be removed for rambling, it seemed unfathomable that someone clearly without any hold on reality was allowed onto the Fremantle to Midland service last Wednesday. It was hot, so it could have been a mirage, but there was a black and white cow wandering down the platform, saddled with an orange high-visibility vest and sucking on a straw poking from a can of Coke. But the cow just didn’t just stop and get in a carriage; the sauntering continued right to the front, into the driving compartment, the doors were shut, the engine started and the loco was in motion.
Not a soul called security and, last seen, the cow was still at the wheel.

Powerless
It may be that Perth has had the hottest, driest summer on record with barely 0.2 centimetres of rain gracing the gauges since last November, but it is no longer. It may be a West Australian thing, but when the drought broke on Monday this week the heavens seemed determined to make a point. Lightening, thunder, wind and hail like nothing else. The road outside Marty’s work turned into a torrent of water and debris, and no-one was leaving the building, all were glued by the windows watching the carnage unfold outside. The hail sounded like gunfire going off as it crashed against the windows and then blanketed the lawns, lightening danced over the city in seemingly dozens of places at once and the rain was horizontal, Wellington-style.
Marty’s colleague Kate suffered the consequence of using his parking bay; her car left with what resembled acne scars over its entire body. Literally hundreds of pock marks were indented on every panel showing that a thin metal car body is no match for the fury of hail stones literally an inch each in diameter. One car dealer alone had 300 cars damaged by hail; ninety with windows shattered giving a clear indication of just what a show of force it was.
There was little comfort in the sanctuary of home, power was cut to 150,000 houses, ours included, so it was Marty and Pokie the dog, alone in the dark, staring at the walls and taking consolation from a single torch and a brace of laptop computers, each with an I-Tunes library. This was roughing it, sufficient for a call up to the next television series of The Ultimate Survivor. (Power was restored some 25 hours later, the next evening, after Marty had taken the sacrificial decision to eat all of the ice-cream in the freezer before it spoiled).
Great stories emerge from adversity; a clear favourite is that of the Perth traffic warden who ticketed a number of cars parked on the street in breach of some regulation or another. It appears that these cars had been rescued from a flooded underground park and left in safety, kerbside on dry land. When interviewed on television the parking warden showed no mercy. How was he to know that these cars had been rescued from possible drowning? In that inimitable Australian way, the reporter suggested that even Blind Freddy could tell these were unusual times.
And there is no doubt that every cloud has a silver lining. The Tree Man of Thornlie now has proof that his tree is safe after withstanding the full fury of the storm. Intoxicated by the moment, the Tree Man told media that he had been hit by lightening, but later downgraded the story to just having gotten a tickle-up. In the cold light of day, Mr Pennicuik admitted to having gotten carried away with the moment and what was just a supercharged atmosphere had become a full-blown lightening strike. That said, he remained up his tree throughout, protected by a paint-ball helmet and layers of clothing and blankets. After all of that, he is entitled to a bit of exaggeration.
In keeping with the modern phenomenon of social networking, there is already a Facebook page; I survived the great storm of Perth. With 43,000 members just thirty six hours after the event, it carries news and hundreds of accounts, 2,500 photos and 133 video clips of “Frank”, as this storm has now been dubbed. Readers can even buy their own official survival shirts.
Also in keeping with modern technology, one local television station news showed clips sent in by viewers rather than using its own footage to illustrate the drama of the day. Mind, the television camera operators shouldn’t be too worried about becoming redundant as a result, the quality of most of the footage probably won’t threaten their jobs.
Frank has been described as a once in fifty year storm, which goes to show that everything can be shown to be biggest and best (or worst), particularly so after a climatic record summer. The damage bill is set to top $100 million and the State Premier has declaring the day a natural disaster.
Elsewhere in another event of apparent fury, traumatised students at a primary school were offered counselling after two mothers were involved in a “bloody brawl” in the playground. The West Australian reports that the two women, who went to the school to collect their children, became involved in an argument which then escalated into a fight. They fought for several minutes in front of around forty children before being pulled apart by the school’s caretaker.
This is still a wonderful country.

How bizarre

State elections in Tasmania and South Australia this weekend should have sent a clear message to Labour Prime Minister Kevin Rudd that his government is in deep trouble as the Federal elections loom later in the year. In both states there has been a double digit swing against Labour, even though the party may just hang on to power in each state. Although the results should sound serious alarm bells, it may already be too late. Rudd has the electoral appeal of New Zealand’s Phil Goff and Annette King combined and is sliding in the polls in a manner reminiscent of the last New Zealand Labour Government. It seems that once the momentum starts, it is difficult and often impossible to arrest.

The worst part is that Rudd is being blitzed by Liberal leader Tony Abbott who, quite frankly, is ghastly beyond description. Something like a Lockwood Smith on speed, Abbott has specialised in appearing as an ordinary Australian bloke; that is if the ordinary Australian bloke spends most of his life in Speedos.

Last weekend, in a soft, magazine-style television profile, Abbott was filmed, unnervingly creepily so, in the family swimming pool in his Speedos, one daughter piggybacking on his shoulders combing his hair rooster-style with her hands. Most often Abbott is in red and blue life-saver Speedos and on Sunday night, he was in a sort of mottle-patterned pair coming out of the water from a fund raising fun-swim somewhere to have another crack at Rudd.

This man has a winning formula; the pit-bull charm of the late Sir Robert Muldoon combined with a what appears a hapless but calculated honest-John approach, akin to that employed by Kiwi Prime Minister John Key who masks an ideological agenda with a plausible pretence that his policies are driven by common-sense and pragmatism.

There is a complacency among many who believe that Labour has an unassailable lead at the federal level and there seems little comprehension that a turning tide is hard to stem.

Almost as horrible as the prospect of Tony Abbott becoming Prime Minister is the thought that Australian cricketer Doug Bollinger may almost singlehandedly bowl out the New Zealand team twice in the first test at Wellington. It is one thing that Michael Clarke has overcome the Lara Bingle melodrama to score more than one hundred and sixty runs, but Bollinger epitomises everything that Kiwis find dislikeable about Australian sports’ stars. The only saving grace here is that the test series against New Zealand is not being shown on free to air television.

On what may be a lighter note, and this is true, is that there was an attempted carjacking just up the road from our home this week. While that may not be funny in itself, what provided the amusement was that three women concerned have been charged with attempting to steal a motor vehicle, their attempt being thwarted as none could drive a car with manual transmission. Local police have released a Neighbourhood Watch bulletin advising locals to drive with their windows up and doors locked.

Meanwhile, while the tree man of Thornlie, Richard Pennicuik, who has had more than his fair share of publicity already has drawn some unlikely support. British entrepreneur Richard Branson has been in town this week for some sort of fundraising effort and somehow the plight of Mr Pennicuik’s attempt to save the gum tree outside his house from being chopped down was drawn to Branson’s attention. To television cameras, Branson has wished Penniciuk the very best of luck, adding that he is a “bit of a tree hugger himself”. As for Pennicuik, he has been summoned to appear in the Armadale Magistrates’ Court in a fortnight and given that he now believes the local authority has no constitutional legitimacy, we will watch with interest.

Perhaps the last words should be about the hapless Lara Bingle, former fiancée of cricketer Michael Clarke and subject of the unauthorised release of a nude photo, allegedly by former boyfriend and Aussie Rules bad-boy Brendan Fevola. Bingle, it is reported, is poised to dump her newly appointed agent, Max Markson, after advice from her family that Markson had ruined her career and cheapened her image in the debacle. Fancy that, some might suggest that dumping Markson would be a little like closing the stable door after the horse has well and truly bolted.

What happened this arvo?
Cricketer Michael Clarke may have learned something this week, and that would be to be careful about whose initials to adorn with tattoos to the body. As the media circus surrounding the split between Clarke and his former fiancé, the unfortunate model Lara Bingle (should that be Bungle?), becomes more obsessed by the day, The Sunday Times revealed in an intellectual exclusive that the cricketer had the initials LB indelibly emblazoned on his shoulder after becoming engaged. One can only hope that Clarke will be sufficiently distracted by events of the past fortnight and perhaps an imminent tattoo removal that his concentration will suitably lapse during the forthcoming cricket tests against New Zealand. Especially so given that he has taken relationship advice from Shane Warne.
Away from the Clarke-Bingle drama, what is hot here is at the moment is the University of Western Australia is running a course on mastering Australian slang, although it hasn’t been stated whether this is for the benefit of locals or confused immigrants. As if we hadn’t been able to work it out, we are told that Australians run vowels together, shorten every possible word and give nicknames by adding an “a” or “o” onto the end of almost everything. Thus we get Bazza and Muzza and have our local port town of Freo, or Fremantle for the uninitiated. In Melbourne we head to the tan in the arvo to look at things botanical, that’s on the way to the “g” in to watch a bit of cricket or football, AFL or Aussie rules that is. A work colleague took the abbreviation business to the extreme, completely unable to master a word as complex as Kaelene he shortened it to a simple “K” and since then all has been well. “How’s K”, he regularly asks, with a look of smug, self-satisfaction.
The UWA’s “Studysmarter” people give their students a rundown on Australian history and then concentrate on the real business of deciphering words and phrases such as see ya later, chrissie present, knackered, freebie, aggro, servo and yobbo. It is as well that thong is on the list, possiblly convincing these impressionable young students that they should wear their thongs on their feet and not under their jeans. Now that would be uncomfortable.
If there was any doubt that some Australians have lost their sense of reality, The Sunday Times also reports that a runaway psychiatric patient is suing the Minister for Health for becoming pregnant while on the run, and has claimed additional damages for what has been described as the assault to herself that the pregnancy and birth of the child has caused. This woman apparently had sex with an unknown male after absconding from the hospital where she had been detained and is now blaming the authorities for not preventing the escape and subsequent impregnation.
Elsewhere, residents living near the local Subiaco Oval and ME Bank stadium have complained that they are being “ripped off” by not being given free tickets to events at their neighbouring grounds as compensation for having to put up with the noise and crowds from occasional concerts and sports matches. Prompted by this fine sense of logic Marty is requesting a new car from the local authorities as compensation for living near a busy road and free drinks from the local pub past which he has to walk past twice daily. It is hard to understand though what would possess anyone living near the ME Bank stadium to want a ticket to see the hapless Western Force rugby team. That is, unless it is the night they play the Crusaders.
Finally, it is good to be able to report that the Tree man of Thornlie, Richard Pennicuik, has refused to come down from his gum-tree protest following a threat by the local council of a $5,000 fine and a further $500 a day penalty for staying aloft. Pennicuik now approaches 100 days up his tree and, either intoxicated or buoyed on by a renewed flurry of media attention, has declared he now intends to run for mayor. Against his own legal advice, he has apparently discovered that the local authority has no constitutional basis and is therefore unable to impose penalties upon him. Mysteriously, a tree-top platform, previously taken down after council threats of prosecution, has mysteriously reappeared and Pennicuik has predicted he will still be sky high after another 100 days.
There is no doubt this is a wonderful country.

Daughters for the return home
Australia is agog. The question exercising the minds of every television and radio channel reporter and it seems every viewer or listener across this entire continent is apparently whether the two-year engagement between underwear model Lara Bingle and Australian cricketer Michael Clarke is on the rocks. The lesser question is whether Clarke can ever be captain the green and gold’s as a result of his return from the New Zealand cricket tour to be with his fiancé following the release of a nude cell phone photo of Bingle taken by then married AFL bad-boy footballer, Brendon Fevola while having an affair with her some two years earlier. It seems almost unfathomable, but the hapless Bingle, rather than the naughty Favola, seems to have become public enemy number one, and it hasn’t helped that she has reacted by giving the finger and swearing like the proverbial trooper at paparazzi and reporters that have stalked her out over the past week. Fevola, meanwhile, appears to be almost off the hook.
During what has turned into a media frenzy, in one television interview alone this evening, Bingle’s celebrity manager, Max Markson, when asked about the relationship between Bingle and Clarke, gave the no-comment response on no less than twelve occasions. Now that is consistency and to divert attention further, Max then began to sing in response to questions.
It has been a bad year for Bingle, over the New Year break a $200,000 Aston Martin brought for her by Clarke was stolen and it may just be a reflection of the macho nature of Australian society that she is the one vilified during this current drama. It’s not all bad though, if Clarke and she split, Bingle gets to keep their two Pomeranians while he gets the Staffy.
There has been no such media speculation or even the slightest frenzy about two former world travellers after recent confirmed sightings of Kaelene in New Zealand’s Christchurch and Rotorua while husband Marty remains in Australia. After slipping quietly back in to her country of birth Kaelene has resumed work, like a recidivist, at the National Distribution Workers Union and is likely to remain there awaiting a major lottery win. Coupled with Marty suffering the indignity of working in Australia, the return home signifies that, unfortunately, this leg of the world adventure may be over and a brutal and unpleasant form of reality is setting in. If asked, their agent will reply to questions on the state of the marriage, explaining that the trans-Tasman separation is no more than a geographical accident of fate.
That said, the New Zealand news is every bit as entertaining as Australia with reports that Whanganui Mayor and shock talkback jock, Michael Laws, has been regularly calling police to his home to referee matrimonial discussions, while former National member of parliament and children’s commissioner Roger McClay is in a spot of bother for allegedly double dipping on expenses claims for charities with which he is involved. These things really couldn’t happen to a more deserving couple.
Back in Australia, there is a brutal reality for one of our old favourite characters, Richard Pennicuik, the tree man of Thornlie. After more than ninety days perched up the gum tree outside his house in an attempt to stop the Council chopping it down, Pennicuik’s days aloft are clearly numbered. The Council has served him with a notice threatening a $5,000 fine if he remains up the tree when the loppers come calling and a further $500 for each and every day he defies the earthwards order.
It may be as well, for Pennicuik has become something of a target for local hoons who have entertained themselves at weekends by shooting pellet guns and throwing eggs at him and, most recently, setting fire to the Australian flag draped around the tree trunk. Now that is unpatriotic.

Spent Force
Something quite odd happened today. During evening rush hour, our train stopped at Claisebrook station, two stops out of Perth Central, and remained put. Normally a one minute stop, it remained motionless as trains on other lines came and went while trains behind us on the same line banked up. Then, sometime later, came an announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to apologise for this delay in service, but our driver has gone missing.”
Incredible, how can it be that at a suburban railway station a driver simply goes missing? There was no toilet for a driver to take an unscheduled but perhaps desperately needed pit stop, there was no sign of a railway driver high-tailing out of the station and, unlike the London Underground, there was no announcement that a passenger had gone under a train and the driver in was immobilized by shock. This was simply a case of one train, no driver.
There was one more apology, we were informed that a relief driver was on the way and some fifteen minutes later, the doors closed and we were off. We presumed it was the relief driver, but if it was just a helpful passenger we were none the wiser.
It may be an easy thing to become obsessed or preoccupied with weather, especially when the mercury tops 39 degrees centigrade on the first day of autumn. We are apparently experiencing a heat wave which is defined in meteorological terms as ten days in a row where the temperature reaches more than 35 degrees. We have had, according to the television news, two of these heat waves in what has become the hottest and driest summer recorded in the 110 year history of recordings in Western Australia.
This may be the only place in the world where, when the forecasters predict improving weather, they actually mean it is going to get cooler.
If ten days of 35 degree-plus temperatures constitute a heat wave, spare a thought for the residents of Paraburdoo in the northern Pilbura region of the state. There it has been over 40 degrees every day for forty days straight, so hot that the town’s liquor store is reported to be almost out of booze. Wines, spirits and pre-mixes have all run dry, but there is still some beer because they buy in bulk. Bulk must be quite a large order.
Perth Now reports that Paraburdoo Burger Bus owner Sonia Peters shut her mobile burger van one day because the heat topped 50 degrees inside the vehicle. “Luckily I’m Asian so I don’t sweat,” the extraordinarily fortunate Ms Peters told the paper.
While the weather may be hot, the same cannot be said for the Western Force, the local Super 14 rugby team, who were uncharitably described in the local newspaper as the Spent Force. It may be coincidence but a recent email from an acquaintance, no less than a board member of the Canterbury Rugby Football Union, suggested that, with his coaching experience with the Sydenham Rugby Club in Christchurch, Marty might be just the man to help this team out of the doldrums. There may have been something in that, or alternatively it may be a clue as to just how desperate the team is, that a local competition is running, the first prize to be John Mitchell’s assistant coach for a day. The consolation prize is quite possibly to be the assistant coach for the entire season.