I reckon I’ve said enough.

Disappointing campaign, despite the opportunity.

Thought that the independents shone a light on a few issues which weren’t taking up. Read the rest of this entry »

And so finally the ALP have their launch in Brisbane. It is a low-key affair. So low-key in the torpor of the Queensland winter that the faithful forget they are at a political rally and that they are supposed to respond spontaneously, like a Baptist congregation in Mississippi. Even the Silver Bodgie has to wait, and re-deliver a line or two, before he gets the applause necessary to create atmosphere. It’s as flat as the rest of the campaign.

Then he introduces the Prime Minister who speaks off the cuff so it is, as she tells us, from the heart. What she is doing is pedaling the same margarine as Mr. Rabbit – with a different label on it. This campaign is essentially a marketing exercise. But it’s the same old cheap margarine. Read the rest of this entry »

by John Harms

Those of us who spent too much time in the Trans-Australian Banks (pre-Betfair, of course) in the 1990s will recall waiting nervously through Rooty Hill RSL ads on SKY until the result of the photo finish came through.  I think it was their only advertiser.

So, as we were hanging out to see whether we’d hung on for third to jag the trifecta in the distance maiden at Port Lincoln, we’d learn that Kamahl was returning to the Rooty Hill RSL, and that Don McLean and one of those visiting magicians or Irish tap-dancers would be there as well. Read the rest of this entry »

Election betting has flattened out, but no matter how I look at it, I just keep coming back to one thing: the election result is all about Queensland.

And the pollies know it as well.

Queenslanders are still recovering from the Coalition’s launch on Sunday. Rarely have so many blueblood Liberals graced the Sunshine State. There they were with their straight teeth and pendants and their service record in the Grammar cadets standing as one like Nick Farr-Jones had just gone over under the posts. Read the rest of this entry »

This election will be won and lost in Queensland. Simple as that. And Queensland is different sort of place, with its own understanding of the world.

I lived there for 30 years, and if pressed, I would say I am a Queenslander. Not your typical Queenslander, but I reckon I understand the Queensland sensibility. Read the rest of this entry »

So Julia Gillard looks at the numbers and sees she’s caught a snake. It’s like watching Norman at Augusta. She sees Action Tony on the ladder. So Julia says she’s going to throw the rulebook out. Why did she subscribe to it in the first place?

Julia Gillard sees that people have been reading the Betfair Politics blog and have worked out that even the drop-kick sports columnists, usually preoccupied  with the pig-leather (whether it be round or oval or shaped as a saddle) have more idea than the Labor machine. In fact observing the machine makes us put more on, and we’re counting the cash as the Coalition’s odds tumble in. Read the rest of this entry »

Sunday evening used to be for watching Disneyland. You would always wonder which land the story would come from: Adventure Land, Fantasy Land, and the other Lands which have drifted from my memory. Then came Big Brother, and Sunday evening footy, and now Master Chef.

I watched the end of Master Chef last night just to see what all the fuss was about. It is a simple concept based on total audience manipulation. Over-sentimentalised, over-dramatised, over-simplified.

If that’s what appeals to so many Australians I can see why the pollies feel the need to copy it. And to simplify their policy explanations, dramatise the inadequacies of their opponents, and sentimentalise (with the use of clunky rhetoric) the life they offer to their electorates. Read the rest of this entry »

As Director of Manning Clark House in Canberra, I am obliged to have a good grasp of Australian History, and at least pretend to have a good grasp of contemporary Australian day-to-day politics. I reckon I’ve got the nuts and bolts of the first one covered, but I’m less confident about the other.

Not because I don’t take an interest. I’ve been thinking about it for 30 years, but I still don’t have an answer to the fundamental Australian political question: is the Australian electorate informed, interested, engaged? Could the bloke down the pub give a flying about any of these politicians and leaders, and their policies? Or do they just keep ticking along, heading off to work, trying to feed the kids and have enough left over for a couple of beers and fish’n’chips on a Friday night? Read the rest of this entry »

I am sitting at the desk of Manning Clark. It’s where he penned the six volume History of Australia, and many other books and papers, essay and newspaper articles. If I turn around I can almost reach the filing cabinets, which are full of letters from Patrick White and others for whom the life of the mind was elemental. And the life of the soul.

If I turn to the left I see a photo-copied quote on the door, “No one has been able to explain why [this] game stirs such emotions in the hearts of those who see it.” Manning Clark wrote that himself and someone has deemed it so important they have reproduced it and given it a prominent place.

When I turn back to the desk I can pick a quill from the Carlton mug that is the receptacle for some of his old writing implements.

He loved the Carlton Football Club; not because it was the club of Menzies and Fraser, Santamaria and Elliot. It was his Carlton, playing his game. Or at least his winter game. And Manning Clark knew winter, and other darknesses.

Some Saturdays he (and a selection of his kids)would drive from Canberra to Princes Park to see his beloved Blues. He once got three separate speeding fines in a single trip: I can only hope the Blues won that afternoon.

On the floor next to me are boxes and folders of papers and letters, some of them in his scrawl; a hand which has frustrated many a historian and biographer over the years.

It is late-afternoon high on the hill here in Forrest. The fog has rolled in and I can just make out the flag-pole of Parliament House a kilometre away. I am trying to decipher my own notes, made under the intense pressure of the final quarter of the Geelong-Hawthorn game last Saturday afternoon. It’s history now. But it has to be written.

History is important.

If you don’t think so, talk to a Geelong fan about the Hawthorn Football Club. About the wounds inflicted by the men from Glenferriee over the last 40 years. About the scars: real or imagined, it doesn’t matter. Both affect behaviour, performance, attitude.

The 2008 Grand Final was one of the worst days in all of human history. But it followed on from the 2007 Grand Final which was one of the best. And 2009.

You don’t dwell on it (that way lies madness) but 2008 is always there. And Hawthorn folk delight in it. They know that no matter what the position of the teams on the ladder the deep-seated rivalry will find expression on the footy field.

And so it did on Saturday. The Cats looking a little shallow in the forward line; the Hawks desperately needing a win to stay in touch with the top four. The Cats able to play scintillating footy across the whole paddock; the Hawks with a Gang of Four – Rioli, Franklin, Hodge, Bateman – of exquisite ability, and artful sensibility, able to turn a match in minutes.

Wendell Sailor said famously, “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’ but there are five in ‘individual brilliance.’ Buddy’s mentor perhaps? There are some big personalities, big characters, brilliant footballers in the Hawthorn line-up.

And so on a windy afternoon at the MCG in front of a shivering 70,000 all of whom know their history, the struggle begins. Ling on Hodge. Sewell on Selwood. Lewis on the in-form Enright. The Cats take the game on: Wojcinski arches his back and runs the boundary line, bursting away from the chasers, stepping inside, taking a third bounce and pumping to Bartel for the opening goal. This is a great footy team.

But the Hawks are tough from the outset. For the whole of the first half they win just enough of the in-close contests to keep ahead, in what is building as a classic game.

The Cats are made to fumble, and miss targets. Ablett gets plenty of the footy but he ignores Duncan twice in a minute, and turns it over. The boys are not the confident unit they are against contemporary Essendon or finals-Collingwood.

This is not an absence of skill, or concentration. It’s the weight of history and the snickering pressure of the Hawthorn Football Club. Jimmy Bartel holds the Cats together. He is helped by Harry Taylor.

It is one of those games which is a stage for the great players: where Rioli or Franklin will win the game for the Hawks. Where Hodge will break free of Ling at some point. Ling will measure his game on how many times he is able to limit this to.

This is one of those games where something monumental will happen; a Tolstoy game, a Dostoevsky game, a Manning Clark game.

During the third quarter the Hawks have their chances. Franklin misses. Skipper misses. Bateman misses twice. Sewell misses. The pressure from both teams doesn’t dissipate, but occasionally someone breaks free. Stokes kicks one. Then Varcoe sprints into space, takes an Ablett pass on the fly, and handballs to Stokes who slams it home again.

As the ball is bounced to start the final quarter the Hawks lead by a goal. Bartel plucks a one-hander of biomechanical perfection (over Cyril) but misses. Varcoe marks the footy after it has ricocheted off a shin. His set shot hits the post.

Taylor marks a weird up-and-under which is heading in the direction of his chest but is blown off line and he somehow marks at above and behind himself. Hodge takes a textbook specie and sticks the landing like Nadia herself.

James Kelly is solid. Buddy thinks he’s Greg Inglis and runs at Kelly who tackles him front-on and holds him up. And then Kelly nabs Burgoyne as well. It’s really on. End-to-end, quick stuff. Who’s in front?

Buddy Carey-crashes the pack like he has one thing on his mind, and takes the screamer over Dasher Milburn. Harry Taylor is a step behind, his fly-swat hands swishing the air. Buddy puts the Hawks four points up. After the high-fiving and general Hawk celebration Taylor and Franklin find each other again, and Harry (perhaps the most disarming man in footy) shares a joke. They’ve probably been playing with, and on, each other since the Under 12s: same WA region, same age.

Ottens is tired. Blake is battling. He battles his way forward. Varcoe wins the footy and steps around one, and another, and he has the momentum to launch from 50. Instead he gives off the instinctive handball to a Geelong jumper running directly at the goals. As the hammer is recoiled, though, his mind tells him to stop: it’s Blakey. It’s a classic case of handballus interruptus, such that he handballs to himself and fires. Point.

This is ridiculous.

Podsiadly takes his chance. He snaps around his body, and the Cats are 10 points clear.

Just as I allow myself to believe the Cats are finishing strongly, I am referred to the history book again. Hodge beats Ling in a simple marking contest and converts.

Ottens is now exhausted. I have one of those weird moments while watching him contest on the ground: I notice that he has been out for so long his hair has receded even further.

He’s got nothing to give but Podsiadly gets the tap straight to Chappy who goes weak at the knees and cons Guerra into taking him high. He’s been watching Joel Selwood. He kicks the goal. The sealer? Cats by 10 points again.

There’s time if the Hawks are good enough. They win the footy at half back and sweep it along the wing. Disciplined forward movement keeps the fat side open, Buddy takes off, and a brilliant penetrating kick finds the rock star. He duffs the kick.

The Cats respond. This time the handball does go to Blake who snaps – and hits the post.

The clock ticks past 30 minutes, and the Hawks keep coming. Franklin gets another opportunity. He arches his back in the pocket and gets away from Taylor with strength. He handballs to Sewell who snaps with the outside of his boot over the goal-keeping Milburn. Surely not.

Less than a kick in it. Less than a kick in it.

Beyond the 30 minute mark and Young shoots from almost the wing. The Sherrin is picked up like it’s Mark Webber’s racing car and carries and carries. No one can see where it will land. Taylor turns and jostles and finds the strength to move to where it will land carrying Buddy like a leg-iron. He is the more determined and his fist finds the footy and knocks it through.

From the kick-in, it’s Taylor again. He emerges from stage-left, out of screen and takes the long-armed mark. Then turns the footy over. But the Cats hold it up. And thus begins a maul of nothingness where the only danger is that some unsuspecting Cat will be pinged for holding the ball.

Another ball-up. And another. Until the footy is squeezed out like a watermelon seed. To Gibson. As sharply as you can imagine to Young who runs to 40. And, and, misses.

Scarlett marks the dink out. He directs traffic to Row A and looks for the failsafe Taylor. But Buddy is in front and the kick drops short. He lines up, not knowing when the end will come. He’s in the Buddy pocket. But he has to go the torp. And as the siren sounds it skews into Row J.

The Cats are home in a Saturday afternoon ripper, that has stirred the heart.

Bartel is so best on ground they should put a bronze plaque in the ground where he had his hundredth touch. Stokes and Kelly solid too. Buddy has been where the action is; hence Harry has been too.

A cracker.

One for the history books; specifically, the volume that celebrates the everyday.

Manning Clark would have loved it.

It was a cold old day in Canberra last Sunday. Freezing in fact. With the kids bored out of their brain. And you kicking yourself for not having backed Serena to win Wimbledon. And sad with what the Uruguayans, and Fate, did to Ghana.

Miserable outside and in. Although the fire and the Rice Bubbles are starting to crackle and pop and the loungeroom is warming up. Worried, though, that the talk is all North Melbourne and that, after the Cats had lost to St Kilda in a match where they failed to kick a goal after half time, things were looking ordinary.

If ever there was a day that Geelong fan and punter J. Dunne was going to back the opponent this was it.

“It’s a living certainty you’ve backed `em,” I asserted.

“What?” he said, trying to sound innocent, and loyal.

This is a man who, during the annus horribilis that was 2006, would turn to you on the Gary Ablett Terrace as some poxy team like Richmond would hit the front and say brazenly, “I’ve backed `em. You had to take $4.75 the Tiges. Would have been irresponsible not to.”

“You’ve backed North,” I said.

“You know Lingy’s out,” he said. The plot thickened.

No Ling. No Johnson. No Mooney. Who was going to post the score? No Taylor. What about all their big blokes?

This was turning in to a worse day.

“I haven’t backed North,” he assured (and surprised) me. This was clearly a new man living in a new Geelong following a team with a ramrod-straight spine. “They won’t get near us.”

I mope around the house. The kids have runny noses and the bub is squeaking. I look in cupboards but The Handicapper has shopped poorly. No chocolate. Milk Arrowroot biscuits is the best option.

I find little consolation in a baked bean toasted sandwich – we only have wholemeal bread. Baked beans were made for white bread.

I am reminded of the time in that horrible year when Geelong played North at Manuka in Canberra. We needed to win. We were awful. Chipping sideways, arguing with each other. The tactics were disastrous. We flooded. We didn’t take the game on. We were fearful. At one point during the last quarter, five goals down and looking shocking, we’d flooded again. Corey Jones picked up the footy on the half back flank and just stood there. No-one came at him. He put it on the ground. He put it on the ground again. He just stood still. But no-one came at him. He had the ball for a full seven seconds. Life is too short for that. That was the low-point of that low season: The Seven Seconds of Corey Jones.

We got flogged. This was before Joel Selwood.

The bub goes to sleep. Theo plays happily. The Handicapper hangs dank washing in front of the fire, and folds socks. I read the paper. The footy comes on. Things are looking up – a bit.

But what if this is the start of Geelong’s injury-and-suspension-ridden slide?

We need Selwood and the returning Chappy to lead the way.

The teams come up on the screen. Trent West at full forward. I sort of love it: love how it reminds me of big Johnny Mossop in the early `80s when the handy ruckman from Lucindale would start in the square and lead and mark and dominate, and the Cats would find a way to lose tragically (and amusingly in some cases). We knew the world better then.

At Kardinia Park the weather is overcast but fine, and the track good. I spot Joel Corey who pleases the eye. He’s a bit scratchy, but not 2006-scratchy.

The Cats look keen. Kel tackles: a pleasant reminder he is back as well. Ablett is in  a bad mood – again. I think it’s because he’s being sent forward, and because he keeps getting bopped on the nose on a cold day when he has no hair. (Where is Max Rooke now?)

I am watching footy. And the Cats are into it. Selwood is everywhere. At one point Blake finesses in a way that would upset Tommy Hafey but no-one on the Terrace cares because Tommy didn’t do much for the Cats anyway. Blakey does. He beats about four opponents like he’s Robert Harvey (I yell “Blakey” and I’m in strife for disturbing the bub) and pinpoints the leading West who marks. And misses.

But the Cats are sharp. They play scintillating football. Ablett gives a short handball to Monica Wojcinski on the burst, like he’s Darren Lockyer finding Billy Slater. Brilliant bouncing run which opens up the entire paddock and he finds Podsiadly who has returned to form.

The Cats attack. Varcoe. Chapman. Stokes. Byrnes. The swift movement of the footy creates so much space. Selwood is superb. They win the game early and although North have moments when they challenge the Cats are a class above.

Theo continues to play. I have made him a robot costume (out of a beer carton) and he wears it proudly, watching the footy occasionally through the eye-holes. At one point when Ablett has the footy and is taking a shot I say, “Who’s that Theo?”

“Blakey,” he yells. And then he’s in strife for disturbing the baby.

I find a packet of Picnics and Theo and I coalesce in a blokey conspiracy to attack them on the sly.

The loungeroom is cosy.

J. Dunne rings from Kardinia Park. He is chirpy.

It’s still bitterly cold outside. But it doesn’t matter.