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Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The beauty of postcards and the importance of getting a grip
I am home sick in inverted commas today - I could've hauled myself in at 20% but where's the tactics in that? I am a dedicated servant of the public and remind you all that when you are revelling in the business of being in the private enterprise or running your own Balmain Basket Weaving Business, there are a number of your kindred spirits in the Service that instill the belief that we are accountable to our shareholders - the public - and if they don't like it they can kick the bejesus out of us at pubs and games where Souths and the Sydney Roosters play, so watch your back ...
At this point I would like to diverge and talk about how when I first moved to Canberra in 1995 and decided I needed to devote myself to a new cause with the same fervour I had directed towards the mighty but consistently progressive Norwood Football Club in Adelaide ( see http://www.go-redlegs.com )
I reinvigorated my family ties to South Sydney - I went to Woden Plaza and bought a pair of Souths socks. I could not possibly have bought a top - cos in Canberra you would have more chance of buying the tye-died tank top of Jesus Christ on the Cross than buying a South Sydney top. I remember a mortifying moment of my life when drinking white wine out of a glass with ice in it, sometime in the late 90's in the Tuggeranong Valley of Canberra, explaining to people in attendance how I went for Souths. How I explained to them although I was from Adelaide my family and Souths were like "this." How my mum remembers times when the entirety of South Sydney from Randwick to Eastlakes to Mascot to all the way down to where the fuck St George or Canterbury-Bankstown or Balmain began, was covered in red and green streamers. Of course when saying this, i knew no more about Sydney than Joseph Banks in 1770 when he rocked up with a text book, an idea of what made a good garden and no HECS debt. But that was where the fun was.
Anyhow, postcards, we have postcards downstairs on our fridge from Budapest, The Galapagos Islands, Las Vega and Reyjkavik in Iceland ( after I very enthusiastically insisted El's dad send us a postcard from there during their cruise of the Atlantic and North Sea, "No one will ever get a postcard from Reyjkayvik, Martin, you got to send us one" The logic was compelling as was the service of Iceland Post. )
I think in even in the Iceage of Facebook, Myspace, e-mail and whatever the hell there is out there, postcards should survive. For mine, one of the great thrills of life is getting a message from somewhere else in the world with a picture attached. It's simple, it's easy, it's a wonder it hasn't become part of a major religion.
Now back to Souths - some of you readers may be familiar with my ranting on football, politics and the probability of a yellow swim suit being seen before October at the Victoria Park Pool - indeed. So I'll continue.
What we may be seeing with Souths is a rare moment nowadays.
A time where a part of the common generic past that was forfeited, sold off and sacrificed to the little pixies of progress that sing and dance and nibble on breadcrumbs and asbestos - a time that Souths lived through - will come back and remind us that sometimes, just sometimes, a little symptom of community like Souths can resurrect themselves and kick the world up the arse.
Maybe. And I'll have a Chicken Tikka and Cheese and Garlic Naan, thanks.
At this point I would like to diverge and talk about how when I first moved to Canberra in 1995 and decided I needed to devote myself to a new cause with the same fervour I had directed towards the mighty but consistently progressive Norwood Football Club in Adelaide ( see http://www.go-redlegs.com )
I reinvigorated my family ties to South Sydney - I went to Woden Plaza and bought a pair of Souths socks. I could not possibly have bought a top - cos in Canberra you would have more chance of buying the tye-died tank top of Jesus Christ on the Cross than buying a South Sydney top. I remember a mortifying moment of my life when drinking white wine out of a glass with ice in it, sometime in the late 90's in the Tuggeranong Valley of Canberra, explaining to people in attendance how I went for Souths. How I explained to them although I was from Adelaide my family and Souths were like "this." How my mum remembers times when the entirety of South Sydney from Randwick to Eastlakes to Mascot to all the way down to where the fuck St George or Canterbury-Bankstown or Balmain began, was covered in red and green streamers. Of course when saying this, i knew no more about Sydney than Joseph Banks in 1770 when he rocked up with a text book, an idea of what made a good garden and no HECS debt. But that was where the fun was.
Anyhow, postcards, we have postcards downstairs on our fridge from Budapest, The Galapagos Islands, Las Vega and Reyjkavik in Iceland ( after I very enthusiastically insisted El's dad send us a postcard from there during their cruise of the Atlantic and North Sea, "No one will ever get a postcard from Reyjkayvik, Martin, you got to send us one" The logic was compelling as was the service of Iceland Post. )
I think in even in the Iceage of Facebook, Myspace, e-mail and whatever the hell there is out there, postcards should survive. For mine, one of the great thrills of life is getting a message from somewhere else in the world with a picture attached. It's simple, it's easy, it's a wonder it hasn't become part of a major religion.
Now back to Souths - some of you readers may be familiar with my ranting on football, politics and the probability of a yellow swim suit being seen before October at the Victoria Park Pool - indeed. So I'll continue.
What we may be seeing with Souths is a rare moment nowadays.
A time where a part of the common generic past that was forfeited, sold off and sacrificed to the little pixies of progress that sing and dance and nibble on breadcrumbs and asbestos - a time that Souths lived through - will come back and remind us that sometimes, just sometimes, a little symptom of community like Souths can resurrect themselves and kick the world up the arse.
Maybe. And I'll have a Chicken Tikka and Cheese and Garlic Naan, thanks.
