The View From the Middle of Nowhere

I'm writing this from the visitors' accommodation in Milingimbi, just off the North coast of East Arnhem Land. Stranded from the rest of civilisation, and cut off from the internet (don't ask me how I'm posting this... wibbly wobbly timey wimey), it's just me, the land, the ocean, my bible, my notebook and my iPod.

Okay, okay. I also have a fridge, an air conditioner and a TV. But there's nothing on except repeats of Two and a Half Men, so my iPod's been getting a fair work out. I've been re-living and re-loving Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog and I've decided that our lovable and piteous antihero wasn't that far off the mark.

Just before TAAHM, Channel Nine News informed me of the following:

Kevin Rudd's government has announced that after getting themselves elected by promising to open around 250 new childcare centres to relieve the chronic national shortage, they've decided they're going to build 38.

The Melbourne Storm have announced that they've been cheating for the last five years at least by rorting the salary cap system and have been stripped of three minor premierships, two premierships, a million dollars and all points for this season, past and present. No-one would ever have accused rugby league players of being able to count, but this sort of "do whatever it takes to win and bugger the spirit of the game" attitude really belongs in some other country. Like England.

In another brazen display from Rudd's goons, they've also gone and announced that an enquiry into the debacle that was the home insulation scheme has found that fixing the mess is likely to be really difficult, and really really expensive. So they've decided not to.

And did they send out Peter Garrett to face the music? No. He was hiding in an office deep within Parliament House somewhere. So did Kevin, who just two months ago was so keen to take responsibility and show us all how up front he was, front up? No. He was hiding in Tasmania. He would probably have been even further away, if it wasn't for that damned Icelandic volcano. Instead they arranged a press conference with some dubious looking assistant minister for who-cares-what? A man so otherwise irrelevant I'm not even going to bother looking up who it actually was.

On top of all that, and despite a very strongly worded request to join a Saturday league, I've been consigned to an E grade cricket team playing on Sundays, which means choosing between playing sport to do something about my physical fitness, and investing my Sundays in intercongregational activities to do something about the spiritual health of the local Church. I mean, I realise I'm close enough to useless and not getting anywhere, but this might just be the final insult.

I'm also rubbish at cricket.

Yes indeed, as the Horrible little Doctor put it:

"It's not about making money. It's about taking money; destroying the Status Quo. Because the Status is not Quo. The world's a mess and I just need to rule it."

I've been considering the various avenues available to me in terms of affecting the obviously necessary pardigmic social change. I could become a politician myself, but they all seem to be increasingly useless. I could become a religious leader, but, for all I see, we have too many of them as it is (more on that later). I could found an underground resistance movement, but bringing a campaign of violence and destruction of property to the streets of Palmerston wouldn't actually set me apart from the local high school students. And no-one seems to pay them any attention.

So logically the only recourse left is to become a lone-wolf masked vigilante and prowl the streets at night, seeking out injustice and crushing it under the heel of my rocketboots. To the secret lab, Emilio!

No. There's no secret laboratory and no mad yet devoted assistant. And who calls their sidekick Emilio, anyway? Lame. I guess I'll just stay here in the visitors' accommodation and continue to combat the forces of evil by blogging them to death.

And that's the news for this Thursday the 22nd of April. A Current Affair is next, but for now: good night.




Garry with 2 Rs

P.S. I apologise for the overtly political tone this blog has now taken. We will be returning to the regular scheduled service of absurd sexist ecumenical idiocy as soon as possible.

P.P.S. Anyone else think Jonathan Uptin needs a more creative sign-off?

The Ghosts of Made-Up Girlfriends Past

The most peculiar thing happened to me today as I was walking through Casuarina. I was strolling, coke bottle in hand (He is risen, baby!), through the older section near K-Mart when I was approached and stopped by a misty-eyed exotic stranger. I knew straight away what was happening, having had some experience with shopping mall charity spruikers in the past, but nonetheless having a pretty girl stop me to chat occurs infrequently enough that I just decided to go with it.

Alice (name changed to protect the ignorant; it was actually a really hot sounding Russian name that I couldn’t spell if I tried): How’re you going today?
Garry with 2 Rs: I’m going pretty well. How’re you?
Alice: Pretty good thanks. Would you like to take a couple of minutes to see what we’re doing here today?
Gw2Rs: I suppose I have a few minutes to spare (translates as “I’ll look at anything you want me to, just keep that James Bond villainess accent coming”).
Alice: My name’s Alice, by the way. What’s yours?
Gw2Rs: I’m Garry. Alice… that’s an unusual name.
Alice: It’s Russian. And congratulations: you’re the first person today to pronounce it correctly. Most people can’t do that.
Gw2Rs: I’m a linguist (said with smug confidence that didn’t really match the content, but what are you going to do?).
Alice: Oh wow! I did some Slavic philology at college back home.
Gw2Rs: Fantastic. That sounds fascinating. (Yeah! Suck on that, veterinary science students I went to uni with! Who’s talking to all the pretty girls now?)
Alice: Well… anyway, I am here today representing Oxfam International.

And just like that, the spell was broken. I mean, I kept up the façade of being interested in what she was collecting for (something to do with sexually abused women building wells in Africa), but I knew what her real agenda was. It all starts off with a bit of innocent (well…) chit-chat. Next thing you know you’re buying a block of fair trade chocolate a week and pining over a forbidden love who starts making uninvited and frankly preposterous appearances in slightly embellished accounts of your European working holiday.

Not today, Alice!

Actually, it turns out Oxfam don’t even have a shop in Darwin. This sucks a bit because I left my make poverty history wristband on a table in Brisbane on my way through in November. These guys were based on the Gold Coast and were in town on the Darwin leg of a national tour. Somewhere, charity spokesperson got cross-wired with rockstar and I, for one, welcome the change.

And remember, it costs as little as a dollar a day to send as many cute Europeans to talk to Garry in shopping malls as it takes to buy just one cup of coffee a week. Give or take.

Over to you, ROOOOOOZ!



Garry with 2 Rs
What? Scraping the barrel a bit? Why yes. Yes I am.

Specialist Outfielder

The extent to which I’ve become an inactive layabout is starting to annoy me. I spend far too much time with my computer (so I decided to blog about it… hmm…) and not nearly enough time outside.

This is partly due to the Darwin climate this time of year. When it’s not 33 and sticky, it’s 29 and pouring which makes outdoor pursuits a little inconvenient. However, the Dry is fast approaching and that means only one thing:

Cricket season.

Yes, I know that rest of Australia has only just got over the monumental waste of time that was this summer’s so called ‘competition’ (although as I’m typing this, Mitchell Johnson has just taken 10 wickets in the second test in Hamilton to clinch the series against New Zealand) and is stolidly pushing on with fanatic devotion to games played with balls that aren’t round.

But up here we do things the other way around: we play cricket in the dry season when it’s slightly cooler, less humid and not pouring with rain all the time. We play football in the wet season because if we didn’t, the guys playing both cricket and some code of football (which is generally half the team; there’s only a limited pool of players to draw from) would be screwed, and also because football players usually aren’t smart enough to realise that running around in the sun in November is a stupid idea.

You may already have read of my previous adventures in international cricket. It could probably be said that as a batsman I make an excellent spin bowler and that as a bowler I make a fantastic… goal keeper. Nonetheless, I’ve decided that in order to break out of the inactive slump that has elevated my pant size to unacceptable levels, I’m signing up for the next season.

The last time I played club cricket in Australia was when I was in high school, playing for Tracy Village, which was just around the corner from our old house in Wanguri. I managed to earn myself the nickname “Kamikaze” due to my distinctive ground fielding style and was renowned as the most consistent number ten in the league (I can’t remember the name of the guy who batted at eleven. He must have been woeful). I bowled occasionally, but spent most of my time running around at deep mid-wicket being noisy.

Not much has changed, except that Tracy Village is no longer just around the corner. I’m living out in the wilderness of Woodroffe and I have a heart rending decision to make.

Palmerston cricket club trains at Woodroffe Oval, which is just around the corner from where I currently live. The logical thing for me to do is to sign up with them. But, as a born and bred northern suburbs boy, it seems a little unnatural. Like a boy from Longreach growing up to play State of Origin for New South Wales, or an Oxford law student rowing for Cambridge. Or a former Liberal leader crossing the floor to vote in favour of Labor’s Emissions Trading Scheme. Can I really bring myself to represent Palmerston on the cricket field?

I think convenience is probably going to win out over district loyalty. I also think the Tracy Village sports club can probably count themselves extremely fortunate. Either way, I’ll be spending less time in cyberspace and more time in the outfield, which can only be a good thing from my current perspective.

This has been another presentation from Nine’s Wide World of Sports.




Garry with 2 Rs