It was almost the last touch of the game. A free kick nearly 40 yards out. There was no question who would take it. But could he do it? It seemed like an improbable script, green-lit by heaven
It will be tempting now to reappraise Rolf Harris’s putative virtues. To recast his famous conviviality as manipulation; his impish grin as a mask.
Four years on and I’m still fucking spooked by those vuvuzelas. Probably some arsehole imagined them, when blown in unison, conveying a mystical, indigenous élan of South Africa.
No doubt there are readers who have objected to the word “evil”. Readers who feel as queasy about the word as the act it describes.
Years ago I worked with a former CEO of the Freo Dockers. And I always wanted to ask him: what’s wrong with us?
Just weeks before Rudd’s restoration, the internal polling for Labor was doom-heavy: zero seats returned in WA, Queensland gruesome…
I’m trying to cut back on red meat and writers’ festivals. The first is on the advice of my doctor, the second’s a self-made prescription.
It was late and my girlfriend had retired in disgust. She was right to. I was immobile on the couch, watching live coverage of the Boston manhunt from an American broadcast, and dumbly forgiving of the rolling nothingness
I’d always wanted to write in a way that excited the same raw euphoria as music. But I didn’t and I can’t.
In David Foster Wallace’s novel The Pale King, about—wait for it—the metaphysics of boredom in a bureaucracy, he writes: “True heroism is minutes, hours, weeks, year upon year of the quiet, precise, judicious exercise of probity and care—with no one there to see or cheer. This is the world.”
My father prepared for death like he prepared for most things: with effortless practicality. A melanoma had insinuated itself in his subcutaneous fat, and the prognosis was poor.
Two quotes and a movie was all it took. I scratched my Labor column. Others could examine the party’s existential nausea. I’d reached a combustible temperature on something else: rape and the creeps who defend it.
Canberra turns 100 this year, but awkwardly it seems Australians have forgotten its birthday. The Bush Capital must now be cursing its weird remoteness, and the fact that outside its borders ”Canberra” is not the name of a city, but shorthand for political bastardry.
A few weeks before Christmas, serial killer Paul Haigh was in Victoria’s Supreme Court representing himself.