More reflections on the Cup

More reflections on the Cup

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

Rolf

Rolf

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.

Brazil 2014 #1

Brazil 2014 #1

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.

“Evil”

“Evil”

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.

Freeeeeeeooo

Freeeeeeeooo

Years ago I worked with a former CEO of the Freo Dockers. And I always wanted to ask him: what’s wrong with us?

Chimera
Chimera

Just weeks before Rudd’s restoration, the internal polling for Labor was doom-heavy: zero seats returned in WA, Queensland gruesome…

Death to Writers’ Festivals
Death to Writers’ Festivals

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.

Vanity in the Media
Vanity in the Media

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

How Not to Write a Column
How Not to Write a Column

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.

Leaks and Confidentiality
Leaks and Confidentiality

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.”

Swanston Street
Swanston Street

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.

Boys Will Be Boys
Boys Will Be Boys

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
Canberra

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.

Killing Time
Killing Time

A few weeks before Christmas, serial killer Paul Haigh was in Victoria’s Supreme Court representing himself.

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