It’s a sleepy early morning in Melbourne as I stumble out of bed and try to summon the energy to face the day. Summer has stuttered a few times this year but seems to be stubbornly resisting the call to clear its throat and roar. But cool mornings are no bad thing when you struggle to wake up as I do.
Morning radio here comes in two formats. All the commercial channels go down the same route with three presenters, two male and one female. One of the male presenters has to be as camp as a scout’s jamboree while the lady has to be blokish and go along with all the mindless gags the guys play. Alternatively, you can listen to the state radio which has a serious news hour in the morning. Unfortunately, Australia is an insular country and news here consists of drought, severe weather and corrupt local politicians that I’ve never heard of.
So I tend to bypass this medium and head straight for the TV. As I munch my cornflakes and try to crank my brain into second gear, I tend to channel surf. BBC world news is the opposite of insular. It tells me about cholera in Zimbabwe and election fraud in Venezuela. However, I find that at this hour of the morning, I’m not a good global citizen so I drift over to the Sports channels to catch up on European football and the masochistic pleasure of being an Arsenal supporter.
That wasn’t much fun this morning, so I flicked on the weather channel and hoped the boundless enthusiasm of the presenters would stir me out of my stupor. Australia is a big country but its weather doesn’t change that regularly. Nevertheless, these cheerful meteorologists will tell you the current temperature in Wagga Wagga every 15 minutes as though it were the most breath taking event since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Meanwhile a rolling bar at the bottom of the screen brings dramatic breaking news, such as hailstones falling in Darwin. It’s the perfect breakfast TV for when your body is munching cornflakes in the living room while your brain is still happily tucked up in bed.
At 8.15am I gather all the possessions a modern man needs and load them into my “man bag”. Woman discovered the advantages of an over the shoulder number centuries ago. But it took the invention of the laptop computer before men saw the light. Now we have our own range of trendy satchels in which to carry the necessities of daily life. God be with the days when I’d head for work with just a wallet and a set of keys. Now I pack Blackberry, mobile phone, Ipod, book, keys, wallet and a raincoat for when the drought finally finishes. I also have my company ID card and all the post I pick up as I leave my apartment.
The tram stop is 50 meters away on Acland Street. It’s the first stop so there is usually a tram waiting there and it teases me as I approach. Will it wait until I get there or will he spy me in his mirrors and slam the doors shut just as I’m about to board? This latter procedure happens with suspicious regularity.
This morning he waits however and I drag my weary body on board and search out the best seat. There is a pecking order on trams. Don’t sit in the seats nearest the doors because old or pregnant ladies will get on and test your social responsibilities. Don’t sit near the bendy bit because somebody will get on and force you to move in, thus wedging your knees into a space built for midgets. And most importantly don’t sit facing backwards. I’m not sure why but this seems the most important factor for passengers. Maybe it’s an inner ear thing.
I nabbed a good seat near the front and settled in for the ride. Tram drivers are an eclectic lot. Most of them sit sullenly in their cabin, aloof from the commuting chaos going on behind their shoulders. They take no part in the ticketing function and hate to see themselves as tour guides. I’ve seen many tourists laden down with backpacks asking questions of the driver in their best broken English, only to be met with stoic indifference. This morning’s driver was different though. He announced each stop in a thick accent that suggested he had learned English from a talking clock. I watched him through the glass as he leaned ceremoniously towards the microphone at each stop. Speaking seemed to give him no pleasure at all, yet he soldiered on, adding some local information as he went. “Next stop Crown Casino and Melbourne Exhibition Centre……and the Polly Woodside restored sailing ship and maritime museum”.
No other tram driver on my route to work does this and it seemed that we were party to a practical joke that the guys at the depot play on all new drivers. No doubt he will soon be as sullen as the rest of them and spend his day scaring cyclists and closing the doors just before passengers get on.
We crossed over the Yarra River and the crush on the tram lightened. The girl beside me nudged me to let her out. No words were spoken, because public transport is a strangely silent place. Even couples traveling together will whisper conspiratorially and talk behind their hands. The only exceptions are those inconsiderate noise polluters who insist on shouting into mobile phones while sleepy heads like me are trying to steal an extra 20 minutes shut-eye.
I moved to let her out and noticed that a thin layer of drool had fallen from my mouth and had made landfall on the collar of my shirt. As I wiped it away, I noticed the two girls opposite were doing their best to pretend they hadn’t noticed. As I closed my gaping mouth I thought that I must start going to bed early. Sleep is a delicious pleasure but it really should be done in bed.
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
The Jimmy Bell Fan Club
“Have you got $20?” he said. “I’m trying to get a room.” I was momentarily taken back. He didn’t look the begging type and his request was so ridiculously over the top for that industry that I assumed he was a recently retrenched banker. “Jeez mate” I replied. “Don’t you know that there is a recession on?”
Begging and homelessness is on the up it seems, just as the economy is heading in the other direction. But even before the downturn, Australia had a massive problem. Drugs and alcohol are too easily available here as is an outdoor culture that goes back to the original squatters and the jolly swagman of Waltzing Matilda fame. There are an estimated 100,000 homeless people in Australia and while most survive on State handouts and the angelic hand of Mission work, there are some who resort to old fashioned requests to the public for cash. Being an inventive country however, Australian swagmen are clever and cunning in this department.
In my first month here I was staying in a hotel in the City Centre that was uncomfortably close to the Central train station. I don’t know what it is about these places, but if you pitch up in any strange City in the world and you find yourself in dire need of drugs or pornography, then all you have to do is head down to the Central station. The dodgy stuff will normally be out the back nestled between kebab shops and laundrettes that double as internet cafes. Within the space of four days I was stopped by three different people with exactly the same story. All of them were well dressed and spoke with educated Australian accents. Their story involved a trip to the big city and a car that ran out of petrol. They had spent their last few shillings on a hypoallergenic blanket for their lonely grandmother’s arthritic cat and so were in desperate need for $20 to buy petrol and to get home to the 25 orphans waiting in the care centre they ran. What blew their story (apart from its repetition) was that each claimed that they had called into the local Police Station and the good constables of Victoria suggested that they stop random strangers in the street like me and hustle them for money.
I’ve been scandalously neglectful of the plight of those who are habitably challenged. But my conscience has been pricked this week by the presence of the Homeless World Cup in Melbourne. Federation Square is a civic space in the centre of the City that the council built to rival the Sydney Opera House. They failed miserably in that respect but it’s still a nice place to meet people and as this week proved, just the right size for a little four a side football pitch.
Fifty six teams took part and as Melbourne is an immigrant City, most of them had some local support. The Poles were probably the best, bringing colour and noise to the arena as well as some alcohol. This was unfortunate as most of the players have taken up football to try and stay off the booze. The Afghans were also well represented despite John Howard’s best efforts to keep them out over the last twelve years.
Interest in the competition was low early in the week. This is a town that treats football with a little suspicion and its homeless population with even more. I turned up each day to follow the progress of the Irish team and in the early days of the week I reckon that if I’d brought my trainers I would have gotten a game. As the week went on, the crowds grew and so did the standard of the football. Ireland won their group and qualified for the top group in the second round. I watched a lot of games and one thing that stood out is that national teams play the same style no matter what the level is. The Poles were big and physical. The Germans strolled around with arrogance and an assumption of superiority even when four goals down. The Portuguese were full of useless step overs and the English of course went out on penalties.
As for the Irish, well they leaned towards the Jack Charlton’s years in the early rounds by hoofing the ball up to the forwards with indecent haste. As the week went on their play improved, helped by the excellent skills of Captain James Bell. Jimmy became a bit of a local hero during the week, developing a fan club that seemed to include people of all nationalities with the possible exception of the Irish.
But even Jimmy’s skills weren’t enough to get past perfidious Albion (or the feckin Brits as they are known where I come from) and the Irish unfortunately fell at the last 16 stage. Thankfully the organisers kept everyone involved until the end and we got to play for the Dignitary Cup and after a triumphant march past minnows like Holland and Germany, Jimmy and his mates lined up on Sunday in the final against Nigeria. This was the preview match before the overall final and Federation Square was packed to the rafters of its gaudy facades. I seemed to be the only Irish person watching the team during the week but by the final on Sunday every backpacker in Melbourne had made their way there. I felt a little bitter at these bang wagon jumpers as it reminded me of my youth when I used to put in the effort to go to all the friendlies and then couldn’t get a ticket for the big match because some Johnny come lately did.
But when Jimmy stuck away the winner to seal the win and ensure that Ireland got a shiny cup and 9th place in the competition, all that was forgotten. The smiles on the face of the team were enough to make anyone proud. We find our hero’s in the strangest places.
Begging and homelessness is on the up it seems, just as the economy is heading in the other direction. But even before the downturn, Australia had a massive problem. Drugs and alcohol are too easily available here as is an outdoor culture that goes back to the original squatters and the jolly swagman of Waltzing Matilda fame. There are an estimated 100,000 homeless people in Australia and while most survive on State handouts and the angelic hand of Mission work, there are some who resort to old fashioned requests to the public for cash. Being an inventive country however, Australian swagmen are clever and cunning in this department.
In my first month here I was staying in a hotel in the City Centre that was uncomfortably close to the Central train station. I don’t know what it is about these places, but if you pitch up in any strange City in the world and you find yourself in dire need of drugs or pornography, then all you have to do is head down to the Central station. The dodgy stuff will normally be out the back nestled between kebab shops and laundrettes that double as internet cafes. Within the space of four days I was stopped by three different people with exactly the same story. All of them were well dressed and spoke with educated Australian accents. Their story involved a trip to the big city and a car that ran out of petrol. They had spent their last few shillings on a hypoallergenic blanket for their lonely grandmother’s arthritic cat and so were in desperate need for $20 to buy petrol and to get home to the 25 orphans waiting in the care centre they ran. What blew their story (apart from its repetition) was that each claimed that they had called into the local Police Station and the good constables of Victoria suggested that they stop random strangers in the street like me and hustle them for money.
I’ve been scandalously neglectful of the plight of those who are habitably challenged. But my conscience has been pricked this week by the presence of the Homeless World Cup in Melbourne. Federation Square is a civic space in the centre of the City that the council built to rival the Sydney Opera House. They failed miserably in that respect but it’s still a nice place to meet people and as this week proved, just the right size for a little four a side football pitch.
Fifty six teams took part and as Melbourne is an immigrant City, most of them had some local support. The Poles were probably the best, bringing colour and noise to the arena as well as some alcohol. This was unfortunate as most of the players have taken up football to try and stay off the booze. The Afghans were also well represented despite John Howard’s best efforts to keep them out over the last twelve years.
Interest in the competition was low early in the week. This is a town that treats football with a little suspicion and its homeless population with even more. I turned up each day to follow the progress of the Irish team and in the early days of the week I reckon that if I’d brought my trainers I would have gotten a game. As the week went on, the crowds grew and so did the standard of the football. Ireland won their group and qualified for the top group in the second round. I watched a lot of games and one thing that stood out is that national teams play the same style no matter what the level is. The Poles were big and physical. The Germans strolled around with arrogance and an assumption of superiority even when four goals down. The Portuguese were full of useless step overs and the English of course went out on penalties.
As for the Irish, well they leaned towards the Jack Charlton’s years in the early rounds by hoofing the ball up to the forwards with indecent haste. As the week went on their play improved, helped by the excellent skills of Captain James Bell. Jimmy became a bit of a local hero during the week, developing a fan club that seemed to include people of all nationalities with the possible exception of the Irish.
But even Jimmy’s skills weren’t enough to get past perfidious Albion (or the feckin Brits as they are known where I come from) and the Irish unfortunately fell at the last 16 stage. Thankfully the organisers kept everyone involved until the end and we got to play for the Dignitary Cup and after a triumphant march past minnows like Holland and Germany, Jimmy and his mates lined up on Sunday in the final against Nigeria. This was the preview match before the overall final and Federation Square was packed to the rafters of its gaudy facades. I seemed to be the only Irish person watching the team during the week but by the final on Sunday every backpacker in Melbourne had made their way there. I felt a little bitter at these bang wagon jumpers as it reminded me of my youth when I used to put in the effort to go to all the friendlies and then couldn’t get a ticket for the big match because some Johnny come lately did.
But when Jimmy stuck away the winner to seal the win and ensure that Ireland got a shiny cup and 9th place in the competition, all that was forgotten. The smiles on the face of the team were enough to make anyone proud. We find our hero’s in the strangest places.
Monday, 1 December 2008
The Great Bank Job
Monty Python were the masters of surreal comedy. Yet, in the crazy world we now live, they could easily be judged as acute social commentators. The dead parrot sketch comes to mind as it represents the best metaphor we have for the current financial crisis. We got to where we are now because banks were able to sell dead parrots and unlike the Monty Python customer, we were too stupid to see this.
Its fun working for a large American bank at the moment, as you can imagine. Two weeks ago the Christmas Party was cancelled, causing anxiety among those who had spent the last twelve months cultivating a relationship with the cute girl from accounts. Unfortunately back office bankers are merely meek people in suits. If we had any bravado at all, we’d be using our mathematical knowledge in the front office, designing obscure credit default swaps. But instead, we spend twelve months staring at our shoes, kept alive only by the hope that alcohol at the Christmas Party will oil the cogs of our rusty ardour.
Now that all seems faintly irrelevant as having a job by Christmas is more pressing.
The bosses are doing their best to rally the troops. “Too big to fail” is the latest mantra, which unfortunately reminds me of White Star Line’s advertising campaign before the launch of the Titanic. Being a Manager in the Australian branch of a US bank this week feels a little like being the conductor of the Titanic’s Dance Band. Except they had a slim chance of making it to the lifeboats. We’ll be lucky if we can grab some flotsam as we jump over the side.
But in these challenging times, it always helps to find somebody in a worse situation than you. Luckily, a pigeon came along last week and offered to be our fall guy. We work on the fifth floor with a large ledge outside our window. No doubt our banking forefathers used such ledges in the last great banking crisis to relieve themselves of their worries. The windows are now hermetically sealed to stop us from doing likewise.
On Monday we came to work and found that a pigeon had reversed the banking suicide routine. He had flown up from the ground and killed himself on the ledge, having no doubt become depressed after losing his portfolio in the great bird stock market crash, when he went long on grain futures. His body lay there on the other side of the glass and it dawned on us that we would have to sit here and watch him rot each day as we also watched our company decay.
At first we wondered if the pigeon was dead at all or merely critically ill. Strangely enough, that’s also how we felt about the company last Monday. By Tuesday it was clear that both were beyond repair and as the week went on the poor old bird disintegrated into a pathetic skeleton and some ragbag feathers. And the pigeon didn’t do too well either.
I guess we’re too high up for the rats to feast on his corpse, so it was left to decompose in the sun. Unfortunately, Melbourne is experiencing a cold snap at the moment with temperatures dropping to the levels of an Irish summer’s day. So the bird’s decay has been slow and torturous, with bone and feathers stubbornly defying the call of nature. We come in each morning hoping for final resolution but find the process lingering. A bit like our jobs you might say if you weren’t getting as tired of the similes as I am.
The ironic thing is that a job in the bank used to be the safest position available. In the Siberian winter that was 1980’s Ireland, the banks and the Civil Service were the only people recruiting school leavers. I applied for both and got as far as sitting the exam for the Civil Service. I still have the letter at home telling me that I came 52nd in the country (out of 4,500 who sat the exam) and that I would be called for interview in due course. I was tremendously excited and placed the letter in my special folder, alongside my bronze under 10 sprint medal and the first Valentine’s card I received (which I subsequently found out came from my Mother and I’m paying a fortune in therapy fees as a result. Thanks Mam!).
I can only assume that the interviews of the people who finished 1st to 51st are dragging on, because 25 years later, I’m still waiting to be called.
The banks didn’t even reply to my applications when I left school, but through various maneuvers and takeovers, I have found myself working for them for the last twelve years. And the past few weeks have proved beyond doubt that this is no longer a safe job. Banks are at the mercy of the market to a greater extent than other companies (for reasons I won’t begin to bore you with it) and work recentlyhas been an exercise of watching the share price collapse with one eye while watching emails arrive from senior management with the other eye. These messages are designed to reassure us as to the company’s strength, as though none of us were capable of reading newspapers or watching TV.
These are “unprecedented” times apparently, although it looks pretty similar to 1929 to me (not that I was around then I hasten to add). I think if you look down through history you’ll see lots of examples of the greed of the few being paid for by the many. As the good book says “there is nothing new under the sun”. Although I’m not sure Ecclesiastes foresaw a meltdown in the Credit Default Options market.
Yesterday, the dead pigeon was finally cleaned up and taken away. The bank is still here but the confidence of having a safe job has been swept away too.
Its fun working for a large American bank at the moment, as you can imagine. Two weeks ago the Christmas Party was cancelled, causing anxiety among those who had spent the last twelve months cultivating a relationship with the cute girl from accounts. Unfortunately back office bankers are merely meek people in suits. If we had any bravado at all, we’d be using our mathematical knowledge in the front office, designing obscure credit default swaps. But instead, we spend twelve months staring at our shoes, kept alive only by the hope that alcohol at the Christmas Party will oil the cogs of our rusty ardour.
Now that all seems faintly irrelevant as having a job by Christmas is more pressing.
The bosses are doing their best to rally the troops. “Too big to fail” is the latest mantra, which unfortunately reminds me of White Star Line’s advertising campaign before the launch of the Titanic. Being a Manager in the Australian branch of a US bank this week feels a little like being the conductor of the Titanic’s Dance Band. Except they had a slim chance of making it to the lifeboats. We’ll be lucky if we can grab some flotsam as we jump over the side.
But in these challenging times, it always helps to find somebody in a worse situation than you. Luckily, a pigeon came along last week and offered to be our fall guy. We work on the fifth floor with a large ledge outside our window. No doubt our banking forefathers used such ledges in the last great banking crisis to relieve themselves of their worries. The windows are now hermetically sealed to stop us from doing likewise.
On Monday we came to work and found that a pigeon had reversed the banking suicide routine. He had flown up from the ground and killed himself on the ledge, having no doubt become depressed after losing his portfolio in the great bird stock market crash, when he went long on grain futures. His body lay there on the other side of the glass and it dawned on us that we would have to sit here and watch him rot each day as we also watched our company decay.
At first we wondered if the pigeon was dead at all or merely critically ill. Strangely enough, that’s also how we felt about the company last Monday. By Tuesday it was clear that both were beyond repair and as the week went on the poor old bird disintegrated into a pathetic skeleton and some ragbag feathers. And the pigeon didn’t do too well either.
I guess we’re too high up for the rats to feast on his corpse, so it was left to decompose in the sun. Unfortunately, Melbourne is experiencing a cold snap at the moment with temperatures dropping to the levels of an Irish summer’s day. So the bird’s decay has been slow and torturous, with bone and feathers stubbornly defying the call of nature. We come in each morning hoping for final resolution but find the process lingering. A bit like our jobs you might say if you weren’t getting as tired of the similes as I am.
The ironic thing is that a job in the bank used to be the safest position available. In the Siberian winter that was 1980’s Ireland, the banks and the Civil Service were the only people recruiting school leavers. I applied for both and got as far as sitting the exam for the Civil Service. I still have the letter at home telling me that I came 52nd in the country (out of 4,500 who sat the exam) and that I would be called for interview in due course. I was tremendously excited and placed the letter in my special folder, alongside my bronze under 10 sprint medal and the first Valentine’s card I received (which I subsequently found out came from my Mother and I’m paying a fortune in therapy fees as a result. Thanks Mam!).
I can only assume that the interviews of the people who finished 1st to 51st are dragging on, because 25 years later, I’m still waiting to be called.
The banks didn’t even reply to my applications when I left school, but through various maneuvers and takeovers, I have found myself working for them for the last twelve years. And the past few weeks have proved beyond doubt that this is no longer a safe job. Banks are at the mercy of the market to a greater extent than other companies (for reasons I won’t begin to bore you with it) and work recentlyhas been an exercise of watching the share price collapse with one eye while watching emails arrive from senior management with the other eye. These messages are designed to reassure us as to the company’s strength, as though none of us were capable of reading newspapers or watching TV.
These are “unprecedented” times apparently, although it looks pretty similar to 1929 to me (not that I was around then I hasten to add). I think if you look down through history you’ll see lots of examples of the greed of the few being paid for by the many. As the good book says “there is nothing new under the sun”. Although I’m not sure Ecclesiastes foresaw a meltdown in the Credit Default Options market.
Yesterday, the dead pigeon was finally cleaned up and taken away. The bank is still here but the confidence of having a safe job has been swept away too.
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
God makes his own importance
God and myself fell out many years ago when I started dating the devil and he still refused to talk to me when the devil does to you what the devil does. But the family are over visiting me at the moment and as every Irish emigrant over the years has done, I have to pretend to the Daddy that I'm still a regular Mass-goer and that I flagellate myself nightly as he taught me to do as a child.
It may come as a surprise to people who know me for my hedonistic lifestyle, but there was a time when I wanted to a Priest. That was before I developed a liking for the pleasures of the flesh. I gave up my vocational intentions before I realised that being a Priest didn't preclude those pleasures and if anything would have improved my chances of obtaining them. I kept up the Mass going however through my teenage years because it offered the best way of seeing girls on their knees and was a chance to catch up with my mates on a Sunday morning to discuss the previous night's disco exertions.
Then I went to London and found that Mass consisted of old people and bitter old Irish Priests who never forgave the world for the fact that they got posted to Tooting. I stopped going completely when ITV started showing live football on Sundays. My family visiting me at the moment changes all that, as it means sleeping on the sofa for two weeks and being awakened by the first person up. This is usually my over religious Dad asking where the nearest church is.
On the first Sunday we were in Sydney and my sister brought us to the posh Mary Immaculate church. God seemed to have redecorated since I last visited and was now keen to impress the neighbours. LCD screens were prominent throughout the church and they delivered a crisp power-point presentation which kept the process running like clockwork and made the Mass seem like a merchant bank board meeting. The church was run by the Jesuits and as those pompous Soldiers of Christ are prone to do, the celebrant spent his sermon spouting Pop Psychology and musing on whether Hell existed or not. All I can say is that for the hour I spent there, Hell certainly existed.
As with many things, Melbourne offers a different perspective to the brash new money world of Sydney. My nearest Church is the Sacred Heart on Grey Street, a thoroughfare more famous for prostitution, drugs and homeless people. The Sacred Heart mission is there to minister to the less fortunate among us and most of them return the favour by turning up for 11am Mass. So it was an eclectic audience to which I introduced my family this past Sunday. We took our perch behind the bewildered and the merely confused and awaited the entrance of Father Petrulis. He entered in the manner of Barack Obama, pressing the flesh and beaming a beatific smile at the congregation. Instead of mounting the alter, he stood in the middle of the assembly and talked as though he was at a barbeque on St Kilda beach.
Straight away I knew this was more my scene. The choir consisted of six melody challenged old ladies who made up for a deficit in talent with gusto and enthusiasm, a reader who sounded like she was reciting the First Letter of St Paul to the Romans in the language in which it was originally written and a congregation who treated the sitting down, standing up part of the Mass like a Mexican wave.
The highlight however, was the part played by Matilda and Chiara in the process. They were making their First Communion and as there were only two of them, Father Petrulis basically allowed them to run the show including inviting them on to the alter to mimic everything he did which made the consecration of the Eucharist look like a disco dancing routine.
That was trumped however by the prayers of the faithful which consisted of a few eclectic prepared pieces on subjects ranging from congratulating the new American President to prayers for the welfare of all those who had drank and gambled too much during the Melbourne Spring racing festival.
Then it was thrown open to the floor when the congregation was invited to present their own prayers. We had an old lady who was concerned about unloved young people, prayers for unborn babies and sick mothers and somebody who I think was looking for lost keys. I was tempted to stand up and thank God for Arsenal’s great win the night before against Man United, but my nerve deserted me.
For his sermon, the Priest chose to speak about Richard Minouge who had passed away the week before. Richard was one of the many homeless people who migrate to St Kilda for the beach life and the tolerant attitude of the locals. The picture Father Petrulis painted of him was of real human being, with failings and virtues but with enough humanity to fill a church at his funeral. His point was that God’s spirit lives in all of us, if you look closely enough. It was as uplifting and inspiring as Barack Obama’s acceptance speech and for the second time in a week I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
This was preaching as it is supposed to be. Talking about real people and real heartfelt spirituality. I wondered how many other Priests would minister to the homeless and see God’s light within them. As I walked home I felt uplifted after Mass for the first time since those pre-puberty years and I thought of those lines from Wilde’s “Ballad of Reading Goal”.
The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonoured grave
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.
It may come as a surprise to people who know me for my hedonistic lifestyle, but there was a time when I wanted to a Priest. That was before I developed a liking for the pleasures of the flesh. I gave up my vocational intentions before I realised that being a Priest didn't preclude those pleasures and if anything would have improved my chances of obtaining them. I kept up the Mass going however through my teenage years because it offered the best way of seeing girls on their knees and was a chance to catch up with my mates on a Sunday morning to discuss the previous night's disco exertions.
Then I went to London and found that Mass consisted of old people and bitter old Irish Priests who never forgave the world for the fact that they got posted to Tooting. I stopped going completely when ITV started showing live football on Sundays. My family visiting me at the moment changes all that, as it means sleeping on the sofa for two weeks and being awakened by the first person up. This is usually my over religious Dad asking where the nearest church is.
On the first Sunday we were in Sydney and my sister brought us to the posh Mary Immaculate church. God seemed to have redecorated since I last visited and was now keen to impress the neighbours. LCD screens were prominent throughout the church and they delivered a crisp power-point presentation which kept the process running like clockwork and made the Mass seem like a merchant bank board meeting. The church was run by the Jesuits and as those pompous Soldiers of Christ are prone to do, the celebrant spent his sermon spouting Pop Psychology and musing on whether Hell existed or not. All I can say is that for the hour I spent there, Hell certainly existed.
As with many things, Melbourne offers a different perspective to the brash new money world of Sydney. My nearest Church is the Sacred Heart on Grey Street, a thoroughfare more famous for prostitution, drugs and homeless people. The Sacred Heart mission is there to minister to the less fortunate among us and most of them return the favour by turning up for 11am Mass. So it was an eclectic audience to which I introduced my family this past Sunday. We took our perch behind the bewildered and the merely confused and awaited the entrance of Father Petrulis. He entered in the manner of Barack Obama, pressing the flesh and beaming a beatific smile at the congregation. Instead of mounting the alter, he stood in the middle of the assembly and talked as though he was at a barbeque on St Kilda beach.
Straight away I knew this was more my scene. The choir consisted of six melody challenged old ladies who made up for a deficit in talent with gusto and enthusiasm, a reader who sounded like she was reciting the First Letter of St Paul to the Romans in the language in which it was originally written and a congregation who treated the sitting down, standing up part of the Mass like a Mexican wave.
The highlight however, was the part played by Matilda and Chiara in the process. They were making their First Communion and as there were only two of them, Father Petrulis basically allowed them to run the show including inviting them on to the alter to mimic everything he did which made the consecration of the Eucharist look like a disco dancing routine.
That was trumped however by the prayers of the faithful which consisted of a few eclectic prepared pieces on subjects ranging from congratulating the new American President to prayers for the welfare of all those who had drank and gambled too much during the Melbourne Spring racing festival.
Then it was thrown open to the floor when the congregation was invited to present their own prayers. We had an old lady who was concerned about unloved young people, prayers for unborn babies and sick mothers and somebody who I think was looking for lost keys. I was tempted to stand up and thank God for Arsenal’s great win the night before against Man United, but my nerve deserted me.
For his sermon, the Priest chose to speak about Richard Minouge who had passed away the week before. Richard was one of the many homeless people who migrate to St Kilda for the beach life and the tolerant attitude of the locals. The picture Father Petrulis painted of him was of real human being, with failings and virtues but with enough humanity to fill a church at his funeral. His point was that God’s spirit lives in all of us, if you look closely enough. It was as uplifting and inspiring as Barack Obama’s acceptance speech and for the second time in a week I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
This was preaching as it is supposed to be. Talking about real people and real heartfelt spirituality. I wondered how many other Priests would minister to the homeless and see God’s light within them. As I walked home I felt uplifted after Mass for the first time since those pre-puberty years and I thought of those lines from Wilde’s “Ballad of Reading Goal”.
The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonoured grave
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.
Monday, 27 October 2008
Working for the Yankee Dollar - Part 3
Frank finally got a pay increase after the company ran out of excuses for not giving one. They had used the Argentinean collapse, Russian debt crisis, September 11th, Enron, Worldcom and the spectacular bursting of the dot com bubble as a reason for not paying their staff the market rates already. All these events coincidently happened towards the end of the year when salary increases were being decided.
But this particular year the world was quiet. While the mandarins in New York were scrambling around for excuses to cut costs, they were hampered by the CEO telling all who would listen that times had never been better and that the company was awash with cash. Unfortunately for the mandarins, the CEO’s complex bonus arrangement was dependent on a high share price. He pulled $100m the previous year but the board had rather cruelly decided that most of it would be in share options. These were only going to be worth anything if the share price went up and the best way to achieve this was to report massive and entirely fictitious profits. They crept up each quarter so that by year end the company was report ably making more money than the GDP of Belgium. It didn’t con the markets of course who saw right through the numbers game the CEO was playing but it made it harder for the company to pretend to its own staff that times were tough.
Not that this was beyond the hypocrisy of head office who started spinning a yarn about how building costs for the new corporate centre in Dublin were way beyond budget and how this would have an impact on local pay rises. This was ironic considering the company normally said that global results were what mattered. Frank hadn’t been around for long but he was quickly learning not to believe a word the company told him.
He used the extra money in his monthly pay to move out of the student flat in Ranelagh he’d been sharing with three mates from college and found a new place along the river. The housing boom was just kicking off and tax breaks encouraged builders to erect glass cages along the quay in the part of town that people had only ventured to before to buy drugs or to negotiate the re-purchase of their car radio. Frank sub-let the spare room to a young Spanish girl who was part of the initial wave of immigration into Ireland’s fledging economy and she fed him paella while he fed her increasingly lustful stares.
From his living room he watched the new corporate headquarters taking shape across the river, like a glass and steel monument to the new Ireland. He wondered where his desk would be and if it would be river facing. That way he could watch Monica as she wandered around their apartment even when he was at work.
Given his proximity to the new building, Eimear had asked him to represent the team on an early inspection and to report back. It was an afternoon off work, so he jumped at the chance and he joined four others in the first trip across the river and into the heart of the International Financial Services Centre. They were met at the half finished reception area by a girl who introduced herself as an ergonomic engineer, which to Frank sounded like an Engineering job for people who didn’t like Engineering. She showed them round a prototype of what the internal space would eventually look like. To Frank and the others it looked space age, compared to the 1960’s slum that they were currently crammed into. Desks that curved around your body, soft lighting and flat computer screens. Best of all, it had air-conditioning, a concept that was just arriving in Ireland along with hot stone massages and foccacia bread.
Frank reported back enthusiastically and the other staff members hung on his every word as though he was a Columbus who had witnessed the new world. When the move finally happened, he was the unofficial leader, showing people how the chilled water dispenser in the kitchen worked and where the best place was to sit if you wanted to see the skimpedly dressed girls from cash processing descend the stairs.
When they had all moved in, the big boss came over from New York to inspect the newest addition to his empire. He did a tour of each floor like some General inspecting soldiers at the front. Then he called all the staff into the atrium and gave what he thought was a motivating speech. He talked about how Dublin had 50% turnover the previous year and how he was determined to stem this. He said loyalty was the most important thing in business and that together we could make the company great. Frank sniggered and Eimear had to nudge him. She knew the guy from New York was talking bullshit, that he would happily sack them all tomorrow if the need arose. But she also knew that this was a game and you had to nod your head and play along. Pretty soon he’d be in First Class on his way back to New York and they could get back to normal.
The following Monday, everyone turned up at work to find that their new flat screens had disappeared to be replaced by old fashioned deep backed monitors. Suddenly the ergonomically designed desks weren’t so comfortable as the curvature brought your body within 10 centimetres’ of the computer screen. The systems manager was embarrassed. He’d spent all weekend unplugging the new screens and replacing them with these technological dinosaurs. The boss had sent an email from the Delta business lounge in Dublin airport. His traders in New York didn’t have flat screens, so he was damned if a bunch of Micks in the back office of back offices would have them. He wouldn’t listen to arguments that the screens were on a three year lease and it would cost more money to send them back than would be saved by replacing them. Money wasn’t the point; it was all about letting off-shore centres know where they stood in the greater lexicon of the corporate world.
Two weeks later another email arrived. The big boss had left to take up a position with the company’s biggest competitor. Frank read the news on his new but second hand monstrosity of a monitor. He looked up the dictionary and saw that loyalty was “faithful adherence to a leader.” It didn’t say anything about the leader’s loyalty to his staff. It was a lesson that would stay with Frank for as long as the clapped out monitors.
But this particular year the world was quiet. While the mandarins in New York were scrambling around for excuses to cut costs, they were hampered by the CEO telling all who would listen that times had never been better and that the company was awash with cash. Unfortunately for the mandarins, the CEO’s complex bonus arrangement was dependent on a high share price. He pulled $100m the previous year but the board had rather cruelly decided that most of it would be in share options. These were only going to be worth anything if the share price went up and the best way to achieve this was to report massive and entirely fictitious profits. They crept up each quarter so that by year end the company was report ably making more money than the GDP of Belgium. It didn’t con the markets of course who saw right through the numbers game the CEO was playing but it made it harder for the company to pretend to its own staff that times were tough.
Not that this was beyond the hypocrisy of head office who started spinning a yarn about how building costs for the new corporate centre in Dublin were way beyond budget and how this would have an impact on local pay rises. This was ironic considering the company normally said that global results were what mattered. Frank hadn’t been around for long but he was quickly learning not to believe a word the company told him.
He used the extra money in his monthly pay to move out of the student flat in Ranelagh he’d been sharing with three mates from college and found a new place along the river. The housing boom was just kicking off and tax breaks encouraged builders to erect glass cages along the quay in the part of town that people had only ventured to before to buy drugs or to negotiate the re-purchase of their car radio. Frank sub-let the spare room to a young Spanish girl who was part of the initial wave of immigration into Ireland’s fledging economy and she fed him paella while he fed her increasingly lustful stares.
From his living room he watched the new corporate headquarters taking shape across the river, like a glass and steel monument to the new Ireland. He wondered where his desk would be and if it would be river facing. That way he could watch Monica as she wandered around their apartment even when he was at work.
Given his proximity to the new building, Eimear had asked him to represent the team on an early inspection and to report back. It was an afternoon off work, so he jumped at the chance and he joined four others in the first trip across the river and into the heart of the International Financial Services Centre. They were met at the half finished reception area by a girl who introduced herself as an ergonomic engineer, which to Frank sounded like an Engineering job for people who didn’t like Engineering. She showed them round a prototype of what the internal space would eventually look like. To Frank and the others it looked space age, compared to the 1960’s slum that they were currently crammed into. Desks that curved around your body, soft lighting and flat computer screens. Best of all, it had air-conditioning, a concept that was just arriving in Ireland along with hot stone massages and foccacia bread.
Frank reported back enthusiastically and the other staff members hung on his every word as though he was a Columbus who had witnessed the new world. When the move finally happened, he was the unofficial leader, showing people how the chilled water dispenser in the kitchen worked and where the best place was to sit if you wanted to see the skimpedly dressed girls from cash processing descend the stairs.
When they had all moved in, the big boss came over from New York to inspect the newest addition to his empire. He did a tour of each floor like some General inspecting soldiers at the front. Then he called all the staff into the atrium and gave what he thought was a motivating speech. He talked about how Dublin had 50% turnover the previous year and how he was determined to stem this. He said loyalty was the most important thing in business and that together we could make the company great. Frank sniggered and Eimear had to nudge him. She knew the guy from New York was talking bullshit, that he would happily sack them all tomorrow if the need arose. But she also knew that this was a game and you had to nod your head and play along. Pretty soon he’d be in First Class on his way back to New York and they could get back to normal.
The following Monday, everyone turned up at work to find that their new flat screens had disappeared to be replaced by old fashioned deep backed monitors. Suddenly the ergonomically designed desks weren’t so comfortable as the curvature brought your body within 10 centimetres’ of the computer screen. The systems manager was embarrassed. He’d spent all weekend unplugging the new screens and replacing them with these technological dinosaurs. The boss had sent an email from the Delta business lounge in Dublin airport. His traders in New York didn’t have flat screens, so he was damned if a bunch of Micks in the back office of back offices would have them. He wouldn’t listen to arguments that the screens were on a three year lease and it would cost more money to send them back than would be saved by replacing them. Money wasn’t the point; it was all about letting off-shore centres know where they stood in the greater lexicon of the corporate world.
Two weeks later another email arrived. The big boss had left to take up a position with the company’s biggest competitor. Frank read the news on his new but second hand monstrosity of a monitor. He looked up the dictionary and saw that loyalty was “faithful adherence to a leader.” It didn’t say anything about the leader’s loyalty to his staff. It was a lesson that would stay with Frank for as long as the clapped out monitors.
Tuesday, 21 October 2008
The Cure at Troy
Brian taught English at Xavier College for nearly forty years. He retired three years ago but kept in touch with his old buddies through a friendly little group that meets every Friday morning. They have a cup of coffee in Brunetti’s in Carlton and talk about the good old days when boys could be smacked if they couldn’t name the twelve apostles or recite the life history of Ignatius Loyola. Once the coffee and the nostalgia are out of the way, Brian and his fellow retirees head down to East Melbourne for their weekly meeting with John the security guard.
John didn’t go to a posh school like Xavier College. He’s a bit vague on schooling to be honest. His years in the Army beat out any memories of childhood, happy or otherwise and his lived in face and bulbous fists suggests that his education didn’t come from musty old priests and men in tweed jackets. He shuffled from foot to foot as if ready to start a race and stared with weary resignation as Brian and his friends unpacked their placards and assembled a small table on the footpath before him.
Brian has been coming here every Friday morning for the past two years but has never spoken to John. They dance around each other but are destined never to embrace.
The retirees like to be set up by 8am when the first appointments are held in the East Melbourne Day procedure centre. Brian likes to think that they hold a dignified protest and they make a point of not speaking to or physically impeding the frightened and lonely women who are there to avail of the centre’s pregnancy termination services. John is there just in case their dignity deserts them.
I passed at 8am on my way to work and as anyone who knows me will testify, my brain is not exactly in gear at that ungodly hour. I saw a group of old men engaged in a silent protest outside a medical centre and assumed that Australia had followed Ireland’s example and removed free healthcare for pensioners. Or perhaps they were complaining about the delay in receiving a hip replacement. It was only when I got closer that I saw that their protest was more sinister and realised that being undignified can come in other ways than through the spoken word. Brian held a poster that showed a picture of a before and after termination. Subtlety obviously wasn’t the corner stone of their campaign.
I stopped and asked if they were Catholic. “We’re not a Catholic organisation” Brian said. “But most of us are Catholics.” He picked up on my accent and asked if I was also a member of the one true faith.
I said only part of me was these days, but it was my conscience and it told me that these guys should be ashamed of themselves. Brian didn’t even flinch. Countering that argument was taught in Pro-Life class 101. “There is no shame in helping those who can’t help themselves”.
“What would Jesus do?” I said. “What did he do when he found Mary Magdalene being stoned? She had been engaged in the sort of sexual immoralities that you guys get excited about. Did he knock up a couple of posters of her before and after she’d been stoned? Did he tell her about the various departments of hell to which she was condemned? No, he didn’t. He put his arm round her and told her that he loved her. But what did he do when he found the money lenders in the temple? He smashed up their tables and threw them out. Because Jesus realised that Greed is man’s worse sin. So you know what you and your pensioner mates should be doing Brian? You should be outside the Banks down in the CBD protesting about their immorality and leave these poor girls to their own conscience.”
I heard a chuckle from behind and saw that John was taking great merriment from my comments. “These guys act all holier than thou. But there’s an old fellow sleeps in that alleyway every night and none of them would even bring him a cup of tea. They don’t care about real people, only ones who haven’t been born yet.”
Brian ignored him as he had clearly done every Friday for the past two years. I was a reluctant but potential recruit however. “Do you know The Cure at Troy by Seamus Heaney?” he asked.
John didn’t go to a posh school like Xavier College. He’s a bit vague on schooling to be honest. His years in the Army beat out any memories of childhood, happy or otherwise and his lived in face and bulbous fists suggests that his education didn’t come from musty old priests and men in tweed jackets. He shuffled from foot to foot as if ready to start a race and stared with weary resignation as Brian and his friends unpacked their placards and assembled a small table on the footpath before him.
Brian has been coming here every Friday morning for the past two years but has never spoken to John. They dance around each other but are destined never to embrace.
The retirees like to be set up by 8am when the first appointments are held in the East Melbourne Day procedure centre. Brian likes to think that they hold a dignified protest and they make a point of not speaking to or physically impeding the frightened and lonely women who are there to avail of the centre’s pregnancy termination services. John is there just in case their dignity deserts them.
I passed at 8am on my way to work and as anyone who knows me will testify, my brain is not exactly in gear at that ungodly hour. I saw a group of old men engaged in a silent protest outside a medical centre and assumed that Australia had followed Ireland’s example and removed free healthcare for pensioners. Or perhaps they were complaining about the delay in receiving a hip replacement. It was only when I got closer that I saw that their protest was more sinister and realised that being undignified can come in other ways than through the spoken word. Brian held a poster that showed a picture of a before and after termination. Subtlety obviously wasn’t the corner stone of their campaign.
I stopped and asked if they were Catholic. “We’re not a Catholic organisation” Brian said. “But most of us are Catholics.” He picked up on my accent and asked if I was also a member of the one true faith.
I said only part of me was these days, but it was my conscience and it told me that these guys should be ashamed of themselves. Brian didn’t even flinch. Countering that argument was taught in Pro-Life class 101. “There is no shame in helping those who can’t help themselves”.
“What would Jesus do?” I said. “What did he do when he found Mary Magdalene being stoned? She had been engaged in the sort of sexual immoralities that you guys get excited about. Did he knock up a couple of posters of her before and after she’d been stoned? Did he tell her about the various departments of hell to which she was condemned? No, he didn’t. He put his arm round her and told her that he loved her. But what did he do when he found the money lenders in the temple? He smashed up their tables and threw them out. Because Jesus realised that Greed is man’s worse sin. So you know what you and your pensioner mates should be doing Brian? You should be outside the Banks down in the CBD protesting about their immorality and leave these poor girls to their own conscience.”
I heard a chuckle from behind and saw that John was taking great merriment from my comments. “These guys act all holier than thou. But there’s an old fellow sleeps in that alleyway every night and none of them would even bring him a cup of tea. They don’t care about real people, only ones who haven’t been born yet.”
Brian ignored him as he had clearly done every Friday for the past two years. I was a reluctant but potential recruit however. “Do you know The Cure at Troy by Seamus Heaney?” he asked.
And a god speaks from the sky
That means someone is hearing
That means someone is hearing
the outcry and the birth-cry
of new life at its term.
“You’re not trying to convince me with poetry” I asked. “Sure even the devil can quote scripture for his purpose.” Brian smiled. His eyes lit up when I mentioned the devil, as though we were back in his territory. “I taught Heaney for the last twenty years in Xavier. Don’t you think those words are pertinent.”
“I prefer the start of that poem” I said. “Human Beings suffer, they torture one another, they get hurt and get hard… and hope and history rhyme”. Isn’t there lots of pain and suffering in the world that you could devote your energies towards? Why not protest about the real live babies being bombed by Australian soldiers in Afghanistan or Iraq? Or the malnourished children being brought up in poverty in some of Melbourne’s suburbs?”
“These guys haven’t got long left” John said. “They have to ration out their protest. Give it a couple of years and they’ll all be dead and then they can ask God personally if they were right to make my Friday mornings miserable these pass two years.”
Thirty minutes later I was sitting at my money lenders desk in the temple of Capitalism. Doom and gloom filled our computer screens and it seemed as though the second coming was at hand. Jesus, in the form of the global credit crisis was about to smash our tables and chuck our immoral asses into the street.
“You’re not trying to convince me with poetry” I asked. “Sure even the devil can quote scripture for his purpose.” Brian smiled. His eyes lit up when I mentioned the devil, as though we were back in his territory. “I taught Heaney for the last twenty years in Xavier. Don’t you think those words are pertinent.”
“I prefer the start of that poem” I said. “Human Beings suffer, they torture one another, they get hurt and get hard… and hope and history rhyme”. Isn’t there lots of pain and suffering in the world that you could devote your energies towards? Why not protest about the real live babies being bombed by Australian soldiers in Afghanistan or Iraq? Or the malnourished children being brought up in poverty in some of Melbourne’s suburbs?”
“These guys haven’t got long left” John said. “They have to ration out their protest. Give it a couple of years and they’ll all be dead and then they can ask God personally if they were right to make my Friday mornings miserable these pass two years.”
Thirty minutes later I was sitting at my money lenders desk in the temple of Capitalism. Doom and gloom filled our computer screens and it seemed as though the second coming was at hand. Jesus, in the form of the global credit crisis was about to smash our tables and chuck our immoral asses into the street.
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
The Road Home
I was going to write about the global financial crisis this week, but then I realised that I’m an accountant who has worked in the Financial Services industry for twenty years and I haven’t got a bloody clue what’s going on, so how I am expected to explain it to others. Anyway, I don’t know about you but I’m getting a bit bored with the whole thing. When you wake up to the news of another disastrous day on Wall Street for the umpteenth morning in a row, it kind of loses its dramatic impact. Cancer is a disaster, getting a letter from your first girlfriend saying her mother won’t let her see you anymore because of her upcoming exams is a disaster, Man United winning the treble in 1999 was a disaster. But rich people’s investments being worth less than they were yesterday, well that’s not even unfortunate.
Despite my profession, I’ve always had a carefree relationship with money. The truth is, I’ve never had it for long enough to develop an attachment. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the finer things in life that only money can buy, I’ve just always felt that I should own money and not the other way round. When asked why I stuck with a highly stressful job, I used to say that I had an expensive burger and chip habit to support. And this wasn’t too far from the truth. I ate my way through the Celtic Tiger, fur and all. As a result I stacked on about 15 kilos during my years in Dublin, as my body became a symbol for the bloated excess of modern Ireland. Unlike the Irish economy mine wasn’t looking like it would implode any time soon, so I’ve taken things into my own hands.
I’ve started walking home a couple of times a week, which is helping with the weight loss but also gives me a chance to throw the old Ipod on shuffle and to enjoy the spring evenings through the riverbanks and parks of this beautiful city. I start in Collins St in the central business district or CBD as it’s known. All Australian cities have to have a CBD, even if they have little or no business to transact. It’s downhill from there to the Yarra River which meanders like a brown snake towards the salt water of Port Phillip Bay. Tonight the rowers are out in force, pumping their narrow boats through the still waters in a blur of rippling muscles. I head over the bridge and onto St. Kilda road with its tree lined thoroughfare leading south towards the shore and my house. From here its about 10km home, but I’m emboldened by the memory of being 8 years old when the De La Salle brothers used to make us do 10 mile sponsored walks to raise money for the brothers alcohol and pornography fund. So if I could do that as an 8 year old in the sort of hob nailed boots that my mother used to make me wear, then this little jaunt should be no trouble at all. Of course, as an 8 year old, I wasn’t carrying a wallet, blackberry, mobile phone, Ipod and 15 kilos of excess weight.
The Arts centre comes up on my right with its sophisticated advertisements for upcoming ballets and symphonies. Sydney may have the Opera House, but Melbourne has the culture. When they built the centre, they must have stepped back and thought that it looked like a 1970s communist party headquarters because only that could explain the obvious afterthought that they stuck on top. I think they were going for an Eiffel Tower look, but they’ve ended up with something that I could only describe as a mobile phone mast, if that didn’t do a disservice to the architectural splendour of phone masts.
Down the road I come to the domain and the sweeping parklands that blanket the southern part of town. Directly ahead is the striking war memorial that stands sentry over the City and the rattle of trams passing domain interchange on their way to exotic locations like Toorak and Kooyong. The traffic gets quieter as the road widens and trees become bushier and more frequent and suddenly I can hear the music coming through my headphones. Every now and again the shuffle will throw up a classic from my innocent youth that I haven’t listened to in years and I find myself singing along to Cat Stephens or Gordon Lightfoot. Luckily all the other walkers are wired into their own personal entertainment and are oblivious to my tuneless warbling.
The impressive grounds of Wesley College come up on the left and I think of all my old friends in Wesley Hall in Dublin. I’m sure they will be glad to hear that the Methodists in Melbourne are keeping up the traditions of their Irish cousins. They also charge extortionist fees to educate the sons of the wealthy and privileged and to maintain the social order.
I turn right and head down towards Albert Park. Meatloaf has just started singing to me about how two out of three ain’t bad. My singing amuses a homeless person sitting outside a shelter and momentary embarrassment leads to a shared chuckle. I skirt the lake with its serious runners in lycra and wrap around shades and head for the open fields of the park. Chinese immigrants in counterfeit Arsenal football tops are playing 5 a side with jumpers for goal posts and large ladies in baggy tracksuits are being put through their paces by a sadist with a whistle. In between there are groups of twos and threes engaged in that great and pointless pastime of kicking an Aussie Rules football to each other.
The sight of all that physical exercise makes me tired but I know I’m nearly home. I brave it through Fitzroy St with its tempting take away smells and turn on to the esplanade above St Kilda beach. The sun is melting across the bay in reds and oranges and this spurs me on for the last kilometre. I make it home and head into I Carusi for a celebration Quattro Formaggi pizza. “You’re quiet tonight”, I said. She shrugged and said “global financial crisis, nobody wants to eat out until things settle down”. There’s no escaping it I guess but if you want a temporary respite then put your Ipod on and head out for a walk.
Despite my profession, I’ve always had a carefree relationship with money. The truth is, I’ve never had it for long enough to develop an attachment. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the finer things in life that only money can buy, I’ve just always felt that I should own money and not the other way round. When asked why I stuck with a highly stressful job, I used to say that I had an expensive burger and chip habit to support. And this wasn’t too far from the truth. I ate my way through the Celtic Tiger, fur and all. As a result I stacked on about 15 kilos during my years in Dublin, as my body became a symbol for the bloated excess of modern Ireland. Unlike the Irish economy mine wasn’t looking like it would implode any time soon, so I’ve taken things into my own hands.
I’ve started walking home a couple of times a week, which is helping with the weight loss but also gives me a chance to throw the old Ipod on shuffle and to enjoy the spring evenings through the riverbanks and parks of this beautiful city. I start in Collins St in the central business district or CBD as it’s known. All Australian cities have to have a CBD, even if they have little or no business to transact. It’s downhill from there to the Yarra River which meanders like a brown snake towards the salt water of Port Phillip Bay. Tonight the rowers are out in force, pumping their narrow boats through the still waters in a blur of rippling muscles. I head over the bridge and onto St. Kilda road with its tree lined thoroughfare leading south towards the shore and my house. From here its about 10km home, but I’m emboldened by the memory of being 8 years old when the De La Salle brothers used to make us do 10 mile sponsored walks to raise money for the brothers alcohol and pornography fund. So if I could do that as an 8 year old in the sort of hob nailed boots that my mother used to make me wear, then this little jaunt should be no trouble at all. Of course, as an 8 year old, I wasn’t carrying a wallet, blackberry, mobile phone, Ipod and 15 kilos of excess weight.
The Arts centre comes up on my right with its sophisticated advertisements for upcoming ballets and symphonies. Sydney may have the Opera House, but Melbourne has the culture. When they built the centre, they must have stepped back and thought that it looked like a 1970s communist party headquarters because only that could explain the obvious afterthought that they stuck on top. I think they were going for an Eiffel Tower look, but they’ve ended up with something that I could only describe as a mobile phone mast, if that didn’t do a disservice to the architectural splendour of phone masts.
Down the road I come to the domain and the sweeping parklands that blanket the southern part of town. Directly ahead is the striking war memorial that stands sentry over the City and the rattle of trams passing domain interchange on their way to exotic locations like Toorak and Kooyong. The traffic gets quieter as the road widens and trees become bushier and more frequent and suddenly I can hear the music coming through my headphones. Every now and again the shuffle will throw up a classic from my innocent youth that I haven’t listened to in years and I find myself singing along to Cat Stephens or Gordon Lightfoot. Luckily all the other walkers are wired into their own personal entertainment and are oblivious to my tuneless warbling.
The impressive grounds of Wesley College come up on the left and I think of all my old friends in Wesley Hall in Dublin. I’m sure they will be glad to hear that the Methodists in Melbourne are keeping up the traditions of their Irish cousins. They also charge extortionist fees to educate the sons of the wealthy and privileged and to maintain the social order.
I turn right and head down towards Albert Park. Meatloaf has just started singing to me about how two out of three ain’t bad. My singing amuses a homeless person sitting outside a shelter and momentary embarrassment leads to a shared chuckle. I skirt the lake with its serious runners in lycra and wrap around shades and head for the open fields of the park. Chinese immigrants in counterfeit Arsenal football tops are playing 5 a side with jumpers for goal posts and large ladies in baggy tracksuits are being put through their paces by a sadist with a whistle. In between there are groups of twos and threes engaged in that great and pointless pastime of kicking an Aussie Rules football to each other.
The sight of all that physical exercise makes me tired but I know I’m nearly home. I brave it through Fitzroy St with its tempting take away smells and turn on to the esplanade above St Kilda beach. The sun is melting across the bay in reds and oranges and this spurs me on for the last kilometre. I make it home and head into I Carusi for a celebration Quattro Formaggi pizza. “You’re quiet tonight”, I said. She shrugged and said “global financial crisis, nobody wants to eat out until things settle down”. There’s no escaping it I guess but if you want a temporary respite then put your Ipod on and head out for a walk.
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