The Lousy Neighbour

There comes a time when everyone should try living alone. I suggest doing this before you irreversibly fracture friendships with housemates, or worse, let them witness some of your more unpleasant personal habits. The beauty of living alone is that you can let these bad habits blossom. Personally, I was able to fulfil a life-long ambition of eating a whole roast chicken while watching TV in my underpants in the first week I moved into my own flat. This is something I would not have attempted in a share house.

The flat I moved into was in an old art deco building called 'Shawn' at Petrie Terrace in Brisbane. I revelled in my new-found independence even though ultimately 'Shawn' was a strange place to live. There were eight flats in total and they were all incredibly narrow, which resulted in my friends dubbing my new abode ‘the corridor’. It was like living in a shipping container with toilet facilities. In the whole time I lived there, I don’t think I had any furniture besides a beanbag. Whenever I invited people over, we ended up standing around awkwardly in close proximity to each other. Eventually this was no longer a problem, because when word got out about the way I lived, people stopped visiting. As I didn't spend much time at home in those days, the size of the unit didn't bother me. It was really just a place to store myself while I wasn't working or socialising. Also, the bedroom was a decent size and it had a great bathroom.

Although there were eight flats, there were only two parking spaces. These were assigned on a seniority basis. The car owners that had been living there the longest got the spots. As I was the latest tenant to inhabit the building, I was resigned to parking my old, increasingly beat-up Toyota Corona station wagon on the street. This was not a major concern for me, as the love affair with my first automobile was rapidly coming to an end. 

What was more concerning about the parking arrangements at 'Shawn' was the tenant who moved in under my flat a few months after I started living there. He was a council worker who drove a large yellow bulldozer. I know this because, even though I rarely saw my downstairs neighbour, he always parked his bulldozer on the street every night below my bedroom window. This would not have necessarily been a problem if the light from the top of the bohemoth was not exactly aligned with my bedroom window and he consistently forgot to turn it off. The incessant flashing yellow light made my bedroom feel like a crime scene and, to be fair, it often looked like one, but it was not exactly conducive to a good night's sleep!

I gave him the benefit of the doubt the first few times it happened, but he consistently parked the enormous vehicle in the same spot and always left the light on. Was he trying to inflict some kind of mental torture? Maybe he was trying to drive me out so he could take over the upstairs apartment. It seemed unfathomable to me that someone could drive around in such a vehicle as if it was their everyday personal mode of transport. Did he drive it down to the shops on the weekend to get the paper? It was really weird.

I started leaving notes under the windscreen wipers begging him to park somewhere else, or at least turn the light off. The notes seemed to have little to no effect, even though they grew increasingly more hostile. I rang the Brisbane City Council and asked them what I could do about the Bulldozer, but they seemed to think that as it was a commercial vehicle, there wasn't much that could be done. The final chance to have open negotiations with my neighbour on the issue were negated one afternoon when the council cracked down on illegal parking in the street and gave every car on the road a ticket - except the bright yellow bulldozer. This meant war!

The following night I was woken by the bulldozer approaching and the familiar sound of the reverse signal beeping as the vehicle lurched up on the sidewalk. The engine shuddered to a standstill but the light still flickered rhythmically outside the window like an all-seeing eye.

Incensed, I lurched into action. Tonight was payback time! I rummaged around in the dark to find something that would cover the light and send an appropriate message to my tormentor. I found the perfect thing - an old pair of underpants! I raced outside, clamoured on top of the mighty yellow beast and fastened the underpants securely to the light. I realised instantly that the underpants merely dulled the light's impact, so I searched around for something that would more successfully do the job. I grabbed an old box from near the garbage bins. This time it did the trick. Almost immediately after I had covered the light there came a round of applause from neighbouring houses. It was nice to know that I wasn't the only one who was at the end of my tether and I felt vindicated as I lay in bed that night in the bliss of total darkness.

The next morning I awoke and went outside to examine my handiwork. The box had blown off the light during the night - but it was no-longer flashing. The insulation the box provided must have caused such intense heat that the plastic light had melted. My underpants were now fused with the yellow plastic and the resulting mess looked like someone had encased a pair of underpants inside a yellow jelly mould. This wasn't something I had anticipated - yet I found it pleasing. I felt a little bit dangerous.

My feelings of hostility towards my neighbour and glee at the demise of his light did not really subside until about a week later. I saw the man in the tiny backyard of Shawn playing with his two children. I hadn't realised before that he had kids. They were laughing and running around the clothesline where it was rumoured a lot of underwear went missing at night. It occurred to me that a lot of activity in Shawn seemed to revolve around underpants. Nevertheless, a father playing with his children was quite a touching yet sad little scene. I was still mad at the guy but, irritatingly, he now seemed more human.

I think about this neighbour quite a lot. Whenever I read some mean online commentary thoughtlessly and hastily sent off into the aether without thinking of the situation or the feelings of the recipient, it reminds me of myself, thoughtlessly vandalising someone's property without having the courtesy or courage to confront the person about the issue face to face. I stopped living at Shawn in the year 2000 and since then I think people have become even more socially isolated and insensitive. Maybe the internet makes us all a bit dehumanised.

If I'd gotten to know the guy I might have found out he was just a poor working stiff who was a bit down on his luck.

Maybe he was a really good father who couldn't afford a place big enough for his kids to stay over.

Maybe he came home so exhausted from work that he never remembered to turn the light off on top of his bulldozer.

One thing I do know for certain...

He was a lousy neighbour!

Review: Trevor Ludlow and Greg Brady live at Long Play 8 June 2013

The irony was not lost on me as I entered the modest theatre at the back of the well-equipped and friendly little bar known as Long Play in North Fitzroy. A handful of the faithful had gathered to witness a show by one of rock's great enigmas, Trevor Ludlow, while a thousand kilometres away in Sydney a bunch of other 1990's warriors called Custard were celebrating the long weekend with (presumably) much fanfare and adulation.

Trevor Ludlow is still best-known as a co-writer on one of Custard's biggest hits 'Girl's Like That' (don't go for guys like us). I'm not sure what his actual contribution to the song entailed, but I presume the fabulous wealth generated from that song made it possible for Ludlow to pursue a more esoteric and certainly less commercial solo career. I personally admire his bravery and unwillingness to follow musical trends. Tonight I was eager to see if Ludlow's self-imposed exile had in any way dulled his musical sensibilities. Could rock's JD Salinger deliver another 'Catcher in the Rye?'

Last known 'live' pic of Trevor Ludlow circa 2007

A hush descended over the audience as Ludlow took to the stage. At first I was a little disappointed at how time had ravaged this once youthful vision of manhood. It was like winning a ticket to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory and discovering that the legendary chocolate maker was simply a frail and frightened old man.

Upon closer inspection, though, it was obvious that Ludlow was still fit and healthy. His once sinewy Iggy Pop-like physique had now been replaced with a body that was more muscular and toned. His hair, which is now shorter and thinner had greyed in a pleasing and dignified manner. It certainly accentuated Ludlow's striking and determined gaze as he peered mischievously at the audience.

Accompanied simply by electric guitar, Ludlow's unique, powerful voice and remarkable lyrics were allowed to take centre stage. His new material was encouragingly upbeat and his set ran the gauntlet from pop to surf, country and some unusual Syd Barrett-esque psychedelia. It was good to see Ludlow experiment with some new guitar tones and it bodes well for future releases.

Ludlow's between-song banter, while amusing, can at times be frustratingly self-deprecating. His lack of ego is part of his appeal, but when you're writing songs of his calibre the 'act' does reek a little bit of false-modesty. A touching rendition of Willie Nelson's 'Crazy' ended Ludlow's brief but enjoyable set and left the few lucky audience members baying for more... But the night wasn't over yet!

After a brief interlude, Brisbane's Greg Brady took to the stage. Brady appeared to be of the same vintage as Ludlow and legend has it that the two met when Brady bought a guitar amp off Ludlow in the early 1990s through the Trading Post newspaper. They have been firm friends ever since.

Brady's set was less song-oriented than Ludlow's and he seemed to spend a lot of time layering guitar parts on top of each other using two complicated-looking loop pedals. At times Brady's expression made it look like he was unsure how these pedals worked and was simply hoping for the best, but his professionalism as a performer left the audience guessing as to whether this was the case.

Archival photo of Greg Brady (date unknown)

I am less familiar with Brady's oeuvre than Ludlow's, but his sweet pop songs were timeless and could have easily fit into any Flying Nun bands' set list, with a subtle hint towards the songwriting of the 60s. The audience was equally as delighted with Brady's performance and I enjoyed both performers immensely.

Afterwards it would have been easy for Ludlow and Brady to simply go off to a quiet area and 'decompress' after the intensity of the gig, but ever the professionals, they were soon spotted in the front bar talking to patrons for a considerable time. I contemplated approaching the pair (especially Ludlow) to question them about their long and sometimes rocky careers in music, but I thought better of it - I have found through trial and error that it's often not wise to meet your idols, as the truth can often not live up to the myth of the man.

Later, as I was leaving, I spotted Ludlow standing alone on the street corner with his guitar and amp waiting for a cab. It made me realise what a lonely life rock and roll can be, but I was also struck by the powerful image of one man and his guitar against the world. I realised Ludlow was part of a long rock tradition and he would not have been out of place in the Mississippi Delta in the 1930s or swinging London in the 1960s.

Sometimes a guitar and the truth is all you need. Trevor Ludlow is the real deal and his legend is as true as the words on this page.

Long may he play!

Anxiety

I recently broke my winning streak of not having been to the doctor for 25 years. I know going that long without seeing a doctor is nothing to be proud of (but I was). If I remember correctly, the last visit was for an ingrown toenail. This most recent visit was for something much more nebulous and difficult to define... anxiety.

The image I have of myself is of a rascally Jimmy Buffett-type - laying back in my hammock strumming my six string somewhere on a secluded desert island. There is probably a parrot somewhere nearby. The only concern I envisage myself having is how to get out of the hammock so I can mix my next Margarita.

It is a difficult thing to accept that this image is not accurate - perhaps it has become something to strive for.

I suppose this charade first began to crumble when I became a father. Over the past forty years I'm glad that I managed to fend for myself to some degree, but looking after somebody else and the constant vigilance required, as well as attempting to be something or a role model can be quite taxing.

You could say it made me slightly anxious.

Still, my wife Edwina is a stoic and reliable person and sensible often to an annoying degree. She is also a health-nut. I took comfort in this, as it made me realise that my daughter Clementine would always have somebody healthy around and it left me in a position to be a little more liberal with how I treated my body.

Several weeks ago Edwina was diagnosed with a condition that required a hospital stay, surgery and a long recovery process. For the short term at least, Edwina would no longer be the epitome of good health.

This made me anxious.

The period from diagnosis to deciding on a course of action, surgery and a brief hospital stay all happened within the course of about a week.

This was a lot to process in a short period of time... and it made me anxious.

I suppose one of the hardest things to deal with was how Clementine would react to her mother being sick. She is only four years old, but surely she would be aware of what was going on? Keeping up a brave face for her as well as dealing with the logistics of Edwina's recovery would be difficult. 

I think at this point my brain reacted in the same way as the HAL 9000 computer in 2001: A Space Odyssey did. The reason HAL went haywire was because he received two conflicting sets of instructions and had to keep the real reason for the mission secret from the crew, which in my case was Clementine. Thankfully I don't consider the crew expendable. I honestly needed to sit down, take a stress pill and think things over - but I didn't know it at the time.

Things came to a head about two days before Edwina was to go into hospital. I was sitting on the couch. As it was the day before pay day, there was nothing in the house to drink. Up until this point I think I had been self-medicating with alcohol in an attempt to relax, but this night I was completely sober.

I was feeling a bit agitated. Edwina's mother was coming down on Saturday to help look after Edwina which was a relief, but it also made me very aware of the fact that all my family lived 2500 kilometres away and I would be looking after Clementine for a couple of days by myself while also having to check on Edwina's progress.

Sometime around six pm something in my brain just snapped. I was distracting myself by playing the guitar as I often do, as well as watching the TV. I couldn't think of anything to play on the guitar and the TV suddenly sounded quite distant. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. It was almost audible and very rapid. My mind was in a feedback loop of negative thoughts. I felt a fear that was akin to being pulled out of the audience at the circus, forced to do a triple summersault on the trapeze before realising there was no net and no-one there to catch you. I was hoping none of this was apparent to Edwina, who was standing only a few feet away making dinner.

I came to the unprecedented decision to go and see a doctor. How would I get out of the house without being detected? How had I managed to make Edwina's problem suddenly something about me? What a selfish asshole I was!

Now I was really anxious.

Like some sort of late 19th century English gentry, I delicately explained to Edwina that I was feeling 'poorly' and was going to the doctor. She has never seen me go to the doctor in all the years she's known me, so she knew something was up. I knew I couldn't drive myself so I rang my brother-in-law Jeremy to drive me to the nearest doctor. He also sounded concerned but rushed straight over, god bless him!

As it was about 7pm at this stage, no normal GP clinic was open and we had to go to the 24 hour clinic a few blocks away. It was the sorriest looking bunch of people I had seen in a long time and didn't help my general mood, even though Jeremy was doing his best to keep me calm. We both looked gobsmacked at a mother ignoring her two children fighting a few feet away. The older child pushed the younger child over. The younger child started crying. The mother picked up the child that had been pushed, almost wrenched her arm out of her socket and gave her a smack... That's justice for ya!

Eventually I was ushered into a room with a weary-looking doctor who seemed to be praying for retirement and was sick of dealing with irrational mothers who punish children for being victimised. He listened patiently to my story and then prescribed me something I hadn't heard of. I probably wasn't in there for more than ten minutes.

It wasn't until I got to the pharmacist that I found out what he prescribed was an anti-depressant. I wasn't depressed, I thought (well, not any more than usual). What I needed was something to stop my heart jumping out of my chest and my head exploding. Hadn't I explained this to the doctor?

Sure enough, after taking the medication I managed to get some sleep but woke up still in an agitated state. Sure this time it was only a 7 instead of a 10, but is that really a great result? This time I was shaking and probably rocking back and forth a bit, while trying to distract my mind with some 24 hour news-cycle television. Random acts of senseless violence and an increasingly ridiculous and depressing election campaign did little to soothe my mind. I considered going for a walk, but I thought that was a step too far. The thought made me realise how those random strangers you see walking the streets at these hours must feel. I wasn't ready to become one of them. 

The thing that really eased my mind was ringing in sick for work. The beauty of working in an office that is open 24 hours is you can do this sort of thing at 3 am and then just sleep the rest of the day away. As it happens, the giddy thrill of a day off can ease even the most intense anxiety. It's such a shame that the reason was genuine and I hadn't just had too many beers with my mates.

The next day I went to what looked like a more 'respectable' clinic and luckily encountered a younger, less jaded and more sympathetic doctor who prescribed me Valium. I'm no scientician, but I know this is the sort of thing I needed, especially at this point after not having eaten for a day and only having two hours' sleep.

I took the medication as required, was able to handle dropping Edwina at hospital, looking after Clementine and generally getting on with things. It felt good to be normal again and Edwina's surgery went perfectly. It must be noted that my sister Karen was a bit of a hero as well. When she heard I was freaking-out she flew down the next day and stayed with me and Clementine while Edwina was in hospital. The weird thing is we actually had a good time for those couple of days! Karen got to do some shopping, Clementine and I 'camped out' in the living room and we went for a trip to St Kilda. 

Edwina came home and as far as I was concerned I was back to normal. My brain wanted to celebrate. It told my body that what I needed to do was drink 18 beers and 12 cups of coffee, which my body was gladly obliged to do. The old Jimmy Buffett personality was re-establishing itself.

Also, with Edwina back at home, we were delighted to be able to go to the movies together while Clementine was at Kindergarten. It was like we were dating again! It just so-happened that the new Star Trek film was starting. I was overjoyed.

We sat in the dark with our 3D glasses, ice cream cones and a giant coca-cola which, as usual, I drank most-of before the movie even started. As I sat watching the dramatic opening sequence of the film, I could feel dread building up inside of me and my heart beginning to race.

"Of for fuck's sake!" I said to myself. "I've been waiting three years for this film! Now get out of the stupid volcano, Spock and make with some witty dialogue!"

The weird part about anxiety is it seems to have almost nothing to do with your rational mind and luckily this time I was able to beat it into submission and enjoy the rest of the film. 

The old anxiety did rear its ugly head on one more occasion, though. I went to Brisbane for a bit of relaxation and had a panic attack on the flight. It seemed to revolve around the fact that I wouldn't be able to get to my pills between the safety instructions and cruising altitude. Again, this makes no logical sense, but when we got to cruising altitude I felt slightly better.

One of the reasons I went to Brisbane was for my father's book Launch. Mum and dad thankfully picked me up from the airport when I wasn't expecting them to and we went back home to get ready. About two hours before the launch 'The Fear' struck again. Was I subconsciously trying to sabotage family members' major life events?

I grudgingly told my parents what was up and they booked me in at the local GP where I got my prescription refilled and insisted on a blood test to make sure there was no physical cause for my anxiety. Luckily, we were all able to make dad's book launch and I took a certain delight in watching him sweat-it-out on stage instead of me.

When I returned home I got the results of the blood test. Everything was normal and I was glad to discover that technically I'm not even an alcoholic. The doctor took great delight in noting that one of the things I was tested for was syphillis. I also found this hilarious, but was also secretly disappointed that I obviously don't elude a 'ladies man' machismo akin to the likes of Errol Flynn.

So I'm not taking any medication at the moment for the condition and hope to keep it that way. My strategy is to just try and cut down on coffee and don't drink as much. Maybe I'll even curtail my planned visit to the cinema to watch the reportedly brutal and vomit-inducing remake of Evil Dead.

Looking back, I find the whole thing puzzling. The incident makes me embarrassed. It feels like such a white middle-class problem, especially when I consider I'm not living in a stressful environment, there are no military drone planes flying overhead everyday and my physical health is probably better than most people my age.

Maybe that's the problem -  I live in such a stress-free environment that when something truly stressful comes along I can't cope and the walls of Xanadu come crashing down. I think I might hire someone to poke me with a stick at random times during the day to keep me in a state of constant vigilance and a low level of anxiety; then when something truly stressful happens I'll be ready for it.

The best scenario would be for nothing stressful to happen to me for the rest of my life, but this seems unlikely. I have taken a few lessons away from the experience and have certainly become a little humbled. The best thing to keep in mind is that you can talk yourself out of these states and I am especially grateful to have understanding people around.

It feels good to be normal again - well at least what I consider normal. I think I'm ready to go back to my hammock now and strum my guitar for a while. Maybe I'll skip the Margarita...

Ok, maybe just one!

Day Dreaming in the Outfield

I was walking back to my house the other day past the local primary school. It was lunch-time and the children were playing various games in the large, open fields. The voices of the children merged into a cacophony. I was surprised when one of the voices seemed to rise above the background noise and addressed me directly.

"Hey mister, can you get the ball for us!"

I looked around and noticed an AFL ball on the ground a few feet away from me. It had somehow managed to be kicked over the ten-foot fence that surrounded the school. I was impressed that a small child could manage such a feat.

"Sure, thing," I said, trying to act casual.

A wave of fear washed over me as I picked up the ball. I could see a dozen anxious young faces eager for me to lob the ball back to them over the fence. These children were unaware of my chequered past when it came to ball sports and my particular ineptitude when it came to eye-hand co-ordination.

I decided the best course of action was to simply throw the ball over the fence. There would be no way that I could successfully kick or punt the ball, so a casual throw towards no child in particular seemed to be the best course of action. Luckily, on this occasion, my deception worked. The ball was successfully caught by one of the school children and I continued on my way, with my pride in tact and the children none the wiser when it came to my secret sporting shame.

The incident did drag up painful memories from my own childhood, though. The deepest emotional scar that I've received from playing ball sports was probably in early high school when my class was playing softball as part of a PE lesson. I worked out early that for ball games like softball or cricket, the best place for the non-sporting types was somewhere in the outfield where the ball seldom went. On this one occasion I was unfortunate enough to be day-dreaming in the outfield when a stray ball came my way and I was the only one in a position to catch it.

The familiar feeling of dread enveloped me as the ball approached. It seemed to eclipse the sun as it hurtled ever closer to my catchers' mitt. A brief glimmer of hope and a feeling of self-worth overtook me as the ball came in contact with the soft leather glove. Unfortunately, my reflexes were not fast enough to secure the ball and it bounced from the glove and landed on the ground with a sound which, to me, sounded like a large iron prison door slamming.

The resulting cries from my team-mates has forever been etched on my brain and is recalled every time I find myself in a position of failure.

"GOOD ONE LUDLOW!!!" they all shouted mockingly in unison.

I looked up and noticed my classmates rolling their eyes, sticking their tongues in their cheeks and moving their limbs uncontrollably, as if to imply that I suffered from some motor-neurone disorder - at least that's what we'd call it in this more enlightened, politically-correct era.

Unfortunately, things just got worse from this point. Already enraged, I picked up the ball and lobbed it at the pitcher. For some reason, I thought throwing the ball using a catcher's mitt would work. It didn't. Instead or travelling through the air in a gentle arc back towards the pitcher, the ball instead travelled vertically downward as if thrown by some alien who was unfamiliar with how earth's gravity worked.

The resulting spectacle from my teammates was an amped-up version of the previous scene. Limbs were flailing wildly, eyes rolling uncontrollably and tongues contorting faces into ghoulish and frighteningly inhuman caricatures. The teacher didn't jump in to defend my honour and instead just shook his head in disbelief. To be fair, I can't blame him, but the whole incident seemed to signal the end of my sporting career. The iron door seemed to have slammed forever.

Strangely, my strategy of hanging around at the back of the pack actually worked on one occasion. This time the game we were playing was touch football and I was hanging around mid-field with hands in pockets, probably imagining what it was like to be an astronaut, whilst getting the occasional disapproving stare and shake of the head from the coach.

Suddenly, someone from the opposing team broke through a hole in our defences and headed towards our goal-posts. This was my chance for greatness! I didn't have any ball skills, but I knew the one thing I could do was run. Everyone else gave up, but I thought to myself 'I can do this!' and ran confidently against the opposing team-member. Several feet from the touch line I managed to intercept the rogue opposition player and stopped him from scoring a try.

There was a triumphant cry from my team-mates and a weeping and gnashing of teeth from the opposition. I briefly discovered what it must feel like to be a sporting hero and the even more giddy thrill of gloating at another team's misfortune. I was made man of the match. It was my one-and-only sporting triumph.

I think I learned the wrong lesson from this victory. I probably should have learned about the value of working as a team and always trying to do my best, but instead I learned that just by hanging around, sometimes you can just be in the right place at the right time.

At some point in my teenage years I gave up day-dreaming about being an astronaut and instead pursued the more realistic career path of becoming a rock star. I applied the lessons I learned from sport in pursuing this goal. Instead of aggressively becoming a virtuosic singer-songwriter and dynamic stage performer, instead I took up the bass guitar, as nobody else seemed to want to play this instrument and it seemed an easy way to get into a band. Looking back now, I suppose you could say it was a search for an identity, but it's hard to know even in hindsight what the motivation is for most adolescents. All I know is that I was comfortable with this new identity, but I was still standing in the outfield.

I still play music and write songs, but it doesn't define me in the same way as it used to. I know I'm a man in my forties and the outward mask that I display to the world does not fit as well as it used to. Maybe that's why I write this blog, as a way of finding a new identity to hide behind. Even then, being a blogger is hardly the most ambitious writing assignment. I'm still waiting patiently in the outfield, but maybe this time I have the skills to catch the ball.

One thing I've learned over the years is that everybody plays a character to varying degrees. People try and project an image of themselves that they are comfortable with other people seeing. The reason for this is simple:

Everybody drops the ball occasionally, but nobody wants to do it in public.

Game of Thrones

Maybe I'm just paranoid, but a lot of pop culture I've been absorbing following the recent Boston Marathon bombings seems to resonate as allegories for the state of the modern world rather than mere mindless entertainments.

I don't think I'm alone. A lot of people must feel a sense of confusion and helplessness in a world where the enemy can't be clearly defined, with attacks happening on home soil from people that outwardly appear to be members of our own communities. Strangers are eyed with suspicion because it's hard to identify just who the bad guys are these days!

I believe this is why the TV show 'Game of Thrones' has such resonance with viewers. People can really connect to the shifting loyalties and degrees of culpability from the characters. Almost nobody is clearly a 'good' or 'bad' character and they all have their own selfish and at other times altruistic motivations. Modern audiences understand this dynamic!

The two characters in Game of Thrones that define the boundaries of 'good' and 'evil' for me are Ned Stark - who acted in the interest of the kingdom and paid with his life; and King Joffrey - who is a sadistic spoilt little brat who ascended to the Iron Throne through circumstance and entitlement. But even these characters are not so clearly defined! Stark died, so we will never know if he would have gone on to tarnish his reputation and whilst Joffrey does seem irredeemably evil, part of me does feel awkward for wishing harm on someone so young.

King Joffrey - smarmy git!

In season three of Game of Thrones I was even surprised to feel sympathy for the character Jamie Lannister who is a celebrated yet arrogant knight, born into privilege and with a silver spoon in his mouth. Whilst attempting to talk his way out of capture, Lannister's hand was severed as a reminder that he couldn't escape every situation by evoking the name of his powerful father.

Lannister was arguably responsible for the death of Stark and the rise of King Joffrey to the Iron Throne, but nevertheless it was sad to see someone so quickly lose their pride. In one scene fellow captor Brienne of Tarth admonishes Lannister for giving up so easily and wishing for death. Lannister explains that as a knight his sword hand is what defines him. Brienne calls him out and says:

"You have a taste of the real world where people have important things taken from them and you whine, cry and quit."

She finally gets through to him by appealing to his prejudices.

"You sound like a bloody woman!"

This is enough to anger Lannister and for him to find a new reason to fight.

Watching the scene made me think of America in the wake of the 9/11 attacks. There certainly were elements in the world that would have seen the attacks on the World Trade Centre as wounding America's pride and an attack on their military might. I, personally, am glad that America regained their composure and spirit to continue in the face of adversity and a faceless enemy. America isn't a perfect country - but no country is.

Whilst I think Game of Thrones is one of the best shows on TV, this scene did make me feel a bit nostalgic for the naivety of my youth and the Cold War, where there were easily definable good guys and bad guys: How I longed for the simplistic violence of John Rambo, the silent vengeance of Dirty Harry and the incoherent ramblings of Arnold Schwarzenneger playing some variation on the dim-witted cop or rudimentary cyborg theme.

These types of characters have become less popular post 9/11 but to me, surprisingly, the one action hero that has survived and is still relevant is James Bond. It's no coincidence that Bond has stayed in the public consciousness for over 50 years - Bond has always tried to comment on the times with varying degrees of success, but the film 'Skyfall' to me is a triumph, especially the rousing middle act in which Judi Dench's character 'M' perfectly tries to encapsulate the relevance of MI6 in the modern age (and also the Bond franchise) by quoting a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson during some very dry courtroom proceedings. She states:

"We are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven;

that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

made weak by time and fate, but strong in will,

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

It's a surprisingly moving courtroom scene which features a parallel escape plot from the bad guy 'Silva' which culminates in M staring down the barrel of his gun with steely resolution, and, of course, refusing to yield.

Judi Dench as 'M'

I visited America a few years after 9/11 and the thing that struck me the most about the people in the street was how everyone went about their daily business despite this looming yet unidentifiable threat. There were still bills to be paid, kids to be dropped off at school and personal relationships to maintain. Sure, as Tennyson said, America might be 'one equal temper of heroic hearts,' but it's hard not to feel a certain helplessness on a personal level.

A song by everyman pop-star Jarvis Cocker, to me, sums up this helplessness (and perhaps a touch of liberal guilt). It was written in the wake of the London bombings in July 2005 and is called 'From Auschwitz to Ipswich.' This part of the song gets me every time:

"Not one single soul was saved,

I was busy ordering an Indian takeaway,

While others went to an early grave,

I got stoned - Yeah I went and got stoned"

It's a great line, but to me the point is really driven home by the chorus which goes:

"It's the end, why don't we admit it,

It's the same, from Auschwitz to Ipswich,

Evil comes, we know from not where,

but if we take a look inside ourselves,

maybe we'll find some in there."

The thought of self examination is not something the general public is comfortable with and certainly nothing justifies the death of innocent lives, but it is hard not to consider how much private citizens are responsible for their governments' actions and what real motivations exist when puzzling things happen like an attack from Afghanistan turning into a protracted and tragic war in Iraq. 

Perhaps I'm a bit like Jarvis - Maybe I'll just go and get stoned instead. Better yet, I should try and find a program on TV that's just a mindless distraction and doesn't offer any insight into the human condition or world affairs. 

Come to think of it, I have just the right program!... 

The six o'clock news!

Trevor Ludlow: Australian Folk Hero

When I consider the amount of money tradespeople seem to make in comparison to my meager salary as  an under-employed office wage-slave, it does give me pause to consider that I may have made the wrong career choice and should have become a tradesperson instead.

I often sit hunched over my keyboard at work, furiously typing, with visions of the life I would be leading if I had taken a different path. I see myself on a construction site; stony faced, resolute and shirtless, as I down carton-after-carton of 'Oak' iced coffee, deep fried treats from the nearest bain marie whilst casually wolf-whistling at passing women and cultivating some honest Australian melanomas.

Friends of mine who work in the building industry, or have trades themselves, are quick to shatter my idealistic illusions when it comes to this sort of work. They point out that I'm not physically fit enough, the work itself can be tedious and repetitive and I would simply not cope with hours-on-end of Triple M being blasted through the airwaves on a building site. 

This does give me pause to consider my position, and I realise that even beside these points, I would have a hard time hiding my lilly-livered past and un-calloused hands from my co-workers. What would they say when they found out I studied a semester of romantic poetry at university?

Worse still is the fact that I tend to get quite angry and have altercations with people whenever I try to complete any task involving manual labour. A lot of people that know me are aware that I'm a pretty placid fellow and nothing really riles me up, but if you've known me long enough, you'll realise that every year or so there will be some incident that sends me into an uncontrolled rage that is quite disturbing to behold. The worst part is I never know what the trigger is going to be.

The last time I remember it happening was about a year ago when I trimmed back the hedges in our garden. A modest amount of green waste was produced which was enough to fill the back of our Holden Astra hatchback. Normally I just pay the $25 fee to dump it at our local tip, but on this occasion I noticed the adjoining council let you dump a boot-load of green waste for free. I decided to travel a fair distance to take them up on this offer. 

When I arrived at the transfer station, I was greeted by a slack-jawed, overweight individual with the hooded-eyes of someone who just seemed to be going through the motions of being alive, whilst secretly praying for an early death. 

"Forty bucks," he said.

"Um, Isn't it free for a boot-load of green waste?" I replied.

"Yeah, but you've got the back seat down, so that doesn't count as a boot-load"

I could feel tensions rising. Foolishly I thought I could ease the pressure by being a smart-ass. 

"Well, I suppose I could just dump some of the waste on the pavement, put the seat up and do two trips. It would be free then, right?"

His gormless expression remained unaltered.

"Yeah, but then I'd have to call the police"

Uh-oh, the trigger had been pulled. If I was wearing purple pants they would have been torn to ribbons. Eyewitnesses would have commented that my skin appeared to turn green. I'm not even sure what I said to the guy after this point, but I know I felt deeply embarrassed and it probably involved a stream of expletives. It's weird, but in situations like this, it almost feels like an out-of-body experience and I'm just  an observer. I remember that nothing I said or did had any effect on the guy and the fact that he saw me as such a non-threat just acted as a feedback-loop strengthening my rage.

I freely admit that I was in the wrong here. I should have just taken it on the chin, but there's something about pettiness and humourlessness that I simply can't stand.

A while ago I was watching a documentary about Elton John. There was some rather candid footage of him berating someone about some ultimately inconsequential matter. His anger seemed like it would have been legitimate to him, but confusing for onlookers who were unaware of the source of the anger. I immediately recognised the behaviour as similar to my own. What to me seems like unbridled rage, to others comes across as a confusing hissy-fit. I can't even get angry properly!

Recently I had to trim the hedges in our backyard again and I was terrified of another similar incident occurring.

This time I took the waste to our local transfer station. I was charged a comparatively reasonable $25 and managed to dump the waste without incident. I felt that I had made up for my previous indiscretion and had been welcomed back into the open arms of the Aussie battlers who just go about their business with a minimum of fuss.

To celebrate my new-found status as an upright member of the community, I decided to stop at the recycling centre that had been set up at the entrance to the transfer station. If it's one thing that I'm always a sucker for, it's a fascination with things that people throw away. I spent a pleasant ten minutes rifling through some mouldy-old garbage before leaving through the side door of the building. 

A yellow-vested worker was sorting through recently-arrived stock. I gave him a pleasant smile before heading back towards my car.

Suddenly, I was stopped in my tracks.

"Where are you going?" the man said sternly.

"Um, back to my car," I said, pointing in the direction of my vehicle.

"You're supposed to leave through the main entrance," he said, in a tone which sounded like I had personally affronted him.

"Sorry, I didn't know. My car is just here," I said, Indicating that my car was only a few feet away.

"So's mine," said the worker. 

He tilted his head indicating that I should walk back inside the shop and leave through the front entrance.

I could feel the finger on the trigger. It was about to be pulled.

Pettiness... Check!

Humourlessness... Check!

But wait!

I'm an adult - shouldn't I just do what the guy wanted? 

So, I'd have to walk an extra 50 feet to my car. What's the big deal?

I considered my options. 

This was my chance to prove I was a bigger person than him.

I felt the rage subsiding.

I gave the guy a subtle wink.

I had made up my mind. 

I wasn't going to do what the man wanted. 

That would be stupid and childish.

Instead, I skipped the last couple of feet back to my car as if I was Dorothy skipping down the Yellow Brick Road. I cheerily waved goodbye as the yellow-vested man shook his head and muttered under his breath.

I hadn't done what the man wanted, but I was proud of myself for not getting angry this time. I considered my actions on the way home. In a way I was similar to Ned Kelly. Surely, I was just railing against an unjust law? In a way wasn't I just continuing the long tradition of the Australian larrikin spirit? Maybe I should reconsider my undying respect for tradespeople and the Australian working man? Doesn't this just prove they are just as trapped by rules and regulations as me?

More importantly, don't these people need outlaws like me to prove it's possible to beat the system?

"I'm the real Aussie hero," I thought to myself, as I drove off into the early morning sunrise.

 

Mull of Kintyre

It's funny how certain songs can take on different and sometimes sinister meanings to the ones originally intended when considered in a broader cultural landscape. Take for example The Beatles' song 'Helter Skelter', which is a McCartney-penned tune that allows him to serviceably ape John Lennon's stronger rock aesthetic and is ostensibly about a children's playground ride. When considered as part of Charles Manson's manifesto in the late 60s, it will be forever be culturally linked to Manson's brief murderous rampage, which is a pity, because The Beatles don't deserve that comparison.

Like The Manson Family, The Ludlow Family also have their own unofficial anthem - 'Mull of Kintyre' by Wings. Bizarrely, it is also a McCartney-penned tune, but unlike 'Helter Skelter' the song already had a bad reputation when it was released in 1977. This can simply be put down to a case of bad timing, as a gentle folk song about McCartney's home didn't really fit in with the dominant punk sound of the time. McCartney was also increasingly being criticised for being a bit too comfortable and writing too many 'silly love songs', even though ballads are probably his strongest suit as a composer - you don't need to look further than 'Hey Jude' for proof of that.

I admittedly have towed the popular line of dislike for the song and have been dismissive of 'Mull of Kintyre' in the past, but I have started to warm to it in recent years - there is just too much family history associated with the song to not have some sort of affection for it. I'm like the opposite of Alex from 'A Clockwork Orange', who was taught to associate Beethoven with ultra-violence. Instead I have come to associate 'Mull of Kintyre' with pleasant and often hysterical memories from my childhood.

For a start, every New Year's Eve our family would sing 'Mull of Kintyre' at the stroke of midnight for our celebrated Ludlow family street parties. Sadly, these occurred during the 1970s and would often involve conga lines. My mother never knew the words to 'Auld Lange Syne', so instead she would sing 'Mull of Kintyre'. This is typical of my mother's often bizarre leaps of logic and I really think she could have been a comedian if, indeed, she had ever been aware of how hysterically funny she can be. I'm still not sure.

I also seem to recall the video clip being played during the crucial nexus point between episodes of 'Doctor Who' and 'The Goodies' on the ABC. This is probably where my sister Karen developed her unwavering love for the song. I was a  bit more reticent but anything played during this time usually is filtered directly into a child's cerebral cortex and cannot help but have at least some positive connotations on a developing mind. Another favourable memory from that time is 'Love is All' from 'The Butterfly Ball'.

'Mull of Kintyre' probably reached its lowest point in my estimation during the 1990s when I played in several semi-popular Brisbane bands. I've never been in a 'grunge' band, but as a young man I couldn't help but be self-consciously aware of the dominant paradigm of the time. Often I would invite my parents to the more low-key and less sleazy shows and invariably my mother would yell out for us  to play 'Mull of Kintyre' at some point during the set. I think we actually indulged her a few times.

All the bands I was associated with invariably played at my wedding. My wife Edwina played in a band called The Zebras, who did a tight professional set. I, however, decided to just play with my buddies in a ramshackle jam-band that started out entertaining enough, but soon devolved into an unholy drunken mess. We ended the night with a funk-rock fusion version of 'Mull of Kintyre', with me slurring the half remembered lyrics over the top. It makes me laugh and cringe in equal quantities, but I think it was a fitting end to a day that began with my friends Dylan and David singing Willie Nelson's 'Crazy' through a megaphone as the wedding processional song.

I've actually been reassessing Paul McCartney's solo work in recent years and think some of it is really great. I've always liked the singles 'Band on The Run' and 'Let 'em In' but I have also recently embraced whole albums such as 'McCartney II' which is a great example of how to do a home recording and features the single 'Coming Up'. I also have developed some respect for the way he backed off from the music industry and made Wings more of a family affair. He knew he didn't have anything else to prove, so why shouldn't he just do what he wants?

Probably the main reason I have elevated 'Mull of Kintyre' to a higher status is because I've discovered another McCartney song that is more worthy of my baffled contempt. 'Wonderful Christmas Time' released by McCartney in 1980 is a woefully pedestrian and uninspired Christmas song that makes 'Mull of Kintyre' sound like a stone-cold classic. I have to admit, however, that after playing 'Wonderful Christmas Time' during the last couple of Ludlow Christmases - I'm starting to warm to it!