Charles Purcell's Blog, page 8

The top 10 people you’ll see dancing at any concert

The Dad Dancer According to evolutionary science, “dad dancing”, as performed by dads and older males in their forties upwards, “unconsciously repels” young women, leaving the romantic opportunities clear for younger, more fertile men. It would be cruel to point that out to the Dad Dancer. Leave him as he gyrates away, four Rum and Cokes under his straining belt, remembering the time he saw Rod Stewart in the ’80s.

The Synchronised Swimmer Almost a subset of the Dad Dancer, the Synchronised Swimmer flails his arms about in a thrashing motion, perhaps paddling for the forgotten shores of his youth. He does this because he literally has no other moves.

The “It Rubs The Lotion On Its Skin Or Else It Gets The Hose Again” Desperado From Silence Of The Lambs  Like serial killer Buffalo Bill in that acclaimed movie, this dance is deeply confusing and deeply scary. Just back away and never look back.

The Ageing Headbanger  Seen as recently as my last Nick Cave concert, the Ageing Headbanger suddenly stands up in front of you to treat you to a megamix of unco-ordinated moves.

Bizarrely, he will often add freestyle rap and disco moves to his staccato headbanging, his body furiously gyrating away in his studded leather jacket (so edgy! so ’80s!) and groaning leather pants. And no, he won’t sit down, no matter how many times a “narc” like you politely asks him to.

The Stevie Wonder This is my favourite kind of dancer. They remain firmly in their chairs, eyes closed and smile on their faces, their heads gently weaving back and forth to the music. I was charmed by a balding, ageing Stevie Wonder type at the Cave concert – why can’t I enjoy the music as much as him, I thought – only for him to morph into a full-on Synchronised Swimmer to the amusement of all.

The Peter Garrett  Seeing the former Midnight Oil frontman dance is like nothing else on Earth. He does everything from jazz hands to stamping out imaginary fires, his long limbs flailing around the stage as if he’s suffering a seizure. And yet, somehow he can pull it off because he’s PETER GARRETT.

Keep your loved ones close and that drink you lined up for 20 minutes for even closer if someone attempts to pull off this whirling dervish (there’s always one).

The Goth Jellyfish  Like the creature it imitates, The Goth Jellyfish is a harmless, gentle creature, content to simply sway side to side with the music. The world would be a better place if there were more Goth Jellyfish.

The Drummer Ever seen Whiplash? Picture Miles Teller beating invisible drums spurred on by the J.K. Simmons in his head. Fortunately The Drummer usually gives up after a while because there is no J.K. Simmons traumatising him right there in person (thank God).

The Irish Dancer  In a nod to both Irish dancing and the tight space constraints of modern arenas, this chap or chapess will dance on the spot with their arms firmly rooted to their sides. The correct response is to point at them and say loudly “look at Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance over there”.

The Sexy Person With Perfectly Co-Ordinated Dance Moves  If you’re like me and attending a medley of nostalgia acts, cultural icons past their prime and pop stars trying to frantically top up their superannuation before they become uncommercial and/or retire, you won’t be seeing to many of these dancers.

Sexy dancing is usually the province of the young (see “Dad Dancer” above) … and they either can’t afford (“$200 to see Barbra Streisand? Why?”) or aren’t interested (“I thought John Farnham was dead”) in the heroes of your youth.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

The adventures of Banjo Paterson, cadet journalist

9am: Arrive at the newspaper. Disturbed that someone has parked their horse in my space.

9.30am: The accounting department queries the number of horse-drawn Cobb & Co carriage vouchers I’ve used. Apparently carriage voucher fraud is rife in journalism.

9.45am: Would I like to do a first-person story about a “nude bicycle ride on George Street in protest against the Iraq War”? No.

10am: Sub-editor asks if I’ve ever thought about changing my name to Patterson. “You know, to spare future generations from spelling it wrong.” I take my horsewhip to him.

10.30am: Feel scandalised by the number of bare female ankles on display. I do my best to avert my eyes.

11am: Another editor wants me to rewrite The Man From Snowy River to The Man From Potts Point to help with real-estate advertising. Again, I employ my horsewhip for the second time that morning.

11.15am: Head of the website wants to change my copy to “there was movement at the station, for the word had passed around, that the colt from old Regret had got away … and you won’t BELIEVE what happened next”.

More “hits” and “clicks” that way, apparently.

Once again the horsewhip comes out.

11.30am: Am enraged to see my story about a rough diamond drover living in the bush has been changed to “a banker from Kirribilli looking for an investment property in the city”.

I point out that, in fact, wealthy landowners are the villains of my poems, but the editor scoffs.

“Not in this red-hot real estate market they aren’t, mate. We need all the AB readers we can get.”

Apparently shearers and drovers can’t afford properties in the city and don’t read the paper anyway.

In fact, I am told, these rough diamonds no longer represent the quintessential heart of Australia. I am asked to picture the “quintessential Australian” as an aspirational tradesman who votes conservative and has at least one investment property.

I suspect it will be difficult to write quality poetry about such a person.

11.45am: Readjust my hat. Am alarmed that so many of my male colleagues are hatless. Surely a sign of moral degeneracy?

Noon: Am I interested in writing a yarn entitled “Whatever happened to the Hare Krishnas?”

The answer is most emphatically no.

12.15pm: Editorial meeting. What, am I asked, are my recommendations for the new transport plan for Parramatta Road? More horse lanes, I respond, to unexpected laughter.

12.30pm: Lunch is served. My sandwich is served on what appears to be a roof tile. Am reliably informed that this is acceptable – nay, even encouraged – down Sydney way.

City folk.

12.45pm: HR phones to say that “horsewhipping is forbidden in the office”. Truly, we live in an officious, rule-heavy, interfering state governed by overzealous, matronly-like figures. (I wonder if there is some shorter, catchier way of saying that?)

1pm: Editor wants me to broadcast my latest story over “social media”. I tell him I have no idea what social media is. I fail to understand his subsequent explanation.

1.15pm-2pm: Have a crack at this social media palaver. Stand on a hilltop painstakingly transmitting my harrowing accounts of the Boer War using semaphore flags. My arms are exhausted after trying to transmit thousands of words via this flag-based method.

3.15pm: Secretary tells me the switchboards are lighting up. “At least one person saw your semaphore,” she says.

3.20pm: Enjoy a refreshing pinch of snuff.

3.30pm: No, I am not interesting in reviewing a band called “The Coldplay” or whatever barber-shop quartet is currently in vogue on the gramophone charts.

3.45pm: Case study message received on the electronic mail system: “Ever been held for ransom by Filipino insurgents? Eaten a guinea pig in South America? Paid $20 for an ice-cream in Rome? The travel editor is on the hunt for disaster stories that aren’t too grotesque to print for Saturday’s cover story, entitled ‘Terror Australis’. Anonymity guaranteed.”

4pm: Sub-editor asks if he can change the words of Waltzing Matilda to “once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong … and you wouldn’t BELIEVE what happened next”.

I deliver the sort of right cross worthy of an outback bare-knuckle boxer.

4.30pm: Reach for my pipe, only for a boon companion to point to the “no smoking” sign. Next I will be forbidden to drink gin at work. Once again I am reminded that we truly live in an officious, interfering state governed by overzealous female domestics (note to self: find shorter way of saying that).

4.45pm: As an expert on the bush, would I be interested in contributing to a weekend supplement entitled “regional Australia real estate liftout: why it’s never been a better time to buy”?

I shake my head so much my hat is in danger of being dislodged.

4.50pm: Down a schooner of brown ale in one go to the cheers of the newsdesk.

5pm: Someone tells me that vaudeville is dead. Dead! I have endured too many outrages this day. I retire to the local pub to play two-up and share stories of the bush until the publican throws me out.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

What it was like to be in the newsroom when September 11 hit

“Turn on the TV,” said Francine as she called me at 6am.

“Why?”

“Just do it.” I turned it on. To see planes flying into the Twin Towers. To see buildings on fire. People jumping from windows. The awful ash and smoke covering New York. The horrified faces of people running from the scene. Then the dreadful spectacle of one of the buildings collapsing, dooming thousands inside and hundreds of brave emergency workers who had rushed in to save them. Followed later by another collapse.

I felt stunned to my core. This was something. This was different. Pure horror. An interruption of normality. Reality sent off its axis. This wasn’t supposed to happen in the West. This wasn’t supposed to happen to the most powerful country on earth. And it was happening before our eyes. This was a defining moment of my generation, a point of before and after: “Where were you when the Twin Towers fell?” Watching it on TV, mouth agape, like everyone else.

I knew the world would never be the same again. I could only imagine how the Americans would react. There would be war. There had to be. Someone was going to get bombed. You didn’t take such a savage swing at a superpower and expect to get away with it. Who did this? Who had the answers?

I showered and got ready for work in a daze. As I caught a taxi in all the radio stations were talking about it. Even the programs devoted to youthful nonsense suspended their satire to wonder about what had happened. Its stunning import, I imagined, was like the day JFK got shot. The vision of planes in the sky filled me with horror. I felt a strange sense of doom going to work in a tower that day. I felt vulnerable.

Some of my colleagues were similarly stunned. It was all anyone could talk about. Conversations became one-word expressions of horror. “Shit.” ‘Fuck.” It was hard to put the events into complete sentences. All we could do would express our vast shock.

Yet amid the tragedy the Clarion came together in the most noble of ways. Staff came in early or skipped holidays to come into the office. They knew that an event of the most devastating import had occurred. The public would rely on them to explain the event. Document it. Record it for posterity. Help make sense of the horror. It was their task to collect the facts, the information, and then present it as soon as possible to their stunned readers. And the world.

And so they did.

Sombrely, with dedication and respect, the Clarion’s news desks worked tirelessly to fill the paper with stories about the event, to do their duty as newspeople. This was serious news which demanded serious, sustained attention. The various arms of the paper worked together like a beautiful machine, people dedicated to one cause. Information and imagery came in from around the world, to be dissected, examined and edited. Then our reporters would put their own interpretation on the facts for local consumption.

The horrible imagery meant that there was a surfeit of stunning, awful shots for page 1 and elsewhere. Yet such images would have to be chosen with respect. They would have to portray the grim facts – to tell the story – without falling into the trap of being sensationalist. To inform and impart without seeking to inflame. And so the wise elders of the Clarion selected the pictures with great care.

Information continued to filter in throughout the day, as the world sought to digest and react to the news. At some point it was revealed that Australians could be among the victims. The crime scene was rubble, so details were sketchy. No one was counting bodies yet. But few doubted that the death toll would be among the thousands.

Leaders came forward to reassure the people. That the government would care and protect them. That those who had committed these crimes would be punished. Partisan politics was temporarily cast aside. The leaders’ thoughts and prayers were recorded in the paper as Clarion staff worked late into the night to create editions of outstanding quality. They rose to the challenge.

Next day’s paper was one of the most outstanding the Clarion ever produced. The tone was near-perfect. The balance of text and imagery was superb. It was informative without being sensationalist. It was as if everyone instinctively knew what they had to do and did it without hesitation.

Amid the shock, I felt immensely proud to be part of the Clarion family that day.

From my unpublished novel, Zombies Ate My Newspaper.

Top 10 Things You’ll Find Aboard The Millennial Falcon

Blasters without triggers.
“Gender-fluid pit” (instead of cockpit).
“Safe space” behind social media room.
Unused voting forms.
Steering wheel made from participation trophies.
“Experiences, not things”.
Millennials Of Mos Eisley Instagram page.
Rejected home loan applications for first hoverport, millennials being priced out of the market by space boomers.
Unanswered emails from older relatives who voted to “make the Empire great again”.
Crushing sense of doom that previous generations have ruined the future and left the forces of evil in charge.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

 

Murray Christmas!

We need a new award in The Walkleys: The McClymonts

Kudos to Sydney Morning Herald investigative journalist Kate McClymont for her decades-long reporting on Eddie Obeid.

Her pioneering work played no small part in the unveiling of one of the biggest sagas in NSW political history.

I’m not going to repeat her words. But I do urge you to go to the smh.com.au website and read her amazing work for yourself.

McClymont is among the very best of our profession … and proof of the power of journalism to change the course of history.

I put her in the “they’re so valuable and irreplaceable we need to clone them” category along with David Attenborough.

We don’t need just one Kate: we need a dozen all across Australia.

And we need to properly reward and recognise the work of McClymont and her tireless colleagues.

That is why I propose a new category in The Walkleys: The McClymonts.

Investigative journalism is long and arduous and brutal and expensive.

It is a heavy cross to bear for the practitioner and not a role for the faint-hearted, which is why so many of us admire Kate.

Sadly, in a world of reduced media profits and budgets, investigative journalism is among the most threatened fields of journalism.

And yet, from Woodward and Bernstein and beyond, investigative journalism can rattle the cages and shake the foundations of power … and even change the world.

Indeed, what would the world look like without investigative journalism?

With no one to tell us any different we might believe that we had somehow entered a magical, more moral era.

That perhaps what governments told us was unquestionable and true, that we had never had it so good, and that our business and political leaders were figures of nobility beyond temptation. That our air, food and water was untainted, that graft and corruption were on the decline, that life was becoming better for the average citizen despite evidence otherwise, that councils behaved themselves, and that a million other calumnies both big and small were no longer practised.

The work of Kate and her colleagues is a vital tonic for the health of our society.

So yes … let’s have the inaugural McClymont Award For Investigative Journalism in next year’s Walkleys.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

“Latte-sipping leftie” and other outrages: Top 10 insults hurled at journalists

It’s tough out there for journalists. We try to shine the light of truth on the world and give the powerless a voice – and yet, in poll after poll, journos rate little higher in the trustworthiness stakes than politicians and used-car salesmen.

So anyone entering the profession had better get used to incoming four-letter fire.

As a public service announcement, I have compiled the Top 10 most interesting and prevalent insults hurled at members of the Fourth Estate.

Hack Typically used by the unenlightened as a form of abuse, this is a word journos use among ourselves to describe one another. It is a term of respect and affection – not unlike the soldier’s use of the word “grunt” – and is thus water off of a mallard’s back to us.

MSM liberal elitist We’re the people who didn’t see Trump becoming president. D’oh!

Chardonnay-sipping socialists Winners of the Best Headline of the Week at the Sydney Morning Herald during my time were given the choice of two wines as a prize: one white and one red.

Red was almost always chosen, thus rendering the jibe “chardonnay-sipping socialist” obsolete.

“Cabernet-sipping socialists” would be much more accurate.

Volvo Socialist A canard sadly showing its age, seeing how car trends have evolved. I would suggest “solar-panel socialist” in its stead.

Latte-sipping leftie Clearly the public thinks we spend all our time imbibing wine and drinking coffee rather than attending to daily rolling deadlines. This insult is as effective as calling the average journo a member of the “chatterati”.

Balmain basket weaver A phrase coined by Paul Keating to describe lefty, bleeding heart, out-of-touch types. Sadly Balmain is no long the hub of basket weaving – arts and crafts having both spiritually and geographically moved on since then.

And, of course, any true inner-city journalist knows that Balmain is not among the five postcodes that most hacks come from.

Inner-city cabalist There remains a stubborn belief that many of our left-leaning institutions such as the ABC and SBS are run by hooded groups of inner-city cabalists who meet once a month in secret to decide the editorial stance of their institutions.

They are of course incorrect.

I gather they meet once a week.

Paid shill Think climate change is real? Write a bad review of a social media star’s new album? Take a position for or against the government? Have any sort of opinion, really?

You will be seeing this in an email in your inbox some time soon.

In the popular imagination, the “paid shill” can often be seen sipping chardonnay with the dreaded “press release recycler” in some Balmain winery, laughing at the bogan public’s gullibility.

See also: “churnalist”.

Reptile The late Denis Thatcher is believed to be among the first to refer to the champions of the Fourth Estate as reptiles.

It holds pride of place among other zoological descriptions such as “parasite” or “vulture”.

Although personally I would prefer to be referred to as a “Powerful Owl”.

Goat’s cheese curtainer Aka, the curtain of expensive, gourmet and elite cheese that journos – particularly those from the ABC and SBS – live inside.

“Goat’s cheese curtain” was a phrase coined by demographer Bernard Salt, who recently outraged Gen Y by suggested that they could afford to buy houses if perhaps they stopped buying “smashed avocado with crumbled feta on five-grain toasted bread at $22 a pop”.

I await to see how “smashed avocado” will be one day reworked to be used against hacks.

Until then I remain amused rather than offended by the idea of the “goat’s cheese curtain”.

And wonder if I can get some for lunch at my upmarket Balmain cheese shop.

While sadly lacking journo-related insults, my ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

Here’s what Chris Rock told me he’d do if he became President

Chris Rock has announced that he’s running for President in 2020, joining Kanye West, Ron Perlman and Bernie Sanders in the battle to become the next US Commander-In-Chief.

Interestingly enough, when I interviewed him in 2008 I asked him what exactly he’d do if he became President.

The short answer?

“I’d raise the minimum wage. I’d get rid of salad bars and all-you-can-eat buffets … America’s getting big. We’re a very portly country.

“There’d be no more shows like Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous. It makes people feel bad at what they don’t have.”

And he’d get rid of The Bomb.

You can read all about it – and his thinking on comedy, his TV show and much more – here.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

Vale, Leonard Cohen

You knew the light and the dark of life.

11 life lessons I learned from Wolverine

A man may wear many faces Spy, samurai, superhero, soldier – Wolverine has been them all.

And he will wear many of them during his lifetime A man who has lived long enough as Wolverine has seen everything from world wars to the creation of the automobile. He knows that change is the one true constant in life.

Not everyone will understand you Only a few select people like Jean Grey will ever see beyond Wolverine’s wild exterior to the sensitive, heroic soul beneath.

There will be enemies From Sabretooth to anti-mutant prejudice, opposition comes in many forms.

But you don’t have to face it alone Find and cherish your own X-Men.

The true scars are beneath the skin Wolverine is a walking example of the Buddhist dictum that life is suffering. From teammates to lovers, he’s see just about everyone he’s ever cared about die. But it is his ability to take the pain and keep going that arouses our admiration.

Conflict is inevitable Sometimes you have to extrude the metaphorical adamantium.

Your true superpower is ultimately very human – and everyone has it Wolverine’s ultimate superpower isn’t his mutant healing factor – it is his willpower.

It ain’t over until it’s over How often has Wolverine come from behind against the odds to triumph?

Never give up Wolverine once crawled out of no less than Hell itself. And as World War II leader Winston Churchill once said, “If you’re going through Hell, keep going.”

The real adventure is finding out who you are – and accepting yourself For a long time Wolverine’s memories were taken away. Now that he has them back, he shows that accepting yourself for who you are in your own mind is the greatest challenge of them all.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.