"Callington Eagles break drought" (published in The Weekly Times, June 7, 2011)

AFTER 48 consecutive losses at an average margin of more than 50 goals, the Callington United Eagles, the notorious battlers of the Adelaide Hills Football League, have finally broken the drought.

Emotions spilled over at picturesque Callington Oval on Saturday when the home club overcame fellow league battler Sedan-Cambrai by 11 points.

“The celebrations were huge,” says club president Bill Filmer. “You couldn't get in the dressing room for the club song, it was like a grand final. There were tears from people who have been around the club for a long time and waiting for this.”

These loyal fans had endured a wretched run dating back to July 2008. A mass exodus of players followed that season, and a series of lop-sided games against all but Sedan-Cambrai have resulted since, the worst being an 85.25 (525) to 0.0 (0) defeat to Torrens Valley in 2009. “It was completely one-way traffic that day,” Filmer recalls. “At one point our full back ran back through the goals just to waste some time and give them a point instead of another goal.”

After a similarly disastrous year in 2010, Filmer and the board decided to wipe the slate clean. They appointed a new coach, Shayne Mitchell, whose playing and coaching career included a stint at SANFL club Glenelg, changed the guernsey, and, most pertinently, dropped 'Callington' from their name in a bid to change club culture.

“We wanted to get away from being the thugs and easybeats,” says Mitchell. “Little steps, but I'm loving it – I'm here for the long haul. So is the current playing group.”

Mitchell is emblematic of the club's spirit. He makes the 75-minute journey from Woodcroft each Tuesday and Thursday night for training, and coaches the club's under-13 side who are likely to play finals this year.

Filmer says Mitchell has instilled belief among the playing group, and delivered a "hair-raising" speech at three-quarter time with the game in the balance. 

The result, Filmer says, changes the club's focus. "Now there's a much better chance of another win before the end of the year. It's all about belief."

Note: published published in The Weekly Times, June 7, 2011 (no longer online)

"Brad fires more than Blanks in The Big Smoke"

It's 4.30am in New York's trendy SoHo district and, in an apartment above Milady's local Irish bar, Brad Blanks, radio presenter and celebrity interviewer, is woken by his iPhone alarm. It's time for Hamish & Andy's 196cm New York correspondent to launch himself into another day in the city that throbs to its own heartbeat.
“I don't muck around once I'm up,” Blanks says, joining me at a table at The Spotted Pig, a West Village bar. “It's a case of going through the formalities then throwing myself into a cab and heading uptown into work, reading the morning headlines off my iPhone as I go”.
While we hear him regularly on Fox FM in Melbourne, 'work' is at 95.5 WPLJ, the station where duo Scott Shannon and Todd Pettengill's Scott and Todd In The Morning is a New York institution. For years Blanks's first task each day was to put his unique spin on the three biggest stories of the day in the entertainment world for a syndicated daily report. But this report is currently on hiatus, and the station have increased the focus on his celebrity interviews and man-on-the-street stuff. Now when the show starts at 6am each morning, he is raring to unleash his latest killer one-on-one. Blanks is one who wakes with the birds, and yet, enviably, work remains a labour of love.
He's always been an early starter, even back when he was a high school student in Cobram, north of Shepparton on the Murray River.
“Growing up I always thought I would be an actor; first thing most mornings I'd re-enact scenes from famous movies. That was probably a weird choice considering I grew up a football-and-cricket-mad teenager.
“It took some time to realise that even though I loved playing my sport, I was much better in front of a crowd. The yearly Cobram High play was a highlight,” he says with a wistful smile.
He turns his attention to a passing waitress and orders cheeseburgers for both of us in an high-pitched, booming voice.
“Like many kids, we had a childhood that seemed to revolve around television, radio and movies. The special ingredient for me was having a mother who always pushed me and my sister to always think big.”
Part of this 'big thinking' was to get some money behind him first. After completing a Bachelor of Commerce at La Trobe University, he spent three years in London working in its burgeoning financial sector. During this time he used the city as a base while occasionally taking time out to strap a bag to his back and exploring Europe – an experience that helped shape him, introducing him to many different cultures and new friends.
While working during the day he often wrote at night, with grand plans for the next great Aussie sitcom.
“For five years, during university and in my early years of employment, I wrote the scripts and what I called the show bible. Then when I pitched it to a prominent production company they told me my idea was too much like fruit salad. That was when I learnt how TV people talk.”
So Blanks continued wedging his size-13 foot in the industry's closing doors, until he was offered the smallest slither of an opportunity.
“I was given a few minutes' assignment for WPLJ during the Sydney Olympics in 2000. My break-out interview was with a guy dressed up as koala, raising money for the Wilderness Koala organisation. They went crazy for it.”
But it almost didn't happen.
“I had no radio report for that day. The day before I had been calling in live from the Heineken House and the guys warned me it didn't go down so well. So naturally I wanted to top that but was struggling. Then I walked out of a pub near Sydney Uni late that day and saw the Wilderness Koala. I went straight over and interviewed him. The guy's name was Colin; he saved my bacon.”
The sound clip shows Blanks a little nervous but full of Aussie charm – and the first signs of an endless ability to think on his feet. Among questions to Colin was one querying how koalas went to the toilet, given the absence of holes in his suit. When Colin's answer induced a Alf Stewart-esque 'crikey', that was that – the station's producers were hooked.
Blanks says: “Fourteen years on from Crocodile Dundee, and Aussie idiom wins the Yanks over again,” Blanks says.
Blanks spent a further six months living in Sydney, 'doing bits and pieces' for WPLJ, when he realised, at 26 and in his prime, he needed to be closer to the action. New York beckoned.
After touching down at JFK and immersing himself in Manhattan's vibe, he coupled lessons learnt from earlier rejections with a sharp knowledge of American politics to convince WPLJ's producers they needed an Aussie as a regular on their morning program. He's been there ever since.
In the 8am hour, Blanks has his own segment, comprising of vox-pop audio recorded on Manhattan's streets the day before. The results, at least for the many Aussie ex-pat listeners living in New York, are often hilarious.
“The Australian sense of humour is definitely different to Americans',” he says. “You can't be too dry, which has been a problem when I've said things I thought deserved some sort of laugh and it didn't happen,” he says.
That said, Blanks's inimitable style – a strong Aussie accent heightened by boundless, wide-eyed enthusiasm – has won him plenty of fans. Indeed, even in this city of faceless people, no less than three people have said hello since we sat down. No wonder he feels at home.
Does he ever get homesick?
“I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss a meat pie and beer at the footy with mates; as diverse as New York – and the USA – is, it can't fill the void of those simple Aussie things. But there hasn't been an option for homesickness. I made the choice to come here to learn something and have a crack. There is nothing more pleasing than creating your own idea and hustling hard enough to pull it off”.
Hustling is something that has become the norm. When the morning show finishes at 10am he will be busy contacting publicists for phone interviews with their famous clients, “assuring them that his interviewing style won't make them look stupid”.
Blanks's willingness to succeed is obvious when trawling through his website's interview collection; even with no formal training as a reporter, he more than holds his own in a media scrum.
Many of entertainment's shining lights, including Tom Cruise, Cameron Diaz, and, in particular, Ricky Gervais, have warmed to him.
“Over the years I have had a lot of fun with Ricky. For some reason he finds my head weird and at times very topical,” Blanks says. “I reckon in the celeb world you've just got to have fun with them and they'll have fun back. So many people are trying to take advantage of them or roll them.”
Always keen to broaden his network, he snaps up opportunities here and there, often linking him back to Australia. He briefly appeared on Channel 7's coverage of the Beijing games.
Then there's the Hamish & Andy gig, which is a direct result of Blanks's networking skills.
Hamish was an intern on Fox FM's breakfast show when Blanks befriended him in 2003. In December 2005, when the lads were given the opportunity to present a two-week afternoon show in Melbourne and Sydney, he checked in with them every few days, and became a regular member once Hamish & Andy were offered their own show.
“We were a hit right from the first show, when I crossed from Elton John's Oscar party in Hollywood. I've been checking in every week since,” Blanks says.
While Blanks could already be seen as a dream-fuelled young man who had the courage to chase and attain his goals, he is under no illusions he has made the grade. His long-term ambition is to make documentaries in the style of Clive James or Louis Theroux. “I've always loved shows where someone drops themselves into unknown situations and talks to people trying to learn about them... A week down South, in the bible belt of America, would be interesting, too.”

As our burgers are set down and he starts wolfing his down, Blanks says these plans will have to sit on the back burner for a while, offering an exhausting rundown of an average afternoon. Typically, he will head home for a nap at 1pm. A few hours later he's hustling again, emailing and phoning public figures' management for future segments. At 5pm, he can be seen on the red carpet trying to snare a few minutes with a movie star. After watching the movie, he is on his way home.
And waiting there is the love of his life. With such a hectic lifestyle, some may find it hard to believe that Blanks has time for a partner. But last year, he married English-born Juliette, his girlfriend of six years – a period of time Blanks labels “a decent road test”.
He says: “Anyone in entertainment or media has to have an understanding partner. You start to realise they are more important than the job as time goes by”.
Indeed, Blanks has been forced to reshuffle his priorities again this year after their first child, Harvey, was born – two months prematurely – in July 2009. Although he remained in hospital for sometime afterwards while his lungs strengthened, Blanks is now suitably chuffed that all is otherwise well, and his dialogue turns tongue-in-cheek. “Little Harvey decimated my final two months of freedom.”
He winks at me and turns philosophical. “But Harvey also makes me realise the big picture plans will have to be tackled earlier than later. The trick I think for people is to always be working on the big picture, not just because a baby is born”.
One surmises that Harvey won't stop him gravitating toward that bigger picture – even if his new routine includes rising a few minutes earlier each morning to give his little boy a cuddle.

Post-publishing note:
After 10 long years, Brad has resigned from WPLJ as he chases the next adventure. Even if means becoming Mr Mom and looking after Harvey full-time...

Jackson and The Dawn Father

Everything was comfortably familiar in my local cafe this morning. I was sipping a latte and skimming the newspapers, my face partially hidden under a Yankees cap. Happy in my own company, you might say. All around me a flurry of cooked breakfasts and coffee were being distributed to a swarm of 'yummy mummies' and their blessed little people. But where I'd normally consume the papers whilst keeping one ear open to conversation (as a freelance writer it would be remiss of me to do otherwise) the drone of screeching new borns and incoherent toddlers actually won out today – and in particular, one little man.

So, I was reading the The Age's Opinions page (okay, I was reading the sport section), when one little freckle-faced cherub started churning out a noise so piercing that one particular sentence I was ready became something of an unplanned mantra. The death metal backing of the tot, now harmonised by a couple of like-minded others, was similar to what you'd here late at night on JJJ.

Then, just as my threshold of pain was breached, the noise died down. I glanced over at my nemesis with a ringing in my ears. A waitress hovered at his table, chatting away as she handed large lattes to the mother and her friend. Naturally, after she'd finished gas-bagging, the waitress leant down and coo-cooed at the boy, pulling one of 'those faces', where, even as a fellow adult, you wished that old fantasy tale of faces freezing as the wind changed was real, before handing him one of those gimmicky baby coffees, the name of which escaped me at that moment.

“There you go, Jackson, drink your coffee,” the pale-faced mother said, caressing the boy's thin, sandy hair, before turning her attention back to her guffawing friend. I laid the paper down and waited for it to happen. Jackson surprised me by taking a sip before the liquid went all over the floor. “Maybe 18 months is too young for a babycino,” the mother said to her friend, who was already on her hands and knees dutifully wiping up with a serviette.

I went back to the newspaper, wanting to get through one article before leaving, only to be interrupted again by big-voiced J, now doing his 'nana over a banana. Aaarrgghh. Thank God that's not me, I thought, that warm rush of relief akin to that of a late-teen who's had a bad dream about missing a VCE exam, only to wake up and realise they now have a day-job instead.

And that's when it dawned on me, in an arm-hair-stiffening moment of realisation: hang on a minute, that is you. Or about to be... That 'sort of thing', that's youYouYOU...

I shakily took a sip of my coffee. For the first time since Tash, became pregnant eight months ago, the truth had hit me square between the eyes.

It's amazing how one little seemingly insignificant moment brings such realisation, when so many other supposed milestone moments didn't quite do the job. Denial (the oh-so-apt anagram of my Christian name) was my adversary from the outset. I thought back to that fateful March morning, when Tash returned from the chemist. I remember noting how simple the directions were on the pregnancy kit box: a criss-cross symbol meant Positive; a minus, Negative. It didn't matter which way I looked at it – side on, upside down, standing on my head – it was positive. Shock softened my joy; after all, it hadn't been planned, and we'd been cautious in a lax sort of way. I resolved to push it to the back of my brain as Tash assured me we wouldn't tell anyone until she'd safely navigated the first three months.

But there wasn't even any morning sickness. And she was still working. It was like nothing had changed. And while I thought telling people would take me to some other level, it didn't, despite the news drawing tears from my mother, a slap on the back from Dad and some earnest, grown-up advice from my single mates.

As time went on, there was Tash's ever-changing body shape and mindset: I'd seen her stomach expand outwards, droop downwards, her reasoning waver, but somehow a stubborn wall of denial always stood in the way, and I'd refrain looking too far ahead. Baby names? What's the rush, we have six months to go... sorry, make that five.

I'd been reliably told the 20-week 3D scan was when it would hit home the most. Must admit, the little alien-like human writhing around on the screen was indeed an eye-opener but that fatherly feeling remained elusive, and has remained that way even as the final necessities were carried out – the cot, a hand-me-down from a friend, assembled and painted; a baby seat fitted in the old bachelor wagon; the pram purchased; the hospital bags packed.

Even Tash's baby shower last weekend, where I was temporarily surrounded by a bunch of excitable females before escaping to the pub with my brother-in-law (for a couple of light beers, of course), still had the long-toothed bunnies jumping fences in my mind's eye rather than the delicate, wailing, nappy-soiling, vomiting little human who was just about to enter my sphere.

Leaving the cafe, I noticed them all around me. Little monkeys in prams. Toddlers being tugged back from the road by multi-tasking mothers. It's amazing how little you see of things that don't directly relate to you. I began asking myself questions: will I be a dad who avoids coffee shop outings? Will I be one who is suckered into the methods of others before me? Will my child be a babycino drinker? Will I put up a 'baby on board' sticker in my car after years of chastising others for doing the same?

So. I'm finally at one with the knowledge that in a few weeks – or maybe days – I'm about to become one of those people. One of those preoccupied, enamoured, stale milk-smelling souls with licorice-dark rings under the eyes. I may not be ready but, hey, who's ever ready for anything? So thank you, little Jackson, you might have ruined your mother's morning but you made mine.

My top five all-time worst Australian songs

1. Nothing Can Divide Us - Jason Donovan
Pure crud. His voice sounds like a cow in its dying throes. The 'lyrics' are stomach-churningly bad. The most rotten in a batch of bad Stock Aitken and Waterman eggs.
2. Especially For You - Kylie and Jason
Read above. I made the mistake of watching the filmclip for a laugh after eating my dinner. Bad mistake. No wonder JD turned to the snort in the '90s.
3. Angels Brought Me Here - Guy Sebastion
Number one with an Idol-driven bullet. Ah, the power of TV. What a nation of morons we are - how can any sane-thinking person think this is anything but diabolical?
4. Boys Will Be Boys - Choir Boys
Bogan central. Wash down your meat meal with a dozen VBs, wipe your mouth with your truckie singlet, high five and bang heads with the empty-headed mate nearest you.
5. Don't It make You Feel Good - Stefan Dennis
Should be number one but for a hot field, and because the 'emotive' filmclip is good for a laugh. Australian music really was at its nadir in the late 80s.

The Rating Game

What happens when a young man first cooks for his mother? As Daniel Lewis discovers, the roles might be reversed, but you can't erase your childhood.

This is a year of firsts for me. I moved out of the bachelor pad and in with my girlfriend. Quit my job to pursue a new career. And for the first time in my life, I cooked dinner for my mother. The latter was the most nerve-wracking of all.
When I rang Mum to invite her over a couple of weeks back, she was thrilled. But I wasn’t convinced she knew the full story.
“I'm cooking,” I added.
There was a pause. Memories of me bringing home appalling concoctions from home economics class were no doubt swirling around her mind. Surely he couldn't reproduce that quiche from sixteen years ago?
“Okay, I look forward to it.”
The line went dead. Even within that soothingly familiar voice, those last words had a sinister undercurrent. Mum was worried. So was I.
I asked my girlfriend for help.
“You cook for me all the time,” she said. “You'll be fine.”
It was easy for her to be blasé. She hadn’t been the smart-ass kid who spent much of his childhood rating his mother’s meals.
Monday night, roast. Potatoes not up to usual standard. Seven and a half.
Wednesday, chicken stir-fry. Too much zucchini. Eight.
Friday, lasagna. Excellent, although a little bland. Some chili wouldn't have gone astray. Eight and a half.
There were never any tens, as that would mean there was nothing to look forward to, or for Mum to work towards. And, conversely, no fails. We still wanted to eat the next night.
Worse still, none of this was lost on my little brother, 13 years my junior, who continued the tradition long after I'd left home. Countless hours sweating over hotplates; another decade of narrowly missing that elusive ten. And it was all my fault. It was time for me to be the grown up, to face the music.
The big day beckoned. Footscray market was mobbed, the range of produce imposing. I just wanted tomatoes. Stall after stall, amid endless rows of vegetables, were variations of the trusty staple: Roma, gourmet, wild, beefsteak, heritage. All shapes and sizes. The little Italian grocer laughed heartily when I asked if cherry tomatoes were suitable for cooking a sauce from scratch. She pointed in the direction of the vine-ripened variety, gave a quick rundown on how best to cook them before waddling away with a shake of her head.
So, to the vine-ripened stand. Must admit, there is something aesthetically pleasing about those with the leaves still intact. I'd remembered an episode where Jamie Oliver baked some with herbs and oil before tossing them through pasta. It looked easy, and he even had time to entertain his guests while cooking, not to mention having them in fits of laughter afterwards. I threw half a dozen in the basket, added a few Romas for good measure. Then I stocked up on cooked prawns, herbs, bread, cheese and fresh pasta.
Back in the kitchen, I lathered the baking tray with olive oil, placed the tomatoes down, chopped the garlic and chili. A shake of salt and pepper. The juice of a lemon.
The doorbell rang during my chopping frenzy. I nudged the baking tray to a position on the bench where the tomatoes glistened in the late afternoon sun. I delayed the final preparations as my girlfriend showed Mum, my sisters and brother-in-law around the house. With Mum settled on a bench stool with a drink, I applied the finishing touches.
She sipped away, observing. Finally, she said: “Well, don't you look the part?”
My girlfriend ushered everyone to the courtyard dining table, where my brother-in-law’s jokes and Mum's laughter could be heard amid the clink of wine glasses and rapid conversation. Just like in Oliver's Twist.
In the kitchen, the tomatoes were blistered and cooking down. I tossed through the prawns. Added basil for flavour and colour. Everything was transferred into the pasta and tossed evenly. I wiped my brow and finished the beer I'd started an hour before. The sober chef.
I marched out with fresh bread and a bowl of freshly grated parmesan. A final drizzle of oil and out went the main. I served Mum first and waited for her reaction. If she was surprised, she hid it well.
“Restaurant standard,” she said, a look of genuine pleasure on her face. “Eight out of ten.”

Getting on a bit

You know you're getting on a bit when you remember the baby in the photos of your little cousin's 21st invite. Conversely, you know you still have a ways to go when your first thoughts are: free booze, I'm there, I'm going to get hammered.

Fruit Tangle - A Ko Samui flashback

The banana lounges were sumptuous; we stretched out and let the Ko Samui sun coat our bodies. The sun kissed the aqua blue sea in front of us. Backing that was the feint outline of distant, overarching cliffs, the steam rising up from the water. My spine nestled into the cushion and my body drifted into something reaching relaxation. We'd been in the same spot for five days now. It was perfection, we saw no need to move. And that's when I saw movement in the distance. Somewhere under a wide straw hat was the face of our little Thai fruit vendor. He was severely hunched over as he walked, a long, thick bend of bamboo slung across his shoulder that hoisted a sizeable basket of tropical fruits on ice. He was cutting through an inlet of water, heading our way with each back-breaking step. I didn't want any fruit. My girlfriend didn't either. We were, for want of a better word, all fruited out. And still he edged closer, like a little black insect expanding. The ridges of the bamboo stick became visible. I could now hear his footsteps in the sand, could see the muscles in his thin legs bulging with the effort. He was humming a tune. I started to wave him away. I even put on that moronic Asian accent Westerners use as compensation for not knowing the local language. No, thanks. Not today. And now he was upon us, the sweat dripping off his dark, ageing face, his teeth pearly white and smiling. He lifted the huge weight off his shoulders and it hit the ground with a weighty thud just in front of us. On offer was the same chilled smorgasbord as the previous few days. It all looked fresh enough. I knew we were his livelihood, perhaps his only customers. But with the tang of pineapple still on my tongue the only word that kept presenting itself in my brain was NO. Flashing his whites, he pointed at the watermelon. No. Rockmelon? No. He picked up a wedge of pineapple and thrust it toward me. He knew I was a sucker for the stuff. But it was another shake of the head. Everything was a no. I employed the accent again. Maybe tomorrow? His smile remained, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes as he hauled the weight back over his slender shoulders, his raggy t-shirt tearing slightly with the force as shuffled off. There was an even more pronounced sag to his posture now. The sad music needed to kick in, but all I could hear was distant jungle beats. It wasn't until my girlfriend jabbed me that I came to my senses. I ran after the little bugger and handed him the equivalent of AUD$10. I'd buy the lot. He did somersaults in the sand. My girlfriend winked at me as I returned to my towel. A warm charge of self-justification rose in my chest. Then I let the ants at the fruit.