The last 10 seconds of 2013

Sadly, below is a transcript of what played out in my head in the final seconds of 2013 as I sat and watched the Sydney Harbour Fireworks:

"I can't believe 2013 is almost over. It's been a pretty good year overall although I've got to concede that I didn't really stay true to my new year's resolution from last year to stay more up to date about what's going on in the lives of the Kardashians and other third world countries. Now that I think of it, what's going to be my New Year's Resolution this year?

Hold on, the countdown is about to start. Here we go, my 2014 New Year’s resolution is ... bloody hell, where do I start?

TEN....  Probably should set myself something tangible that I can measure by the end of the year. Have a better job? What does a better job mean? More money? More responsibility? Cause I don’t want more money if it means more responsibility. I want more money but less responsibility, what job is going to give me that?

NINE... Hold on, what about my friends and family? Shouldn’t I be resolving to do something for them as well? Crap, I struggle to buy them birthday and Christmas presents let alone resolve to do something for a whole year which will benefit them. What if I try and get all of them better jobs?

EIGHT... Maybe I should focus on me and just aim to be all that I can be... WAIT!!! That’s a bloody ad! Who’s ad was that? I think it was for the army wasn’t it? My New Year’s resolution can’t be an army recruitment slogan because I have zero intention of joining the army regardless of how much khaki brings out my eyes.

SEVEN... If I was going to go with an advertising slogan as a resolution it would be for something cooler than the army. “Just do it” – too corporate, “Yes we can” – too presidential, “Got Milk?” – too dairy. Okay lets move on from the slogans, these aren’t working.

SIX... Crap why am I worrying about this when in 5 seconds I’ve got to give someone a New Year’s kiss and at the moment I’m standing next to my brother and an elderly man in a wheelchair. If I kiss my brother it's a life time of awkwardness but if I go for the old bloke he at least might be some oil baron who puts me in his will. Stuff it, I'm gonna go old school and kiss my own arm. If it was good enough for me to learn on back in 1994 it's good enough for 2014.

FIVE... Ok, a resolution, concentrate. It needs to be something broad but specific, selfless but personalised, measurable but all encompassing... World Peace?

FOUR... Might leave World Peace for next year. Is it just me or has that old bloke in the wheelchair moved closer to me?

THREE... Awww bugger it, this is too bloody difficult... I’m just going to tell anyone who asks that I don’t have any New Year’s resolutions cause I live each day like its my last. Then everyone will know what a genuine dropkick I am.

TWO... Aha...I’ve got it

ONE... My 2014 New Year’s resolution is to evaluate my life so that I will have a clear defined resolution for 2015 and won’t have to waste the last ten seconds of the year having this ridiculous conversation in my head."

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! 

Stop blaming Gen Y

‘Every generation, blames the one before”

This was the agreement if Mike and his Mechanics are to be believed (although I’m not even sure if they were qualified mechanics so how can we really trust them?)

Unspoken though it was, the understanding was that each generation from Boomers to Gen X-ers would be permitted to place the blame on the preceding generation. And it worked. There was an order, a system, and the only generation that was at a disadvantage was the newest generation who are too busy learning to use Lego to see the blame game position to which they are entitled.

And then everyone decided to gang up on Gen Y. All of a sudden the world’s problems were being caused by these upstarts with our our “Social Media” and “YOLO”ing.

Employers declared us unreliable and unsettled. Sports Administrators and journalists said we were the reason for the failings of national sides. And I’m pretty sure I overheard a couple of blokes at the train station trying to pin global warming on us as well. But as self-serving as it might seem given I fall within the age bracket for Gen Y, I think most of the blame is misplaced.

Take the example of Rugby Union players Kurtley Beale & James O’Connor;

In the past 12 months they have both experience what can best be described as form slumps on the field. And sure there have been a few off field incidents that have received an unnecessary and disproportionate level of media exposure but to pin the performance of the national side on them and the state of the national game on their age bracket is ludicrous. Every other Rugby Union playing nation is currently fielding players from this age bracket without experiencing the pitfalls that Australian Rugby currently does. I’m no sociologist but this suggests to me that the problem isn’t with the players’ age but with the players themselves and the environment in which they have been brought through the ranks, not the generation they are a part of. This example could probably be extrapolated across the other sporting codes but since I’m not 100% sure I’ve used the word “extrapolated” correctly, let’s move on.

No generations are perfect (except The D-Generation, they were infallible). Every new bunch of folks come with their pros and cons and history is the only true measure of the impact of each group.  And as for this suggestion by employers that we’re unreliable and are too easily distracted and never finish anyth…

It's not just Marlon Brando

It's not just Marlon Brando.
At some point in each person's life they "coulda been a contender".

"I could've played full forward for Hawthorn but I decided to go travelling instead"
"If I hadn't hurt my knee that year I could've made the Olympics"
"Yeah, I could've played at the top level but didn't want to give up socialising on weekends".

Could have, would have, should have.

The funny thing about these statements is that they are usually made by someone who's just that little bit too old for anyone to actually call them on it and suggest they could still give it a crack. These nostalgia dripping statements are made as the speaker reaches for his beer, her glass of wine or slothfully reclines on the couch. Everyone could have been Australia's next great something... at least in their own memory.

Don't let the cynical beginning to this post confuse you, I too believe I could have been Australia's next great something. But my failure to follow through wasn't born from the lure of sex, drugs or rock n roll. Nor was it impeded by a crippling injury or the desire to discover myself by backpacking around Europe. The reason for my lack of success was simply embarrassment.

The day the dream died for me was in year 8 at my high school. It was the day we were going to be put through our paces by the people from the local institute of sport. In my mind that was the day I would be discovered, separated from the herd as being special and ushered onto a life of stardom and success in the athletic arena. In reality I was a shorter than average, physically unimpressive specimen who'd relied simply on excitement and enthusiasm to make most school sporting teams up until that point. After the testing was done and the results were entered into the "Ultimate Athlete Finder Super Computer" each student was handed a sheet of paper detailing their strengths, weaknesses and in which sporting discipline they would be most likely to find their future successes.

I could hardly stand to look at my sheet. I was already imagining the conversation with my parents explaining to them why I had to leave for Canberra that very evening so I could report to the Australian Institute of Sport so they could put me through further testing to make sure I really could represent Australia in so many events at the next Olympics. I was ready to sign autographs, endorsement deals and a boob or two if any of the more mature girls at the school had asked. As all this ran through my head I looked down and saw this:

Student: Liam Flanagan
Age: 12
Height: 156cm
Weight: 55kg

Sport of best fit based on testing result: ORIENTEERING


I conveniently lost that piece of paper moments later before any of my friends had the opportunity to ask me what mine said. So until Usain Bolt decides to take up Orienteering or it is somehow included as an Olympic sport I'm comfortable letting others share their Marlon Brando moments and simply nod and smile.

Sick days exist for a reason

The final days of Autumn are upon us and if the traditional calendar is to be believed, Winter is rearing it's cold, windy, flu-bearing head. And as the temperature drops, the likelihood of getting sick goes through the roof (at the time of writing I have left my supporting statistics in my other pair of pants so just take my word for it). Now I don't have the time of the words per minute typing ability to get into the whole "Should I immunise my child debate?" so I'll just round off that tangent with, OF COURSE YOU BLOODY SHOULD!

But getting back to the issue of actually getting the flu, when inevitably we are struck down by the dreaded lurgie, we feel like no one else in the world can possibly know the sheer yuckness (yes I'm aware that's not a real word) of what we're experiencing. But the flu isn't discretionary, it affects people (not forgetting birds and pigs) the world over and more specifically to this blog post, it affects people in offices the world over. Working in an office during flu season is as good as walking up and planting a kiss on the flu itself. Not only do office air conditioners seem to recycle illness like your dad does bad jokes but for some reason no one seems prepared to take a sick day. Every day, another person trudges up the stairs hacking and coughing the whole way only to sit down, complain about how horrible they are feeling and expect sympathy from their co-workers. Seeing you sitting there, nose running, sniffling and sneezing breeds only contempt in me. No one’s job is that important that they should risk infecting their colleagues rather than miss a day of work. The only exception to this rule may be doctors… and if watching Hugh Laurie in House has taught me anything (and it has) it’s that even doctors allow themselves sick days.

Contagious diseases such as influenza cost business’ millions of dollars every year (again, supporting statistics have gone missing at this point). And while “taking a sickie” might be thought of as an Australian tradition and certain culprits might not always be on their death bed (you know who you are), a sick day when taken for the right reasons should be viewed positively in the work place. It’s certainly better than sitting and admiring the strength of someone able to drag themselves to work despite the fact they are sitting in a pile of tissues that have accumulated during the morning. If this trend of sick people coming to work continues I’m going to start a new Australian tradition, the ‘everyone else is bloody sick day so I’m staying home’ day.

With all that said and done, if you are reading this, and at any stage during the impending Winter you feel the slightest of sniffles, do yourself and your colleagues a favor… STAY HOME!

Open Letter... To Balaclavas

To whom it may concern,

I’m writing this letter to express my continuing disappointment in the article of clothing known as the balaclava. Given that the balaclava is said to have originated during the Crimean War in 1853, I believe I’ve held my tongue for long enough.

A quick bit of research (a word which I believe will shortly be replaced in the English language by the word “wiki-ing”) reveals that the balaclava was invented off the back of English troops not receiving their supplies in time so balaclavas were knitted and posted to them. But now I believe that the sheer existence of the balaclavas is as ridiculous as the excuse that the supplies “got lost in the mail”. Any first time criminal is forced to ask themselves the question, “How can I commit this crime without anybody recognising me?” A number of options probably run through their head; a scarf, a hooded jumper, a Richard Nixon mask but ultimately they all arrive at the balaclava. People have to prove that they are over 18 years of age to purchase alcohol, cigarettes or hardcore pornography, and while I’ll admit that all of these things might seem fun at the time, they ultimately become addictions that leave the person depraved and dehydrated. Balaclavas are just as dangerous. The following line of questioning should be legally required any time someone attempts to purchase a balaclava;

“Hi I’d like to purchase a balaclava”

“Ok, I’m just going to have to ask you a few simple questions, first off, are you in the army?”

“No”

“Ok, are you a pupeteer?”

“No”

“Ok, have you been cast as a henchman in the next James Bond film?”

“No”

“Sorry sir but I’m unable to sell you a balaclava”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re going to use it to carry out a crime”

“Oh… yeah you got me.”

Not only would the legal enforcement of this questioning rapidly reduce the crime rate around the world over night, it would also force criminals who want a balaclava badly enough but are unable to purchase one to go and ask their grandmothers to knit one for them. At which point society wins because Grandma can only respond in one of two ways; they’ll either set their would be law breaking grandchild on the straight and narrow or they’ll knit him or her a rainbow coloured balaclava that would be too embarrassing to wear in public anyway, either way the result is the same.

 

 

I hope that law makers and law breakers alike take the time to read this letter and realise the ongoing dangers that the balaclava is presenting to our society. It’s time to pull the wool back from over our eyes.

Yours in drop stitches

Liam

Open Letter... To Tom Waterhouse

Hi Tom,

We haven't met before, I remember seeing you once in Victoria Train Station in London actually. You were dressed to the nines in top hat and tails on your way to Royal Ascot no doubt with a day of schmoozing ahead of you. I too was on my way to Royal Ascot, except I was wearing a Fanatics T-shirt, no pants and with a day of further ruining the reputation of Australian tourists ahead of me.

The reason for my letter Tom is that of late, you've been particularly omnipresent in the Australian media landscape. NRL pre-game, half time and post game shows, racing events, tv advertisements, I even saw a toddler on the new Bonds commercial that looked like you. I congratulate you on your endeavours to become the preeminent online betting agency in Australia and I admire your bravery in making yourself the face of the advertising campaign (I assume that Samuel L Jackson was your first choice but due to his existing relationship with one of your competitors it's probably a good call that you decided against him). I actually believe that you've taken the online betting industry to the next level, whether that's to the detriment of the general populus is not a debate I'm intelligent enough to articulate. So instead I'm going to take a few surface level pot shots and what you've been putting out into the public eye;

It's awkward for a grown man (regardless of how young he might look) to talk about his mother in such a way on national television. It's not to late for you to find an alternative moniker by which to address your mother dearest. Gai, Mrs Waterhouse, G. Wizzle any of these would be preferable than hearing you gush on about what Mum thinks.

Unlike many people, I don't actually have a problem with you offering up tips on races. Keep them coming... on the proviso that you then personally address the feedback if that tip doesn't come to fruition. When one of my mates gives me a tip and I decide to back it, he knows that if it doesn't come through at the very least I'm going to make some reasonably sarcastic comments about how he should stick to his day job. So next time one of your expert selections doesn't cross the line where it should how about you put your hand up and cop the expletive laden response from your customers on the chin.

                           


Lastly... RELAX! At the moment every time you stare down the camera it looks as though you're trying to perform some sort of Jedi mind trick on the viewers. And while I'll admit that those are not the droids that I'm looking for I have to make you aware of the fact that you are creeping me out. Enjoy your time in the sun, if it helps think about something that makes your smile more genuine, like that time you saw that bloke not wearing any pants in a train station in London.

Before you get all defensive Tom, I know, I know... you know what punters want. All I'm trying to do is update your knowledge so you also know what punters don't want. All the best for the future Tommy boy, I hope that you take my comments on board and I look forward to speaking to you on the phone directly next time one of Gai's Bests trots home mid field.

 

Yours in constructive criticism,

Liam

Mango Schmango

Mango Schmango

It seems that the hottest debate in the fruit world has and forever will be whether or not the tomato belongs in the fruit category.

But there is another issue I would like to address and that is the myth of the mango. For a couple of weeks every year people behave as though Jesus Christ himself has returned. IT’S MANGO SEASON!!! It’s the fruit that stops a nation.

Juice Bars rewrite their menus, celebrities name their children after it and before you know it, everything you’ve ever ordered from the local café has MANGO in it. You’re banana bread has mango in it, you’re offered a side of mango with you’re flat white and BLT’s become BLMT’s.

But is it that great?

Of course it’s not. You only think it’s great because for the other 353 days of the year there isn’t a mango to be seen. If mangos were available all year round, no one would cite it as their favourite fruit, because mangos don’t have the durability of a banana or an apple. It’s the economic concept of scarcity at work in the world of fruit and frankly I’ve had enough of it.

Why do we celebrate this weakling of the fruit world?

The mango is that friend you have that you haven’t seen for ages who suddenly turns up in your life and you spend the next week gushing over the person wondering how you ever survived since you last saw them. You rearrange your entire life to incorporate them into everything you’re doing, they become your reason for getting up in the morning, the motivating factor in skipping out on work 15 minutes early just so you can spend more time with them. And then just as quickly as they appeared, they vanish leaving you with nothing but a mango sized whole in your life. You try to fill it with other friends but the watermelon guy is too big and the grape guy is too small. And so you’re left trying to rebuild your life that you so dramatically uprooted for this mango guy only for him to show up unannounced 12 months later. Okay so I may have lost the metaphor somewhere along the way but the point remains, the mango is overrated.

I feel like I’m the only one who has seen through the sham that is the mango to see the fraud, sorry, fruit for what it truly is… a sticky, annoying and frankly not that brilliant tasting but well marketed piece of produce. In any photo you see of a mango it’s always peeled and sliced into those neat little cubes, LIES! Who has ever peeled (yes, you do have to peel the bloody wonder fruit) a Mango for it to reveal itself in delightful little bite sized pieces? No one has and that’s because you have to have the skills of a bloody surgeon to get it to resemble anything like the picture.

So I say “No To Mango”. Until it’s prepared to turn up for more than a snippet of the year I say we get behind the good old-fashioned orange or the humble banana, pieces of fruit you’d go to war with, not like the mango who’s probably off cowering in the trenches somewhere.

And for the record the tomato is a fruit, but at least it’s not trying to be anything more… unlike the mango.