I recently visited Simonds Stadium at Kardinia Park to see the progress of construction of the new Players Stand. This joint project by the Federal and State Governments and Geelong Football Club will take capacity of the Cattery to 33,000.
I have been visiting the home of the Geelong Cats since I was a small boy. My first memories were of a suburban ground, mostly surrounded by a terraced embankment with a few rows of wooden benches on the fence.
In the 1970’s, going to the footy came with the expectation of standing up. For a big match people packed into the terraces cheek by jowl. As kids, we went hunting for empty beer cans that we arranged as a platform to give us more height so we could see. But for a less important game the ground could be empty allowing us to play kick to kick in the terraces while the game went on below.
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Dear Hasbro, what the hell? The American toy company have kicked off the new year with a Facebook campaign designed to get people to rank and vote for their favourite Monopoly piece/figurine. Whatever piece gets the least number of votes gets the, ahem, boot.
The wheelbarrow and iron are looking pretty vulnerable at this stage. While the Scottie Dog and Monopoly “town car” are coming out on top. Once the unlucky piece has been decided it’ll be completely replaced with a robot, diamond ring, cat, helicopter or guitar. Sob.
Leaving aside arguments about which piece is less or more deserving for a second, let’s talk about Hasbro’s flagrant disregard for the first principle of toy marketers everywhere: don’t mess with nostalgia, it makes people upset.
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As it’s the clichéd “business end of the season” for the NRL, I’m in a disturbingly reflective mood. Here are a few random snapshot memories of rugby league from when I was a kid…
* Running onto the ground as the fulltime siren sounded to try and grab the black and white striped cardboard corner post. I was successful a few times.
* Getting splinters in your arse from those wooden seats at Cumberland Oval. The exuberant Eels fans that torched it after the 1981 premiership win did us all a favour.
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news.com.au have put together a list of the top 10 TV shows they’d like to see remade.
It features Full House, The Golden Girls and much more. But what would YOU like to see back on TV?
And hey, it’s Wednesday. What’s on your mind?
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When I was an early ‘90s teenager in 501s, Doc Marten boots and often some variation on burgundy crushed velvet I can tell you with great certainty that I was not dressed anything like my mother.
Nor were any of my friends, whose originality could be measured by whether their Doc Martens were black or cherry. We all pretty much looked the same, and photos from those days place us smack bang in our era. You can look at the pictures of us in black long-sleeve tops and high-waisted Levis and say, yep, that was 1991.
From that photo you would also have been able to say what we listened to and what issues we cared about.
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The present isn’t perfect. It’s flawed, strange and inconsistent. Twitter scandals happen, 14-year-olds spend time in Bali prisons and idiots occasionally moon the Queen. For the most part, however, it’s far from terrible.
Most of us have no trouble appreciating the present and understanding that it is probably no better or worse than anything that has come before it.
Yet there is a small, but vocal, percentage of the population who endlessly whinge about it and seem unable to accept the fact that the past is just that.
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When I was a teenager, there was nothing I wanted more than to move out of suburbia. I grew up in a place so nondescript that, after performing there, John Cleese remarked that if you wanted to kill yourself but lacked the courage, a visit to my home city “would do the trick”. (Locals had the last laugh by naming the municipal dump after him.)
The city itself wasn’t the problem – solid agricultural attitudes and a bit of civic symmetry rather please me – it was the stultifying ordinariness of life in suburbia. The predictable pleasantness of everything from progressive dinners to neighbourly sugar sharing. My best friend and I even coined the term ‘subby dip’ for the onion-soup-mix and sour-cream confection routinely served with Jatz crackers. Our derision was to be expected. We were 19.
We wanted to be, as our favourite band sang, “making love on the edge of a knife”, not on the floral bedspreads or in the lavender-scented gardens of our boyfriends’ parents.
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