The Weekend Australian Review 10/10/09
Now a little background here. Many years ago, before I became a National Treasure, I used to spend time in Sydney trying to become a National Treasure by hanging around in the big smoke, then buggering off back to Hobart when the money ran out or I got sick of the nice weather.
This time around (I think it was around 1999) I was filling in on the oped cartoon for The Australian on one of the rare occasions when Peter Nicholson and Bill Leak were both on leave simultaneously (they didn’t run a page one cartoon in those days, and I had to walk to the newspaper in bare feet in the snow).
I had spent quite a lot of my previous trip in Sydney sleeping in the back of my Datsun 180B station wagon, but since the Datty was now deceased and I was between cars that wasn’t an option. Fortunately, the quite short but not-to-be-messed-with Claire, cat-lover, cynic and fellow expat Hobartian was up for a potentially short-term and far less tidy flatmate in upmarket Kirribilli.
Since I wasn’t going to be sleeping in the pinnacle of Japanese automotive excellence this time around, I had set my heart on buying a futon mattress in the name of luxurious decadence. As I wasn’t all that keen on lugging a mattress all the way home and I was too cheap to get it delivered, I called my mate Gus who I hadn’t spoken to in a while, but who I knew had a ute (he’s from the country).
“Gus!” I said when he answered his mobile, “I’m in Sydney mate! Where are you these days?”
“In Kirribilli.”
“Now there’s a coincidence, so am I, in Elamang Avenue.”
“Get out!” exclaimed Gus (he’s from the country) “I’m in Elamang too! Number 21, 11th floor.”
“I’m two floors below you, I’ll be right up.” I said.
Now, for a Tasmanian, that’s not exactly gobsmacking, as you’re almost certain to be related to pretty much everyone, but Sydney’s considerably roomier and it was something of a coincidence.
It was very handy having a likeminded fellow working cartoonist hours just two flights of stairs away, and there was a very nice pub just up the road. Gus at the time was also of sub-National Treasure status but starting to kick off his book illustration career.
One fine day over an equally fine Guinness, he showed me a story he’d written about a very adventurous chicken. One day you’ll get that published,” I said, “and it’s your round.”
“One day, I’m going to get this published!” said Gus, and bought two more stouts to celebrate.
…and to cut a long story short, ten years later, I got along to Gus’ launch party and drank a responsible amount of beer to commemorate his transition from Book Illustrating National Treasure to Book Writing and Illustrating National Treasure (you get to wear a pink father boa when you graduate).
‘Tis a mighty fine book and well worth your buying for your little tacker. My three year old loves it.
It’s that time of year again – the days are getting longer, the blossom’s on the tree, the birds are singing, and it’s time to enter the Walkleys.
There’s nothing more depressing than picking your favourite cartoon out of the year’s offerings. As most people who know a cartoonist is well aware, we’re all neurotic needy types who require constant love, attention and praise to stave off a constantly threatening spectacular tailspin into the deepest pit of misery and depression.
Anyway, stiff upper lip and all that, I’ve flicked through the year’s work and am feeling the usual waves of inadequacy and self-loathing this entails, so I’m enlisting your help. I’ve narrowed it down to a short list of 16 and if you feel like casting an eye over them and picking a favourite and telling me why (comment below, or email if you’re shy), that would be much appreciated. If you hate ’em all, feel free to keep it to yourself.
The ETS Explained
The Language Barrier
Free Icecream
Revolutionary Spin
Kevvie McKenzie
Parting The Red Ink
A Very Labor Budget
Temporary Surplus
Culinary Emergency
Not As Scary As They Used To Be
The Perfect Shitstorm
Peace In Our Time
Where Money Goes
Overshake
Costello Reduction Scheme
Leave Early
Blurb from the Tasmanian Writers’ Centre below. Check out his stuff here.
Sunday 13 September, HOBART – Creating Comics with Chris Downes. Bookings are coming in for this new creative workshop, and we need four more bookings for this workshop to go ahead! Comics will give you a whole new way to express yourself. No prior experience necessary; writers and artists of all ages will enjoy and be inspired by this workshop. Chris’ work is funny, perceptive and subtle. See it on line at http://www.sirwdchosen.blogspot.com.
Time: 11.00 -3.30, Venue: Meeting Room, Salamanca Arts Centre. Cost: $38 members, $55 non-members.
More info at the Tasmanian Writers’ Centre
Problem with Hobart is nobody ever books so if you’re keen, get onto it, you might even learn something.
Let me come out and say it: I DON’T BELIEVE IN ANTHROPOGENIC CLIMATE CHANGE.
Now before you break out the pitchforks (best dispense with the flaming torches though) I’d like to point out that when I’m thinking about crossing the road, even though I don’t explicitly believe there’s a car coming, I still tend to take a peek before stepping out, so while I don’t believe in the religious sense that human carbon emissions can definitely change the climate of the planet in a minutely predictable manner, on the evidence presented it’s quite likely something’s going on and considering the rather catastrophic potential consequences, I’m not averse to taking a few precautions.
In fact, while I really hope we can do whatever we like as a species without any consequences, on a scale of plausibility climate change is coming in a hell of a lot higher than, for example, Jesus saving us all in the event we do completely bollix up the world (I’m just saying).
Now I’m as sceptical as the next idiot, can’t get enough of it in fact, however, it is quite important not to mistake scepticism for wishful thinking or simple pig-headedness. So if you want to be a sceptic about climate change, then you bloody well BE a sceptic, just remember to cast a similarly jaundiced eye over climate research sponsored by the fossil fuel industry while you’re at it.
