Frank Hyde

With another Rugby League season drawing to a close, the final whistle has sounded for one of the game’s icons.

Grand final week for 2007 kicked with the sad news that one of the code’s much loved fixtures, Frank Hyde, had slipped away at age 91.

A classy centre who strapped on the boots for Newtown, Balmain, North Sydney and New South Wales, only the Second World War denied him a Kangaroo's jersey.

An integral part of Balmain’s 1939 team that swept all comers, victory celebrations and a tilt at the national side came to an abrupt end the next day with the outbreak of hostilities with Germany.

Hyde returned to the Grand Final again in 1943 as Captain/Coach of North Sydney, only to taste defeat at the hands of his old club, Newtown.

Ironically some 64 years later, on the day before his death, the Bears qualified for this year’s reserve grade grand final by defeating Balmain Ryde-Eastwood 22-16.

However it was his post-playing career as a radio commentator which endeared him to generations of football fans, who tuned into his top-rating broadcasts on 2SM for over thirty years.

In the days before cosy commentary boxes with birds-eye views, Hyde's primitive broadcasting setup involved a card table and microphone at ground level on the sidelines of suburban grounds - in all weather.

A devout Catholic and product of the Great Depression, Hyde's politeness and generosity of spirit would desert him only when errant ball boys and match officials obscured his vision, earning a spirited on-air rebuke.

His catch cry of "It's long enough, it's high enough and it's straight between the posts" remains an enduring memory of his raspy-voiced commentary which included 33 consecutive grand finals.

Fame of a different sort came in the early 70’s, with a recording of Danny Boy, which broke into the top ten of the Sydney charts.

Visitors to Newtown’s Henson Park for the annual clash between the Blue Bags and North Sydney were often treated to a grandstand performance of the folk classic from the man himself, as the teams battled for possession of the Frank Hyde Shield.

Increasingly frail following a stroke and the loss of his wife Gaby earlier in the year, son Patrick confirmed that Frank “got on the bus” in the early hours of Monday morning, surrounded by family and friends.

“There's no question he was absolutely recognised as the doyen of radio commentary,” former ARL Chairman Ken ‘Arko’ Arthurson told ABC radio.

“In fact, I think his views on Rugby League was highly respected as anybody's that I've ever known.”

no lower form of life

The military rulers of Burma are a pretty nasty lot - brutal, cruel and after nearly thirty years of oppression, unchallenged.

But when it comes to real-life, walking, talking human turds, its hard to go past members of the advertising industry.

These shameless bottom-feeders make the junta in Rangoon look good.

Unfair? A little harsh? You be the judge…

As some of you might know, the monks in Myanmar have had enough.

Following on from heated clashes with the security forces over rising fuel prices (including an incident where the monks took some of the régime’s goons hostage), Buddha’s blokes are taking it to the streets.

In a land where public displays of dissent are about as rare as an Ad Exec with a conscience, the monks’ show of force is a serious challenge to a dictatorship bereft of popular support or moral legitimacy.

So the small but committed Burmese community put the call out for a public demonstration today in Sydney’s Martin Place. Just for a change, I decided tag along for a little lunchtime scream & shout.

You wouldn’t call me a fair-weather friend of the Free Burma movement – more like a rolled gold blow-in.

I’ve had a very little to do with this mob over the last decade; like many Australians the plight of the Burmese people has been way down the list, if not off the radar.

Sadly, the lack of international action over the decades suggests I’m not alone.

Despite my heroic guilt, I managed to drag myself into the belly of the beast, glittering towers of glass and steel shadowing hordes of surly looking lunchtime suits, glowering at the sunshine poking through.

Yet as I wandered up the plaza to greet the happy (but very) few, my path was blocked by a ‘protest’ of a very different kind.

Twenty-strong and bristling placards, they circled the square chanting their unintelligible epithets with some gusto. But even from a distance, something seemed amiss.

The detail held some clues. Impeccably turned out in a range of neat smart causal, these looked like no ordinary red-raggers. No combat fatigues or tired Guevara’s here. No facial hair. Designer clothes.

Who are these people?

Their megaphone toting leader began exhorting his comrades: “What do we want?”

“Freedom to print!” they screamed in response.

“When do we want it?”

“Now!”

Good god, had the Government finally taken away our freedom to print?

I took a closer look and noticed that their slogans were printed in some professional font designed to create impression it was hand-painted.

Shocked, I looked to their leader, past his cream shirt and slacks to his feet.

He was wearing boat shoes. The penny dropped. Dogs!

I scurried over to the back of the column and fronted some weedy young guy, probably the work experience kid.

“Is this a marketing exercise?”

Handing me a postcard claiming ‘it’s time for an ink revolution’ he nodded sheepishly.

I politely asked him if he knew there was Burma protest ten meters away. Did they think that campaigning for ink cartridges or whatever it was they were spruiking maybe trivialised the plight of the Burmese people?

He sneered something about it being a free country and things soon got ugly.

I remember screaming at them to ‘go back to your marketing department, you scum’ and ‘piss off back to the northern beaches’ and plus other incoherent abuse.

Some laughed, others look embarrassed. One guy got pissed off and flipped me the bird. He almost got spat on.

Some time later, I fumed silently while chanting ‘Free Burma!’, watching the faux-protesters nearby as they took a breather before having another crack at the lunchtime herd.

I wasn’t so super-pissed at the concept. Sure, an advertising campaign that mimics public protest is pretty unoriginal, but activists are fair – and sometimes deserving – game.

This is Australia. It’s your responsibility to take the piss.

But parading it in the face of ordinary people trying to make a difference in the face of disinterest and apathy really irked me.

No one likes having their face rubbed in it, especially by yuppie scum.

A sixteen year old private schoolboy, collecting money for some unknown charity, caught me in the middle of a ‘Free Burma!’ and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” he asked. “Who is Burma?”

I told him to get fucked.


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Postscript: www.thepriceofinkstinks.com – the website being promoted by the marketing people, seems to be a front for US giant Kodak. From what I can tell, Kodak once did business with Burma but no longer, having ceased operations there some time ago.

when kids take drugs and then they die...

Chris Lilley's in hot water again.

In episode three of his latest creation, Summer Heights High, the introduction of a plot line involving the ecstasy-related death of student Annabel Dickson – which in turn stirs the creative juices of schoolteacher Greg ‘Mr G’ Gregson – has sparked outrage among the friends and family of Annabel Catt; the twenty-something Sydneysider who died after overdosing on PMA after attending the Good Vibrations festival in February.

Catt’s death earlier in the year got the full treatment from media commentators and the like, with shrill warnings of the dangers of recreational drug use and the usual calls for tougher penalties as a means of deterrence. It provided another opportunity to wheel out Tony Wood, who continues to use his campaign against ecstasy to publicly grieve the death of his daughter Anna, some ten years on.

However the sober response of Catt’s family, obviously devastated at the loss of their cherished daughter via misadventure, meant that the confected media outrage never really took off. Without vengeful parents calling for blood, the story never really had the legs.

So it’s a shame to hear of their distress following this Wednesday’s screening of SHH. According to the producers, the series was in the can well before Catt’s death.

However the failure by anybody of the ABC to connect the dots and pick up the phone to warn the family is pretty poor. Annabel’s brothers sound particularly incensed, which is sad given the even-handed way they responded to the dugs issue following the loss of their much-loved sister.

Unfortunate coincidences aside, Lilley’s comedy enjoys such popular appeal because it takes a scalpel to middle-class sensibilities and the all the hypocrisy it entails. It’s a necessary job, people get cut, sometimes undeservingly.

But someone’s got to do it.

>>>

Video: Mr G sings about Annabel Dickson

Media: Chris Lilley's Summer Heights High in drug death joke – The Herald Sun

Blog: Bless the beasts and the parents of dead children - Jack Marx, The Daily Truth

Interview: The Catt boys talk drugs with Triple J

John Cale

John Cale and band are coming to Australia. Fucken fantastic. Shows in Brisbane, Sydney, Melbin and Perth. Can't wait.

Sydney show is Thursday 8 November at the Enmore. Tix on sale 28/9

More info at www.lovepolice.com.au

poor orn'ry people

I am returned following wedding shenanigans. Despite getting plenty maudlin and plenty drunk on the night, it was a really lovely event and very touching in places. Going to have some trouble living down some wine-inspired moves on the dance floor – but that’s about the extent of my disgrace this time.

Despite a shattering hangover on the Sunday, I got back feeling pretty good. I’d been feeling quite tired and keeping some unsociable hours prior to heading up the coast, so to feel refreshed after a few days work and play up north was a pleasant surprise.

Yesterday morning I woke up about 5am to a haunting song playing on the radio. It was described as an Appalachian folk song called I Wonder as I Wander. Apparently it’s a Christmas carol, but it sounds more like a lonely funeral hymn to me. Regardless, it’s a beautiful melody and I’m having trouble shaking it.

Tonight I’m playing football for the first time in a fortnight. True to form, the clear weather has fled ahead of clouds which are spitting out light rain at regular intervals. My colleague Jo has asked me to stop playing altogether on account of the dreary conditions it seems to attract. Good to know The Mock can control the skies as well as the fortunes of various supported teams.

The weekend is pretty free. Night on the tiles for SamBam’s 30th on Saturday night but that’s all. Mile of haus-work to get through. Monica and Brian are going up to Coolangatta with some good friends for a little break, so I’ll have to catch them later.