The man behind Mr Squiggle has sadly passed on.
I had a brief interaction with Norman Hetherington on the letters pages of the Sydney Morning Herald back in December 2000. Paul Barry had interviewed Howard appointed MD of the ABC, Jonathan Shier on Media Watch. As a direct reaction, Media Watch was pulled from the airwaves:
I nominate Mr Squiggle as Paul Barry's replacement. Mr Shier should have no problem pulling those strings for his own benefit.
Scott Plimpton , Munich, Germany, December 1.
==============
His reply:
We are the creators of Mr Squiggle and we think Scott Plimpton 's suggestion (Letters, December 2) that Mr Squiggle should replace Paul Barry on Media Watch an interesting idea.
Thank you, Scott, but no.
Mr Squiggle, like so many other Australians, loves his ABC, and is most unhappy with the direction it is taking these days.
Things are much better organised on the Moon.
Norman and Margaret Hetherington,
Mosman, December 2.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
And now for some Tassie fiction
By my old mate, our man in The Netherlands, Andrew Balcombe:
Logging magnate eaten by white shark
A fictional story about fishing and the ever widening blood slick on the surface of the water.
The dinghy came off the runners and the old man walked into the shallows. The water was flat and smooth all the way from Northwest Bay to Bruny Island. The row would only take twenty minutes before he reached his favorite fishing hole.
Voices of children and the clunk of a cricket bat hitting a ball reached out across the water. He took it slow. It was hot for this time of the morning and there was no cooling breeze.
The large sinker took the bait rapidly to the bottom, a few moments later there was a tug and he began pulling in the line with his hand. A flathead landed on the floor next to his shoe. He used it to hold the fish down and removed the hook.
The flathead gasped for air and stared into his eyes, he struck its head with the backside of his knife blade and it lay still.
The eyes continued to stare into his until he remembered to take a breath. His gaze shifted to the shore. Cliffs stretched towards a small pebble beach. Swells from a passing ferry rolled onto the beach, making a gentle shushing noise.
With a plop, the sinker plunged into the water again ahead of a freshly baited hook.
He waited out its descent, and felt like he was being watched. The sound of breaking water behind him made him turn and the dingy rocked on a fresh swell.
The white belly of a shark disappeared below the black water. It had been a large one, he thought. The great whites in these parts rarely showed themselves and he felt privileged to have witnessed the site.
Quiet returned and his gaze moved to the open water around him. The mirror-like surface of the channel remained smooth all the way to Dennes Point. A far-off smudge of gray hung in the air, materializing into a flock of shearwaters searching for fish shoals. White triangles of yacht sails punctured the horizon, going no-where in the dead calm.
He felt the tug of the next fish and gave the line a yank to set the hook. When the tugging increased, he pulled the line into the boat. The fish was bigger than its predecessor. It flapped on the dinghy’s bottom sending vibrations through its hull into the water. It took two strikes from the knife to make it stop.
Again the old man felt like he was being watched, he turned and saw the slightest of ripples across the surface of the water behind the dinghy. Beneath the ripple was a flash of white.
He had read that commercial fishing forced some species of sharks to find other food sources. He wondered if the flathead he was catching, were now on the white sharks menu.
The freshly baited hook dropped into the darkness, by the time it struck the bottom, the white shark was forgotten. He focused on his own reflection in the water.
The distant chug of a marine diesel intruded on his thoughts then suddenly went silent. He lifted his eyes and saw the Bayliner drift to a halt fifty meters away. He recognized the luxury yacht. It belonged to Gary Smyth, the logging magnate.
He exported hardwoods as woodchips to places like Japan. Some people said the company was also responsible for dirty tricks against those who opposed it. But what did the old man know, back in his day, trees were seen as an obstacle for farmers clearing land. Now, all that he ever heard and saw was that they needed more trees, because the earth was getting too hot.
A white figure stripped to a pair of swimming trunks appeared on the yacht’s foredeck. The sight reminded the old man of the white shark. He recognized the man from his shock of dark hair from the newspaper photos.
He had read that Smyth had used an army of lawyers to deal with a troublesome nature activist. The case had been wrapped up in six months. Smyth’s bulldozers were back in business and the activist had declared bankruptcy.
The catgut in his hand jerked and he gave it a yank. It tugged back and he began pulling it into the dinghy. This time, a rock cod rose to the surface, its belly distended from a busted woofer valve. The fish were common and none too tasty. It went back into the water and he watched it struggle towards the bottom. He saw a dark shadow move over the fish and it was gone.
The din of a harsh laugh cut through the silence and the old man saw Smyth joined on deck by a woman. She held a green bottle out to the man. He took it and gave it a shake. There was a pop and he sprayed foaming champagne towards her.
“Hey, that’s my new blouse you bugger,” she shrieked.
“Oh no, your all dirty, looks like you need a wash then.”
With a single heave the woman was dropped over the rails of the Bayliner and into the water. Smyth stood at the yacht’s railing laughing.
“There, all clean now. You hate doing the wash anyway you lazy cow.”
Smyth then stripped off his shorts and shoes and dived head first into the water. A moment later the woman hooted with laughter.
“Stop it Gary, we’re in public.”
“I don’t see no-one except that old geezer, chill out sweets.”
The old man knew that this activity at the best of times was probably hazardous when alcohol was involved. The presence of a shark in the area meant it was even more hazardous than usual.
He cupped his hands together over his mouth and hollered.
“Hey.”
The two faces above the water turned as one in his direction. He was about to yell again when Smyth responded.
“Hey yerself, old man, we’re just having some fun, go back and play with your tackle.”
“Ha,” snorted the woman. “Tackle, good one.”
The old man was about to shout ‘shark’ when he saw the flash of white. It had been just beneath the surface between his dingy and the pair in the water.
Some people never listened to reason he thought to himself.
“Shark,” he yelled.
“What?”
The dark grey dorsal sliced through the surface of the water at what the old man guessed was about twenty knots.
He didn’t waste his breath by yelling again, instead he just pointed. It was not necessary now as. Smyth and his wife had already seen it. Both however failed to come up with a joke to describe the sudden appearance of a four-metre white shark coming towards them.
The fountain of water from the shark’s massive tail washed over the deck of the Bayliner. The old man expected more of a fight from the couple, but it was soon still after the initial frenzy of thrashing water and terrified screams.
A few minutes later he wound in his fishing line and rowed across the widening blood slick and tied his dinghy to the B,ayliner’s stern.
He swung his legs over the gunnels and stepped into the yacht’s cockpit. An open bottle of champagne was sitting on a silver tray. So he lifted it and took a swig. The police would take a while to arrive, so he put up his feet and threw some champagne over the side, just in case the shark was still around to taste it.
Logging magnate eaten by white shark
A fictional story about fishing and the ever widening blood slick on the surface of the water.
The dinghy came off the runners and the old man walked into the shallows. The water was flat and smooth all the way from Northwest Bay to Bruny Island. The row would only take twenty minutes before he reached his favorite fishing hole.
Voices of children and the clunk of a cricket bat hitting a ball reached out across the water. He took it slow. It was hot for this time of the morning and there was no cooling breeze.
The large sinker took the bait rapidly to the bottom, a few moments later there was a tug and he began pulling in the line with his hand. A flathead landed on the floor next to his shoe. He used it to hold the fish down and removed the hook.
The flathead gasped for air and stared into his eyes, he struck its head with the backside of his knife blade and it lay still.
The eyes continued to stare into his until he remembered to take a breath. His gaze shifted to the shore. Cliffs stretched towards a small pebble beach. Swells from a passing ferry rolled onto the beach, making a gentle shushing noise.
With a plop, the sinker plunged into the water again ahead of a freshly baited hook.
He waited out its descent, and felt like he was being watched. The sound of breaking water behind him made him turn and the dingy rocked on a fresh swell.
The white belly of a shark disappeared below the black water. It had been a large one, he thought. The great whites in these parts rarely showed themselves and he felt privileged to have witnessed the site.
Quiet returned and his gaze moved to the open water around him. The mirror-like surface of the channel remained smooth all the way to Dennes Point. A far-off smudge of gray hung in the air, materializing into a flock of shearwaters searching for fish shoals. White triangles of yacht sails punctured the horizon, going no-where in the dead calm.
He felt the tug of the next fish and gave the line a yank to set the hook. When the tugging increased, he pulled the line into the boat. The fish was bigger than its predecessor. It flapped on the dinghy’s bottom sending vibrations through its hull into the water. It took two strikes from the knife to make it stop.
Again the old man felt like he was being watched, he turned and saw the slightest of ripples across the surface of the water behind the dinghy. Beneath the ripple was a flash of white.
He had read that commercial fishing forced some species of sharks to find other food sources. He wondered if the flathead he was catching, were now on the white sharks menu.
The freshly baited hook dropped into the darkness, by the time it struck the bottom, the white shark was forgotten. He focused on his own reflection in the water.
The distant chug of a marine diesel intruded on his thoughts then suddenly went silent. He lifted his eyes and saw the Bayliner drift to a halt fifty meters away. He recognized the luxury yacht. It belonged to Gary Smyth, the logging magnate.
He exported hardwoods as woodchips to places like Japan. Some people said the company was also responsible for dirty tricks against those who opposed it. But what did the old man know, back in his day, trees were seen as an obstacle for farmers clearing land. Now, all that he ever heard and saw was that they needed more trees, because the earth was getting too hot.
A white figure stripped to a pair of swimming trunks appeared on the yacht’s foredeck. The sight reminded the old man of the white shark. He recognized the man from his shock of dark hair from the newspaper photos.
He had read that Smyth had used an army of lawyers to deal with a troublesome nature activist. The case had been wrapped up in six months. Smyth’s bulldozers were back in business and the activist had declared bankruptcy.
The catgut in his hand jerked and he gave it a yank. It tugged back and he began pulling it into the dinghy. This time, a rock cod rose to the surface, its belly distended from a busted woofer valve. The fish were common and none too tasty. It went back into the water and he watched it struggle towards the bottom. He saw a dark shadow move over the fish and it was gone.
The din of a harsh laugh cut through the silence and the old man saw Smyth joined on deck by a woman. She held a green bottle out to the man. He took it and gave it a shake. There was a pop and he sprayed foaming champagne towards her.
“Hey, that’s my new blouse you bugger,” she shrieked.
“Oh no, your all dirty, looks like you need a wash then.”
With a single heave the woman was dropped over the rails of the Bayliner and into the water. Smyth stood at the yacht’s railing laughing.
“There, all clean now. You hate doing the wash anyway you lazy cow.”
Smyth then stripped off his shorts and shoes and dived head first into the water. A moment later the woman hooted with laughter.
“Stop it Gary, we’re in public.”
“I don’t see no-one except that old geezer, chill out sweets.”
The old man knew that this activity at the best of times was probably hazardous when alcohol was involved. The presence of a shark in the area meant it was even more hazardous than usual.
He cupped his hands together over his mouth and hollered.
“Hey.”
The two faces above the water turned as one in his direction. He was about to yell again when Smyth responded.
“Hey yerself, old man, we’re just having some fun, go back and play with your tackle.”
“Ha,” snorted the woman. “Tackle, good one.”
The old man was about to shout ‘shark’ when he saw the flash of white. It had been just beneath the surface between his dingy and the pair in the water.
Some people never listened to reason he thought to himself.
“Shark,” he yelled.
“What?”
The dark grey dorsal sliced through the surface of the water at what the old man guessed was about twenty knots.
He didn’t waste his breath by yelling again, instead he just pointed. It was not necessary now as. Smyth and his wife had already seen it. Both however failed to come up with a joke to describe the sudden appearance of a four-metre white shark coming towards them.
The fountain of water from the shark’s massive tail washed over the deck of the Bayliner. The old man expected more of a fight from the couple, but it was soon still after the initial frenzy of thrashing water and terrified screams.
A few minutes later he wound in his fishing line and rowed across the widening blood slick and tied his dinghy to the B,ayliner’s stern.
He swung his legs over the gunnels and stepped into the yacht’s cockpit. An open bottle of champagne was sitting on a silver tray. So he lifted it and took a swig. The police would take a while to arrive, so he put up his feet and threw some champagne over the side, just in case the shark was still around to taste it.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
By Popular Demand
I have been told in no uncertain terms (Hi Olga) that there have not been enough photos of Penny posted on the web of late.
I am, of course, more than happy to oblige.
I am, of course, more than happy to oblige.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Day 3 @ QAM
....or day six for Katie. I can't wait for them to come home.
Here's some more photos from the ten square foot of space that is our family's home right now.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Penelope Frances Plimpton
Our beautiful daughter Penny has arrived She was delivered by Caeserian on June 10 2010 at 10.49am, two weeks early.
She's weighed in at 4.09 Kg and is absolutley stunning. Both Katie and Penny are doing great. It was very hard to leave them tonight, but both seemed to be sleeping peacefully.
Thanks to all at the Queen Alex Ward, Royal Hobart Hospital. Yay Public Health!
There will be a lot more written about young Penny and her family from hereon in.
There's an album of photos from her first day here.
Think I need to sleep now.
:)
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
We've moved!
After a couple of years, and countless BBQs, we have finally shifted out of Bonnington Road. Farewell, adieu, you served us well.Now, after a week or so at Nor's flat (thank you kind lady), Katie, Yve and I have moved into Andrew & Tracey's abode in Liverpool Street while they're trekking around France for six months. It's a beaut house with a beaut kitchen, beaut heat pump and a beaut view. And to boot, we've got custody of their three beaut cats (Mingus, Wolfie and Mozart).
Here's Katie and Yve sur la table so to speak for our first proper meal in the house.
And here's Katie, stirring the pot, with the bun:
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Keating! Banished from ABC Local Radio
Thanks to incorrect claims under Parliamentary privilege by Senators Eric Abetz and David Bushby, and a timid ABC Management, Keating! The Musical will not receive any airtime on ABC local radio, as is the norm with any other event that occurs in Southern Tasmania
Full story here.
Grrr.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Keating! The Musical Hits Hobart
It's on! It's in Hobart! It's quality! I'm involved!
Book your tickets now! Great group rates!
Here's the TV Ad on YouTube.
Book your tickets now! Great group rates!
Here's the TV Ad on YouTube.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Camping @ Bay of Fires
A bunch of us headed to the north east coast of Tasmania last weekend for a camping expedition to the beautiful Bay Of Fires. The majority of us were there from Friday night till Tuesday, so had a good chance to settle in and get with the earth.
The weather was absolutley perfect. I think we had about twenty minutes of rain. the water was beautiful, and we were swimming constantly, both at the beach and in a couple of lagoons. Katie and I even got to road test a tent (thanks Braz & Sophie) before we decide on what we'll go with.
Of course there was much drinking, sitting round the fire and other general merriment. "Fivesies" is a new tradition at the end of the afternoon, nad funnily, a continuation of "Happy hour" that I remember my parents and their friends indulging in when we camped as kids.
And then, on the way home, we stopped off in reputedly Tasmania's smallest town (the town signs in both directions are on the same pole!), Llandaff, where Katie's Great x6 (and our kid's Great x7) Grandfather, Robert Barber was buried in 1870. Katie's Dad, Ivan knows some of his story:
"John Barber was a convict, transported from Great Yarmouth for stealing a length of rope. He somehow ended up woking for the Lynne family, there are several Lynne family graves at Llandaff. They owned the Apslawn estate, Sir William Lynne was the first premier of NSW. The Lynne family financed John Barber's return to England where his conviction was quashed. He then obviously returned to Apslawn..."
Tassie, everybody's got a connection!
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Mojitos on Murray Street?
Spotted flying above a building opposite the State Treasury today:
Is there another plan afoot for March 20?
Viva Cuba!
Is there another plan afoot for March 20?Viva Cuba!
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