God, don’t you love alcohol.
The last time Hag was sober enough to pronounce she had just emerged from a Wild Turkey and shiraz-inspired drunk which had left her dishevelled, confused, and depressed. Who did she insult? Who did she lust after? Who did she bore? Where was she evicted from?
Well, slivovitz, oh glorious anarchic drink (thank you Alf), all you make Hag do, is dance! A little like proper wormwood absinthe which always makes Hag’s heart grow fonder and sends The Old Lush into wild flights of fancy.
Which leads her to the first of two confused thoughts:
How sick is she of Wowsers. How sick is she of the clichéd-public-service world of work, where repeated each day and night is this mantra (with apologies to TSE):
Let us go then,
You and I,
When the day (night) is,
Spread out against the sky,
Like a patient etherised,
Upon a table.
Oh, world of dangerous, anarchic, unpredictable work; where have you gone?
Production Unit 43 mourns, replete with her final warning for workplace staggering, lewd loudness, lateness and tangential thought.
Which leads her to the second confused observation:
Crikey, you are becoming dangerously Established.
Lots about you has become awfully proper. You remind Hag of the recalcitrant schoolboy beating at the authoritarian ankles of The Private School who grows up to be the Headmaster.
Now, Crikey’s always had that aspect: I am the Outcast railing against your Establishment power. I am different (but All I Really Want To Be Is You).
But, god, you are becoming even more formalised, and dismissive of the Newfies (The Write Stuff): Your correspondence is more formal code … that is apart from the admirable Christian – who has a nice humanity is in Hag’s long and unreliable memory the best prosetylist (is that a word?) for reformed drunk.
Hag mourns, not just for Eric’s mournful observations on the state of journalism (Journalism Under Threat) but for the edge-dwelling anarchic, unpredictable and chaotic world – where, George Soros once observed, creativity truly lies …
I remain,
In dissolution,
Truly No-One’s
PS (which I suppose can be read as …):
A little wisdom in support of Lushes-ness:
”I waited for the post-AA Apocalypse. A year passed. Two years. Five. Nary a drop of liquor touched my lips. Then, one night, it did. Years later, it still does. But, hey it’s hard work being a hard-core alkie. These, my mid-50s years are gentler times. A little wine for my stomach’s sake. A beer or four with friends. AA’s long gone for me but – and this is the kicker – if anyone came to me for help with a drinking problem, I’d take them straight to a meeting. But I’d hold their hand and whisper: “Be kind to yourself.” And, like a good knight, I’d carry a sword to protect them till they could stand on their own feet to slay the dragon.”
Steve J. Spears (In Good Weekend April 9, 2005)
ninj
April 25, 2005 at 06:36
Of course Crikey isn’t alone when it comes to tucking the shirt in and suffering from ‘relevancy drift’ — as a glance at the Saturday Mercury’s Insider column will show (23/4). Ellen Whinett wasn’t exactly a scintillating writer but she consistently came up with the goods.
In last Saturday’s effort, we got a cutesy story about a 10-year-old thinking the new Pope was a rap singer and something about Spirit III that was apparently lifted from a blog. There was the obligatory mention of the Federal hotels spin doctor and an item about movement in the DED.
The last item was faintly amusing because it was peppered with the sort of clichés Media Watch regularly takes apart e.g. “renowned in media circles” (translation: I had a chat with someone from The Examiner at morning tea) “highly paid public relations staff” (translation: I think they make more than I do).
The Insider Column used to be the equivalent of Dolphin Everyready torch aimed at the nooks and crannies local pollies didn’t want examined. These days it resembles a nightlight operated by a work experience kiddie.