Winning is a street car named Desire.

Recently five Scandinavian scientist admitted to plagiarism. Plagiarism is regarded as a very serious offence in journalism, literature and science. In this case, however, the revelation of plagiarism was greeted with mirth. It seems the five scientists made use of Bob Dylan’s lyrics in some of their writings. They did not do so in any of their serious science papers, but they had a competition of sorts, between themselves, to see who made the most use of Bob Dylan’s lyrics in some of their general science writings for magazines or newspapers.

I cannot recall the examples given in the news story but it was along the lines of “The belief that man is affecting climate change has been blowing in the wind for many years.”

“How many roads must a man walk down before he can take a stand on climate change?

“How many years must some people exist before they can accept the scientific reality of climate change?  

 It was all pretty light hearted and amusing. Nobody, apart perhaps from Bob Dylan, took any offence. It reminded me of a time in the 1970s when I tried mightily to get Tennessee Williams’ play “A Streetcar Named Desire” into my writings for the South West Times newspaper.

Actually, I need to go back to the 1960s to put my story into perspective. From 1962 to 1964 I was teaching in Toronto, Canada. At that time Canada was about 50% Catholic, however, I quickly learned that the main religion in Canada was ice hockey. It was preached by the National Hockey League (NHL) on TV each Saturday and Wednesday evening during the season which, from memory, extended from November to March.

To give some idea of the hold that hockey had on the populace of Canada, nobody would ever think of having a dinner party when there was a hockey match on. People used to have dessert parties to which you would roll up about thirty minutes after the hockey game concluded. If you happened to arrive while the game was still on then you would not expect a warm welcome from your hosts. What you would do is let yourself in as quietly as possible and sit down with the rest of the group and watch the conclusion of the game. Then it would be time for fond greetings and dessert.

I quickly became a confirmed and fervent follower of the Toronto Maple Leafs ice hockey team. Their coach in the early 1960s was an interesting character named Punch Imlach. I am not sure if Punch was his real name or a nickname, but Punch must have been a very good coach. The Maple Leafs won the Stanley Cup, the Holy Grail of the NHL, in 1962, 1963 and 1964. In fact, in March of 1963, I was in the packed arena at the O’Keefe Centre to see the Leafs win the Stanley Cup against the Detroit Redwings who were led by the legendary Gordie Howe.

Apart from being a great hockey coach, Punch Imlach had a very colourful turn of phrase which flowed freely off his tongue in his post-match press conferences. In 1961, a young Frank Mahavolic burst onto the ice hockey stage and played a crucial role in the Leaf’s Stanley Cup win in 1962. However, in 1963, young Frank, or The Big M, as he was known, had what could be called the “second season blues” and his form was patchy.

At a post-match press conference a journalist enquired, “Punch, what is the matter with The Big M, he is not very consistent this year?”

Straight off the top of his head, Punch replied, “Winning is a streetcar named Desire and sometimes Frank doesn’t catch that tram.”

Now, I have followed sports all my life. For well over sixty years I have heard lots of coaches talk about lots of players and lots of teams, but no coach, not one, has ever made a comment that comes anywhere near that polished gem from Punch Imlach. It is the rolled gold, Guinness Book of Records, Olympic Gold Medal coaches’ comment of all time.

About twelve years later I was working in Donnybrook, a picturesque, rural town, about 220 kilometers south of Perth. In my day job I was the Primary School Principal at the Donnybrook District High School.

However, in a concerted effort to demonstrate that a man can do more than one thing at a time, I was also General Manager of the Donnybrook Football Club (The Dons) and the sports correspondent for the South West Times, a large regional newspaper based in Bunbury. 

My family enjoyed our life in Donnybrook from 1975 till 1981 and in all of those years I wrote the football report for all of the home games that The Dons played at the local oval. That would have been about 120 matches that I covered. Sometime in 1976 I started inserting Punch Imlach’s immortal words into my match reports.

“But winning is a streetcar named Desire and Donnybrook rode that tram to victory in a goal filled thrilling final quarter” would be a typical example of my florid prose.

Each week, along similar lines, I would write about the team or an individual riding to victory on that tram named Desire. Sometimes of course, I wrote that Donnybrook, like The Big M, had failed to catch that streetcar named Desire. I didn’t do it every game, but I did it a lot.

During the matches I used to sit in the elevated press box on the roof atop the members clubrooms and make notes on the game. I would be kept company by the two official match timekeepers and from time to time by two radio commentators from Bunbur, out to broadcast The Match of the Day.

After the game, as General Manager of the club, I had quite a few duties to perform, not least conducting a thirty minute presentation where I would welcome our supporters, make some comments on the game and inform them of upcoming events. Then I would invite the club president and the coach to address the members and make various match day presentations. After thanking our various sponsors, I could sign off and relax with some mates at the bar before joining my wife, Lesley, our three girls, and some friends at one of the tables for a spot of tea and some more liquid refreshments. As General Manager I was also the Licensee of the premises so, when the bar closed at eight o’clock I had to remain to see that everyone had left the building and that everything was securely locked up.

This meant that I did not get home until after 8-30 or 9-00pm, at which time I could start referring to my notes to write up the game. Writing the story could take up to three hours, during which time I would enjoy a glass of beer or two or three. I felt that the beer helped me to relax after the stresses of a long and busy day. I also felt that it helped me write more fluently. It was generally during these more “fluent” phases of my writing that that Streetcar Named Desire rolled into my match report. 

I used to finish writing the story around midnight and would leave it near the telephone because Lesley had to phone it through to the paper before 10-00am the next day. That was the deadline for the Tuesday edition.

Lesley observed, on more than one occasion, OK, OK, on almost every occasion, that while drinking beer may have made me think that my writing was more fluent, it also made it more illegible. My handwriting was not too legible in the first place. I had a primary teacher once, who told me my writing was so scrawly that I should become a doctor. Lesley said that she could tell my rate of beer consumption on the Sunday night by the sad deterioration of my handwriting, generally halfway down page three of the seven page story.

Nevertheless, each Monday morning, Lesley would, with some difficulty, read my scribbled football story over the telephone. Over the seven years she developed a friendly relationship with the journalists whose job it was to type up the story as she read it out.

Invariably, she would read something along the lines of, “In the final quarter, Donnybrook’s outstanding ruck-rover, Keith Bedford, demonstrated that winning is a streetcar named Desire. He kicked three goals which inspired his team mates to a thrilling eight point victory.”

“Oh, no” would come the jaded reporter’s voice over the phone. “He’s done it again”

Lesley would say something apologetic and continue reading. Needless to say, the references to winning and that streetcar named Desire would never get a guernsey, to put in football parlance. Not once in seven years. I got to know the editor quite well and we spoke often over the phone. He was an excellent editor and he told me that he liked my stories. But he didn’t ever print my flowery lines about winning, streetcars and desire. It became a bit of a joke between us.

In 1996, Lesley and I were in New Orleans. Lesley was browsing in a shop on the main street and I was standing out on the footpath, or the sidewalk, as the locals called it. At one point I looked up at a bus that was pulling into a nearby stop. In bright green electronic lights it had DESIRE printed boldly on the destination board above the windscreen. Although trams still operated on the famous St Charles line they had obviously been replaced by buses on the route to Desire. I quickly pulled out my camera and took a picture. Unfortunately it was around dusk and the light was not good. My flashlight just made the green letters paler. My picture showed a faded destination that, like my handwriting, was very hard to decipher. 

My immediate thought was that Tennessee Williams was very fortunate to write his play in the 1950s when trams, not buses, were running out to the suburb of New Orleans named Desire. Williams had Blanche DuBois say in the very first scene of his play that she had been told to catch a streetcar to Desire in order to reach her sister Stella’s apartment. He used that line as the title for his famous play. I don’t think “A Bus Named Desire” would have had quite the same dramatic impact.

So life goes on and life changes. Despite my best and repeated efforts, the editor at the South West Times, in his wisdom, never once included my homage to Punch Imlach and Tennessee Williams in my football stories. I sweated blood, and some alcohol, over those stories. 

It did teach me a life lesson, however. It showed me that even when you are on that streetcar named Desire you do not always arrive at your desired destination.

It's no secret anymore.

Many years ago, when I was in my teens, I was in madly love with Doris Day. She sang a song just for me. It was our song. It was called Secret Love. The punchline of this melodious song of love came just after the beautiful and enchanting Doris had shouted about our love from the highest hills and even told the golden daffodils that “Our secret love is no secret anymore.”

I guess, now, it is the same with ASIO, Australia’s intelligence gathering Secret Service organisation and the other equally, and formerly secret, police services. Just a few days ago these “secret” police agencies, in Queensland and New South Wales, involved 800 officers in raids on numerous households to prevent what was said to be a major terrorist threat. How did I find out about the activities of the secret service? It was on all the evening TV news bulletins and splashed across all the morning newspapers. Apparently, the Secret Police made videos of the raids and provided them to various media outlets. How very thoughtful of them.

Now, of course, the commercial TV networks have gone into overdrive covering every aspect of this possible terrorist threat. A day after the raids, Channel 9 set up its cameras in front of a private home and said the people inside had been interviewed by the Secret Police. Perhaps Channel 9 will consider painting a large target on the front of this house to assist energetic anti-terrorist, anti-Muslim vigilantes who may, like our Prime Minister, rush to judgement. 

Soon after the raids, Mr Abbott appeared on TV at the remote aboriginal community where he has been taking photo opportunity after photo opportunity, one including a rather sad picture of a smiling Mr Abbott looking straight at the camera and patting an aboriginal boy on the head, completely ignoring the boy’s attempt to shake his hand. 

Later on, Mr Abbot found another camera to tell his fellow Australians that the raids were the result of an intercepted telephone call in which somebody mentioned beheading an innocent Australian citizen. “This,” said Mr Abbott, “was a clear statement of intent.” No need to have a trial then. The PM has already issued a guilty verdict.

Two years ago the rabid radio jock, Allan Jones, not in a private telephone conversation but over the airwaves to his devoted if deluded listeners, said that the Prime Minister should be shoved into a chaff bag and dropped into the ocean. In fact he said it on numerous occasions. There were no early morning police raids on Jones’ home for his murderous and possibly treasonous statement against the Prime Minister of our country. Quite the contrary, in several newspapers he was praised for his deadly intent towards our Head of Government. At that time our PM was not Tony Abbott, it was Julia Gillard. Mr Abbott is a close friend of Allan Jones so he is no danger of being drowned in a chaff bag by the outspoken broadcaster or one of his fervid listeners.

The recent well publicised anti-terrorist raids focussed on Muslims and were linked to the horrific acts of the Islamic State in Syria, also known as The Islamic State in the Levant; the Levant being an area containing Syria, Iraq and neighbouring regions. This cutthroat sect is generally referred to as ISIS, ISIL or just plain IS. Its firmly held belief is that everyone should live according to their totally unrecognisable version of Islam and they will behead anyone who will not convert to their way of death.

Mr Abbott has already committed Australian troops and material to help save the people of Iraq from these murderous butchers. He has not declared war against IS, ISIL or ISIS, but says Australia is involved in a purely humanitarian mission to protect innocent Iraq communities from the sword wielding monsters in ISIL. However, he has sent a dozen or so fighter planes to the area. No doubt, if push comes to shove, we will drop some humanitarian bombs on ISIL forces.

The good news is that Australia’s “Budget Emergency” is now a thing of the past. Mr Abbott was quite happy to explain that his humanitarian actions in Iraq would cost about half a billion dollars a year. Maybe we can forget the Medicare co-payments? At least nobody in the media is talking about the budget anymore. Not when we have a war, sorry, a humanitarian action, on our hands.

All rational people agree that everyone should be protected from anybody who thinks they are doing God a favour by chopping the heads off non-believers. ISIL has no support from orthodox Muslim organisations overseas or in Australia. Anyone making such deadly threats in Australia should be quickly apprehended. My concern, however, is that these recent anti-terrorist raids involved 800 police officers in early dawn searches of many, many homes and brought in scores of Muslims for questioning. It has focussed attention on Australian Muslims a whole. And for what? All we know is that after the widespread raids and wholesale questioning only one person has been charged. One person!

Presumably, when this charged person comes to trial much, much more will be revealed. That is when we can all shout from the highest hills that the reason behind these widespread and widely publicised raids is a secret no more.

It will also be interesting to peruse the latest Newspolls after this flurry of anti terrorist activity. No doubt Mr Abbott, when he has finished patting little aboriginal boys on the head, will be interested, too.

Spring has sprung...or has it?

Today is September 1^st. In Perth, Western Australia, it is the first day of Spring. Or is it?

Most countries mark the transition of the seasons on the 21^st of the appropriate month. In the Northern Hemisphere of course, where the seasons are reversed, it is still Summer and will remain so until September 21^st.  In the Southern Hemisphere, South Africa also uses the 21^st as the date at which seasons change. So even though today is the first day of Spring in Perth and, indeed, across the entire continent of Australia, Spring will not arrive in Cape Town or Johannesburg until September 21^st.

For some reason, in Australia, we mark the start of our seasons on December 1^st, March 1^st, June 1^st and September 1^st. The North Americans, The Europeans and the South Africans choose to mark their seasonal transitions according to the times when the sun is over the Tropics of Capricorn and Cancer in December and June on the 21^st day of those months and over the Equator on  the 21^st day of March and September. The Equinoxes.

Of course, as a primary school boy growing up in Perth, I always knew when it was Spring. I had an after school job. My Aunty May owned the Lucky Bunny lottery kiosk at 119 Barrack Street. Each afternoon, at about four thirty, I had to run the lottery ticket butts and money to the Lotteries Commission office in St Georges Terrace. I always knew when Spring was coming, because in late August, as I ran down Hay Street, near Plaza Arcade, a man would be yelling out, “Sweet scented Boronia, threepence a bunch.” Ah, yes, that man’s shouting and the sweet smell of Boronia were my harbingers of Spring.

Of course, in Perth we have a Mediterranean climate of cool to cold, wet winters and warm to hot, dry summers. The fact is our winters are short and our summers are long. You could say winter runs four for months from May through to the end of Àugust. Summer lasts about eight months from September through to to the end of April. Of course we can get rainy days in summers and warmish days in Winter. This Friday, September 6th, the Weather Bureau says it will be 27 degrees. Now in some parts of the world they would take that for a summer's day.

In fact, it wasn't till I was in my early twenties and I travelled to England that I really experienced four very distinct seasons. I arrived in winter. The days were short and gloomy and the trees had no leaves. In the following months I gloried in the fact that buds were appearing on the trees, birds were out and about and the days were increasingly less gloomy. Summer of course was wonderful. Very long days that extended till after 9-0'clock at night with the gardens luxuriant and in glorious technicolour.

Later on in Canada the four seasons were even more marked. Of course there was a lot of snow in winter but the Autumn was a treasure house of multi coloured maple leaves that transformed the landscape into masterworks of art. 

Whether we use the sun’s position for the summer and winter solstices and the equinoxes, or the first day of the months in which those event occur to mark the seasons, the flowers and the rain and the cold and the heat and the winds don’t always seem to follow the rules. In my garden flowers started blooming in early August, when Spring was weeks away.

Dr Tim Entwisle, the Director of the Melbourne Royal Botanic Gardens believes that in Australia we have the seasons wrong. Dr Entwistle, who was previously the Director of London’s Kew Gardens and Sydney’s Botanic Gardens and Domain, knows quite a bit about the blooming trees. He says that we need FIVE seasons, which he names Sprinter, Sprummer, Summer, Autumn and Winter.

According to Dr Entwisle Australia’s seasons should begin on the first day of the month as follows:

Sprinter.         August/September. Wattles in bloom and gardens filled with flowers.

Sprummer.     October/November. A second wave of flowering.

Summer.         December/March.  A summer of four months. Hot and dry.

Autumn.         April/May.  Still plenty of warm days.

Winter.           June/July. Short burst of cold and wet weather.

Well of course, Australia is a big country so Dr Entwisle is obviously referring to land south of a line across Australia from Carnarvon to Newcastle, because Southern Australia has hot, dry summers and cold wet winters while Northern Australia has hot wet summers and warm dry winters. It is for this exact reason that most of our politicians find the need to head north on some investigatory mission in the cold southern winter months.

Now, Dr Entwisle may know quite a lot about the weather and the flowers that bloom in the Spring but he, like me, is a relative newcomer to this land.  Our records only go back less than 200 years. The Noongar people of south western Australia have been here for over forty thousands years. Over that time they observed that there were SIX seasons along what  is sometimes called The Rainbow Coast. The Noongars divided their year as follows:

Birak;                         January. Hot and dry.

Bunuru:                      February/March. Warm easterly winds.

Djeran:                       April/May. Cool and pleasant.

Mahuru:                     June/July. Cold and wet.

Djilba:                        August/September. Cold with lessening rains.

Kambarang:              October/November. Warm with rains finishing.

Birak:                         December. Hot and dry.

So, maybe Doctor Entwisle is on the right track and we do need five seasons. Or maybe six, according to Noongar tradition.

Meanwhile over in South Africa, the South African Weather Service is expressing concern about 

South African seasons, which as mentioned earlier, commence on the 21^st of the appropriate month as determined by the position of the sun over the equator and the tropics. In some respects the South African weather authorities seem to agree with Dr Entwisle that summer and winter are interspersed with shorter seasons of spring and autumn.The South African Weather Service says that Spring and Autumn are very short transitional seasons in South Africa, though it agrees that January is Mid Summer and July is Mid Winter. It has drawn up a proposal to reconfigure the seasons by not referring to the soltices and the equinoxes. It recommend the seasons be listed as follows:

Autumn.           March1 to May 31.

Winter.             June 1^st to August 31^st.

Spring.             September1st to November 30.

Summer:         December 1^st to February 28/29^th.

Hey, that’s what we have in Australia already. Maybe, we were right all along? It really is Spring after all.