Thought-provoking, hilarious and downright genius at times, the modern beer ad seems to be in a class of it’s own.
From the Woman Whisperer to The Big Ad and the original I could do with an Emu, how ’bout you?, beer ads have captured the imaginations (and wallets) of ‘blokes and sheilas’ across the country.
So how has this happened?
Down with love? Really?
It’s true. We love love. If love were running for PM, there’d be no need for a televised debate.
Love can cook? Move over Adam and Callum.
And if love had a competitive streak, then hello Australian Idol, we have a winner.
Love is perhaps the single most unifying force on the planet. It transcends all languages, crosses all religions*, can be gone in a week or wait a lifetime to arrive.
It sees no skin colour, has no age barrier and can survive unimaginable odds.
So we agree. Love is the unbeatable hand, the hole in one, the checkmate (no condom pun intended… okay maybe just a little bit).
When the captain takes a hit, the whole boat shudders.
I’m finally reading Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom. He talks about the great leaders who influenced him as a child and how they described leadership:
“A leader, he said, is like a shepherd. He stays behind the flock, letting the most nimble go on ahead, whereupon the others follow, not realising that all along they are being directed from behind.”
As a child, the first time you see one of your parents sick or hurt, it comes as a real shock. It makes you stop and wonder, exactly who the hell is in charge around here then?
They’re fallible? They’re mortal? Surely not.
Surely the strength and warmth and endless energy and patience they’ve displayed throughout my life is as solid as the earth itself. And then you learn that even the earth can move (not usually in an ‘89 Martika kind of way, either).
Life is full of blind corners and one of them hit me out of the blue last week.
I was parked in a marked bay on the side of the road, waiting to pick up my Mum after her French class.
It was 9.30pm, I had Triple J on the radio and was just thinking how quiet Northbridge is on a Tuesday night… as distinct from the weekend, when its heaving with girls and guys out to party (and depending on the time of night, out to vomit on the footpath, or punch each other in the head)…
Then, in my rearview mirror…. LIGHTS. SIRENS. SQUEAL. SMAAAASH.
The police had been pursuing a guy with a suspended license, who decided that braking was not in his repertoire and instead he would try and jump from the driver’s seat to prove that he was not the driver (!)
My car was his brake. Oh and the huge 4WD parked in front of me – that was my brake.
I knew I was injured straight away – I felt the pain shoot through my back as my body was thrown forward like a rag doll. And because I was parked, I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt.
I could see in the rearview mirror still and got a glimpse of the police jumping out to arrest the guy. I thought I would just stay put in case they were chasing him because he was on a shooting rampage (you never know!).
The Police did an amazing job – they were so attentive and caring. Then the ambulance arrived to assess me, put on my neck brace and take me to emergency.
Then, hilariously, due to a communication error about what kind of accident it was, a giant wailing fire truck full of beefy firemen arrived to cut me from the vehicle (which I clearly didn’t need!).
I would have been in heaven if I could have actually turned my head to look at any of them. Mum tells me they were suitably hot. DAMN.
Anyway, aside from my car being a write-off (I patted myself on the back for being smart enough to have comprehensive insurance, since the other guy didn’t even have a license!) my injuries should heal in a month or so and I will be back to normal. Well, a more enlightened version of normal.
It’s all the things we take for granted that get thrust into the spotlight when accidents happen, isn’t it?
If he had been going 10kms faster, I could have gone head first through the windscreen. I could be a paraplegic or have brain damage. It might take four people to roll me on my side so I could wee into a pan that a nurse holds under me. But thankfully, I am one of the lucky ones. I still have my dignity, my body and brain in one (albeit shaken and sore) piece.
It’s all these basic elements we forget are held so tenuously in the hands of fate – the things we cling to as fellow human beings: dignity, compassion, loyalty…. These are the things that get us through. We are all in this together, as Ben Lee so wisely says.
So, how many of those things do we throw away when we binge drink? Dignity – check. Compassion – frequently. Loyalty – sad, but often true.
Hello Sunday Morning is about redefining our relationship with alcohol, yes. But also, it gives us the chance to redefine our perspective on life.
Since the accident I have had two dreams (nightmares) in which I had downed an entire bottle of passion pop (poor taste, subconscious, poor taste). I felt like I had committed the worst of betrayals. Yet it was only to myself. But why is betraying yourself any more acceptable than betraying a friend? If you don’t like yourself a great deal, then it makes sense that you would have no regard for how you end up.
To take Sunday morning (and any other morning for that matter) for granted by wasting it on a hangover is a slap in the face to the healthy, full-bodied life we’ve been given.
If this sounds melodramatic or over the top, feel free to scoff. But come back to me when you’ve been at the scene of a serious accident and tell me it hasn’t changed your mind.
A friend of mine is about six weeks away from having a precious baby girl. Yesterday, some of her friends organised a ‘baby blessing’, something I had never been to. It was a real salute to the mother, something we don’t really have in our culture (don’t even mention hallmark mother’s day) and amongst other things, we all lit a candle and spent a minute thinking about everything our own mum’s went through to bring us into the world.
I know it sounds wanky, but it was really awesome.
And splashed across the news this week, of course, were the tragic stories of the young men we have lost to war. Good men who loved their families. I’m sure those wives and children would do anything to have one more Sunday morning, one more chance to hug him tight and say I love you.
I will never forget a beautiful phrase my Mum wrote to me in a letter when I was in London… “we are all human, fragile, unable to see round corners”.
So from now on I’m going to spend some time every Sunday being grateful for everything we have, aware that the next corner will bring unexpected challenges and adventures. Maybe this is the religion of a new generation.
Say hello, and thank you, Sunday Morning.
Something interesting happens when you begin to take control of your own life.
Heads turn. People ask questions. ‘Noise’ appears. Some people pat you on the back. Others don’t like it one little bit.
Options materialise. Something shifts.
I used to think that as individuals, we all grow up and slowly become who we are – we start with a wheel base, slowly add in parts of the chassis, tune the engine, adjust the mirrors, shine the hub caps, fuel it up and away we go.
But now, after watching my friend’s little boy grow over the past year (he is just 2) I have come to realise we are born all kitted up, done, perfect, whole and robust. As we grow up, other people, knowingly or not, with good intentions or bad, mess with our traction, tip dirt in the fuel tank, smash the windows, crunch the gears and skew the steering, until we are no longer road-worthy. Sometimes we even do these things to ourselves, under the misguided belief that it will make the ride smoother, or the engine more powerful.
When all we have left looks like something from the end of a Dukes of Hazzard episode (circa 1979), what we really need is a patient mechanic and a little time off the road.
I watched Notting Hill last week, for about the millionth time. Stupid thing to do when you’re single really – depressing and uplifting all in one go.
The romance sucks you in like a black hole and you’re left reaching for the tissues and wondering why you haven’t met a Hugh Grant lookalike who owns a travel bookshop and worships the ground you walk on.
Obviously, I’m talking about Community (phew!).
Perth was under attack on Monday night, with hail the size of tennis balls, flash flooding and 120km/hr winds.
Despite some damage to property, a few evacuations and some scary driving conditions, thankfully we are all ok.
It’s strange (and a sad indictment of our generation) that we don’t know our neighbours until we experience a major natural disaster.
All of a sudden the inhibitions are packed away and people rush to talk to each other – complete strangers – about this amazing, terrifying experience they’ve just had.
Perth sunset after the storm... everything is calm again
A sense of community can only come from shared experience and I guess when something huge happens which is out of everyone’s control, all of a sudden we have something in common.
Reflecting on Chris Ruddock’s post, I thought it pertinent to point out that a community is exactly what we are building right now, through our shared experience of HSM. Even though we are on opposite sides of the country, different ages, backgrounds, interests, education, careers… we all have a shared understanding of what we’re trying to do.
In 2006, I set out to build a community around the talented artists and designers we have in Perth and give them an outlet to sell their work and build a brand profile. Unwrapped is now Perth’s favourite designer market and together, we have built a pathway from the classroom to the big wide world. I felt that, as a group, we could do anything, but individually, these talented students and graduates were getting lost in the wash of commercialism and suffering a lack of confidence in their own abilities.
The step they needed to take was too big and they couldn’t see how they could make the jump alone.
A community means I’m never alone.
Even aside from the storm, this week has been a pretty exciting one for me. I’ve been offered a senior marketing and pr role with a very worthy and dynamic not-for-profit. It is an exciting new challenge, but one I feel really ready for. Finally I feel like the story – my story – is shifting and one brick at a time I am building the life I want… much like my favourite pick-a-path books as a kid! …Except I would always read every alternate ending and then go back and pick the one I wanted 
There is no ultimate time frame for those who are doing HSM, but for me, it has become obvious that even a year wasn’t enough. The reason I say that is because it took me so long to unravel what was really going on under all the layers, that after a year I feel like I have only just begun.
I was explaining to Mum the other day that when I drank, it gave me a temporary escape. Now, that may sound harmless, but what I was escaping from was reality. And dealing with the truth and all the implications that holds.
I have been in three serious long-term relationships and each of them had their share of challenges. Rather than cutting my losses at the first serious sign of trouble, when my gut instinct said ‘this is never going to work’, I persisted in trying to fix them for way too long for a number of reasons:
1. I am a hard-core optimist and give people way too much credit
2. I am a romantic and thought that at the time he was ‘the one’
3. Every few days, I would escape from the problems by getting drunk, thereby never really facing the full effect of how unhappy I was, because it was interspersed with frequent occasions of inebriated ‘elation’.
So, what have I learned by taking away my crutch of drunken escapism?
1. It’s fine to be an optimist, but the very moment someone does something that hurts you or takes you for granted, you say so. Loudly. And if it continues, you walk away (that may sound harsh, but I don’t have time to waste giving people multiple chances to be nice to me… it’s really not that hard!).
2. I now know there is no ‘one’ person for everyone – there are lots. It’s just random luck and circumstance which ‘one’ you end up meeting and falling for. But if you know yourself, and you’re keeping it real all the time, then one of those ‘right’ people will be attracted to you. He or she will find you. However, if you are not projecting an image that is authentically you, that’s when you end up attracting inappropriate partners.
3. So how do I deal with having no ‘eject’ button, no alcohol-fuelled escape pod? I use the same methods I used as a kid… I run, swim, ride my bike, hang out with my family, do a dance class, watch a movie, visit my friends, draw, take photos, go to museums and galleries, bookshops, bake a cake, grow flowers, crank some tunes up and sing loudly… in other words, I live fulltime in the present, still dream optimistically about the future and every now and then reflect on the past to remind me of the lessons I have learned.
In reality, there are no short-cuts. There are no quick fixes. You will not win lotto (sorry, but someone had to say it).
Reality is hard work and it’s tiring. But it’s real. And it’s tangible. And it’s also so much more rewarding than living in a sea of denial and popping your head up every now and then to look around and go, ‘Eek! Where am I now?’ only to duck back under again.
Maybe the dishes can wait...
Last night, I was reading a great article in Women’s Health magazine about our attitude to time and how it is shaping our society. From a new book called The Time Paradox, they quote a 2008 study (replicated from 1989) which found that people are spending less time with family and friends and more time using ‘time saving’ devices, like computers, email, fast food, microwaves and sms to try and get ahead. But despite all of this, people report being just as busy as they were 10 years ago. The authors of the book recommend 3 strategies:
I mentioned in my previous post a book I am reading called Stuck, which is getting more and more interesting by the page… the author has delved quite deeply into what makes us form bad habits and how we can break them.
Drinking is really just a habit. Breaking that auto-pilot mentality of ordering a drink when I went out was one of the first hurdles I encountered. I will leave you with a snippet from Stuck:
“We all have behaviours we wish we could stop, but say we can’t.
We have to want to stop to stop.
We have to stop to stop.”
Limits are an unavoidable fact of life, much like gravity, taxes and hot sports cars always being driven by old, balding men.
For most of us, managing our own limits is part of the burden of growing up. Some days it’s harder than others. Sometimes we need mum to remind us to eat our greens and stop watching so much TV. But 99% of the time we manage to be law-abiding, polite, socially acceptable citizens.
Aside from the odd speeding fine (sooo sorry officer, I honestly thought this was an 80 zone!); the occasional binge (what packet of kingstons?) and splurge (But I really had to buy three… they were on saaale!) I think I do ok. But it wasn’t always like that. I haven’t always been good at limits.
So who manages your limits once your parents turn their back on the playground? Is it your boss (no one needs more than 30 minutes for lunch!); your lecturer (Frost, tell me you’re not about to ask for another extension?); the police? The council? Your landlord? Your coach? Your partner? Or, despite the fact that you’re an adult in every sense of the word, is it still your mum and dad?
I have to tell you I got some very mixed signals about limits as a kid. My Mum did a great job, setting some good solid limits. As was my duty, I tested them thoroughly from ages 13-18 and aside from one teeny-weeny outta control party (that I got eternally grounded for) we negotiated and moved on. Lesson learned.
My dad on the other hand, set no limits. Or he purposely contradicted Mum’s limits. And I should mention, they lived on opposite sides of the country, so I wasn’t playing discipline ping-pong in the one household. Still, I have to say my dad did me no favours by neglecting to say ‘no’ at the appropriate times.
Reading Emily’s post, I was reminded of a few truly humiliating things that occurred during my drunken haze that was uni. Probably times when I should have recognised the line for myself and stepped back, rather than hurtling past the limit, pedal to the floor.
I might only relate these one week at a time, just to keep up appearances
My flat mates and I had a house party. I was getting drunker and louder and cheekier by the minute (I tend to push the absolute limits of cheekiness when I drink). Then a guy showed up who had once locked me in his room and tried to make me sleep with him in high school.
Just seeing him on my property made me seethe. I got angrier and angrier, throwing more vodka down my throat until I was so ready for a fight, that’s exactly what I got.
We verbally jousted for about 10 minutes until he said something ultimately insulting (I can’t remember, but he probably called me fat) and I slapped him so hard across the face, I think even he was shocked.
Thrilled with my little victory I ran off and continued rampaging around the garden, jumping on my male flat mate’s shoulders like he was my stallion (yes, that’s right. I was wearing an extremely short dress. Cringe.).
And then came the retaliation. He pushed my flat mate backwards (with me still perched on his back) and tipped two – not one, but two (even at the time I thought it was an excessive waste) – jugs of beer on us. Well, mainly on me, but my unfortunate steed copped it too.
So then I was drunk, and wet and stank of beer and was covered in dirt.
The entire party was laughing at me. My nemesis and his mates were in hysterics.
I was mortified.
I stumbled inside, barely able to walk I was so drunk. All I remember is one of my best friends helping me out of my clothes and into the shower.
Not my proudest moment.
Aristotle once said, “Anyone can become angry – that is easy, but to be angry with the right person at the right time, for the right reason and in the right way – that is not easy.”
I was in Oxford Street Books on the weekend and gravitated towards a book called Stuck – Why We Can’t (or Won’t) Move on. I’m only about 40 pages in so far, but it promises to ‘expose the complex network of causes for our immobilisation, from fear and denial to powerful messages in popular culture or mass media that conspire to convince us that we’re helpless in the face of our cravings.’
Cool. I’m all ears. Unstuck-ness here I come.
Speaking of coming unstuck… I had my final Level 1 surfing lesson last Sunday.
Almost died.
But didn’t!
I don’t know if you’ve ever taken a wave and then realised a second too late that it’s got way more curl on it than you expected and you have no idea what might happen next?! Couple of underwater backwards somersault’s later and I thought to myself don’t panic, you’re not meant to die like this …and then I popped up.
It was also the end of a really crap week. I was already down and had been looking forward to the Sunday morning surf, so I was pretty disappointed with a near-death experience.
Despite the fact that I was then really quite ready to spit the dummy and give up, once I realised I was alive and amazingly not hurt, I got back on that board. I was rewarded ten minutes later by a fellow learner dropping in on my wave and then dropping on me!
Thanks. I really needed an 80kg pile-driver to finish me off.
Sprained neck = check.
Despite my moaning, I do feel truly lucky, knowing that Scarborough Beach is notorious for a suspiciously shifty sandbank that paralyses people, shocking rips that drown tourists and crowded surf that causes wave-rage every summer.
Scarborough Beach, aka the dumping ground!
Voted my least favourite beach of 2010. And yet, I got to walk away.
This weekend, although I won’t get to see it, I have a piece I designed in an exhibition as part of L’Oreal Melbourne Fashion Festival , in partnership with the Australian Poetry Centre, which is pretty exciting.
We were asked to refashion a calico bag inspired by poetry. You can see all the bags here (mine is Item 4) and if you’d like a chance to own one, they are being auctioned, so put in a bid!
One of my favourite poems of all time is The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost (I wish he was related, but sadly no). I will leave you with his words…
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
It was pure coincidence I suppose, but I still find it astounding.
On 15 February 2010, I changed my Facebook status to:
Today = 1 whole year without alcohol. Never felt better. The challenge is set… anyone game?
Amongst the reply posts, one of my friends sent me a link to the Sydney Morning Herald story on Chris Raine and HSM.
I couldn’t believe my eyes – I no longer felt like a lone fish swimming upstream… now I knew there were others (not in any kind of freakish sci-fi way, you understand).
The final challenge for 2009: The New Years Eve Party
So a bit about me… I graduated uni with a double major in journalism and design; I have my own part-time business promoting young designers (called Unwrapped); I live on our beautiful west coast and I’ll let you guess how old I am.
I didn’t understand the depth of my dependence on alcohol until I quit drinking altogether (the same thing happened with sugar, but that might be slightly off-topic), even though by that stage, I had stopped binge-drinking several years ago.
Having first tried alcohol at the age of 16 as a bored teenager living in a small town, my brain soon forgot how to have fun without it. My identity sat down on the footpath, as a hurt and forgotten little girl, and waited for me to come back for her. My confidence had no stability and no real foundation. And I missed the lesson on how to choose appropriate boyfriends.
I had to start all over again.
Of the past 3 years, I have spent 2.5 of them living in London, working in marketing, and I have been privileged enough to see an enormous amount of our amazing planet.
London is amazing, but there's no place like home
I came home because I couldn’t bear to be away from my Mum and brother for another day and because I was very unwell.
I first got sick in November 2007, on a work trip to Houston, Texas, where we were working 17 hour days for 4 days straight. I got back to London and I couldn’t move from my bed. It felt like I’d been injected with lead and my body bruised from the inside out. For days I was in so much pain I couldn’t even have a sheet on me.
I was under so much pressure at work – the directors continued to ring me and bully me until I came into the office again and after a month of trying to push myself through the ridiculous fatigue and pain, I quit.
It was February in London and deathly cold. My goal for each day was not huge. I’d get rugged up and shuffle to Holland Park, about 500m away, where I’d sit with the pensioners in the rose garden and watch the birds until my nose hurt from breathing in.
I’d shuffle home again, only to have to sleep for three hours from the effort. Going up 8 stairs gave me palpitations. I may as well have been 85.
So I finally found a proper, old-school doctor, who said “you have post-viral fatigue syndrome. You need a complete time out. Stop trying to do anything. Just nurture yourself and get your immune system working again. Avoiding alcohol would be a good idea too, just until you’re feeling better”.
So that’s where it started. I had to forget what my old life looked like and begin again with a blank canvas. I decided I would stop drinking until I felt better.
A year ago it all began... not drinking at a wedding in a Yarra Valley winery!
Over the next few weeks, I will explain how I made it through 12 months of not drinking and why I still haven’t had a drink, despite the fact that I feel better. I’ll tell you all about my ‘Yes’ – my own health being my number 1 priority – learning to surf and learning to be single for the first time since I was 16.
And I hope you’ll join me as I try and work on my exit strategy. At this point I’m too scared to have a drink again, but I need to get past that. Just as astronauts would when returning to earth, I have to make sure I’m travelling at the right speed and trajectory, so I don’t burn up on re-entry.
'Look Up Boy' ... one of my favourite shots from London
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