A re-bottled champain rip-off

When a local pub charges through the nose for its house wine on a Saturday night, it’s not normally somewhere that’s likely to attract me back, unless it’s the desperation stakes and everywhere else is closed. So be it. I’ll walk the extra few blocks … it’s easier going rather than coming home sometimes, but that’s another story … to find a quiet pub that sells decent plonk at a reasonable price. Good food helps, too.
But I was told a disturbing story that has sealed the issue once and for all.
The sister of a mate was at a noisy local a week or so ago and she ordered a glass of the house bubbles. Can’t recall whether I was told what she paid for it, but I’m guessing it was top dollar.
Anyway, she got her glass and headed back to join her friends.
One sip was all it took. It was off. Gone to God. Not even suitable for dousing a stove-top fire.
She went back to the bar and politely said to the barman: “Sorry, but this is off.” And handed the glass to the said barman.
Get this … he had a mouthful from her glass and indignantly said: “No it’s not. It’s all right.”
“No, it’s off,” she persisted. “Can I have a fresh glass from a newly opened bottle?”
The debate went to and fro until the barman finally relented and opened a new bottle and poured her a glass.
She thanked the barman and was about to return to her friends when he picked up the “off” bottle and she watched in horror as he topped up the fresh bottle with it.
Surely a joint that charges like a bank hell bent on bleeding us for ATM fees … isn’t that all of them? … can cover spoilage and send the offending piss (that’s what it was) to a new life at the bottom of the sink.
Sheesh.

Q&A leaves questions unanswered

After I blogged last night (thanks to the Charlotte Sound pinot for the assistance) I headed for the sanctuary of the couch and a bit of teev.
Why, I don’t know, I opted for Q&A still has me flummoxed. Don’t like the show much although the Jones fella is OK … but it seems to be a conversation must at work each Tuesday morning and it’s (sometimes) good to have an input.
I suffered through it and the suffering stayed with me until the morning when I hooked into the interweb thing and posted the Crikey word of the day. (Check out @mickthesub1 on Twitter each morning if you can be buggered.)
I thought I may as well have a crack at Q&A, so I tweeted “suffered thru Q&A last night. boring, contrived. i'd forgotten what shouting '60s-'70s rallies were like. good reason not to watch next week”.
I dunno whether it made me feel better … OK it did. It’s always good to get that sort of crap off your chest early before you get on with the real issues of the day.
Got some support too, suggesting that “Writers believing they were saving lives with their moral superiority, err sorry we have doctors to do that!”
I was feeling liberated on the way to work. I’d inadvertently left my phone at home. Shit it’s a good feeling, and besides, it was just too far to walk back to get it.
Then the first story I did for the morning at Crikey was a behind-the-scenes look at Q&A. I felt vindicated, although the executive producer poured some cold water on the yarn.
It was still a win for me.

Try, try and try again

Talking of wins, tomorrow night it will be good to get back into the swing of a night with some mates, some pizzas and some decent plonk or whatever and the best footy played anywhere in the country … Collingwood versus Adelaide at the weekend notwithstanding … when Queensland takes on New South Wales in state-of-origin one. I’ll be donning the Maroons shirt.
And flying the flag. I’m still keen to see just which team Age footy legend Rohan Connolly supports … one way or the other it could lead to some heated conversations … probably one-way because young Connolly is the most passionate supporter of anything that I’ve ever met.

In one ear and straight out the other

I watched and listened a bit this morning to a Gillard presser. I know it’s wrong in every way to be judgmental, but listening to the politically-dead-PM-walking (and talking) is something (I imagine) akin to an aural laxative. I'm not particularly enamored sometimes of either side of the political spectrum, but there is just something lacking in the Ranga-In-Chief's delivery.
Anyway, bugger this, it’s time for some crusty bread and some slow-cooked beef and vegetable casserole. At least that won’t go straight through.
I hope, anyway.

A wine to whine about

Oh, and some last-minute breaking news ... the fantastic chablis I ordered after tasting it last Wednesday night is not on. There's not a bottle to be had anywhere. The advice is to wait for next year's vintage.
Double sheesh.

What's my beef? Well, it's certainly not the wine/s by a long shot

ANOTHER TRAM BEEF

It must be time for another small tram whinge (OK, the tram was big). I’ll fess up to having the odd McDonald’s, usually after a prolonged morning/afternoon/evening/day/week/month on the singing syrup. It doesn’t happen all that often … the Maccas bit that is … but what better way to face a Monday, I thought, than to do it on the back of an alcohol-free Sunday … lots of water, decent food … I was feelin’ OK. Until I squeezed onto the No.96 bound for the city. Someone close to me (that didn’t narrow the field any) had just eaten/inhaled/scoffed a Maccas beef product and the smell was … Jesus, it was almost nauseating … not a pleasant thing for a five-minute tram trip that seemed to take a hour. Maybe I was way off the mark and someone had stood in something on the way to the station … but I’m still going for Maccas theory. And bugger me (should that be burger me?), I managed to get the Hungry Jack’s quinella on the return trip, courtesy of some uniformed school kids. The lack of a crowd made it just bearable.

CHIPPER … BY THE DOZEN

Wine, in a shock twist, seems to be at the forefront of things of late. Ben Thomas, the most-excellent wine writer for The Weekly Review (www.theweeklyreview.com) weighed in last week with a most welcome tweet, advising me that he had doubled up on some All Saints Rutherglen Muscat and “if you call by the office, I have a bottle for you”. I haven’t yet tried it … I’m having a good old standby as I write this … a Charlotte Sound pinot noir (from Marlborough) … but try it I will when the occasion presents. Follow Ben at @senorthomas on twitter. And get online at www.theweeklyreview.com to check Ben’s archives. This week’s column is headed “Life is a cabernet, old chum”, and has some excellent cabernet sauvignon words and recommendations including Ben’s food matches. For the record, I work as chief subeditor for The Weekly Review. A subeditor is one of those people that The Age doesn’t need apparently, something I can relate to after taking a redundancy package from the paper after almost 20 years, depending on whether you believe me or the tight-arsed bean counters at the said Age.
But I digress.
The Weekly Review is without question the best, friendliest office in which I have ever worked. Big call, I know, but it’s on the money.
How many people get to work in an office where, amazing (read the best) camaraderie aside, someone cooks lunch every day? Not too many is my bet. The Weekly Review editor (no name, it’s a modesty thing) every day sends me a text message at my other job (I work at Crikey, too), saying simply “Lunch here”. If it’s not the editor in the kitchen cooking, it’s the IT boys whipping up anything from a roast chicken and vegetables to soup to kebabs to steaks to a barbecue mixed grille to pasta, salads, chilli beans, stir fries, whatever, (again no names … I know Damien is really private). Damo can cook (and he loves chillis), big time. And it doesn’t hurt to mention that today he gave me a bottle of Tre Viti, a crisp white produced by food legend Stefano de Pieri in Mildura. It’s a blend of Monscato Giallo, Grego Di Turo and Malvasia and is for drinking in the short term. Oh, and thanks gang, for the birthday cake, even if you had to borrow my lighter for the candles (sorry that it ran out of flint and you had to look further afield).
Seems everyone kicked in a fiver ages ago to get a Weekly Review pantry started and we pay the said fiver each day to keep up supplies. Today, for the record, was Damo’s spag bol and it was a cracker, with some crusty bread on the side.
I did manage to keep off the cigars for a whole week which was no mean feat (yes, I even jogged and did some of that other exercise stuff), given that there was wine consumption aplenty. But the rails apparently were something to come off.
I went to a farewell dinner for the staff at Randall’s (it’s been sold to Coles), more particularly a send-off for Nico, a smooth Italian operator who knows about wine, works the crowd and is an all-round good guy, who is being lost to this country, which is a shame. I wandered into Randall’s to grab a bottle of something (it was BYO at Basillico next door) and on the staff recommendation, opted for what I thought was a half-decent bottle of shiraz. I knew I was in trouble when one of the guys said to me: “Did you bring this shit?” He was half kidding, of course, but on the money. We had that night a dozen or so wines, each one a cracker, and one was the best thing that has ever passed my lips, Grange notwithstanding. I’m still waiting for a list (the memory plays tricks) but have been promised that the list will be delivered … and yes, I will post it. Suffice to say that it was a French chablis and my God, what a wine. I’ve ordered a bottle of it (OK, it’s about $145 a throw so I’m not buying multiples here) and I’m waiting patiently. When and with whom to drink it is going to be the biggest dilemma. Maybe it’ll now be a solo job (and that’s not a soft drink reference).
I was scheduled to be taken out for a birthday dinner a couple of days later (an ideal opportunity to try it), but that went pear-shaped after a yum cha at Shark Fin in the city and a break at the hairdresser’s to have some of the excessive grey removed from my head-top thatch. Thank you, Sheridan, for another splendid job. With the best laid plans of behaving, it went off the rails courtesy of a French rose … in multiples. And it was a never-to-be-repeated birthday dinner. Sad, that, in the extreme.
Birthday eve had suddenly gone from scorched almonds to boiled lollies … although there was the lure of an early-afternoon wine tasting at Randall’s the next day … Nico’s dozen they called it. And what a dozen. But not before a trip to the market to get some goodies to line the stomach. The weekend choice was a slow-cooked casserole (made with aged Black Angus beef at about $18 a kilo and a tonne of vegetables). I got it onto the stove top, gave it a run for its money and then deposited the cast-iron pot into the oven for up to four hours. Worked a treat … still is. Suddenly I was Randall’s bound.
OK, the list of wines:
2010 Boschendal Chenin Blanc
Waterdon Riesling 2009
2008 Fontaine-Gagnard Chassagne ‘Les Vergers’
2008 Fontaine-Gagnard Chassagne ‘Clos des Murees’ (both down to $105 from $125)
2007 Simon Bize Bourgogne Blanc
2008 Faugeres ‘Les Fusionets’
2008 Acoustic
2008 Sempar Duro (seems I remember the conversation suggesting that the name means something like “always hard” in Italian … OK I’ll go with that. Thanks Lou.)
2007 Dugat Gevrey-Chambertin (on special at $120, down from $160)
2008 Clos St Jean Chateauneufdupape
2007 Jasmin Cote-Rotie ($75, down form $130)
And then there was Nico’s mystery wine, carefully decanted and described by him as something akin to a cleanskin.
Not even close.
It was a 2001 Giuuseppe Quintqarelli Valpolicella Classico Superiore.
Sweet mother of Jesus. Nuff said, other than it was amazing.
All of the wines are available at Randall’s just in case anyone’s keen on the idea of emulating a wonderful Saturday afternoon.
Given that dinner was a thing of the past, what better thing to do when returning home than opening a refreshing bottle of Grande Cuvee 1531 Aimery Cremant de Limoux bubbles? It worked a treat, as did the bottle of chardy later in the evening. Oh, and the slow-cooked beef casserole. Yeah, it was a big day and the perfect prelude to spending my birthday alone. Them’s the breaks. Phone calls from my kids and my ex-wife (one of ‘em) helped cheer me up … so did a quick visit from my youngest son, Joel (he was on his way to work, dealing poker at Crown). Thanks mate, I appreciate it and am looking forward to dinner on Thursday night.
Single life? Do what you gotta do, when you gotta do it.
Oh, and it’s why Sunday was the first alcohol-free one in a long time.

Subeditors? Substantial savings? Get ya hand off it, Fairfax

A piece I wrote this week for Crikey

Crikey grumpy old man and sub Mick Vaughan writes:

Subeditors in the news? You betcha. Here’s the bottom line: subeditors rarely make mistakes, they sometimes miss other people’s and, generally when that happens, the sub is usually first in line for a kick in the arse -- rarely the reporter. The reason is, of course, that the sub has the responsibility of the last look at a story before the overall-clad brigade (or is it white, corporate dustcoats these days?) hits the button in the automated press room.

In the old days, proof readers used to be the next-to-last eyes before that profession (and, yes, it was a profession) was given short shrift and their job was absorbed into the subs' repertoire.

Subs' repertoire, you ask? Let’s get down to it. Newspaper subeditors (a desk of a chief, deputy, checksub/s and downtable bods) are variously the arbiters of good taste; they read, refine and edit copy often to make more/some sense, correct spelling, house style, punctuation and grammar, check facts, raise legal issues, design and lay out pages, hassle photographers to get pictures, crop the said pictures*, liaise with artists/designers, check with reporters to clarify facts, write precedes, breakout quotes, witty captions and often excellent headlines, read and correct proofs, mentor staff (especially juniors -- we used to call them cadets), hassle people to get things done within deadline (OK that's really the grumpy chief job), answer questions from people too lazy to get off their arse to check for themselves, grab a bite to eat at their desks, drink lots of really shit newspaper office coffee, (in the old days) smoke too much and enjoy a beer after the shift ... and love the whole damned thing. There was always a tangible sense of pride in all subs as they left the building after a shift, a copy of that day’s paper tucked under their arm.

That’s a huge, vital skill set that Fairfax, in one fell swoop, is planning to eliminate from its ranks, a move that will be counter-productive to the Fairfax dream of The Age again becoming a quality broadsheet. Pagemasters, the industry’s equivalent of the $2 Shop (OK, that's harsh), will be charged with the task of making it so and, with the word on the street indicating that the company has a pay ceiling for subs of 60 large, it is hardly a guaranteed, gilt-edged incentive for the ex-Age staffers. Imagine the many soon-to-become-former Fairfax subs getting by on maybe half of their usual salary.

There isn’t a reporter alive, at Fairfax, News Limited or even at the Barcoo Independent (if it’s still going), whose arse hasn’t been saved by a vigilant sub.

I have an ex-Fairfax mate (a lot actually, I’m one too -- I haven’t yet met one departed staff member who hasn’t kicked goals after departing the penny-pinching factory that is Fairfax: God knows I got screwed, but that’s another story) who spent four days rewriting, massaging and checking a huge yarn that went on to win a Walkley. With all the fanfare associated with such a prestigious win, the reporter took the money and ran (all right, he waddled) without so much as an acknowledgement of the sub’s by-then priceless work. Not so much as a beer or even a thank you.

But that’s the deal, really. Subs are backroom staff who, best three headlines at the Walkley or Quills aside, get three-fifths of five-eighths of f-ck all praise from anyone other than their editors. Journalism, sadly, these days is a personality-focused profession … it’s all about the byline and often larger-than-life accompanying dinkus picture.

The subs’ desk usually is like a happy workshop, one where ideas and banter are bounced around the table, jokes are cracked (usually good-natured and often at a colleague’s expense) and where the camaraderie leads to the great ideas that become reality and contribute to enhancing and maintaining the once-cherished integrity of the masthead.

One evening (as chief sub) and right on deadline, The Age sports editor asked me to change something I considered could wait. "Can we do it for the first edition?" he asked. "No," I replied, "we’re up against it. There are still pages to go. It’s not that important." "Really, I’d like to make the change," he insisted. "Mate," I said, "what part of f-ck off don’t you understand? We’ll do it for the second edition." We did. We laughed. Camaraderie at its finest.

I can recall in a previous life at The Sunday Age happy workshop (before Steve Harris changed it to the seventh day of The Age, something for which I'll never forgive him) when my best mate and I, due to finish at midnight on a Friday, sat until 2am (that’s four unpaid man hours -- and yes, we were having a beer … all right, three) to get one headline to say something that we thought was deserving of the story. We did it. I can’t remember what it said, but I know it was bloody good.

Not as good as the one I once wrote for a column piece about Martina Hingis falling off a horse in Melbourne during her time here for the Australian Open. Reckon it said something like: "Cunning Hingis licks her wounds". Still wonder why it never got a run. OK, not really.

That sort of commitment, even love, of the product doesn’t cut it in today’s newsroom.

Mic Looby, on The Drum, and Mel Campbell, on New Matilda, and former Fairfax subeditor Charles Maddison in Crikey on Thursday, each wrote excellent, straight-up summations of why the Fairfax folly is in fact folly. But I think the final word belongs to @SimonThomsen on Twitter on Thursday, who nailed the latest in a long list of Fairfax acts of stupidity: "What do you call a newspaper without subeditors? A blog."

*A Sunday Age sports editor of my acquaintance, unhappy with his requested photo, once put it to the chief photographer: "Did he actually get out of the car to take this … or was it a f-ckin' drive-by shooting?"

*Follow @mickthesub1 on Twitter

ANDREW McUTCHEN, YOU STAR

It’d be nice to say that things have been a bit on the quiet side in terms of the better things in life … OK, that’s good company, good food and wine … but they have been quiet. At least fore the past two days they have. Alcohol-free in fact … eight and a half hours sleep a night and I’m unsure of what to make of it ... OK, the body is rebelling because it’s not sure why it is rested, sober and still well fed.
It was a move that came out of some sort of necessity after a weekend of monumental proportions, given that I’d had kids in the house again for a few days and nights and to say that there was some wine … all right, bourbon, scotch beers and other stuff … consumed is like saying that it’s a fairly long drive around Australia.
I’d forgotten just how well I slept when they are about, not. One, with girlfriend in tow, ambles/staggers/reels through the front door any time between midnight and four, while the sober one (read black sheep of the family) rocks in at six. I’m a parent. I hear them no matter how tired I am.
The Vanuatu arm of the family (Liam) and his girlfriend (Mara … she’s a Canadian personal trainer and probably the fittest person in my house since I was 84 kilograms what seems a lifetime ago) enjoyed their stay in freezing Melbourne … it was in the 20s every day, yet I have a picture of him in jeans, jumper, robe and a pair of ugg boots. Joel, my youngest, also stayed … the boys are very close … and he’s a dealer. I love saying that to people who cast a quizzical eye at me. OK, he deals poker at the casino and loves it. Like I said, he doesn’t drink or smoke, is nearly always sensible and he sings in a band that is putting together an album (more when the details become apparent to anyone outside their often-noisy house).
Given his mother’s and my penchant for the odd snifter of something, it’s nothing but praise for him turning out the way he did, even if he’s one of the world’s great night owls.
I had a feeling that the visit would go pear-shaped the night the Vanuatu express hit town. Seems he’d been bumped up to first class (he knows lots of the airline staff over there) and subsequently there was the bottomless glass of red (and, he claims, really good food), something for which I think he has a degree/masters/doctorate. Maybe he’s just a natural who has been well taught by his father. He was met at the airport by his girlfriend and a mate (I was at home drinking wine … of course I was) although to this day, he doesn’t remember it. It wasn’t apparently the red that did it, more like the beers he had with mates at the airport before he flew out of Port Vila. Yeah, right. He finally emerged through immigration minus his footwear, which he’d left on the plane. Then there was the problem of getting his luggage, which had been confiscated/misplaced/whatever by Customs to whom he’d been “cheeky”.
After an entrance like that, little wonder we could but drink the duty-free scotch until the need for sleep enveloped us all … earlier than I had anticipated. No going out for us lot.
What followed were days (even mornings sometimes) when the need for a fermented mouthwash was the order of the day. Lunches, dinners, snacks, all washed down with something. And the Dominican Republic cigars (how good are they?). Thank God the Limerick in South Melbourne was open for lunch on Good Friday.
Sunday was a family gathering, mother (and her husband), father, sons. I went market shopping in the morning to buy laksa ingredients and to restock the flower vases in the house. Oh yeah, I bought wine too. It was still AM but we lifted the stopper on a bottle before heading to a local pub for a long Sunday lunch/afternoon tea/pre-dinner drinks extravaganza.
Luckily, after a few post-lunch drinks, I spent three hours or so on the phone to a friend, something that got me back onto the straight and narrow (Yeah, like that’s ever happened).
Joel through it all was designated driver, confidante, level-headed influence and all-round good guy. Thanks mate, well played.
It all culminated in a farewell dinner with a few (there were eight of us at Lina’s wine bar) at the farewell dinner. I love Liam lots, but I wasn’t all that unhappy to see him into an airport-bound cab after a lifting, filling bowl of the old man’s laksa to sustain them on their trip back to paradise. Oh, and given that footwear was in short supply, I cost me an (old) pair of snakeskin boots, which will no doubt grace many a social occasion in Port Vila.
The next two days were spent, after working my arse off at Crikey and at The Weekly Review, after which it was combing the house for remnants of bodies, crockery, the odd ladle, cutlery, food scraps, a waitress or two, sunglasses, wine glasses, empty cigarette packets, corks, empty lighters, socks (yeah, he borrowed mine. Of course he did), bottles (99 per cent empty), hay bales (no a lot surprises me), restaurant menus, plastic bags, duty-free receipts, aluminium cigar tubes and sundry other stuff. Oh, and the pile (think Ayers Rock dimensions) of towels, bed sheets, doona cover, pillow cases, socks and whatever else needed washing.
It was almost good to be back at work after the Easter break. OK, it was good to be back at work … earning some dough seemed like a good thing given that the debit card behaved like it had a personal trainer. It did little else but work out ¬¬-- a bit like my liver really.
Work won the week. I enjoyed the lack of pressure to gaze into the bottom of a glass, at least until last Saturday, when I caught up with a friend who has a penchant for Japanese food.
A quiet sip of the most excellent Ladies Who Shoot Their Lunch chardonnay was the order of the evening before making a beeline to EIS, the contemporary Japanese restaurant almost at the end of the street.
Again it was the degustation menu … and what value it is. I’ve been to this place four times and each time it has been wonderful. Did I mention that it was good? Eight courses, five matching wines (including fantastic, yeasty French bubbles to start) for $105 a head. The best beef tartare I’ve eaten by a country mile. Oyster shooter in mint vodka with coriander and chilli. My God. Scallop with cucumber, pesto and fish roe. Tuna nori roll, beef sushi (can you call it sushi?). Miso-infused lamb cutlets; pumpkin soup with king prawns and truffle paste; unctuous eel with steamed rice and green tea. I couldn’t make it through the blueberry crepe to end. Done and dusted I was. My friend, however, went the distance. And the wines. Bubbles, Mo Mo sauv blanc, Geelong region pinot, some cab sauv and Japanese plum wine with desert. It was all we could do to finish the “Ladies” when we got back to my place before tackling some excellent South Australian riesling.
Talk (and wine) plus music was the order of the evening and we pulled an all-nighter. Sleep came easily.
It wasn’t a great preparation for a Sunday night out, but that was always the plan.
My friend, Andrew McUtchen (see andrewmcutchen.com.au) was playing at Lina’s (see link elsewhere on this blog) at six on Sunday night. Given that I’d recommended him for a gig or two meant that, regardless of my liver, grey appearance (I’m not talkin’ hair here) and general lack of demeanor and dress sense, I had to be there, but I wouldn’t have missed it for quids.
This bloke has talent in spades. At the last dinner party I had, Andrew put on a show to remember. Consensus was by all there to be the best night ever.
He went beyond that at Lina’s. I recall saying to him after his first set that his voice was better than I’d ever heard it.
“I woke up a bit dry in the throat this morning, but it’s come good,” he said.
Good? This bloke is a major, major talent. He sang stuff by a few people (including an excellent INXS cover and I recall him mentioning Leonard Cohen) but most importantly, he did Andrew McUtchen songs. Genius.
Suss them out and buy his albums. Listen and discover your new favourite singer/songwriter.
All too soon the gig was over. So was I, after 8-10 glasses of most excellent French rose and a piadina to soak up some of it, I had to put out the bins and enjoy some Zs. Lots. I did.
Hence, the two days alcohol free, although as I write this, some NZ sauv blanc is doing its thing.
Roll on work tomorrow, if only for the fact that it’s when I submit my invoice for services rendered.
Oh, and what a good sight it was this morning, walking along the promenade alongside the casino and heading for the office. There was a bloke, oblivious to those around him, reading as he walked.
Checking Twitter or Facebook on an iPad or his phone?
Nah, he had a book on the go.
All power to ya, fella.

SORRY, BLOGGERS ARE NOT JOURNALISTS

There is an annual contest at the University of Arkansas calling for the most appropriate definition of a contemporary term.

This year's was political correctness.
The winner wrote:

“Political correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a piece of shit by the clean end.”


I'll cop the fact that it's OK for people to bang on at their blog site about the trials and tribulations of trying to get a good result in a restaurant when the put their hard-earned on the table, just as I did the entry before this one.
Ditto for whatever else floats your faluka, just as long as it isn't presented as news presented by someone basking in the limelight of calling themselves a journalist. Sure, everyone has an opinion (some more than others), but that’s just what it is … an opinion. It’s neither right nor wrong.
News, in its purest sense, is the domain of a professional journalist (tips notwithstanding, which is where social media is a help), one who has trained (and I’m not just talking university degree or whatever) on the road and in a newsroom. Someone who has street smarts, not Sesame Street smarts, and who knows how and when to use them. One who gathers the who, what, when, where, why and how of the story and then checks and rechecks, interviews, checks again and then shapes it into a clean flowing story. One who phones sources, and one who doesn’t rely on the internet as gospel. Wikipedia is a great example. It’s a useful tool, but so is a spokeshave (yeah, look it up if you’re not sure). Wikipedia is not an authority. Sorry, it’s just not in the ballpark. For example:

Citizen journalism should not be confused with community journalism or civic journalism, which are practiced (sic … try practised) by professional journalists, or collaborative journalism, which is practiced (sic … try practised) by professional and non-professional journalists working together. Citizen journalism is a specific form of citizen media as well as user generated(sic … a professional journalist would have hyphenated this, given that it is adjectival) content.

Yep, good on you, Wikipedia, three basic mistakes, one par. An authority … not.
Crikey media commentator Margaret Simons recently wrote this:


The panels in both cities covered the same, tired old ground. The new “participatory media” and “citizen journalism” would never be Real Journalism, because Real Journalism is an Art/Craft/Profession. Real Journalism involves research and fact-checking and sub-editing. There’s a Code of Ethics. But “these people”, as bloggers get labelled, these people just sit around in their pyjamas and write whatever comes into their heads.
Bollocks.
What’s tiring about this false dichotomy is that it compares the highest ideal of journalism with the lowest grade of personal blogging about what the cat did yesterday and — lo and behold! — they’re not the same. Gosh.
How much everyday journalism actually conforms to the high ideal? Not much. For every Walkley-nominated episode of Four Corners there’s a hundred tawdry yarns about miracle fat cures or shonky builders with a camera shoved in their face. For every investigative scoop there’s a thousand mundane little 5-paragraph yarns that merely quote what someone said at a press conference, and then quote their opponent. Or recycle a media release, putting the journo’s byline where the PR firm’s logo used to be. Or misappropriate statistics to beat up some shock-horror non-existent “crime wave”. Or either fawn or tut-tut over some “celebrity” and their antics — more often than not because that same celebrity is appearing in a TV show or movie that’s completely coincidentally owned by the journalist’s employer.
And you know, some “bloggers” actually know what they’re talking about, interview people, and link to their references to boot.
Dear Journalists, how can you spout all that stuff about “standards” and then go back to your mucky business?
Oh, that’s right. You’re a proper journalist. It’s all the others…
Actually, I know why you’re so bitter about “those bloggers”. You worked hard on that student newspaper or street rag while living in uni-student poverty, put up with the abuse of grumpy old chain-smoking subs who bawled you out over trivial spelling mistakes, put up with the unpredictable patronage of editors who promoted everyone else to A Grade but you — you endured all of that hoping that one day you’d get the plum posting. But no! The newsrooms are now being decimated, and the masthead’s adorned with photos of celebrity chefs. And bloggers — bloggers! People with no professional training are leaping into the limelight. Some of them are even being paid! How dare they!


Simons’ question “How much everyday journalism actually conforms to the high ideal?” deserves answers. Please, there are organisations other than the ABC to be nominated for Walkleys. And it seems to me that you are being dismissive of the many genuine news stories … I’m assuming this (yes, I know we should never assume) given that you made no mention of them. Little 5-paragraph yarns? You mean as opposed to large five-paragraph yarns? Sorry, that’s the sub in me. Margaret, your columns in Crikey are full of newspaper celebs; Mark Scott seems to be a perennial favourite. How long since you’ve interviewed someone on the newsroom floor, someone at the nuts-and-bolts stage of the process?
Yes, some bloggers do interview people and link to their references. So what? Do you ever read all the links to ensure that they’re on the money? Methinks not, but that’s what we should all do.
Why would a journalist be bitter about those bloggers? There is more to journalistic life than working on a student newspaper … read one and tell me where the writers on same are learning anything about balance in their reporting. And as for putting up with grumpy old chain-smoking subs who bawled you out over trivial spelling mistakes. Jesus wept. It believe it’s a form of mentoring. Help them out by pointing out their mistakes and perhaps they won’t make them again. Spelling mistakes in reporting are anything but your dismissive description is trivial. How dare you. One wrong letter in a word can cost plenty … think lawsuits, etc.
Allow me to indulge in a story about the Melbourne Herald. The deputy editor was sitting at his desk when one of the comps arrived, as he did daily, and placed that edition’s poster on a nail on the wall. “You OK with this?” asked the comp. A quick scan by the deputy and he said “Yep, thanks.”
A few minutes later the deputy glanced again at the poster and his blood ran cold. It read something like “I’m not guilty: Sincliar”.
The story goes that all the available staff chased the Herald delivery trucks throughout Melbourne to retrieve the offending poster, which they did successfully. Sinclair. Sincliar. Just a trivial mistake? I think not.
Oh, and unpredictable editors? That’s tautology.
Maybe there’s a reason why people don’t get the posting or promotion they thought they deserved. Perhaps they just weren’t up to it.
I’ve recently worked on two pieces written by people who are lecturing in journalism at the moment. Both pieces were badly written, full of stupid spelling mistakes, misused words, bad grammar … and these people are teaching others how to do it. Jesus is still reaching for the tissues.
I discussed this issue with an old journo mate recently and he came up with a great response.
"Accuracy is not pedantry; I have never been aware of Glenn McGrath bowling pedantically." Thanks Des.
Anyone who writes is not a journalist, otherwise it means that the shopping lists my mother used to write qualify her as a journalist. So too, a sign writer, a waitress who takes an order in a restaurant, a sky writer in a plane … take your pick.
I’ve heard recently a couple of high-profile ex-AFL players, both now radio and television commentators, referring to themselves as journalists. Sorry boys, an AFL media pass does not a journalist make, no matter how well you may or may not write. In the case of one of them, not particularly well
It’s all well and good to have a fantastic set of tools, aka mobile phones, laptops, iPads, whatever, but mostly the ubiquitous social media with these tools, good and all as they can be, has bred nothing but a generation of people who in the main, cannot spell (I blame shorthand on phones, Twitter, et al (et al: it means “and others”, in case you were wondering), who say things such as “yeah, no, it was good but”, who think that grammar is a parent’s parent, or people who are oblivious to other people’s presence and to the meaning of the word courtesy, and who walk aimlessly down the street reading that latest best place to buy a latte or who’s shagging who among their friends, bumping into or demanding a clear right of way.
Bloggers are called just that … bloggers. Can everyone please stop trying to elevate them beyond their station. They are not … and never will be … journalists.

SOONER OR LITRE, WE GOT A CHARGE OUT OF THE WORST MEAL EVER

Recharging batteries. It’s something most of us need to do, be it for the car, the phone, the remote control … or just for yourself.
Given that the batteries in the aforementioned devices are in fair nick, I figured it was time for me to recharge my own batteries. They’ve had a fair workout of late, so the human RACV equivalent in my case became Port Fairy in the middle of last week.
To ensure a decent recharge, I snaffled an almost new townhouse right on the ocean at Pea Soup Cove. Cracker of a house it was … called Rockpool.
A friend and I had locked in a four-night stay that would afford us time to sample some good food, wine and to take in some of the many geographical features that are within the area.
During our time there we managed to try several good/decent wines, not the least being some Italian sparkling wine … Ca'del Bosco Cuvee Prestige was the moniker … and at $55 a bottle it was worth every cent and then some. If I had my druthers, I’d take it before many higher-priced French versions. There was a loaf of bread in every sniff (the yeast was bountiful and beautiful), a bowl of fruit in every mouthful and a fine, fine bead … not sweet, not dry, just right. The only problem for us was that we had just one bottle (although there were a couple of lesser-light Frenchies in our fridge as back-ups … and they were OK).
Ca'del Bosco is 75 per cent chardonnay, 10 per cent pinot blanco and 15 per cent pinot niro. On the shelf in the bottleshop, it is housed in orange/yellow cellophane to protect it from ultraviolet rays. It works.
We also along the way sampled some NZ Robinson sauvignon blanc, Pepperjack Shiraz and what we deemed an excellent chardy – Secret Stone, again from NZ. There was also the odd glass of something indefinable with a steak dinner at the pub on the first night … even a pot of fabulous Kilkenny.
We managed to squeeze in some Thai food that was good without being great, a day of antipasto picking after a local shopping expedition, but in the food race, dinner on the Saturday night was so bad it was good in a funny way.
We weren’t in great nick to start with for dinner, given that we were still having a chardonnay and a smoke on the beach at 8.30 Saturday morning (yeah, it was a long night) and maybe it was the tiredness, maybe not, but the farcical dinner had us in stitches for the last part of the torture in the restaurant.
I won’t name the restaurant … the owner/chef would be unhappy in the extreme … and he’s a young battler who doesn’t deserve to have some mug punter such as me kick him about publicly.
Originally we tried to get into a restaurant that was named Victoria’s country restaurant of the year last year (look it up yourself if you want to know), but it was Saturday … no booking, no deal. A very helpful woman suggested another where she said the food was good.
We drove around and spied one that we’d talked about earlier in the trip and thought, damn it, let’s give it a try.
We got a cosy table, illuminated (just) by an oil burner (perhaps there was a reason for the dim lighting, but more of that later).
It was a good wait (OK, it wasn’t good, it was bloody slow) before we got a wine list. It took even longer to get a menu … bear in mind the joint wasn’t packed … but we opted for a couple of glasses of Mother of Pearl chardonnay, which, at 10 bucks a glass, was overpriced. Oh, and we ordered some still, bottled water given that the tap water in this neck of the woods is terrible … OK, it’s not even that good. Still, the wait gave us some time to try to figure out why the forks on the tables were set with the tines pointing down (yeah, they were upside down). Still don’t know why. Never seen it before, probably never will again … although when the oyster fork arrived later, it was placed on the table in the usual way. Go figure.
After weighing up the dinner options, there were to be freshly shucked oysters on one side of the table (no entrée on the other side) and they were to be served with pickled ginger and wasabi – a little bit of fusion sounded like a good idea. Mains, after dismissing everything else, again was beef – 30-day aged Black Angus (medium-rare please) on the other side of the table and for me some grass-fed sirloin (rare please, even still with a pulse is OK by me).
So far so good. Some free bread, dipping oil and balsamic was a pleasant surprise … although not to be the last surprise of the night.
Eventually we got our glasses of wine, a healthy pour into wine glasses that I’d deem too large for white, but no doubt they were to be used for red, or whatever we had ordered. Oh, and the still water (jeez, these still water mentions run very deep with me).
The food being delivered to other tables looked OK and they were no apparent signs of despair.
Then, the oysters came. Now you’d reckon that a chef worth his or her salt would have perhaps finely diced the pickled ginger and mixed it with the wasabi and laid a dollop on top of each oyster. You’d reckon.
No, these each had a largish (compared to the size of the shell) slab of ginger under the oyster on top of which sat the green wasabi. Green is important here. The wasabi wasn’t the only thing on the verge of verdant.
The first oyster my friend attempted was difficult inasmuch as she could get the ginger and the wasabi-clad oyster onto the fork. She picked up the shell to get a better shot at a clean lift only to be greeted with something that smelled the way I’d imagine a shit carter’s hat would smell at the end of the week. The oyster’s soul had gone to God, but the remains … Jesus. It was none-to-freshly fucked, not shucked.
Once my friend had recoiled from the offending shell (or should that be smell?), she suggested that I smell it and handed it to me. I made the mistake of taking it at an angle that imparted some of the offending liquid from the shell onto my hand. Oh, it was off and so too were the surrounds of my hand. A subsequent smell of the other oysters realised that another was on the verge of meeting its maker and it was hard to tell with the rest. I could actually smell the really offensive one from my side of the table.
The waitress was surprised to hear` the news, but after my friend’s suggestion that she too smell it, it was a done deal. The plate was kitchen bound with a message … this is awful.
“I’ll get you some others,” the waitress suggested. “No thanks.”
I headed to the bathroom to wash the stink from my hands. Damn. No soap, although I did dismantle the soap dispenser and get just enough to do the job. The waitress seemed surprised that there was no soap in the bathroom. Jesus, it just gets worse, eh?
Within five or so minutes, the waitress appeared again at our table with the wine bottle and hastily (after rudely reaching in front of us) gave each glass a slurping top-up.
“That’s on the house,” she declared proudly, without for one minute thinking of whether we actually wanted more chardy or perhaps a change or even wanted more wine at all (yeah, right, like that’s ever happened).
But Jesus, it was big-hearted gesture, not … more like a half-arsed one.
So we sat there in the (almost) dark, although not in the dark as to the quality of the oysters and we wondered out aloud (but not too loud, mind) about the chef’s temerity in sending them out in the first place. Did he have a blocked nose or for that matter a sense of smell? Certainly, he didn’t posses any sense in his action. What would the rest of the meal be like? Carrion from the Great Ocean Road perhaps. Nah, that’s carrion things just a bit too far, isn’t it?
The steaks eventually (another too long a wait) arrived and despite one being a sirloin and the other a scotch fillet, they looked remarkably similar. Mine was meant to be served with fresh green beans, broccolini, potatoes and a red wine reduction … although on closer inspection (did I mention it was dark?) I found some asparagus too. Lucky I wasn’t allergic to it, although it could be seen (or not) as a bonus of sorts.
My friend’s was meant to be served with potatoes and other assorted veggies and a reduction, but hers was mostly green beans.
Each piece of beef was cooked rare, medium, well done, depending on which part we could managed to machete our way through.
Now, we know that fat is flavour but there’s just so much flavour you can cope with … but both steaks had never been near a trimming knife. And the gristle on and within each. You could actually hang them at Christmas time … oh wait, that’s mistletoe, not gristletoe, eh? About halfway through what for each of us was becoming a losing battle with the fat and the gristle, it seemed that we each had the other’s dish. Did I mention that it was dark? And no, we’d had just the one glass of wine so our senses were functioning, the memory of the smell of the oyster notwithstanding.
We soldiered on but without a chainsaw (or the aforementioned machete) and perhaps a cast-iron stomach, it all got just a bit too much.
On each plate there was more matter left than we had each managed to consume, but the battle was over. Gristle 2, us 0. The gristle had won handsomely.
We sat there peering through the darkness (I did mention that it was dark, didn’t I?) at our plates and suddenly laughter was the order of the day. Not just any laughter, but deep, deep laughter that was hard to curtail. And stare we did for quite some time before the waitress (who had lobbed earlier with another bottle of water that I’m not sure we ordered) finally deigned to take away our still-laden plates. Oh, the last of the bread sat there for a long time after, no doubt soaking up the darkness.
I’m pretty sure that we were laughing (it was dark … and no, not the bread) so much that it helped make the disaster into a fun thing.
For 38 bucks a steak, it wasn’t to much to expect better. A lot better.
The waitress finally rediscovered directions to our table to check whether we fancied dessert.
“Err, just a bill, thanks,” was the only response permitted. I was keen to have a crack, but common sense from across the table prevailed.
When the bill arrived … it was the quickest delivery of the night … there was no charge for the oysters, but there was a charge for the still water. $14 a litre (two 500ml bottles). Did I mention I was dark?
Jesus, I’d paid $1.49 a litre for petrol before the trip.
And now $14 a litre for water. Still it may have been, but it was still worth laughing about in the end. It was just another joke on a night that delivered plenty.
Oh, and it wasn’t that dark outside.
And after a few days of recharging, what the hell difference did one unexpected charge mean in the overall scheme. After all, we got a laugh out of it.

EASING BACK IN ... AND THE ITALIAN CONNECTION

There has been a fair amount of single survival (with the emphasis on survival) going on since the last posting … including revisiting the pub up the road for a steak that I have labelled the best pub steak I’ve ever had.
No such luck this last time. The eye fillet was not on the menu (it’s not the be-all and end-all of flavour, that’s the realm of porterhouse) … that’s not to say that there was anything wrong with the aged beef on the night … it was well on the good side of OK, it just didn’t live up to the wrap that I’d given to the friend with whom I had dinner. The sides, including the house-made chips got a huge thumbs up.
It was grand prix time in the area and the joint was busy early on, but soon became a quiet suburban pub, something missing from most similar establishments and something that stands The Montague apart. If you get a chance, try it. It’s friendly, has good tucker, a good wine list, the staff is great and it is, well, good. It’s on the corner of Park and Montague streets in Albert Park.
One area of this blog that I have to get cranked up is the recipe section. I have collected so many over the years and they should be shared. Just getting the time and the inclination to do it is something to be worked on. Promise I’ll have a crack.
I seem to be working lots … I’m having all sorts of trouble starting work at 8.30am each day (instead of 9.30), not least because I get out of bed before seven. I normally only recognise one 8.30 a day and it’s not the first one. But such is life at Crikey.
And there is still a getaway on the agenda … just a few days before the Easter break … to hopefully get out of town to recharge the batteries … God knows, they need it. Dunno where yet, but something will give along the way.
I was having a glass (OK, a bottle or so) at Lina’s, my local wine bar a week or so ago, and I mentioned to Ben, the manager, that he should listen to my friend, Andrew (McUtchen), strut his stuff. Andrew is a singer par excellence, who literally made the last dinner party at my house one of the great nights of all time. The man is a TALENT.
I finally took a CD there to give Ben a listen. A few days later, he sent me a message that was nothing short of a rave.
There’s good reason for Ben’s attitude. Young Andrew is very, very good. He writes songs, plays all the instruments, sings … sheesh … the first time I heard him sing was when her lived in the house behind mine and he was sitting on a kitchen chair on the footpath, can of bourbon and Coke at his feet, playing guitar and singing … sweetly. He’s a class act. Reckon his website is http://www.andrewmcutchen.com/about-us/ … visit please.
For what it’s worth, Andrew is playing Lina’s (search the web, it’s in Albert Park) on May 1. Be there because it will be worth listening to.
I managed to spend some time with the same Andrew this past weekend (OK, it was Friday) who was nominated for an award at the Quills … the Melbourne Press Club’s night of nights.
Reckon the night may be my swansong, in terms of awards nights … enough is enough, although it was a great night, in terms of catching up with some friends from many and varied pasts.
Great to see Jill Baker, formerly of The Age, win the journalist of the year (read gold Quill) for her amazingly personal piece on how cancer turned her life upside down.
I remember drinking with Jill in a bar at her farewell … she was leaving The Age … and I cried because she was going. There aren’t too many bosses who have that affect.
Lots of good people on the night.
A 3.30am homecoming wasn’t the ideal preparation for a day of proof reading for a job that had to be finished at the weekend, but there you go. What does any self-respecting person do when they arrive home at that time … they pour a glass of red. Good thing too.
I managed to get through the proofing on Saturday and even fitted in a trip to the market to buy flowers and food ... not necessarily in that order.
A bottle of chianti saw me out on the Saturday night, again, not the ideal preparation for working in the AM of Sunday.
But it worked OK.
On Sunday morning I actually hooked up with my friend Jane (she’s a very good wine writer), who manifested on Twitter.
Check these two tweets.
First it was: Fantastic day spent at Villa Mathilde in Campania ¬-- tasting/drinking fiano, greco di Tufo, falanghina & aglianico not all at once
Then she followed up with: Dinner Da Dora in Naples drinking Mastroberardino greco di tufo '10 - very snappy, delicious drink. all good on this greco tour of Campania.
I fired off a tweet to her, suggesting that life was pretty kind. Like she said, “someone has to do it.” Sure.
It has been a while since we’ve shared a glass of the fruit of the vine and in a couple of weeks when she gets back to the fair land of Oz, we have a date.
Dinner with Jane is always good and I’m looking forward to it.