Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 3, 2021

I think I’m on the verge of a breakfast-based philosophical epiphany. 

I was eating breakfast the other day and rather than going for my regular spinach and eggs combo, I had myself a bowl of cereal. The type of cereal is integral to this little rant I’m about to unleash on you, but I don’t want to go ahead and name brands.

I don’t want to make it look like I’ve been bought off by Big Bran to say nice things about this type of cereal. I also don’t want to be accused of being paid off by this particular cereal’s competitors to say bad things about it, even though I must say it would bring my great joy to think of rival cereal makers laying aside their differences to join forces and form a secret cereal cartel to take down the big guy via advertorial disguised as trivial opinion pieces in regional independent newspapers. That would be most amusing (and, just in case the editor – who I like to refer to as the TEDitor because I’m clearly hilarious – is reading this, I’d tell them to book an ad instead).

So, I’ll just say that I’m referring to a cereal that comprises of bran flakes and dried grapes. 

Now, I love dried grapes or, as they’re more commonly known as, sultanas. I have a long history of adding them to things that others may raise an eyebrow at. Cornflakes. Rice Bubbles. Coco Pops. All of these cereals are greatly improved taste-wise by a handful of sultanas. And while I sometimes poke fun at my mother’s early 90s version of “stir fry” – being beef mince with grated carrot and zucchini severed on a bed of Magi two-minute chicken noodles – I have to tell you that the sultanas she added this concoction really lifted the whole dish. In more recent times, I’ve been known to add sultanas to rices dishes and drool over a sultana-studded couscous.

I love sultanas.

And I particularly love the sultanas in this type of cereal. They just taste so good. I’m not sure exactly why, but I like to imagine it’s because they’ve been roughed up and laced with bran in the cereal-mixing process, rather than some kind of artificial chemical-based procedure.

So when I don’t get enough of them, I’m disappointed. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m partial to a bit of bran on its own – because I’m just that exciting of a person – but the addition of sultanas to the mix really makes those fibre flakes sing. I don’t want to be rude to bran, but it is rather bland. It’s boring. And while we all know that bran is a large part of the cereal, I don’t think nearly as many people would be eating it if it weren’t for the sultanas.

But you can have too many sultanas, I’ve learned. 

You start off being like “oh boy oh boy, look at all them sweet, sweet sultanas in my bowl, it’s my lucky day”. But after the first few mouthfuls, it’s too sweet. It’s sickly. It’s too gunge-y in your gob. You begin to miss – nay, yearn for – the bran.

Like the Spice Girls famously sung, too much of something is bad enough. And when you’ve got like five sultanas to spoonful of bran, it’s not great. Of course, you’ve got to have a bit of perspective – if the worst thing that happens to you all day is that you had too many sultanas in your bran, you’re going alright. But it makes for an unpleasant bowl.

It’s just like when you don’t get enough sultanas because, as the Spice Girls also sung, too much of nothing is just as tough. And this often happens within those first few bowls from a fresh box. You get mostly bran as the sultanas are cruelly taken by gravity to the bottom of the box. Maybe you’ll get a couple of sultanas here and there, but it’s not nearly enough. You feel ripped off. You feel like you have to start rationing sultanas, strategically selecting them for each spoonful. You can’t just blindly dig in your spoon without paying attention because you might eat your entire allocation of sultanas in one mouthful and be doomed to finish off a bowl of sultana-less bran.

My friends, it’s all about ratio. You need the sultanas to make the bran interesting. But you’ve got to have those bland fibre flakes to offset the sweetness of the sultanas. It’s a delicate balance. 

It sounds like there’s some kind of life lesson in this. I mean, there’s always a life lesson in something if you look hard enough. But if you look too long, your bran will go soggy and you’ll be left with a bowl of slop.   

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 24, 2020

I’ve never been big into tennis. 

Tennis was one of those sports that required you to show some degree of athleticism, which wasn’t really my jam as a youngster. So I never took to the courts. 

And I grew up in quite a strict rugby league household. Footy – which is to say, the NRL, not Union or that scrappy AFL business – was the only sport that was ever played on our green-tinged television (back in the day we had this big old TV which had a dome-like glass screen encased in a chipboard box with a classy wood-look vinyl finish. We had no idea how green the screen was until people came over and informed us we were watching the world through green-tinted lenses).

Tennis never got a look in. 

So I’ve never had an in-depth grasp of the mechanics of the game. I mean, sure, I knew it involved a net, a ball and a whole bunch of groaning, but that was kind of it. 

Last year I went to a friendly tennis competition, which is to say a friend had a bunch of us around for beers and a barbecue at his family property, which had an old tennis court out the back. There were enough of us there to play in pairs, which, for those of you playing along at home, is also called “doubles”. 

I didn’t know how to play tennis exactly, but I had a rough idea of how to hit a ball with a blunt object. I’d played softball (not well, mind you). I’d held my own at handball back in the day. And, most importantly, loved that scene on Parent Trap where one of the iterations of Lindsay Lohan says “I’ll take a whack at it”. I was willing to have a whack at it.

What we ended up playing was something I dubbed “keep it live”, which was a hybrid of tennis, volleyball and that game you used to play as a kid when you had a balloon that, under no circumstances, was allowed to touch the floor. 

Basically, you had to keep the ball in motion, even if that meant hitting it a few times on your side of the net. There were no points, but you were the loser if you failed to keep the ball bouncing. This approach to the game made for some dramatic, desperate hits that were fun to watch and participate in. 

In my highly educated opinion, it’s much more enjoyable than the regular way of playing the game. In most circumstances, I’d recommend it over the current, strictly regimented game. This version is much, much cooler.

For example, this… more organic form of the game is well suited to family barbecues and Sunday seshes. But I understand that there are more formal tournaments out there that call for more structured play.

I suppose the Australian Open is one such tournament.   

Like, I can only imagine the online bickering that would erupt if the rules were loosened just a bit. And I’m not saying that tennis isn’t great to watch, but while watching the finals the other night, it occurred to me that the addition of a few new rules would make for even more interesting viewing. I made these observations to my couch doubles partner, but the reception wasn’t as warm as I was hoping for – except for one suggestion. I mean, said couch doubles partner hates the idea of Keep It Live and is a real stickler for the rules on the court, so I suppose it’s it no big surprise that my ideas were shot down. But, look, you can be the judge – here are my humble suggestions: 

Play on: I know that when the ball bounces out of the square, it’s out. But I reckon there should be a rule where, if someone plays the ball after it goes out, they should lose the point unless they shout “play on!” before the ball comes into contact with their racquet. Just like handball. It keeps both players on their toes. It means they have to ready to call out their opponent. 

Net rebounds: I don’t think that nipping the net should be the end of it. Not if you’re hungry enough. Not if you want it that badly. Not if you’re willing to go in and keep it alive. If it hits the net but you’re able to play at it, rebound style, then it should be play on. 

One racquet per game: If you smash your racquet in a fit of rage, you have to keep playing with it. This was the rule that got the nod of approval. Reckon I’ve got a shot at getting it accepted at an international tournament level?