Dad lived in Peterborough for a while as a little boy. His father worked in a betting shop opposite the Federal Hotel and joined the AIF when France fell. The family moved back to Port Pirie and Dad became a carpenter and married Margaret. Before long, with six little mouths to feed, Dad opened Ken Madigan Sports Store in Ellen Street. He sold hockey sticks, … Continue reading Bullets over Broadway, pellets over Pirie
One Monday morning in 1989 I rocked up in Port Augusta to start my new job as Editor of The Transcontinental. My boss was standing out the front of the office in his pink shirt and grey Farrah slacks having breakfast – a can of Coke and a Camel. He showed me my desk and said to yell out if I needed anything fancy like … Continue reading Joy Baluch and the Bullshit Bulletin
A few years ago I was guest speaker at a Crystal Brook Wine Appreciation Society dinner. It was held at the golf club, a small besser-block building with faded portraits of past champs on the walls and a pie-warmer and tea urn on a trestle in the far corner. There was a good turnout of farmers, teachers and coppers. Pillars of the community. All blokes. … Continue reading Get some Ellie in your belly
Sticky post
On Boxing Day in 1988 Dad and I rode our pushbikes from Port Pirie to Broken Hill. It was a father-son bonding thing. I paid my rent two weeks in advance and bought $200 worth of spare parts including tubes and tyres that Dad hung over my shoulder. It was 41 degrees which melted the tar on the road. No helmet, just a Greg Chappell … Continue reading Broken Hill, here we come
Country Wine 