As I needed to work on Anzac Day, it was an early morning start for me today. Actually, I was there yesterday too, visiting the Anzac Memorial in Hyde Park, snapping some photographs of the Anzac Memorial which, in particular, commemorates the contribution of women to war.
As usual, I won’t blog about work, but I like to think what I do each year, and I’ve worked on Anzac Day for about four or five years now, hopefully makes a contribution to a more thorough understanding of what it’s all about.
Meeting at lunchtime with some friends at the pub, they still seemed to be under the misapprehension it was a glorification of war. Many years ago I felt the same, but attending Anzac Marches, as they don’t, makes you realise it’s not.
As you look at those marching you see the many ordinary working class faces of the families who have given their lives over many generations. The plain faces, the twisted noses, the body frames which are unmistakably working class, remind you the people who give their lives are not rampant right-wing war-mongers, but people who do it for well-intentioned reasons (or sometimes because it’s their only option).
When I reflect on my own family’s history, it tends to be divided amongst those who went off to war in support of “The Empire” and the many Irish Catholics (in particular) who have been opposed to war. Myself, I couldn’t possibly imagine going off to war (I’m probably far too gutless)… but I have total respect for those who do. And it’s wrong, in my view, to minimise and oversimplify the many reasons why they do it.
“If you’re in the ABBA Museum and you’re standing near the Ring Ring exhibit, you should answer the phone, as it’s probably going to be Frida” we were told by Ingmarie Halling from the ABBA Museum, soon to open in Stockholm. “And if you see the piano suddenly playing, it’s gonna be Benny doing it remotely”, she added.
The telephone call from Frida (or indeed any member of ABBA, as “they all have the number”, we were told) was inspired by a John Lennon exhibition in New York. When Frida heard that Yoko Ono would sometimes call the telephone there and speak to people randomly, she replied instantly that she would love to do that also.
That, and the bit about Benny playing the piano remotely is interesting for two reasons. One – that’s it the kind of thing now possible because of modern technology. Two – that it’s a sign of “buy in” by the members of ABBA who, seemingly, have been somewhat reluctant to recognise their musical legacy.
The appearance by Ingmarie was the most interesting and engaging part of the second (and main day) of the International ABBA Day I attended in Roosendaal. That, and the screening of a number of recent television appearances by ABBA members, notably one from Finnish TV where Bjorn and Benny were asked individually to describe the other. Bjorn has a good sense of humour, but never shows it much, according to Benny. They meet weekly, we were told, mostly to discuss business activities, such as licensing of the songs for movies, but not much outside of that.
These were the things which interested me most. I have almost no interest in collecting memorabilia, a major focus for the day. As I walked into the room the first thing I noticed was the bar, and then the big screen, and then as I looked down from the screen, there were “stalls” with people selling lots of ABBA material – DVDs, vinyl, rare recordings. A flea market, you might say. “Unless there’s some amazing new recording, I’m not really interested in collecting an obscure Japanese 7” pressing of a song I already have”, I told a couple of people.
Thus, we didn’t really stay all that long during the day. We were there for two or three hours to watch some of videos, hear the talk by Ingmarie, and to chat with other fans from around the world. For me, meeting those other fans was the main reason why I wanted to go. The day was informal enough so that I had sufficient time to do that in a meaningful way.
Anita and Helga who run the International Fan Club
After a late afternoon meal, we were back at 7.00pm sharp for “The Video”. It’s become a regular part of the International ABBA Day over the years for a compilation video to be played at the start of the Saturday night disco. Of the few I’ve seen, I’ve thought they were always very good. But this year, a number of people commented to me they thought the video was a little disappointing. Maybe the anticipation of it was too much, but I was inclined to agree, finding the listing of all of ABBA’s stage performances by city and date overlaid over a lot of live footage I’ve seen many times a little disappointing.
I was also a little disappointed by the number of rare recordings played on Saturday night, both at the disco venue, and at the after-party. “Put On Your White Sombrero” is a shit record, I said to a couple of people. “It was never released by ABBA because they didn’t think it was up to scratch and yet I’ve heard it three times this weekend”, I added.
Dancing QueensBoot Scootin’ ABBA Fan
I think I understand the “group dynamic” amongst ABBA fans going on with all of the rare material being played. I think it’s about sharing something hard core fans have in common, which doesn’t involve the rest of the population who “like”, but who don’t “love” ABBA in the way people attending this event do. I also think there’s probably an issue with many people having heard the most well known tracks many, many times. That said, it sometimes seems like there’s an aversion to playing the big ABBA hits (or even good B-sides and album tracks) at some of the fan events. Personally, I would prefer to hear and dance to fully-formed, rounded great songs than incomplete songs discarded by ABBA as not worthy of release.
That said, I spent a fair bit of time on the dance floor, and like the young girl in “Dancing Queen” found I was having the time of my life.
That, and chatting to people. One of the things I discovered was that my blog post yesterday where I talked about being shy, and how daunting it can be at events like this to meet people, really touched a lot of people. In addition to the number of people who came up to me, concerned, asking if I was okay, a couple of others told me they felt the same, and they were pleased I’d written about it. My advice is that if you feel similarly shy in large groups, it’s important to make contact with people ahead of the event so you have some people you can feel comfortable with. I don’t mean that in any kind of mercenary way, it’s just a recognition that some people feel more comfortable in smaller groups than larger, and that if you have a smaller group within that larger group, you might find it a little easier.
After the main event, we headed into town for the “After Party” which was at the same venue as the night previously. This time around the bar was initially packed more heavily with “locals”, some of whom really got into the swing of things, while others left soon after we arrived, possibly finding themselves a little overwhelmed by hearing the B-sides and rarities, and not the more well-known ABBA hits.
The bar staff at the “After Party” venue were terrific. In particular, we got chatting with a young guy who had worked the night before but who was there the following night just to enjoy himself. “The ABBA Weekend”, he told us “is a great thing for Roosendaal, having so many people come from all parts of the world.” I mentioned to him my theory that, although it seems crazy on the surface to have this day in a small town in The Netherlands, it actually works. “If it was in Stockholm or London or Amsterdam, people would break up at the end of the night and go their separate ways, whereas here everyone sticks together”, I told him.
You know how when you travel you end up with a pocket full of coins you can’t do anything with. The exchange bureaus won’t accept them, and of course you don’t feel as though you can throw them away (they’re money after all). In writing this, I’ve realised I could probably give them to the poor and needy, though you don’t often see too many of them at the airport when you’re leaving. So I’ve found myself with a suitcase weighed down with half a dozen varieties of coins from countries which don’t have the Euro.
It’s a shame we couldn’t have used them yesterday morning as David and I found ourself in a roadside cafe hoping for a coffee and croissant this morning. We discovered we only had about three or four Euros between us as we found ourselves on the roadside in a small village without an ATM. “Ten, twenty, thirty”, we counted, until finally we discovered we could afford a coffee each, but only small ones.
David and I were on our way to Fontevraud Abbey. Amongst its many claims to fames is that its said to be the final resting place for the likes of Richard The Lionheart. I absolutely loved the abbey. It had a great peacefulness about it, as you might expect, and I felt the integrity of the place had been maintained through the restoration process.
After a visit to the abbey, we got some much needed cash and found a place for lunch.
“They are English”, a loud Frenchman declared pointing to David and I at lunch. “No we’re not”, David told him defiantly pointing out that he was French and that I was Australian. Even though I don’t speak French I certainly picked up the references to eating kangaroos that littered his conversation with his wife (?) and the waitress. He’s the only French man so far I’ve found who has lived up to the under-deserved reputation of his countrymen for arrogance.
Lunch was good, though, as I enjoyed a traditional French beef dish with tagliatelle. It was a really nice meal and the perfect way to spend a reasonably wet Friday afternoon.
And tonight I’ve had an even more traditional/authentic dining experience staying with David at his mother’s place. She’s a great cook, and her garlic potatoes are known far and wide. She also really appreciated the fact that I loving trying out new foods. In contrast to David who thinks goats cheese belongs in the garage, I thought it was excellent, slightly melted and served on toast. His mother seemed to agree as we munched into it with ear to ear smiles. Does life get any better?
Ever since my amputation a couple of years ago, I’ve pretty much lived in shorts most days. I hardly ever wear long pants. It actually started as a purely practical reason—I was a fan of “skinny pants,” and absolutely none of my old trousers would fit over the new prosthetic leg! More recently, though, I’ve discovered some genuine perks to having the leg on show. It makes life much easier at places like airports; when the security team needs to scan the prosthesis, having it visible from the get-go saves a lot of time and hassle. I’ve realised there’s a real advantage to just showing off the legs.
That’s why I found it so fascinating to chat with Sara Shams for my upcoming podcast, “The Limb Shift”. While I’ve embraced the “shorts life” out of necessity and convenience, Sara’s journey with visibility has been much more of a recent personal evolution.
Despite being a bilateral above-knee amputee since she was six years old, she spent decades hiding her prosthetic legs under long pants, stockings, and skirts. She didn’t want to be different; she just wanted to fit in.
The shift finally arrived only three years ago. Sara began questioning why she was hiding and what message that sent to other people with disabilities. She took a terrifying leap by posting a photo on Instagram wearing a skirt without stockings. To her surprise, “nothing happened”—except for a surge in encouragement and a new sense of worth.
Sara’s story began in Bangladesh, where she was born with a condition called tibial hemimelia. Seeking better opportunities, her parents moved the family to New Zealand when she was six, where she underwent bilateral through-knee amputations.
Growing up presented some serious hurdles. As a child, Sara hated her prosthetics because she could “zoom around” much faster on her knees. Starting high school brought bullying, which caused her self-confidence to tank and led her to hide her legs for years. As a woman of colour with a disability, Sara also felt she didn’t meet the narrow beauty standards seen in the media, which deeply hurt her self-esteem.
I absolutely loved chatting with Sara. Her energy is infectious, and her approach to life is incredibly empowering. She is now a pharmacist, model, and consultant, using her lived experience through her business, to help organisations move toward authentic inclusion.
As Sara says: “It’s okay for us to be different. It’s okay for us to ask for help”.
This interview will be a key part of The Limb Shift, my podcast series launching later this year.
As soon as my friend recommended dinner at Onde, my mouth started watering for one of their signature dishes, calves liver. While many would hate the thought of such a dish, I really love the taste and texture. I grew up eating a lot of offal: steak and kidney was a stable when I was growing up, as were liver, brains and all manner of things.
I think a lot of it had to do with my mum and dad having grown up in country towns during the depression, and other economically difficult times. Dad spent his early years on a farm, and mum’s family were also pretty closely connected to the land, and so for them it was probably fairly normal to eat offal, whereas some of the town dwellers I went to school with probably thought it was all a bit gross.
One of my biggest complaints about modern life is that the world is full of fussy eaters. I think it’s a real shame that many parents don’t “force” their children to eat everything that’s put before them, and to try new foods. I see it in my extended family, where the children will tell their parents they don’t like a particular food, and the parents follow their wishes.
Growing up and being “forced” to eat everything on the plane was never an issue for me. I was never “forced”: I love eating. Around Christmas time, when the extended family arrived, I was the one who could be relied upon to finish off the food on other people’s plates. “Garbage guts” was what mum called me. It’s precisely the reason I am a fairly adventurous eater these days (a good thing) and why the thought of calves livers at Onde was so appealing. That, and the fact the people who run Onde are so lovely. It’s such a great place. Highly recommended.
“I’ve been to that bar, I’m sure”, I whispered in the ears of my friends as we watched “Männer zum knutschen” (Men To Kiss) at the Mardi Gras Film Festival.
It was August 2008, I was in Berlin, and sitting in a bar there with the inspired name of The Sharon Stonewall.
While there I met a couple of blokes sitting at the bar who I chatted to for quite a while. I’m sure they were both quite mad, but they were kind and friendly and invited me into their conversation. They also invited me to another nearby bar which I’m struggling to remember the name of, but which was an absolute hoot. In the underground disco the DJ played an eclectic mix of hit songs from the last thirty years. I was in absolute heaven.
So yeah, I’m pretty sure that was the bar that we went to later in the night which featured in the movie.
At the centre of the movie is a a guy played by the very attractive and talented Frank Christian Marx (FCM) who finds himself torn between his group of friends in Berlin, including his current boyfriend, and a long-term female friend from his past. In a scenario not too disimilar to something I’ve personally experienced, the female friend is best described as a little bitter and twisted, and more motivated by selfishness than any real sense of friendship.
Despite this apparent heady and serious plotline, it’s best described as a light comedy. At times there’s even elements of farce.
After the film, FCM stayed around and answered some questions about the film. Interestingly, it was only a completed a few weeks ago.
In hindsight, I regret that I didn’t get up and ask a question myself. My question, “What was the name of that bar at the beginning, as I would love to know so I can go back there again?”
