30days30years

Name: Dale Atkinson

Occupation: Communications manager

How we met: Daisy and I went to university together. I’m a little hazy on our first liaison but I distinctly remember a first-year pub crawl he organised where I came home with a set of plastic golf clubs. There was the Ben Harper concert he dragged me to, which I can only assume was because I have diamonds on the inside. And an infamous occasion where we went to watch the tennis at Wimbledon and I mysteriously woke up with a tennis racquet and the Wimbledon Shop’s entire range of mens’ and womens’ towels.  During one of my more recent encounters with Daise, I was told Jesus thinks I’m funny.

Please meet one of my favourite people in the world, Dale:

I’m stuck at the office later than I should be on a Friday night sweating on clearance for a press release which has to go out first thing Monday morning. I’d rather not be here. Frankly I’d rather not be drafting this either. The pubs are open and the sun just about holding on. But a promise is a promise. Besides which, I’m too deeply indebted to Christie to blow it off.

When I arrived in the London eight years ago I pitched up at Christie’s Bayswater flat and moved into her room. She was out of town for the weekend and despite the fact we hadn’t seen each other since university she was kind enough to offer me a place to stay for a few nights while I got my bearings. Seven weeks later I was still there.

It says a fair bit about Christie that she was willing to let me stay at all. We hadn’t seen each other in about three years and didn’t really keep in touch. That it took her all of seven weeks to start dropping hints and explicitly issue marching orders says a lot too, but mostly about me and not much of it flattering.

In all I probably tallied up about 40 nights of free accommodation. That kindness is a debt I will be paying off one night at a time for the rest of my life. Not in a sexy way. She’s suffered enough. Just, you know, with reciprocal lodgings.

At some point between those seven weeks and now, London ceased to be a foreign city and became my home. It’s impossible to maintain the first flush of any infatuation and although the early sense of wonder at the place has never entirely diminished it definitely fluctuates in intensity.

If I run home from work I travel a route which takes me through the grounds of Westminster Abbey, past the Houses of Parliament and Downing Street, up around St James’s Park and Buckingham Palace, through Hyde Park, passing Albert Hall and Kensington Palace, then on to Gloucester Road and home. If I extend the run for 20 minutes with a loop around the Thames I pass the former residence of a man called Fred Russell. A blue plaque on the front of that building declares him the father of modern day ventriloquism. It won’t be high on the must-see list for most but everyone has their Mecca.

I’m not really conscious of these landmarks when I run and don’t take much joy in them. I’ll be concentrating on the pain in my left knee or the oncoming phalanx of au pairs with Basra-proof baby buggies clogging up the footpath. There’ll be a fat man yelling at a dog. A hot chick in lycra will frolic into view and I’ll have to switch into Baywatch-stride until she passes. On I’ll run, impeded by the camera-laden tourists enjoying the postcardable attractions, which to me have become all but invisible. Then a Frenchman will step out in front of me and I’ll tell him to fuck off.

I sometimes find it hard to believe anyone could gain much pleasure from a streetscape that for me has become so inextricably linked to the drudgery of routine and blurred by the static of everyday living. Trapped in the six inch space between my ears I can become a bit blinkered to the good things around me – conscious only of that morning’s squabble with my girlfriend or the severe delays on the District Line, the injustice of a flame email from my line-manager at 6pm on an evening when I have other plans, or the erratic movements of an unapologetic Frenchman. Life happens no matter where you live.

It can take a bit of a jolt to shake me out of that mindset. The best is when a friend from home visits, which takes me out of myself and forces me to take a bit of pride in the place. It lets me see the city fresh through the eyes of my guest.

It can be simple stuff, like an ice-cream from the parlour that serves them in a brioche bun or a pint at a great pub they would never have found without me. It can be sweating blood to get us tickets to a gig at the Brixton Academy or a match at Lords. It can even be launching a three day bender through my favourite bars and clubs which inevitably reminds me why I stopped going on three day benders in the first place.

If I did this stuff every week it’d lose its cache and I’d probably lose my job. But it helps remind me what I loved about the place when I first arrived on Christie’s doorstep and it definitely refreshes my enthusiasm for a city which, like anywhere, has its downsides.

And at 8pm on this Friday night, when I’m still at the office waiting for word on that press release, it helps to know that come the Summer, a fresh batch of first-timers will be in the city and I’ll get to relive the first weeks I was here all over again.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.”

Dickens’ quote popped into my head when I felt the unmistakeable squelch of an unseen pigeon unloading onto my head from a great height in the courtyard. Just hours earlier, I’d been seeking a moment of quiet refuge in the Senate toilets when a Senator rushed through the door, and stood there a couple of seconds while we stared at each other in shock, she still holding the door ajar.

“You didn’t lock the door properly!” the Senator complained. No, Senator. I thought I had. Oh, god, I wish I had.

Being a journalist at Parliament House is a curious mix of observing and being observed. Walking the corridors in search of a coffee is an exercise in trying to see who’s around, who’s talking to whom, figuring what you might be missing and, of course, who the people who are watching you might be.

When you talk to politicians or their advisors in corridors, your colleagues from opposing news outlets will suddenly slow down as they approach, making a charade of checking their text messages to feign indifference, ears flapping. God help you if you have a loudly whispered argument with someone in the corridor, as I have. Half the press gallery turned out for that one. And for as long as I work here, I’ll be watching for that Senator, whose face is burnt into my brain.

Working in this place is, for most, the culmination of years of hard work. But once you’re here an alternate reality can take hold. Leadership contests, fierce debates about asylum seeker policy, the carbon tax – all these provoke a kind of group hysteria among those tasked to record these events for posterity. The political debates in this period of minority government are fierce and increasingly personal. And the pressure can be unrelenting.

Journalists have been known to dance a nervous-tension jig on deadline, to hit out at detractors on social media, to over-indulge on Wednesday-night drinks, to binge on deadline chocolate and to “jokingly” snark at each other to fight off the tension of sitting weeks.

But all of this was overshadowed two weeks after the pigeon shat on my head.

I came into work half an hour early for my 10am shift to find the usual noise and chatter in the office had fallen silent. People looked shell-shocked. Opening my emails, I found an all-staff missive telling us 1900 jobs would be cut from Fairfax, 150 from the capital cities’ metropolitan papers. Days later News Ltd announced it too would set out on a massive restructure and cut jobs. While its chief executive refused to say how many jobs would go, there are rumours as many as 1500 will be cut from the company. A week later three editors from the Sydney Morning Herald and the Age resigned in co-ordinated announcements before shocked staff.

In the midst of all this, journalists around the country have been put in a strange and unfamiliar position: we became part of the story, not used to seeing our own uncertain predicament laid out in headlines and on the nightly news. But there have also been outpourings of support for the media and its staff. While many have enjoyed the sight of “mainstream” media uncertainty – especially those fond of the #msm hashtag on Twitter – others are thinking about what we want from our media, and what we don’t want to lose as it adapts to a new working model.

I have hope for our industry, and I believe in it strongly. And in these uncertain times, one thing’s for sure: you have to laugh. As Prime Minister Julia Gillard told the Press Gallery Midwinter Ball guests recently , it was a shame to hear about the job cuts across Australia’s newspapers. She dead-panned that she had no idea how it might feel to wake up each morning, wondering whether she still had a job.

** This post was contributed by a friend of mine who works in Canberra but wished to remain anonymous. ***

Name: Gareth Allen

Occupation: Sailing instructor

How we met: Gareth and I worked out on a pearl boat together in Cygnet Bay, 200km north of Broome on Western Australia’s Dampier Peninsular. Gareth hails from Brighton in England but has lived in Australia for a couple of years, chasing the sun… and the wind. He completed his first Sydney to Hobart Yacht race in 2011 onboard Arctos, which came third in its class.

Meet Gareth:

I work for a Sydney-based sailing training academy who specialise in fast-track, intensive courses in dinghy sailing, windsurfing, yachting and skiing.

My area of expertise is on the yachting side of things.

The students that we take on come from all walks of life – some want a career break, others a complete change of lifestyle, for some it’s a brand new career opportunity. Then there’s those who just enjoy a recreational sail and want to learn more.

The course can be anywhere between six and 16 weeks. Participants can also choose where they do the course – in Australia or the UK, or, a combination of both.

Most students opt to spilt their course and join us here in Australia somewhere around week seven of a 13 week course.  While here they build on what they’ve already learnt, going into greater depth and detail.

Each week is different. Some weeks involve putting in long days and hours at sea to clock up the relevant miles and experience, while other weeks are all about honing the skills of boat handling under power and sail, getting the practise and trying to calm the nerves as they park next to someone’s million pound boat!

The most nervous part of my week is usually between 10-11am on a Monday morning. The anticipation of what the crew have bought and provisioned food wise for the week always keeps a slightly nervous smile on my face. Depending on the types of treats I spy through their shopping bags (many of which make my eyes light up) determines whether it’s going to be a good week it not.

There have been weeks when even the most mature of crew have not had a clue what to buy to make four lunches and four dinners for themselves on a boat.  I’ve been asked “how do you boil an egg?” on more than one occasion!

Each week is usually quite tiring and can be intense, depending on the weather, the people, your management of their personalities and abilities, and of course being in a confined space with complete strangers. 40ft might sound like a lot but it’s pretty damn small

It’s pretty much a 24-hour job because I’m responsible for the boat and the crew 100per cent of the time whilst we are away from our home port.

Towards the end of the course there is a two-week block which is scheduled as a mile builder. (Students need to have 2,500 miles under their belt for the exam) This is often where the real adventure spark for sailing gets ignited.

Within the 12 days we have to complete 1200 miles (all weather dependant) and usually complete skippered passages (each student has to complete two passages over 60 miles as a pre-requisite for the exam). We can take as many as 10 crew on these trips using a 55ft yacht designed for offshore sailing.

A lot of people have the impression that Sydney and Australia’s coastline is blue skies and turquoise water all the time. Yes, at times it can be, but more often than not it rains at least once in the 12 days. And when it rains, it really rains!

It’s amazing how much the weather can change peoples’ mood and perception of things. Usually once the weather clears up the crew begins to enjoy the challenges of life at sea and sailing constantly; Sleeping for three hours then getting up for three hours as part of a “watch system” regardless of what’s going on outside.

Highlights are sometimes the achievement of sailing through rough weather, making difficult night entries into different ports and we’ve even managed to cross the Bass Strait a couple of times.

Every student is unique. Each time at least one of them delivers a level of ability and determination that is totally unexpected. Others present themselves with the challenges of group dynamics and personalities clashes but when you are in a space 55ft long and 10ft wide there isn’t much else to do except deal with it. Everyone begins to come into their own and understand themselves as person; Where their limitations lie and how far their confidence, ability and attitude can take them.

One of the reasons so many people (including myself) have a love of sailing and being on the water is that you get to see so many different sights that you can never experience on land. The sun setting and Venus- the first visible start in crystal clear view together; Dolphins that look like glow-in-the-dark torpedoes at night as they effortlessly swim through the bow wave; Whales whose breaching can been seen from 10miles away; The Milky Way like you have never seen it before.

It’s at these times I usually sit still for a minute or two and have to pinch myself. I am truly fortunate to see such happenings, to be able to do something I love and enjoy, meet such amazing people AND get paid to do it.

I tell people everyday I am one of  a small percentage who look forward to going to work each morning. Even when the weather is bad I’m happy. You just put the right clothing on. As they say in the sailing world: There’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing.

 

 

 

 

Name: Kara Turner

Occupation: Well integrity technical assistant

Website: www.pacc.org.au/

How we met: I have known Kara for more than half my life. Affectionately known as KT, Kazzle and Wiki-Turner (because she has a great long-term memory and can always answer random points of trivia that I have no idea about), Kara and I met in Grade 9 at high school. She didn’t think I was very cool (I’m still not 🙂 ) and sat next to me in mathematics class one day, I think probably to tease me for being such a nerd. Turned out we had a fair bit in common and bonded over our childhood crushes on footballers and the grunge band Silverchair. Eighteen years on she is still one of my favourite people in the world.

Meet Kara, cycling extraordinaire:

Not six months after making one of the most major purchases of my life – my first road bike – I found myself looking longingly at another – a track bike. No brakes, one gear, and lightweight. How did I get myself into this?

After joining the exciting world of road cycling, I quickly made a lot of new cycling friends. Bunch rides and coffee shops had become my new hangouts. “Why don’t you try track?” one of the girls asked me one day.

So off I went to a ladies track session organised by Cycling SA Women’s Commission. Set up to introduce women of all ages to the track, a couple of hours on a Saturday is reserved at the Adelaide Superdrome just for us. They have coaches, bikes for hire, and lots of help and support from fellow trackies.

During my first try, I was hooked on the speed and I wasn’t even going that fast. Round and round on the duckboard I went (the pale blue line right at the very bottom of the track), getting more confident as each lap passed.

“Now go above the blue line” said the coach.

“Up there?!” I thought.

I knew I had to get some speed up, otherwise on the 43 degree banking, gravity would take over. So up I went. What a buzz! As I came back down my hands were shaking.

From then on Saturday afternoons at the velodrome became my new hangout.

The loan bikes were ok. But lots of the other girls were getting their own, and they were shiny, carbon fibre, with colour coordinated bar tape and nice wheels.

After a quick look around the Adelaide bike shops (yes, most of them) I needed a trip to Melbourne to source a bike. So Fitzroy Cycles sorted me with a sweet black and yellow Avanti Pista Pro.

Now I had my own bike the competition was endless. My cycling club, Port Adelaide, ran a winter series of racing on a Wednesday night at the Superdrome. We even had enough girls for our own women’s grade. I didn’t come last in every race and by going to every round (and some stroke of luck) I came third in the series!

The next competition to come up in October 2011 was the Australian Master Games. Most of the women from Saturday track were entering, so why not me? I had some competition practice up my sleeve, so I jumped at the chance to improve.

I came up against a very fit lady from WA and got beaten comprehensively. But I had fun, won some Master Games medals for my placings and spent a long weekend hanging at the track. This was the time I truly felt like I had become a track cyclist.

 

 

 

Name: Pat Corn

Occupation: Country music producer

Website: newclassiccountryrecords.com

Facebook: New Classic Country Records; The New Classic Country Hour

How we met: Well for those of you who’ve had the privilege (I use that term loosely) of listening to my rendition of Jolene and saw the video clip, you might recognise Pat. I met Pat in Sevierville, Tennessee, in December when I went to live like Dolly Parton for a month. Pat was kind enough to produce my debut LP. Your ears are all the better for it, trust me.

Meet my friend Pat:

 

Greetings from the Great Smoky Mountains of East Tennessee!!

Needless to say things here in the Smokies have not been the same since Christie left. I certainly hope her experience here in Sevier County, the home of Dolly Parton, was fulfilling. What a joy to record her song for her and I am honored to have had a minute part in making her dreams a reality.

Since Christie’s departure, I have been busy with my music business. Each week on Tuesday at noon (12pm EDST) I have a radio program heard locally on WKVL 850AM, for the world to enjoy. My program, The New Classic Country Hour, is an hour long broadcast that promotes a brand new genre of country music – New Classic Country.

This program was born from my record label New Classic Country Records (NCCR). NCCR is not only a record label, but the driving force behind the creation this new country and western music genre.

For some time now, the country music machine in Nashville has largely ignored the desires and heritage of real country music fans all over the world. Much like the rock music scene, the country music industry has become all about marketing and image. The roots of the artists today aren’t steeped in hard times, pain, and heartache. Why, the worst thing that might have happened to most of them is perhaps losing their cell phone at the mall!

They spend an enormous amount of airtime trying to convince us of how “country” they are. Driving a 4X4 pickup truck, getting it muddy in a creek bed, going back to a barn to drink beer is not “country”… that’s REDNECK!

You might wonder why am I so passionate about this scenario? Well, I grew up in the shadows of the greatest country music stars of all time. These artists are the people who built the country and western music industry with blood, sweat, tears, (and a lot of whiskey). I revere the likes of Farron Young, Ray Price, Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Hank Thompson, Bob Wills, Dottie West, Tammy Wynette, Merele Haggard, George Jones, Bobby Bare, Mel Street, Mel Tillis, Porter Wagoner, The Louvin Brothers, Roy Acuff, and Christie’s favorite, Dolly Parton, and a host of other Grand Ole Opry stars.

I became a minuscule part of C&W history when I became a member of the North Carolina Cloggers at the age of nine years old, and danced on the Opry every third week for quite some time, surrounded by the architects of this industry. I was loved on by so many of the folks, especially Minnie Pearl. I have traveled countless days and nights in station wagons to do package shows with these artists all over the USA. These are the real starts of country and western music. These are people who sang songs of experience not fantasy.

Several years ago Alan Jackson caused quite a stir on Music Row when, appearing on the Country Music Awards, he sang a song that was not the one he had rehearsed earlier that day. The song… Murder On Music Row.

This song is a phenomenal statement as to how the industry in Nashville has killed real country music. He truly put his career on the line to make such a bold statement. (see it here).

Three years ago I had two experiences that set the course for founding New Classic Country Records. The first was at a Country Radio Seminar (CRS) where a young female singer/songwriter was presented to the thousands attending as the next big thing.  She came out dressed like a beggar with torn jeans, a white tank top with stained armpits, looking as though she had just crawled out of bed. Her band was beyond horrible. The bass player sported a 12-inch purple mohawk hairdo (that ain’t country) and the guitar player’s solo consisted of one note bent up and down for 16 bars as he writhed around on stage with his guitar slung down to his knees.

The gentleman sitting next to me looked over and said, “When in the hell is somebody gonna play some country music around here!? I’ve been here two days and I haven’t heard any yet!!” I heartily agreed.

That same afternoon a workshop was held featuring the heads of the major labels in Nashville. To my left on a platform sat eight label heads and to my right 1800 radio station executives, DJs, and station owners.

(Former Sony giant) Joe Gallante came to the front of the platform and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve invested a lot of time and energy into these young talents you’ve been hearing and we want you all to jump off the edge with us and go back and play these artists on your stations”.

A pall fell over the entire crowd and then one very large fellow stood up. He was dressed in a western style suit complete with the hat. He removed his hat and said loudly, “Mr. Gallante, I know you are the Godfather of country music here in Nashville but….if I put that #@%$^## on my station,  I’ll lose every damn customer I’ve got! By God…we want some Merle!”

The place erupted. At that moment New Classic Country Records was born.

I came back to the Smokies, where country music was originally born, and began an effort for the re-birth of real country and western music. NCCR features new artists, performing new songs in the classic country and western stylings written by the greatest songwriters in country music history.

Our mission: “Putting country and western music back in the hearts and hands of the people“.

****

Pat is currently completing work on the new NCCR Family Album which will be released in August 2012 and feature 12 songs from different country artists.

Email Pat at newclassiccountry@gmail.com