A beer with…Matt Zurbo

 

Barry Nicholls begins his new ‘A beer with…’ column by chatting with Matt Zurbo, best known on these pages, as Old Dog.

 

 

 

 

A beer with …Matt Zurbo

 

Short Bio: 

Matt Zurbo, or Old Dog as he’s known at the Almanac and beyond, was once offered a job covering football for The Age. He was about 30, working in the bush at the time, for minimum wage, but turned it down, as they said he would have to retire from playing. In the 26 seasons since then, he has played in four states, in the snow, tropics, two cities, Outback, coastal towns, and muddy foothills of the Otway Ranges, embedding himself into their communities via footy, and written about the journey and all its varied people for the Almanac for the past 12 years. Stories that bring joy, if not pride, to those around him. That gives them a voice. Stories he could never do under the straightjacket of mainstream sports media. He has no regrets…. in this regard, anyway. Matt is a life-long bush worker who writes at night, from which he has won awards and been published in most mediums, from kids books to sports novels.

 

Why do you write?
I don’t think about it. Just do. People hate this answer, but it’s honest.

 

Where do you write and how often do you write?
I work long, hard days in the bush, hauling tree ferns out of gullies over my shoulder. I used to take days or weeks off to finish my latest novel. I was always broke, my writing was my holiday, new clothes, better car. The women in my life didn’t like that. Now I have a family, that way of life is out, so I write where and how I can. On my lunch break, in my ute for fifteen minutes before home, and every night. Usually, once the kid is asleep, from about 9pm until I fall asleep at the computer between midnight and 2am; 4-6 hours sleep a night does me. People say they have no time, I firmly believe that time is something you make.

 

What did you read as a kid?
Nothing, really, other than comics and sports sections. (I was a morning paper round kid). The occasional Sci-Fi novel. As I got older, a few cheesy hard-boiled detective novels I’d get for a dollar in an op shop.

I had no discipline as a kid. I didn’t read, or do homework, couldn’t spell. No one told me otherwise. Home was a thing to be bounced off. Eventually, they sent me to the “special English” teacher… as if I didn’t know what that meant! She strolled in even later than me, asked if I read anything. I said, “Not really, Miss. Just sports and comics.” She said, “GOOD. Both of them are full of stories.” and walked away. She was right. Best teacher I ever had!

Which writers do you like?
Martin Flanagan, from The Age. Peerless. He is always about more than sport, yet never about himself. It’s much harder to do than it looks. E Regnans from the Footy Almanac. He writes like I used to, but better. Lots of colour and passion, and a clear love of words. He sculpts. I try to make the words invisible these days. Neither of us is wrong.

 

What is the writing process for you?
I have no idea. But, yes, I would like to write something of greatness, something beautiful, before I’m gone.

 

How did you first get published?
For footy, Bruce Pascoe’s Australian Short Stories. A short fantasy piece called Supermarket Footy. Roos, Kelly and Frawley were sent to do just another store promo, and ended up having a liberating, if chaotic, game up and down the isles, re-finding their sense of fun.

Bruce lived in the Otways near me. I didn’t know a single writer, but he played in the twos at the club I did, so I baraged him with stories until he gave in.

Eventually, a Mambo artist asked me to submit a kids story. Penguin were interested in him, but didn’t like his text. I wrote one I was sure they’d like, but did two more, all three in the same night, to show off. They, and the artist, hated the first and loved the second. Now that I had an editor’s name, I sent three stories, fully story-boarded, each week, asking only one question; “What DIDN’T you like about it/them?” It’s the only question I’m even vaguely interested in.

After about five weeks I knew they would say yes to the story before they even read it. All this before the actual contract to the first story came through.

The novels followed.

The short version. I was stubborn as all hell. As many are.

 

What are you working on now?
Too much. Two novels, my kids stuff. A bio of my 700 games. Yes, poetry. A film script. While working in the bush. I’ve got to learn to focus a bit.

 

What is your view on publishing in Australia?
No idea. Don’t care. Just write.

 

What have been your experiences at writers’ festivals in Australia?
I’ve only said yes to two. Not my thing.

I did say yes to one in Queensland, where I did my talk as my stand-up comedy character: a fat, bloated ex-Wrestler called The Perculator – complete with mask, fake belly and love heart sewn onto chest because sleeves aren’t big enough. I gave them live music, a show bag, some comedy, and the story behind the comedy,  then talked these strangers into following me in my wrestling suit and helping me invade other talks, shouting our version of “I am Spartacus.” and drawing bum cracks on the author’s head.

When we were back in our classroom, laughing, weirded out, and sweating a little, I told them that the next time they hear the music I played for them, they won’t just be listening to it; they will own it. And that when they relate that class to their friends, they will be telling a story. The stuff of life. Live life and stories will follow. Two days later, I was back working in the logging community.

 

What could be done to support writers in Australia?Approving more grimy, honest, relatable books for young adults/school kids. Stories with real kids in there. Maybe then they will read beyond their schooling.

 

What would you recommend on streaming?Isn’t streaming something that happens when you’re weeing? (I haven’t owned a telly for 20 years. Life is too short)

 

What social media are you on?
Facebook.

 

Favourite food?
Pub grub, I guess. My wife’s cooking.

 

Favourite drink?
Alcohol. (It’s perfunctory, flavour’s irrelevant).

Though, I’m usually hurting after a 10-hour day in the bush. Each trip home along the ridge I crack a warm bourbon from under the ute’s seat. Just the one. My “de-wrinkler”. It pushes out the creases better than any painkillers or anti-inflams.

 

Best Pub?
The one I’m in.

 

What is the last book (s) you read?

Yvette Wroby’s Siren’s Call was a heartfelt ode to family and footy. She remains a huge part of the Almanac community. My latest is ABC presenter, Joel Rheinberger’s The Hopping Ghost – a cracker! It’s about an Irish girl in the turn of the 20th century Shanghai resisting the curse of vampirism. I like the man, which makes making time easier, but a book every five or so years seems to be the average.

 

What song do you currently have on repeat?
Don’t really do that, but I love finding obscure, no label tracks found in dusty corners. Preferably garage or raw, female `60s soul.

 

Who is your best writing teammate?
Not sure what that means, but here’s a story.

I was 19, a kid working in a wrecking yard, when I followed a brassy woman to Sydney, leaving me with nothing more than $30 to my name, no job or home, and wrote a poem about it. I had no idea if it was any good, so, despite having sworn I would never cross my school’s doorway again, I walked into the staff room and approached a teacher I had for one poetry class when I was 15. He liked it and offered to read anything else I wrote. I am a copious writer, yet he has read everything I have written over the past 37 years, despite now being a famous author himself. Every piece, big or small, flash or humiliatingly personal. Everything I have had published under various fake names. His opinions are always delivered with great thought and no ego. Sometimes I agree sometimes not, but my view, either way, becomes sharp. More often than not, he is simply pointing out what I already knew, but hadn’t admitted to myself. Give good, get good – I try to do the same for others, when they ask.

Sometimes I wonder if he has become my escape valve. I have no interest, or even capability, to promote myself or push my works. Countless novels have not even been sent off – as soon as I’m finished it’s the next book, the next book. With him I have my witness, and can move on. And keep my bush existence separate from my more private writing one.

What type of pet do you have? (and name)
My last dog was called Bucket. She came EVERYWHERE with me. My mate, my family. When I have the space for that sort of commitment again, I’ll get another.

 

One word to describe your life at the moment?
FamilybushworkfootywriteCieloCieloCielo.

 

What is your Desert Island book?
A kid’s book. Robin and the Pirates. Each page has a hundred stories in the images, characters with stories oozing out of them. So why not!?

 

If you could ask five guests to a dinner party, who would they be?
The first would be Damian Dove. He’s a local dairy farmer who’s done a lot of work in the mines and was the toughest bloke I’ve ever played footy against or with. Dovie is also the funniest bloke I know. He can rip you to shreds but is tough enough to know the line. He’d keep it real.

Two would be Genghis Khan. (and his translator, I guess.) NO idea why. To see how his mind worked. If he got too psycho, Dovie would sort him out.

Three would be Frida Kahlo. My wife adores her. It would be fair trade for me inviting rough nuts like Dovie and Khan. Damian would be polite, and, again, if Genghis got loose with her, we’d loop back to Dovie sorting him out.

Four would be Tav Falco’s Panther Burns. Not just Tav, whom I adore, but the whole band. Why not? It’s my imaginary shout. With Tav, it would start to get pretty freaky, more so than Dovie and I are used to, but that’s good. Let’s make a circus of it! Tav is pure odd-ball quirky self-expression, Just raw honesty. If Damian did bail, I’d replace him with Matty Dawes. A local concreter. Not as tough as Damian, but just the most ripper bloke, who I don’t get to see enough of.

Tommy Mallett once wrote a thing about Tav Falco, I think. I wouldn’t invite Tommy, though. Poets give me the shits.

Five would be an open seat. I’d let MLK, that long-haired Palestinian man, and, I dunno, Nina Simone or May West chain smoking like a boss, fight over the last seat. While they were bluing, I’d slip my old man into it. He’s dead now, I miss him. My daughter, in particular, would be stoked.

Our shack isn’t set up for five guests, so we’d probably take them all down to the Port Campbell pub for a counter-meal.

I’d probably slip away and join Doug Stanhope or Bruce Pascoe at the bar for simple one-on-one drinking and storytelling. I much prefer that to a group.

After tucking in my wife and kid, of course.

 

Barry Nicholls is a former A-grade district cricketer (for Kensington in Adelaide) who has written about the sport for three decades. He’s also been a broadcaster on ABC Radio for nearly 20 years. Barry has written nine books, including You Only Get One Innings: Family, Mates and the Wisdom of Cricket and For Those Who Wait: The Barry Jarman Story and The Pocket History of the Ashes. He has contributed to Inside Sport, Wisden Cricketers’ Almanac Australia and other publications.

 

 

 

 

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