Almanac Life: On the Glenelg Surf Club, Vampire Weekend, and Roast Beef

 

‘Just as we were amazed to look out at the sea on the Cinque Terre, people must come here and think the same. The view is beautiful,’ offered Claire.

 

‘I’m sure that’s true,’ I replied instantly, if a little ungenerously.

 

About 5.30pm on Friday, we’d somehow snaffled a table on the balcony at the Glenelg Surf Club. The waters of Gulf St. Vincent were flat and dazzling and postcardy. To our south the squat jetty swarmed with folks and kids, leaping into the drink, from the pylons. I hoped some had on their best swimming jeans.

 

Having established a theme, Claire pursued it with relaxed tenacity. ‘If there were, say, Italian tourists staying in the city, I reckon they’d really enjoy it in here. Don’t you think?’

 

I love a surf club, too. They’re proudly local and chances are your beer will be served by a young, often uncertain, clubbie getting up a few volunteer hours. The prices are decent, the grub’s often excellent and your coin’s doing communal good. We bought (unsuccessful) tickets in the meat raffle and this was also a petite joy.

 

To celebrate this tremendous fortune, we had a bag of chips (not my idea, I confess) and then discussed how our British friends are probably wise to call these crisps to differentiate them from their direct-from-the-deep-fryer brethren. It would save us the frequent indignity of this conversation:

 

Shall we get some chips?

 

Sure. Hot chips or cold chips?

 

Cold.

 

Why don’t we call them crisps in Australia?

 

Yeah, like the Poms. Would make life easier.

 

Dunno.

 

*

 

After five years, one of my favourite bands dropped (nobody simply releases music anymore) two new songs, ‘Capricorn’ and ‘Gen-X Cops.’ The former is wonderfully atmospheric and reminiscent of their acclaimed 2013 album Modern Vampires of the City with its introspective lyrics about the past and our fragile hopes. Musically, there’s a gorgeous detuned piano solo and a moving melody that echoes their finest moments on tracks such as, ‘Step’ and my desert island certainty, ‘Hannah Hunt.’

 

Claire and I saw Vampire Weekend at Melbourne’s Forum Theatre as part of their Father of the Bride tour. With 27 songs played across nearly three hours, it was magnificent. About four songs in the stage lost power twice and we feared our night would be unhappily early, but the faceless electricians made things spark and the show went on. No voltage interruptus. On the third attempt, they got through the delightfully named, ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa.’

 

For me their music is literate and fun and smart. It connects to Paul Simon’s Graceland in style and performance. When it’s out in April, just after Easter, I’ll be all over the new album, Only God Was Above Us.

 

*

 

Although it’s February we decided to have a Saturday roast. It’d been months since our last, probably in winter and so we enlisted the appropriately named Beefmaster barbeque and utilised the indirect method (does sound like a form of contraception somewhat devoid of intimacy).

 

Is there a more comforting sound than that of a hunk of beef spitting and sizzling in the pan?

 

Food often lacks an accompanying musical score, so this is always a welcome domesticated commotion. I find the challenge is to just leave my meat alone and not lift the lid too frequently. I treat the roast like a kind of culinary Schrodinger’s Cat, wanting to peer at it constantly as if it’s slow art, thus lengthening the cooking time. Preparing a roast is best done as a duet with Claire being the gently guiding Dolly to my vaguely dazed and doddery Kenny.

 

It was affirming ye olde fayre with the roasted cauliflower (is it really the poor cousin of broccoli; methinks not) and Belgium’s finest cabbage derivative, brussel sprouts, both emerging as unlikely stars. Like seemingly every contestant on every gormless televisual singing show, they received a sitting/ standing ovation from us.

 

At 6.37pm on the patio attending to the soothing symphony coming from under the rangehood and nursing a sparkling ale (me) and gin (Claire) all was (briefly) right in our tiny beachy nook.

 

 

 

Read more from Mickey Randall HERE.

 

To return to our Footy Almanac home page click HERE.

 

 

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

 

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?

And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help things keep ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

 

 

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE.