Almanac Life: Back at the `Nac. (A Farewell to Keith)

 

 

 

Number of days since my last entry: 1,611.

 

So, what’d I miss? Have they sacked Chris Fagan yet?

 

At least, that was the vibe, trending in late 2021, when I last popped my head in.

Hello again, my beloved Almanac Community. I have missed you.

Is there anything more comforting than familiarity?

Whether it’s the single-minded focus of a sporting club or fraternity, the measured warmth of the online community, or the carefree exuberance of an angry mob, there is something delightfully reassuring about finding one’s “people”.

Please forgive my absence. I had some serious adulting to do.

Archie, my son, is Level 3 Non-verbal ASD and ADHD.

These letters are confronting for first-time parents and downright infuriating when playing Scrabble (even on a Triple Word Score).

I needn’t trouble you further with the specifics of his many challenges or subsequent progress on this platform. Not least because it is a site dedicated largely to sporting content but mostly because I am encouraged by the idea that he might be able to do that for himself one day.

I didn’t cope terribly well at first and I did what I suspect many people in these situations do. I blamed myself.

I stared accusingly across the mirky depths of my own shallow gene pool (with its substandard fencing and no lifeguard) and cursed aloud the family tree that, despite eviction notices, many of my kin are still refusing to climb down from.

It just felt like another blow, after our initial struggles to conceive. We had anticipated there might be some difficulties, given my advancing years and chronic inability to appear in any way desirable.

Analysis soon followed and though my little swimmers weren’t quite Eric Moussambani, they weren’t exactly threatening a podium finish either.

The fertility specialist cheerfully offered to show me under a microscope. I declined. I don’t need to view my own cellular version of Dad’s Army, dog-paddling in prescription goggles to know the task ahead would be a difficult one. I’d rather just imagine them on their hobbit-like journey, wandering around lost, stopping at the nearest organ and asking for directions:

“Hello, terribly sorry to bother. I’m looking for Phil’s Opening Tubes or some such establishment. Could you point me in the right direction?”

“Shit mate, you are lost! I’d help you but that would be useful and productive and as an appendix, that’s not really my thing.”

Now, don’t tell me you haven’t missed these ridiculous tangents.

Mel has had a monopoly on them for four years and she’s very keen for me to share them with others.

So naturally, when Archie arrived, we were too blissfully unaware to notice the early signs.

We coped well enough at first, but as each diagnosis led to another and each specialist consultation led to another, our financial status began to waiver.

Government funding is available, but the process is lengthy and convoluted. I found myself probed in ways I hadn’t experienced since college and all just to ensure that you are an upstanding citizen, thereby excluding you from ever running for public office.

If they’d just bothered to read some of my old Almanac articles they’d have known I was a man legitimately in need of help.

So, as the costs accumulate, you cautiously start to peel back the luxuries.

It starts with take-away food. Then streaming services, Ad-free podcasts, Audio books (I’ve tried reading my old books in a theatrically trained, British accent but it’s not the same), holidays, scientifically endorsed medication, elasticised clothing, carbonated refreshment, condiments, fragrant toiletries, coated biscuits and enclosed footwear.

You look on helplessly, under the struggling light of a kerosene lamp as your toilet tissue ticks down from 3 to 2 to 1ply until the fateful day you realise there is no more fat left on the bone.

It is a sad and sorry day when the Angel of Financial Woe comes for your club membership.

Interestingly, he looks a lot like The Grim Reaper, only instead of a cloak he favours a duffle coat covered in badges.

I am happy to champion the many perfectly acceptable Aldi alternative products that stepped up to fill the void when needed.

In terms of entertainment, it simply meant re-acquainting oneself with the safety net that is free-to-air television.

When I say safety net, that is to say if the net itself were not attached at either end, but it’s not entirely without its charm.

I have become quite familiar with the goings on of Summer Bay and Tipping Point is oddly addictive.

I could have done without discovering that Jo Silvagni had been usurped as the face of Discount Pharmacy.

When did that happen?

Anyway, we’re Ok.

I just had to play at grown up for a bit.

Archie’s Special School is his happiest of happy places, Mel is heading back to teaching full-time and I’ve since landed a gig as a Copywriter/Creative Consultant.

 

Somebody’s actually paying me to write! I know, I’m as confused and frightened as you are.

And now, with what we are reliably informed to be the most difficult years behind us, we get to stand on the other side of the raging torrent and wave back at the concerned faces of parents wandering in ankle deep and say:

“It’ll be Ok. You’ll get tossed around, dragged under and slammed against the rocks sometimes, but there is firmer footing over here. Sure, there are crossings on this side too but there are bridges…”

Damn it! I just hit my metaphor quota and it’s only January!

Forgive me. I’m a little rusty.

Most excitedly for me, the great Australian game is starting to pique Archie’s interest.

He’ll watch the first quarter with me with genuine interest, which is great but quickly loses interest in the second quarter. So, either that’s the limit of his attention span or he identifies as a North Melbourne supporter.

Either way it just means we aren’t quite ready for a live game just yet. No immediate loss, given Full Membership is no longer presently available to me.

This was to be my first year back as a full member but the club regrets to inform me that…they’ve started seeing other people.

All those decades of support have earned me no favour.

It doesn’t seem an age ago when, working close to The Gabba, I would renew in person.

After gently waking the Membership team, one would distract me with shadow puppetry whilst another tried to cram discounted membership forms under my windshield wipers. You had to pepper spray your way out of there, all the while imploring: “I’m sorry. It’s just me! Nobody else wants to come!”

I can still see their shattered little faces, sliding down the bonnet at the first red light I’d come to.

Alas, no longer.

The ranks of the Fair-Weathered Army are swollen to plague proportions.

“I’m sorry sir.” Says a young Marketing Assistant from behind the faint, rhythmic squelch of what I assume to be chewing gum.

“There are no Platinum, Gold or Silver memberships available.”

Her tone is cold, even and disinterested.

I’d guess AI, only with less empathy, were it not for the chewing that reasonably establishes her humanity.

“I see.” I sigh. “Nothing in Tin or Aluminium I suppose?”

Silence. More chewing.

Nery a scrap for me. I’d take anything too:

 

“Perhaps sir would consider the Asbestos package. It entitles you to: A signed oven mit by the Wooden Spoon winning team of 2017, a lock of John Gastev’s nostril hair and access to the dumpster on game days.”

Sadly, no.

Nothing.

2026 will have to be General…forgive me, I’m having trouble saying it…will have to be General Admission for me.

I know how General Admission works. I’ve seen the footage. A masked club official on the back of a flatbed truck, trowelling the last few available seats off to a throng of desperate, outstretched hands.

It’s humiliating but I will need to swallow my pride, the way one would a Gabba pie – with reluctance and born out of complete desperation.

I must exercise patience and wait for the inevitable waning of fervour that accompanies anything less than success.

By the time they peel the plastic off Victoria Park, we can probably return to the good old days of wondering if we’ve come on the right day and being able to hear the players cough as they struggle through the banner.

Anyway, we’ve said our goodbyes to The Angel of Financial Woe (or Keith, as it turns out), along with the good folk at Summer Bay and here we are 1,611 days later.

A round trip to Mars (including launch windows) will take approximately 1,040 days!

Though to be fair, they will almost certainly not have access to Seven Plus.

I have missed my Almanac family. The most dysfunctional of all my families.

I am home.

Seriously though, what’d I miss?

 

 

 

 

Read more from Jamie Simmons HERE

 

 

 

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