The day the pope got in the way

Surry Hills – the suburb where we live - is in lockdown.  Now when I say “suburb” I don’t mean it in a Margot and Jerry way.  It’s very central I’ll have you know and ever so hip.  Full of bijou restaurants and shops selling stuff no one needs.  But in Australia everyone lives in a suburb.  Sydney itself, the narrow strip of skyscrapers between the harbour and Central Station, is called a suburb.  Which perhaps says more about this place than any number of letters I could write.

Anyway, Surry Hills is in lockdown.  Two of its main thoroughfares, Foveaux and Bourke, have been shut off entirely.  Those foolish enough to drive this weekend have been funnelled into Crown and as I type are sitting in their cars going nowhere.  Helicopters hover low in the sky and groups of policeman are hanging around on street corners.

Devonshire, the street which runs from our place to Central Station, is also blocked off, crowded with water trucks leaking all over the tarmac.  This morning as I smugly left my car at home I asked one of the council workers if a pipe had burst.

“No pipe” he said “Just pope”.

The water vans were there to fill the huge plastic barricades which ran the length of Devonshire.  Did you know they are filled with water to keep them solid and emptied again when they need to be moved?  Well now you do.  And the reason for the barricades?  For the lockdown of Surry Hills and half of Sydney this weekend?  The council man had it right.  The pope’s here and God it’s getting annoying.

July 17^th – 21^st inclusive are World Youth Day (named by somebody who can’t count I’d guess).and apparently this a big deal in catholic circles.  We were told it would be the “biggest youth event in the world ever” but that didn’t sound such a big deal.  After all, what were they comparing it to?  And we scoffed at the idea that hundreds of thousands of pilgrims would make the trip to Sydney.  I mean, that pope, he’s not so big any more is he?  

Oh how out of touch we atheists can become.  60,000 people are planning to attend the Friday night mass on the harbour.  250,000 will be at the weekend services at Randwick Race Course.  And as far as I can tell the vast majority of them are indeed youths and more surprisingly actually from all over the world.  Mexico, Chile, Croatia, Austria, the US, the UK, Germany, France, India, Guam, Senegal, I could go on.  Thousands and thousands of young people everywhere you go, all of them singing and dancing and playing the guitar badly.

And you can’t help but like them.  Admittedly they’re clogging the transport system and they have terrible skin, but they’re all so happy in their matching rucksacks, so friendly and optimistic.  Great hordes of them have been crossing my beach all week like a disorganised but victorious army, calling out and challenging each other to games of volleyball or swims in the icy water.   

Some locals have objected to the $150 million the NSW government has put into this jamboree but when you see them all here from all over the planet, smiling and spending money you can’t help but be uplifted.

At least that’s how my thinking went for a while.  But then, on Thursday evening, the pope got in my way.  

Every afternoon I train for four or so hours on Manly Beach.  By the time I’m on my way home I’m exhausted, covered in sand and - at this time of the year – cold.  All I want to do is get the ferry to Circular Quay and jump on my bus down to the Hills.   Which is easy enough if some popstar in a white dress isn’t planning to drive past your bus stop.  

I got off the ferry to find thousands of people lining both sides of the road screaming at an approaching cavalcade.  Deep breath, I’ll get a train.  Except, as I queued for my ticket, the station suddenly closed because the platform was too full.  Deeper breath, I’ll walk.  Oh, except they’ve closed off all the roads because Bride of Chucky is doing his drive past right now.

“You could try and flag down a helicopter” suggested a policeman before retreating from the look I gave him.

The worst moment was when I walked from the place where  the popemobile was about to drive to where it had just driven.  Four thousand catholics turned as one and ran past me to get a second look.  And there’s me carrying ten volleyballs.  As you can imagine, this was just about efuckingnough.  How dare this stupid man get in my way?!  We’re trying to run a city here not a cult.  And have none of these people noticed that this stupid man won’t allow condoms in AIDS-ridden Africa?  Or that he thinks that my lifestyle if evil and that half my friends should go to hell?  Or that the insitution which he leads has caused systematic child abuse and ruined hundreds of thousands of lives?  How dare a man whose only redeeming feature is that he actually looks evil tell me how to live my life?

Oliver designed a t-shirt which read “World Youth Day 2008, I was touched by a priest down under” and oh I wish I was wearing one just then.  “Oh” I shouted “oh, you mindless idiots, did you hear about why the mass is being held at the race course?  Because it’s the only place in Sydney where you can legally ride a three year old!”  

Except I didn’t of course.  I just fought through the crowds and once they opened the barricades somehow caught a miracle taxi home.  Maybe God was feeling protestant that day.  Anyway, there are still quite a few pilgrims milling about, still singing and carrying crosses.  And I don’t mind them, so young and guilt ridden, so malleable and out of tune.  But I’ll never, never forgive the pope.

Football

Football season is here, hooray!  Now to follow the Aussie football season it’s best to pick your favourite code.  You can pick more than one if you want, but I warn you if you do that it will be tough to remember which of your favourite stars is addicted to which drug or is accused of sleeping with which TV starlet.  Here are your choices:

1.  Rugby league. 

Rugby league is predominately a New South Wales game although it is apparently also played in a place called the north of England (never been but it sounds hideous).  Rugby league players are generally involved in orgy scandals in large hotels, they have very thick necks and their teams, like characters in a Dostoyevsky novel, each have two or three names.  Cronulla are the Sharks, the Wests are Canterbury (or The Bulldogs if you prefer) and Illawara are, I kid you not, both St George and The Dragons.
The story to know about Rugby League is that in the 80’s Rupert Murdoch decided he wanted to own the game.  He poured a lot of money into setting up a league (sorry, The League) and decided for televiewing pleasure that some teams should merge.  The proudest and most successful team, South Sydney (aka The Rabbitohs) said no thanks, who do you think you are?  To which he replied I’m Rupert Murdoch and refused to let them play in his, sorry, the league for the first few years.  They lost out on millions of dollars of television revenues and have rarely since won a game.  They’re back now though and were bought last year by Russell Crowe.  New money, new players and they even made the final eight.  Not that it means my local barber has yet taken down the crucified Murdoch effigy from his window.  Again, I kid you not.

2.  Rugby Union

Rugby Union is not so much preferred in any one state as by a stratum of society.  Posh people watch it and the teams are named after flowers.  It has the worst carbon footprint of any code, the Aussie states competing against teams from New Zealand and South Africa in a fast growing league called the Super 8 10 12 14.  Union players earn a lot less than League players but they do get a chance to play for the national team the Wallabies (a much greater honour than getting to play for the national League team who 1) are called the Kangaroos and 2) only ever get to compete against the North of England).

The story to know about Rugby Union:  it’s greatest proponent of the modern game, Joey Johns, recently confessed that he used to take ecstasy.  Personally my world fell apart.

3.  Aussie Rules

Aussie Rules, or AFL to give it its full name, stems from Victoria.  You go to Victoria when there’s a big League game on and all you’ll hear in the pub is the click of dominoes.  It’s not that dominoes is really loud down there, they just never watch League.  In New South Wales “only poofs watch AFL”.

At least this was the case until a few years ago.  To counter a lack of interstate interest both AFL and League decided on a very clever strategy to make their games popular across the nation.  This involved placing strict salary caps on their local teams.  As a result “foreign” teams got the better players, started winning tournaments and lo and behold became popular in states previously deafened by dominoes.  Two years ago the Sydney Swans won the AFL, last year’s League final was between Western Australian and Victorian teams and all played to sell out crowds.

AFL is played by porn gods in tight shorts.  Each runs the equivalent of 26km in the average game and it pays to be tall and muscular.  You gain ground by catching a ball thrown by an equally handsome and rugged player and there’s probably something about points but really, who cares?  Just sit back and look at those men.

4.  Football

No! No! No! I won’t call it soccer!.  Of course if I say “football” an Aussie will say “which code?” and I’ll say “soccer” but still I can just can’t bring myself to use the word unprompted.  Anyway, football used to be very ethnic in Australia.  Croatian teams would play Greek teams whilst their fans would kill each other in the stands (they just do it at the tennis now).  Then Mr Frank Lowy stepped in.

Frank Lowy is to shopping centres (Westfield to be precise) what Rupert Murdoch is to media and like Murdoch before him Lowy decided he wanted to set up a league.  First of all though he decided to remove any team that was named along ethnic lines or had ethnic criteria for membership.  Now each of the big cities has got a main team and they often bring in flagship players from overseas.  Two seasons ago Dwight York starred for Sydney FC and last year Juninho played for someone (strangely enough no one wanted Gazza).  Then of course Australia qualified for the world cup and now soc..football is hugely popular over here.  The Australian national team is called the Socceroos.  No comment.

So there you go, take your pick.  And remember, it doesn’t matter which code you choose because at the end of the day its all about yelling your head off in the stands with a schooner of beer in one hand and a hot meat pie in the other.   Go the Rabbitohs!!!!  Pull ‘is bleedin’ ‘ead off ya flamin gallah!!!