Best of cartoons, August 15, 2025
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Sydney Morning Herald
36 minutes ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
The sad Beckhams split is a reminder to be a cheer squad not a jury
The first girlfriend to meet our family was like a 1980s Dolly cover girl, improbably chocolate box pretty, with a smile that stretched for days, mild anxiety and a habit of dropping used tissues. She reminded me of girls I wasn't friends with at school — jealousy of that eastern suburbs polish and 'I am destined for a rich husband' vibe makes me judgey — but from the get-go I decided the way forward was to love everyone my kids did. I'd be a cheer squad, not a jury. That girlfriend came on holidays, to a family wedding, is with us forever in school formal photos. But not with us in actuality. She was a teenage dream who flamed out. I do still have her Country Road beach towel. I lied about it being lost on the Gold Coast trip because I liked that we could keep a tangible piece of her for summers and summers. Since then, other gorgeous people have been folded into our family via romance with my kids. It's been easy to give open arms and heart. They've all brought something wonderful, from Steph's morphing of farm girl practicality with urban interior design cool to the firecracker who ran laughing into winter seas, the smart cookie armed with dog toys and Sarah's unnerving calm and fantastic salsa moves. I've missed everyone who has left us when romance runs its course. Letting go is hard for me. Which is why I'm fascinated by the Beckham family schism. They're a global brand built around being close — Victoria and David married forever, kids front row at fashion shows, always super tight. And yet, amid rumours his mum and wife hate each other, eldest son Brooklyn has removed himself from the fold. To the extent that when he and wife Nicola Peltz renewed their wedding vows this month, the bride's billionaire dad officiated and all Beckhams were officially MIA. Hideous for the Beckhams, but comforting in a rubber necking way that a family with stonking money, fame, status has the same problems as any of us when it comes to welcoming new people into the family.
Sydney Morning Herald
36 minutes ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
Mothballed Boomers dance away the years before Monday's chill returns
Consider the rock star, one arm raised, leaping shirtless and slick in the ecstasy and affirmation of a berserk crowd, backlit with green light making his hair an emerald supernova as the guitars, drums and horns wail and pop, fusing into Street Fighting Man, The Stones regular finisher, its recurring riff a loop that leads to the edge of some gorgeous abyss and back, again and again, a loop no one in this room wants to escape. Eight musicians up on stage, each bringing their vital piece of the song, hunched over like physicists adding their particular contrivance to the engine of a moonshot rocket, and each of them so immersed in this incandescent moment of its insertion that the rest of life – the council rates, the failing mother, the dodgy carburettor – has fallen away to nothing, pallid, petty, forgotten. And we, the afternoon crowd, buying liquor with our watches and boogying with our partners in this artificial night. A wink of conspiracy runs through the room, we have struck a deal to allow this moment to subsume all other moments and for this torrid now to become a peak, either side of which nothing exists. We have shucked off our grandmotherly concerns, our knowledge of accountancy, and our tendency to civility, and become whooping primitives, hooting primates, monkey men and women, given over to the primeval abstraction in a rock song played live, played loud. Epiphany rattling our friable bones as we stand stomping in a resurrected 1970s on this winter's Sunday in The Bandroom at The Corner Hotel in Richmond in July 2025. The crowd might be made of thick-set, silver-haired folk in black T-shirts and loose chiffon, but a pact of happiness runs through it end-to-end. In the darkness of the big room, we mimic ancient nights of near glory. Enough of maturity – we are joyously callow once more, hollering… 'I'll shout and scream, I'll kill the king, I'll rail at all his servants'. People say it's unsafe to live in the past – but what if you could edit it until only its sweetest ecstasies, romances and victories remained? That's what a live Stones act is, I suppose – a flawlessly filtered reminiscence. Loading How I envy the musicians – able to conjure this. Tim Rogers with his self-deprecating stage banter. His voice as worn as a Civil War Colt, likely to jam or explode – but a venerable thing that might once have felled a plantation owner. And you know he still believes. Rich Cohen wrote of Keith Richards (when Mick had been given a knighthood and become Sir Mick and Keith, disapproving mightily, said, 'I wouldn't let that family near me with a sword') that he was the guy who would never let you forget the promise you made under the bridge. Tim Rogers is similarly unwilling to forget the promises made for music. Something honorable and brave in that. Over there on the stage by the mixing desk stands James 'The Hound Dog' Young in a cherry red suit and white Stetson, looking like a superannuated ZZ Top making get-by money as a Texas Santa – paternal, dutiful, presiding over this delivery of gifts to his frayed Stones-freak flock.
The Age
36 minutes ago
- The Age
Mothballed Boomers dance away the years before Monday's chill returns
Consider the rock star, one arm raised, leaping shirtless and slick in the ecstasy and affirmation of a berserk crowd, backlit with green light making his hair an emerald supernova as the guitars, drums and horns wail and pop, fusing into Street Fighting Man, The Stones regular finisher, its recurring riff a loop that leads to the edge of some gorgeous abyss and back, again and again, a loop no one in this room wants to escape. Eight musicians up on stage, each bringing their vital piece of the song, hunched over like physicists adding their particular contrivance to the engine of a moonshot rocket, and each of them so immersed in this incandescent moment of its insertion that the rest of life – the council rates, the failing mother, the dodgy carburettor – has fallen away to nothing, pallid, petty, forgotten. And we, the afternoon crowd, buying liquor with our watches and boogying with our partners in this artificial night. A wink of conspiracy runs through the room, we have struck a deal to allow this moment to subsume all other moments and for this torrid now to become a peak, either side of which nothing exists. We have shucked off our grandmotherly concerns, our knowledge of accountancy, and our tendency to civility, and become whooping primitives, hooting primates, monkey men and women, given over to the primeval abstraction in a rock song played live, played loud. Epiphany rattling our friable bones as we stand stomping in a resurrected 1970s on this winter's Sunday in The Bandroom at The Corner Hotel in Richmond in July 2025. The crowd might be made of thick-set, silver-haired folk in black T-shirts and loose chiffon, but a pact of happiness runs through it end-to-end. In the darkness of the big room, we mimic ancient nights of near glory. Enough of maturity – we are joyously callow once more, hollering… 'I'll shout and scream, I'll kill the king, I'll rail at all his servants'. People say it's unsafe to live in the past – but what if you could edit it until only its sweetest ecstasies, romances and victories remained? That's what a live Stones act is, I suppose – a flawlessly filtered reminiscence. Loading How I envy the musicians – able to conjure this. Tim Rogers with his self-deprecating stage banter. His voice as worn as a Civil War Colt, likely to jam or explode – but a venerable thing that might once have felled a plantation owner. And you know he still believes. Rich Cohen wrote of Keith Richards (when Mick had been given a knighthood and become Sir Mick and Keith, disapproving mightily, said, 'I wouldn't let that family near me with a sword') that he was the guy who would never let you forget the promise you made under the bridge. Tim Rogers is similarly unwilling to forget the promises made for music. Something honorable and brave in that. Over there on the stage by the mixing desk stands James 'The Hound Dog' Young in a cherry red suit and white Stetson, looking like a superannuated ZZ Top making get-by money as a Texas Santa – paternal, dutiful, presiding over this delivery of gifts to his frayed Stones-freak flock.
