Latest news with #MrSquiggle
The Age
3 days ago
- Business
- The Age
The cheque is a dramatic (and dying) way to spend a dollar. We must keep it alive
Picture this. You're in a crowded restaurant, seated at the head of the table, surrounded by friends and family. A long lunch that has bled into dinner. Everywhere you look, there are half-empty bottles of wine, people are enjoying themselves, and there's talk of kicking on to another venue. Because you're in a double-breasted suit and everyone else is dressed normally, the waiter brings you the bill. 'Cash or card, sir?' Neither, you say, pulling a Montblanc pen from your inside pocket, followed by a personal chequebook. You write a cheque for the full amount plus a little something extra for the staff. You date it, sign it, fold it in half and discreetly slip it into the waiter's pocket. Two pats on the shoulder, a knowing wink. He begins, 'Sir, we no longer accept cheques as a form of payment ...' but his protest is drowned out by cheers. People have seen what you've done. They adore you. Life is good. Of all the things 1990s pop culture led me to believe would feature heavily in adult life – quicksand, hammerhead sharks, Mr Squiggle – the disappearance of the chequebook is easily the most devastating. Back then, cheques were everywhere: in films, on TV, and most memorably, tucked inside the birthday cards from my Greek grandparents. Every year, without fail, I'd open the card, skim the well-wishes, and then turn my attention to the real prize – a rectangular slip of paper, payable to me and me only. Superior to simply being gifted cash, the cheque's power lay in delayed gratification. Twenty bucks in a card is twenty bucks in a card, but a handwritten cheque for twenty dollars and zero cents offered something far more valuable – the promise of money. Loading Of course, because we are inherently impatient creatures with no appreciation for the fact that good things come to those who wait, we went and ruined it all. In 1980, cheques accounted for 85 per cent of non-cash payments, so if you wanted to buy a house in Sydney (something people could still do in the 1980s), then you'd likely be writing a cheque for $76,500. By the mid-1990s, cheques still represented 50 per cent of non-cash payments and were deeply ingrained in the culture. Tabloid newspapers began paying sources for stories about high-profile figures, giving rise to the term chequebook journalism. Meanwhile, in 1994, my favourite cheque-related movie, Blank Cheque, was released. The film follows a boy who inherits a blank cheque and uses it to buy a house under an alter ego, which he then fills with all his favourite gadgets and toys. The dream! According to Wikipedia, ' Blank Cheque received mostly negative reviews,' but you know what they haven't made a movie about? Contactless payments.
Sydney Morning Herald
4 days ago
- Business
- Sydney Morning Herald
The cheque is a dramatic (and dying) way to spend a dollar. We must keep it alive.
Picture this. You're in a crowded restaurant, seated at the head of the table, surrounded by friends and family. A long lunch that has bled into dinner. Everywhere you look, there are half-empty bottles of wine, people are enjoying themselves, and there's talk of kicking on to another venue. Because you're in a double-breasted suit and everyone else is dressed normally, the waiter brings you the bill. 'Cash or card, sir?' Neither, you say, pulling a Montblanc pen from your inside pocket, followed by a personal chequebook. You write a cheque for the full amount plus a little something extra for the staff. You date it, sign it, fold it in half and discreetly slip it into the waiter's pocket. Two pats on the shoulder, a knowing wink. He begins, 'Sir, we no longer accept cheques as a form of payment ...' but his protest is drowned out by cheers. People have seen what you've done. They adore you. Life is good. Of all the things 1990s pop culture led me to believe would feature heavily in adult life – quicksand, hammerhead sharks, Mr Squiggle – the disappearance of the chequebook is easily the most devastating. Back then, cheques were everywhere: in films, on TV, and most memorably, tucked inside the birthday cards from my Greek grandparents. Every year, without fail, I'd open the card, skim the well-wishes, and then turn my attention to the real prize – a rectangular slip of paper, payable to me and me only. Superior to simply being gifted cash, the cheque's power lay in delayed gratification. Twenty bucks in a card is twenty bucks in a card, but a handwritten cheque for twenty dollars and zero cents offered something far more valuable – the promise of money. Of course, because we are inherently impatient creatures with no appreciation for the fact that good things come to those who wait, we went and ruined it all. In 1980, cheques accounted for 85 per cent of non-cash payments, so if you wanted to buy a house in Sydney (something people could still do in the 1980s), then you'd likely be writing a cheque for $76,500. By the mid-1990s, cheques still represented 50 per cent of non-cash payments and were deeply ingrained in the culture. Tabloid newspapers began paying sources for stories about high-profile figures, giving rise to the term chequebook journalism. Meanwhile, in 1994, my favourite cheque-related movie, Blank Cheque, was released. The film follows a boy who inherits a blank cheque and uses it to buy a house under an alter ego, which he then fills with all his favourite gadgets and toys. The dream! According to Wikipedia, ' Blank Cheque received mostly negative reviews,' but you know what they haven't made a movie about? Contactless payments. These days, cheques are all but extinct, accounting for just 0.2 per cent of transactions – a number that continues to decline yearly. This is part of a broader issue stemming from our obsession with convenience that poses a deeply troubling question: We opted to tap and go rather than write and wait, but at what cost?
The Age
4 days ago
- Business
- The Age
The cheque is a dramatic (and dying) way to spend a dollar. We must keep it alive.
Picture this. You're in a crowded restaurant, seated at the head of the table, surrounded by friends and family. A long lunch that has bled into dinner. Everywhere you look, there are half-empty bottles of wine, people are enjoying themselves, and there's talk of kicking on to another venue. Because you're in a double-breasted suit and everyone else is dressed normally, the waiter brings you the bill. 'Cash or card, sir?' Neither, you say, pulling a Montblanc pen from your inside pocket, followed by a personal chequebook. You write a cheque for the full amount plus a little something extra for the staff. You date it, sign it, fold it in half and discreetly slip it into the waiter's pocket. Two pats on the shoulder, a knowing wink. He begins, 'Sir, we no longer accept cheques as a form of payment ...' but his protest is drowned out by cheers. People have seen what you've done. They adore you. Life is good. Of all the things 1990s pop culture led me to believe would feature heavily in adult life – quicksand, hammerhead sharks, Mr Squiggle – the disappearance of the chequebook is easily the most devastating. Back then, cheques were everywhere: in films, on TV, and most memorably, tucked inside the birthday cards from my Greek grandparents. Every year, without fail, I'd open the card, skim the well-wishes, and then turn my attention to the real prize – a rectangular slip of paper, payable to me and me only. Superior to simply being gifted cash, the cheque's power lay in delayed gratification. Twenty bucks in a card is twenty bucks in a card, but a handwritten cheque for twenty dollars and zero cents offered something far more valuable – the promise of money. Of course, because we are inherently impatient creatures with no appreciation for the fact that good things come to those who wait, we went and ruined it all. In 1980, cheques accounted for 85 per cent of non-cash payments, so if you wanted to buy a house in Sydney (something people could still do in the 1980s), then you'd likely be writing a cheque for $76,500. By the mid-1990s, cheques still represented 50 per cent of non-cash payments and were deeply ingrained in the culture. Tabloid newspapers began paying sources for stories about high-profile figures, giving rise to the term chequebook journalism. Meanwhile, in 1994, my favourite cheque-related movie, Blank Cheque, was released. The film follows a boy who inherits a blank cheque and uses it to buy a house under an alter ego, which he then fills with all his favourite gadgets and toys. The dream! According to Wikipedia, ' Blank Cheque received mostly negative reviews,' but you know what they haven't made a movie about? Contactless payments. These days, cheques are all but extinct, accounting for just 0.2 per cent of transactions – a number that continues to decline yearly. This is part of a broader issue stemming from our obsession with convenience that poses a deeply troubling question: We opted to tap and go rather than write and wait, but at what cost?
The Advertiser
23-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The Advertiser
ABC radio host James Valentine remembers the day he met TV's Mr Squiggle
ABC radio presenter James Valentine grew up with Mr Squiggle, so when he got to share a first-hand interaction with the beloved marionette, he was understandably excited. Mr Valentine was one of the many Australian children who would sit glued to their TVs during episodes of the popular children's show during its four-decade run on ABC TV. The show, which aired from 1959 to 1999, saw Mr Squiggle, the man from the Moon, turning children's squiggles into sketches with his pencil nose. Read more from The Senior Joining him on his adventures were his friends Gus the Snail, Bill the Steam Shovel and of course, the perennially grumpy Blackboard, who was always telling the aloof Mr Squiggle to "Hurry Up" and get on with his drawing. James grew up in the 1960s, when the show was still black and white and was hosted by Miss Pat (Pat Lovell). It was about 20 years later, when he was hosting popular children's program The Afternoon Show, that he gained a first-hand insight into the show and the man behind it. That man was puppeteer Norman Hetherington, who created and operated all the marionettes on the show and also provided their voices. James worked in the studio next door to Mr Squiggle's and would regularly pass and say hello to Hetherington in the hallways. Then, he got the chance to visit the Mr Squiggle set personally to film a segment for his own show, giving him the chance to feel like a kid all over again. "I got to be a squiggle companion for, you know, one moment," he said. "I got to hold Mr Squiggle's hand. I got to do the 'I don't know, Mr Squiggle, what is it? (the sketch)'. 'Oh, it's a camel on the washing line... you've got it the wrong way up. Turn it the other way up. See, there it is now. "It was like, wow, I've got to do this with Mr Squiggle. So, you know, I have a great fondness for it." So, what was the man behind the show like? "He was a very, you know, softly spoken, shy sort of man. He wasn't an ebullient character, you know, he was a quiet kind of man. "He was a bit like one of those people that when he was around Squiggle, he kind of was Squiggle." Mr Valentine said Hetherington even bore a striking resemblance to Mr Squiggle. He was also a dedicated family man. The famous puppets seen on the show were created to celebrate the births of each of his children. His daughter Rebecca would even go on to present and work behind the scenes on later series of the show. The National Museum in Canberra will celebrate the lasting legacy of the beloved show during an upcoming exhibition. The free exhibition, which will also include iconic characters Blackboard, Rocket, Bill Steamshovel and Gus the Snail, will explore the history of the famous characters and the magic behind Norman Hetherington's artistry. It will feature more than 800 objects drawn from the Norman Hetherington collection, including puppets, artworks, scripts, costumes, props and sets. Share your thoughts in the comments below, or send a Letter to the Editor by CLICKING HERE. ABC radio presenter James Valentine grew up with Mr Squiggle, so when he got to share a first-hand interaction with the beloved marionette, he was understandably excited. Mr Valentine was one of the many Australian children who would sit glued to their TVs during episodes of the popular children's show during its four-decade run on ABC TV. The show, which aired from 1959 to 1999, saw Mr Squiggle, the man from the Moon, turning children's squiggles into sketches with his pencil nose. Read more from The Senior Joining him on his adventures were his friends Gus the Snail, Bill the Steam Shovel and of course, the perennially grumpy Blackboard, who was always telling the aloof Mr Squiggle to "Hurry Up" and get on with his drawing. James grew up in the 1960s, when the show was still black and white and was hosted by Miss Pat (Pat Lovell). It was about 20 years later, when he was hosting popular children's program The Afternoon Show, that he gained a first-hand insight into the show and the man behind it. That man was puppeteer Norman Hetherington, who created and operated all the marionettes on the show and also provided their voices. James worked in the studio next door to Mr Squiggle's and would regularly pass and say hello to Hetherington in the hallways. Then, he got the chance to visit the Mr Squiggle set personally to film a segment for his own show, giving him the chance to feel like a kid all over again. "I got to be a squiggle companion for, you know, one moment," he said. "I got to hold Mr Squiggle's hand. I got to do the 'I don't know, Mr Squiggle, what is it? (the sketch)'. 'Oh, it's a camel on the washing line... you've got it the wrong way up. Turn it the other way up. See, there it is now. "It was like, wow, I've got to do this with Mr Squiggle. So, you know, I have a great fondness for it." So, what was the man behind the show like? "He was a very, you know, softly spoken, shy sort of man. He wasn't an ebullient character, you know, he was a quiet kind of man. "He was a bit like one of those people that when he was around Squiggle, he kind of was Squiggle." Mr Valentine said Hetherington even bore a striking resemblance to Mr Squiggle. He was also a dedicated family man. The famous puppets seen on the show were created to celebrate the births of each of his children. His daughter Rebecca would even go on to present and work behind the scenes on later series of the show. The National Museum in Canberra will celebrate the lasting legacy of the beloved show during an upcoming exhibition. The free exhibition, which will also include iconic characters Blackboard, Rocket, Bill Steamshovel and Gus the Snail, will explore the history of the famous characters and the magic behind Norman Hetherington's artistry. It will feature more than 800 objects drawn from the Norman Hetherington collection, including puppets, artworks, scripts, costumes, props and sets. Share your thoughts in the comments below, or send a Letter to the Editor by CLICKING HERE. ABC radio presenter James Valentine grew up with Mr Squiggle, so when he got to share a first-hand interaction with the beloved marionette, he was understandably excited. Mr Valentine was one of the many Australian children who would sit glued to their TVs during episodes of the popular children's show during its four-decade run on ABC TV. The show, which aired from 1959 to 1999, saw Mr Squiggle, the man from the Moon, turning children's squiggles into sketches with his pencil nose. Read more from The Senior Joining him on his adventures were his friends Gus the Snail, Bill the Steam Shovel and of course, the perennially grumpy Blackboard, who was always telling the aloof Mr Squiggle to "Hurry Up" and get on with his drawing. James grew up in the 1960s, when the show was still black and white and was hosted by Miss Pat (Pat Lovell). It was about 20 years later, when he was hosting popular children's program The Afternoon Show, that he gained a first-hand insight into the show and the man behind it. That man was puppeteer Norman Hetherington, who created and operated all the marionettes on the show and also provided their voices. James worked in the studio next door to Mr Squiggle's and would regularly pass and say hello to Hetherington in the hallways. Then, he got the chance to visit the Mr Squiggle set personally to film a segment for his own show, giving him the chance to feel like a kid all over again. "I got to be a squiggle companion for, you know, one moment," he said. "I got to hold Mr Squiggle's hand. I got to do the 'I don't know, Mr Squiggle, what is it? (the sketch)'. 'Oh, it's a camel on the washing line... you've got it the wrong way up. Turn it the other way up. See, there it is now. "It was like, wow, I've got to do this with Mr Squiggle. So, you know, I have a great fondness for it." So, what was the man behind the show like? "He was a very, you know, softly spoken, shy sort of man. He wasn't an ebullient character, you know, he was a quiet kind of man. "He was a bit like one of those people that when he was around Squiggle, he kind of was Squiggle." Mr Valentine said Hetherington even bore a striking resemblance to Mr Squiggle. He was also a dedicated family man. The famous puppets seen on the show were created to celebrate the births of each of his children. His daughter Rebecca would even go on to present and work behind the scenes on later series of the show. The National Museum in Canberra will celebrate the lasting legacy of the beloved show during an upcoming exhibition. The free exhibition, which will also include iconic characters Blackboard, Rocket, Bill Steamshovel and Gus the Snail, will explore the history of the famous characters and the magic behind Norman Hetherington's artistry. It will feature more than 800 objects drawn from the Norman Hetherington collection, including puppets, artworks, scripts, costumes, props and sets. Share your thoughts in the comments below, or send a Letter to the Editor by CLICKING HERE.
