They also have a saying/phrase for most anything. “Ya ‘aving a lend of yourself, mate”, “Pull ya head in”, “Settle, petal”, and “Bit up yourself, aren’t ya?” There’s no shortage of gentle reminders that the world doesn’t orbit around you—and delivered with the right tone, none of ‘em sting.

This brings me to the post title, Too serious. Or. Taking yourself too seriously.

Which I might have been guilty of recently.

First, in defence, in these notes to you here, my intention is not to propose rules, laws, or even perceived knowledge—I’m just challenging a status quo, and trying to come up with different ways to look at things. An angle that can co-exist with the norm, or in some cases surpass it. That’s the point, right? To be curious. It’s really nothing more than an offering. The hope is that something I say will prompt some progress, loosen a blockage, or activate something that’s already been simmering in your mind. As always, let me know—either way.

And. Pull ya head in, Nicko. Brekkie’s getting cold.

Nick

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Distress tolerance. Another phrase that sounds clinical—it isn’t.

Simply put, the impulse to do something and the act of doing it are not the same thing. There’s a gap between them. Sometimes barely visible, but always there.

We’ve been taught—by habit, instinct, and years of repetition—to close that gap as quickly as possible. Feel the urge, follow it. The discomfort arrives, and we run for the nearest exit.

But the gap is where everything happens.

In the gap, you can ask: is this what I actually want, or just what I want right now? Is this the right response, or simply the fastest one?

I’ve closed the gap too quickly more times than I can count. The drink that wasn’t necessary. The word that didn’t need saying. The decisions made in the moment, rather than after the feeling had passed.

The practice—and it is a practice—is learning to sit in the gap a little longer each time. Not forever. Just long enough.

Patience is an essential component in the make-up of successful batters. It’s integral in managing distress tolerance.

Nick

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The Perfect Storm (2000), based on Sebastian Junger’s nonfiction account of the real Andrea Gail, follows Captain Billy Tyne (George Clooney) and his crew as they set out on one last late-season trip under pressure from a string of poor catches. They finally land a huge haul far out on the Flemish Cap, but their ice machine breaks, meaning the catch will spoil unless they race home. The problem is that between them and port, two weather systems are merging with Hurricane Grace into a once-in-a-century storm.

The film stuck with me; I watched it over, and, as it turned out, I got to visit Gloucester, MA many times while my son was at college in the area. And the bar, The Crow’s Nest, I’ve stood and drunk a tall there, the place still feels like it belongs to the crew.

What made the story stick is that the crew never faced one clean problem—they were thrown a cascade of compounding ones: failing equipment, a damaged radio cutting off weather updates, a desperate captain, and conditions that only got worse with every decision they made. There was never a window of calm to think clearly or act under normal circumstances. They just had to keep making the best call they could with what they had.

Somewhere, there is a pre-season where no one gets traded, injured, or distracted. Or a game plan the opposition doesn’t adapt to. Or a list where talent, fitness, and attitude all line up at the same time.

It’s an extreme case—The Perfect Storm—but the underlying truth scales down neatly: perfect conditions don’t always arrive, something is generally broken, and the people who get things done are the ones who move anyway.

Happy Sunday.

Nick

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He built his first world at nineteen, in a dormer above his mother’s garage in Meadville, Pennsylvania. Not with wood or nails—with keystrokes, patience, and a modem that danced every time it connected.

It was 1996. The internet was still more promise than place. And he was one of the people trying to make it one—one forum post at a time.

Then he was gone. And the internet didn’t wait for him. It got faster. It got richer. It got hungrier.

When Covid hit in 2020, the whole world migrated online overnight. And somewhere in western Pennsylvania, a forty-three-year-old man with nothing ahead of him and even less behind sat down at a keyboard for the first time in two decades.

He didn’t recognise what he found. But he recognised what it was doing to people.

Netizen — coming soon.

Nick

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So is everything learnable? Or, is some stuff too much of a stretch.

When I listen to Alastair Campbell on (The Rest is Politics Podcast) switch effortlessly between English, French and German, being multilingual feels beyond me.

Research says almost everything is learnable—even the hard stuff, like languages. Many supposedly fixed traits can also be altered: confidence, communication, balance, optimism, even your approach to coaching.

Someone recently asked how he might improve his coaching. My answer was boring. Read some books. Watch interviews of successful coaches. Take notice of the people you coach alongside—the way they interact with players—and try on some of their habits.

Isn't that a decent plan of action?

Whatever it is you want to learn, assume it can be. The challenge is figuring out the best way to do it.

Nick

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Wiki Roulette is a simple web tool that loads random Wikipedia pages when you refresh the browser. For me, it works best on mobile web—there’s also a Chrome extension. It lets you explore unexpected topics or dive down deep rabbit holes. Don’t like what you’re seeing? Refresh and move on.

If you have kids, grandkids, or a curious mind, Wiki Roulette is a more cerebral alternative to mindless scrolling while waiting for the bus! Give it a try.

This morning I had five spins. Here’s my top three:

Bullock — an English surname. The list of Bullocks is an interesting scroll, though there’s only one Bullock for me. Sandra.

Marlborough-Thomas — a British car, manufactured in a garage at Brooklands in Surrey between 1923 and 1924. Only a handful were ever made. The proverbial started-in-a-garage story—just without the billion-dollar ending.

John J. Smith — a vanilla name. On further inspection, an African American abolitionist. A very decent man. Nice to meet you, John.

Try it here.

Nick

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There are cricket readers here who mostly lament the state of the current game. I'm with them for the most part. Cricket seems to have drifted to the margins, along with everything else steering the bus.

ICYMI—a few days back, Bangladesh defeated Australia in Darwin. Simply, they out-partnered them.

Partnerships in cricket (mainly batting)—can be explained in an easy-to-follow, back-of-a-tea-towel style. Try this for size:

Two batters walk out and form a partnership, until one goes out, then another comes in and they try not to go out because they want to form a better partnership. If the batter who didn’t go out first, goes out second, then a new batter joins the other and they try to form a new partnership. When there a two newbie batters, this is a form of blind date, it’s awkward at first until they start to find their way to not going out and forming a lasting partnership—this is as close as we get the the emotional analogy. In all there are 10 partnerships, some last, some don’t—sound familiar? You would prefer the lasting partnerships to be at the top. Why? Because they outlast the best interlopers.

One more thing. When the team of partnership builders is undone by the interlopers and paramours, they get to go out and do the same thing back. A form of revenge. Cricket can be such a nasty game.

The numbers don't lie. Bangladesh out-partnered Australia at every meaningful wicket. If I were Coach McDonald I would try to rally both the natives and the interlopers. More is needed on both sides.

2nd wicket BAN +95 · 3rd wicket BAN +84 · 4th wicket BAN +53 · 7th wicket BAN +26 · 8th wicket BAN +14 · 9th wicket BAN +33

Six partnerships. Six wins. All Bangladesh.

The best partnerships outlast the interlopers. In cricket—and everywhere else.

Nick

P.S I wrote with a little more seriousness here on what happened in Darwin.

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Simply, it means that two seemingly opposite things can be true at the same time. Opposite equals—a term that resonates personally.

You can love someone and know it isn’t working. You can be proud of something and know it needs to change. You can accept where you are and still want to be somewhere different.

That last one is the one I sit with. It’s where I have been for a long time now.

ADS was never a sobriety project. You know this. I’ve said that before. It’s not about quitting—it’s about the space between where I am and where I’d like to be—accepting the first without abandoning the second.

For a long time I thought those two things conflicted. That accepting meant settling. That wanting to change meant rejecting what is.

They’re not in conflict. They’re the whole point.

Why am I sharing this? Because there’s a good chance at least one of you is in the same space. You might not know it yet.

You don’t have to choose between acceptance and change. You can hold both. In fact, the only way to change anything sustainably is to start from acceptance rather than self-punishment.

The last relationship might have had more of a chance if the therapy we had understood this.

Not either/or. Both.

Nick

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Anyway, it had been a while. Summer at his age is mainly weddings, pre-wedding stuff and family get-togethers on the Cape. He continues to resist—which is normal.

We talked about all the usual things, eventually getting around to work. He’s been climbing the ladder, which is good, but it comes at a cost. Needy clients, one in particular, that didn’t end well. They left, taking their needs elsewhere.

For the first time since he graduated, I could hear the frustration. Not with work itself, but with a working world that seems to demand a little more at every turn. More availability. More patience. More output. More resilience when things don’t go your way.

He’s 30. Isn’t this supposed to be the good bit? You’re established enough to know what you’re doing, but young enough to still believe the ladder is worth climbing.

The lesson might be that the ladder comes with people on it. Some give, others take, and some leave when you can’t give them what they want.

I know he still carries Australian values with him. Work hard, do the right thing, don’t make too much fuss. Useful values, mostly. But I’m not sure the corporate world always rewards them in the way we once thought it would.

Maybe this is just what happens at 30. You start to realise that being good at what you do doesn’t protect you from difficult people, disappointment, or the occasional knock to your confidence. You keep going anyway.

I listened, offered what little I thought might help, and mostly left him to it. He’ll work out the rest. He usually does.

Nick

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With that in mind, today’s post will be short—more observational than exploratory.

https://nownownow.com/ — I ran into this earlier in the week and clicked through out of curiosity. It’s a collection of /now pages from all corners of the planet.

What is a /now page? A snapshot of what you’re focused on right now—stuff you’re working on, thinking about, and spending time on. Simple idea. Big impact.

I’ve been trying to finish a personal website for three years—it propagated yesterday! And yes, I added a /now page. It’s basic, but it’s alive, and I’ll be sure to keep it fresh—here it is: https://www.nickspeak.me/now

Maybe that’s enough for a Sunday: a little less about, a little more now.

Nick

P.S. Off to Rosie and Kev’s for dinner—Jamaican curry goat, rice and peas. I’ve got the ladle, we’ll see!

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I say short story, but then I’m not really sure what defines one, and equally, I’m not sure my previous efforts have done the genre due service.

The attempts so far have been varied. Bob, my friend, the tone-deaf cat one street down, who gave me a lift every morning until he didn’t. Deano, the quiet type at smoko who took his time before offering a Hahn low carb. Thursday Night—Jeff, ordering an unpasteurised Carlton Draught schooie at the end of a restless evening. Rosie and Kev, the perfectly mismatched couple commanding quiet reverence at the end of the bar. The Dun Cow in Durham, 1997—a sliding door, the smell of real ale, and Howay Man, you better get in there. Pat Donnelly in South Boston, somewhere between fact and fiction.

Whether any of them qualify as short stories in the literary sense—George Saunders would likely wince—is another question.

It’s a sampling. Actually, I’ve resisted giving them a proper home—we could add a short story section, fancy that—you know what, in Bob’s honour I will, a proper resting place for an ol’ mate—just need to figure it out now.

And the definition:

From what I can tell, the short story owes its origins to an older tradition, emerging from oral storytelling through the ages. In way-back times, short stories existed as parables, anecdotes, fairy tales and fables. Now, short stories continue to be written, as well as microfiction and flashfiction—and in my case, notverygoodfiction.

Decent players in this space include—my favourite, George Saunders. Then there’s old guys like Anton Chekhov and Ernest Hemingway, who wrote the shortest of short stories, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Six words—sad words. But hey, there’s hope for us all. And more recently, Alice Munro, a Canadian who excelled in the space.

Nearly forgot, knew to me via Shunter and 8-Ball—Cormac McCarthy—a writer who used little or no punctuation because there was no reason “to blot the page up with weird little marks.” He avoided semicolons entirely, labelling their usage as “idiocy.” Ring a bell. Haha.

Anyway, I better be off, footy to watch, goat curry to make—over at Rosie and Kev’s tomoz—and I need to sort that stuff for Bob.

Stocking filler? That’s my two-word short story.

Happy Saturday.

Nick

Australia were back in whites in Darwin, but the bigger surprise was the lack of connection I felt to the game. The hosts were dismissed for 198 by Bangladesh, who finished on 1-96. I was going to say just 198, but the way Australia batted, it was a decent result.

The lead coach at Victoria U19 training admitted he didn’t really know there was a Test match happening. Another coach in the adjacent lane, who lives and breathes cricket, seemed equally indifferent.

Later, back in Geelong, I sought the solace of a tank-brewed Carlton Draught. The bar was almost empty. No one had anything to say about Hasan Mahmud’s 6-55 or Steve Smith’s lucky 71. The day ended how it started.

Sure, it’s August in a southern state, and the AFL is heading into the pointy end. But that shouldn’t excuse the alarming apathy surrounding this Australian team.

This isn’t a match report. It’s an observation: Australian cricket can become a victim of its own competence. When success comes for long enough, complacency can quietly replace the hunger to succeed, and see past what’s in front of you.

Nick

P.S. I plan to write in more detail over the weekend at speaking.cricket

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Here’s the question, again—we spoke about it yesterday.

“If you could travel back in time and meet your 14-year-old self, what would you tell him, or her?”

Unhesitatingly, I replied, with a male hat on, “I’d tell him to do nothing different. Be who you were, who you are."

Immediacy is the killer again. Maybe I am a narcissistic wanker.

Instead, 24 hours later, I would offer these:

“Be more considerate toward your siblings. They’re both different to you. Respect their way. Just be nice—be a decent elder brother.”

“Pay more attention in Mr Wheatley’s English class. You might write better when you eventually grow up.”

"Try harder when your father asks you to eat garden peas swimming in gravy—fork down. Or at least, when you shovel, wait till he's not looking."

“Respect your Mother’s feelings when she whispers that she has a thing for Luther Vandross.”

“If Gemma Wilson asks you to dance, please don’t be scared.”

OK, seriously.

“Be curious, keep asking why, form your own opinions.”

“Try not to suffer fools’ advice.”

“If cricket has to be your thing, balance it out with something that can sustain you when you’re done playing.”

“Drink less than you’re going to.”

“Again, if it’s cricket, be the best you can, and don’t try to be anyone else.”

“Read books to your children. Don’t let them watch Toy Story over and over.”

“Live an equitable life in partnership.”

“Always go to bed the day you wake up.”

It is such a cool question. Let yourself go. Just don't live there.

Thanks to Shunter and 8Ball. Good blokes—as they say—and it was a great conversation.

Nick

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Bonus music from George Benson: 20 20 vision

“If you could travel back in time and meet your 14-year-old self, what would you tell him?” I think subconsciously I added, “differently.”

Yesty arvo I did a podcast in Torquay. Rambling: Good blokes, great conversations. Shunter and 8Ball: aka Scott and Brian. It was great. Two genuine hosts—knew one well, the other, Brian, he was hard not to like. Scott owned and brewed some serious soup back in the day—Valhalla—it ended up not working out. Travesty. It was soo good.

I’d been an elusive guest for close on twelve months — misery-guts me, not sure why, just worked out that way.

More on the podcast when it drops—next Tuesday. Give the guys a follow.

Till then. The question. All the others were easy, it was just recall and mayo. You know how it works.

Thought for a bit. No delay on the mic. Ended up blurting:

“I’d tell him to do nothing different. Be who you were, who you are.”

How arrogant.

Driving back, I realised—how stupid.

It’s such a good question. One we could all ask ourselves.

How would you answer?

I’ll get back to you tomoz with something more reflective.

Drop a comment, would luv to hear.

Nick

P.S. I said a while back that I would likely write and talk in different genres. So tomoz it is.

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They write to you first, very politely. Then less politely. Then the lawyers get involved. In practice, almost nobody is ever actually fined. But the number is real, and, of course, it went up this year.

Every five years, Australia asks everyone to stop and profile themselves. Citizens, families, visitors, tourists, temporary visa holders—if you’re parked in Australian tonight, you’re in.

I’m a Mancunian living in Geelong on a PR visa. The ABS doesn’t care. Fill it in, ya wooly-back.

I like this also: False information attracts up to $3,640 in fines. So if you’re tempted to list your occupation as “astronaut” or your religion as “Jedi”—and many Australians have—buyer beware.

Today, the census replaces ADS. That’s how serious this is.

Go fill it in. You have until October 1. No rush. See ya tomoz.

Nick

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She had one of the old-but-new LED clocks. It had watched over her since college, a time when alarms might be missed—but she was too good for that.

Most of us need something to push against before our best work appears.

A presentation. A deadline. A difficult match or opposition. The threat of failure, or an upcoming contract review.

External pressures can help us dig deeper, find new resolve, and overcome self-doubt. Sometimes the thing we resist is exactly what gets us moving.

Maybe that’s why the alarm clock works?

It isn’t the sound that gets you out of bed. It’s knowing, somewhere inside, that you need to be somewhere.

Nick

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And so it goes, day after day.

One morning, a city type parks beside him. Suit jacket over the passenger seat, phone face-up on the dashboard. He watches the man cast, watches him reel in his catch, watches him pack up.

“That’s it?” the city man asks. “One cast?”

“One’s enough,” the man says.

The city man starts talking—more rods, a boat, a crew, a fleet. Scale it up. Sell it. Retire wealthy. He maps out the whole journey with the enthusiasm of someone who has spent years on it.

The man by the lake listens. Nods once.

Then picks up his fish and walks back to the house.

The city man stands there for a moment, looking at the water. Something about the stillness unsettles him—not because it’s wrong, but because it isn’t.

Being OK with your lot. It’s a northern thing.

Doesn’t mean settling. It means knowing when you’ve got enough, and having the good sense not to turn it into something else.

Maybe that’s contentment. Maybe it’s just practical realism.

Either way, there’s something to be said for knowing what your lot actually is.

Nick

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Jeff’s witching hour had gone; it was a little past eight. The night was still and cold; he’d been listening to footy—the Bulldogs and North. Decisions. Baton down the hatches, or stretch the legs—we know what that meant—a bevvy or two watching the second half. Or he could stay home, eat, footy, and bank an AFD. Jeff needed company—a stroll it is.

Arriving he was met with trivia patrons departing the scene—Robbie ran Thursday trivia. Most players scran down, boffin out, then fuck off—lamenting their inability to know that Germany is Europe's largest country. Annoying and not cashable. The hotel staff seemed happy to see the back of them, already rearranging the furniture, restoring the layout to normal hotel mode.

More questions. Which TV? Where to park? Solo, or find a conversation? Jeff started solo, positioning himself between two adequately sized screens. Animated discourse between two locals, enough to be heard, was near by—best to dodge for now. Focus on the order.

“What ‘re ya afta?” The boss lady asked.

Now, to be clear, Jeff is a contradiction in terms. He yearns and thrives in non-formality and the comforts of anti-establishment behaviour—but then can be so prim and proper in actions and words. He slipped to the latter.

“Actually, I’m not after anything. I would like to order a drink, though.”

“So wat ya afta?”

“Is the Carlton Draught unpasteurised—from the tank?” He knew that, but…

That was it. The trivia crowd had fluffed, and Jeff came in with the closer—a straight right that landed flush on the chin. A cheap shot!

The boss lady exited left, asking a colleague to look after Jeff.

“Can you sort this guy—he’s off his friggin’ rocker.”

Another lady. Just not the boss kind.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yeh, give us a schooie of fucking draft, will ya.”

That’s Jeff.

Nick

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A friend of mine, another reluctant barfly, kicked 100 goals in a season for Geelong back in the day. The year before—or the year after—Larry kicked ninety-something. He once told me he wished he’d either fallen short of 100 in 1976 or kicked another five in 1978, when he finished on 95.

Why?

Because he’s remembered as the bloke who kicked 100 once.

As if it were a flash in the pan. An accident.

I had a chance to make 2000 first-class runs in that season—it’s been done before, but not often. The last game of 1992 we played Durham at Gateshead Fell, the coldest place on God’s earth. I got to twenty-odd and couldn’t feel my hands. Out, we made a million, and didn’t bat again. That was that.

I’ve often felt the same about my 1992.

Laz, see you for an ale Saturday afternoon?

Nick

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“They don’t have a lot of money, but they don’t need it — all they need is love.“

Children give us a perspective that gets lost in the adult world of chase, chase, and then, chase some more. Finding time to be around them is a must—if you can.

I think I’ve found a small fix. Someone not old enough to filter, perform, or overthink. No agenda, no baggage, no concept of what Monday felt like. Just completely present, without apology. How good?

As another musician put it:

“Chasing all around the world to the beat of a different drum. Maybe the best is still to come.”

Maybe it is.

I’m good and grateful whenever I get the chance to see someone who is as free as they’ll ever be.

Nick

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