William McInnes’s writing is a lot like my favourite of his characters: the grizzled journalist, Max Connors, from Sea Change. It’s laconic, unapologetically blokey; a dry wit spiked with lightly worn intelligence and offset by the occasional detour into a surprisingly laugh-out-loud moment. But, most of all, his writing is intimately human, and steeped in a real appreciation for the simple things in life, whether that’s kicking a footy in the street with his son, playing cricket with theatre technicians in eighteenth-century costume outside the Sydney Opera House, or playing jokes on his cast-mates by writing them increasingly sycophantic fake fan letters.

The anecdotal essays here draw on sport, politics, work and family, and often blend all these elementals seamlessly together to illustrate a larger point about contemporary Australian life. Personally, I like sport less than just about any other person in Australia, but I still really enjoyed these pieces. Just a couple of my favourite moments: his reflections on the Port Arthur massacre and the way it brought home what’s really important (you have to read it to see why it’s so good), and when his mother, eating mixed lollies in the cinema, offers him teeth, and laughs madly when he unwittingly puts her dentures in his mouth and tries to chew them.