Stuart McCullough - Stuart McCullough

Eyes on the Prize

We went to an awards night. In Sydney, no less, having been nominated in the somewhat divergent categories of ‘Best Comedy/Novelty Song’ and ‘Best Spiritual Song’. Had there been an award for ‘Most Bizarre Mix of Categories’, we surely would have triumphed.

The night got off to a rough start. We arrived to find that Katrina had been seated at table 20. I assumed that, since we had bought our tickets together and we’re nominated together and we were attending together that I, too, would be seated at table 20. But I was dead wrong. Instead, I was seated at table 3; right at the front with a number of guests of honour, including the guy who sang in ‘The Cockroaches’ and went on to manage ‘The Wiggles’. Was this deliberate? Had they asked for me by name or was this simply a minor clerical error? What could it possibly mean?

It quickly became apparent that spending an entire evening being seated at opposite ends of the venue was not going to be sustainable. We approached the person in charge who, it must be said, offered to help. She then looked at our assigned tables and double checked that I really wanted to move, noting that I was on ‘a really good table’. There was no room for hesitation – I told her that my allegiances lay elsewhere. Thanks to a very kind person on table 20, a swap was arranged. Seated beside each other, we waited eagerly for our categories …

We didn’t win. Some might be disappointed, but not us – we placed in the top 10 (twice!) and had fabulous night, no doubt aided by the fact that we were seated on the same table. And that, you might think, is that. Except that recent developments on the world stage have shown us that losing need not be the end of our hope of winning.

If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that you don’t need to win. Rather, you need only to convince the person who did win to surrender their award and, if possible, smile whilst they’re at it. It shouldn’t be that hard.

I’ve started attending garage sales. Mostly, these events are a pretty scrappy affair, with household contents scattered across the nature strip as though some giant house-gobbling monster has just projectile vomited. There are plates, clothes, abandoned board games and world-weary furniture. Sometimes there are old sporting trophies and school certificates. Amazingly, these are often available at prices that are even more competitive that the events that resulted in the trophy to begin with.

Whenever I see such items, I buy up big. As a result of my fossicking, I’m now the proud owner of certificate for the fifty metres backstroke. Granted, it’s in the name of ‘Stephen Bannon’, but I now legally own the certificate and, therefore, own all the attendant glory and satisfaction that goes with it. I’m also the under-12s calisthenic champion for St Mary’s Primary School for the year 1987 and have come second runner-up in an over-70s slam poetry competition. I have immediately added these achievements to my résumé.

But I need more. My thirst for achievement has not been sated with my ‘Most Improved Kick’ trophy for the Maffra under-9s from 2001. I need something bigger.

Having not won an award recently, my next step is obvious. I should contact the winner and ask her to give the award to me. This may not be quite as easy as it sounds. It is possible that the person who won the award holds the view that she should have won the award and, therefore, should retain the trophy that confirms that she did, indeed, win the award. But that’s mere semantics. Because I feel I should have won, I have won; and it is, frankly, deeply unreasonable for anyone else – whether they be the winner or the judges that determined the winner – to try and stand in my way.

But whilst getting a songwriting award would be nice, it’s just the first step towards getting my achievements – both real and imagined – recognised. That’s why I’ve just emailed actor Matt Damon, asking him to hand over the 1997 Oscar for ‘Best Original Screenplay’ that he snaffled for ‘Good Will Hunting’. Granted, I had nothing whatsoever to do with writing it, but I feel I could have. I’ve also seen the film several times, a couple of which were right to the end.

Jana Wendt was, if nothing else, surprised when I emailed her demanding her Gold Logie for 1992. But it now sits pride of place in my pantry, just next to the Garam Masala, in front of the peanut oil. Peter Carey is, to this time, reluctant to give me one of his Booker Prizes. Greedy. He’ll change his tune once I invade French Island.

What I really want – more than a Logie, Booker Prize or an Award for ‘Best Comedy Song’ is a Nobel Peace Prize. I’m not fussy as to whose name is on it, but it would look perfect hanging from my fridge. We are, in the end, all winners of a kind. Just not always the right kind.

Fools Rush In Where Angels FIFA Tread

I’m responsible. If only I’d said ‘yes’ instead of ‘no’, things might have worked out differently for all of us. It was one of the those sliding doors moments where if I’d made a different split-second decision the world might be better off and I could have ended up as Gyneth Paltrow. Truth is, I’ve been winning a lot of awards recently, and I’ve run out of places to put them. I can barely move from one end of the house to the other without tripping over some prize or other. That’s why, when FIFA called, offering me their inaugural ‘FIFA Peace Prize, my response was a big fat ‘no’.

Some people – snobs mostly – have snidely suggested that FIFA has no business in giving out something like a peace prize. Granted, their day job is to administer a sporting code, but to me it’s only natural that they should be interested in matters of international diplomacy ahead of, for example, a reasonable World Cup draw or ensuring that a bucket of chips at a match doesn’t require a second mortgage. That wasn’t my problem.

Others have complained that the creation of a FIFA Peace Prize represents an abrupt change of course, straying far from their core business. I disagree. It’s not that FIFA has made up an award out of nowhere, it’s that no-one had really done enough to deserve it before now. FIFA has been running since 1904 and I can’t really think of anyone in the past one hundred and two years who’s done more to deserve a FIFA Peace Prize than myself. Granted, there’s been the odd individual over the past century that’s meant well, but FIFA has earned the right to be picky.

I regret saying ‘no’. It’s just that there’s been so many other accolades coming my way recently that I may have overreacted. There was the ‘Lego Prize for Contributions to Nuclear Fusion’ last July (I had to assemble the trophy with help from a twelve-year-old. It took ages). That was followed by the ‘Flora Margarine Award for Contributions to Intergalactic Harmony’ and the ‘Hairhouse Warehouse Endowment for Mathematics’. By the time I was given the ‘Red Rooster Trophy for Achievements in Advanced Puzzle Solving Whilst Blindfolded’, I’d reached my limit. So when FIFA reached out to me, I’d had a gutful and told them, in no uncertain terms, to get on their bike.

Having spent good money getting a trophy built, FIFA went and gave the inaugural FIFA Peace Prize to someone else. When I learned who they’d ultimately chosen, I immediately wondered how many other people had rebuffed FIFA before they found someone willing to accept. I can’t be sure, but I suspect the answer to that question might be ‘nearly everyone’.

And so it is that President Donald J. Trump was given the trophy that I, and possibly everyone else, had rejected. He seemed overwhelmed at the presentation. Indeed, he’d reacted like someone who’d never had the thrill of getting the ‘Flora Margarine Award for Contributions to Intergalactic Harmony’. The trophy, a golden globe balanced on the fingertips of disembodied hands, could politely be described as ‘gaudy’ and, to that extent, will blend in with the décor in the Oval Office.

Rumours that the President refused to believe that the award was not made of chocolate and attempted to eat it are little more than a rabid left-wing conspiracy and those teeth marks belong to somebody else. Probably Stephen Miller.

It’s not entirely clear whether President Trump realises that FIFA and the Nobel Committee are not the same thing. I’m semi-confident that he’s mistaken Greenland for North Korea. But a misunderstanding of that kind is nothing compared to what he thinks getting the award actually means.

When you reach the pinnacle, where can you go? Nowhere. Which is why it’s best to step back and quit whilst you’re ahead. Now that President Trump has been bestowed with the ultimate accolade that is the FIFA Peace Prize, he can retire from anything that might bare the faintest resemblance to peace. Put simply, now that he has an award, there’s simply no point in being peaceful anymore.

I don’t know if there’s a FIFA War Prize, but I suspect that President Trump thinks there is and he’s committed himself to winning it. After all, what’s the point of a peace prize without a war prize to match it? Like a saltshaker without a pepper one to match, these things really ought to come in pairs. This, I feel, accounts for what can only be described as an ‘overtly aggressive’ start to the year. Venezuela, Cuba, Mexico, Denmark and the Chair of the Federal Reserve are all now part of one man’s obsession to add more silver or, perhaps ‘gold’ ware to his trophy cabinet.

It’s going to be a long, strange year.

Your Guide to Voting in the Hottest 100 of Australian Songs

I love a good list. No matter the subject – I’m there. Lists aren’t meant to be definitive – they’re meant to inspire conversation, if not debate. Who amongst us has not reacted to a list of the ‘greatest movies ever made’ by querying the presumably accidental omission of anything from the ‘Police Academy’ franchise, before going on to debate in which order they should appear? (Is Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol a superior piece of work as against Mission to Moscow? It’s a line ball.)

When ABC launched its ‘Hottest 100 of Australian Songs’ I was excited. I instantly started jotting down a list with songs by Nick Cave, You Am I, The Fauves and the Captain Matchbox Whoopee Band before I caught myself – ‘these are the artists that everyone will nominate’.

It’s one thing to be popular. It’s another to be stubbornly unpopular and forgotten by history. Anyone can put their hand up to support ‘Holy Grail’ by Hunters and Collectors. It takes someone truly special to nail their colours to the mast and push forward ‘Suddenly’ by Angry Anderson. Sometimes you’ve got to take a stand for the forgotten no matter how much they deserve to be so. I wanted to be inclusive and select songs that no one else would dare suggest. It was then that I thought of soap operas.

There was a moment – albeit fleeting – in which actors in soap operas thought they should release truly miserable music. Largely, this was Kylie’s fault. Her peers looked on aghast at her extraordinary success and wrongly attributed it to the fact that she was in a soap opera, overlooking the fact that she had tonnes of talent and the kind of steely determination that can make tides roll back and empires crumble. ‘If Kylie can do it, so can I’, they reasoned. They were wrong. Dead wrong.

I’ll be voting for ‘Don’t It Make You Feel Good?’ by Stefan Dennis. Granted, the answer to the question is a swift and extremely firm ‘no’, but as songs go, this one’s a burger with the lot. Slap bass, roaring guitars and plinky plonky synths supported by confounding chord sequences. It’s peak 80s. As for the video, it’s nothing short of a masterpiece – shadows, darkened alleyways and chainmail fencing are in abundance and people – including the singer himself – are in an inadvisable state of partial undress. By dent of either a miracle or a software malfunction, this song reached number sixteen on the UK Singles Chart. It’s time for a comeback.

Deep down, everyone thinks they can rap. Including Bruce Samazan. In soapie terms, Bruce Samazan is a triple threat, having appeared in holy trinity of soaps; Neighbours, E Street, and Home & Away. Just as those who’ve won an Emmy, Tony, Oscar and Grammy are said to be an ‘EGOT’, Bruce is NESHA. Or, as he forgettably once said, ‘I am NESHA’.

Bruce’s music career was much like a comet – it came blazing into view before landing somewhere in the Indian ocean, never to be heard from again. It was both prophetic and a relief that his single was entitled ‘One of a Kind’. The rhymes are terrible. The video is awful. The music sounds as though it may well have tumbled out of a cereal packet. It peaked at number eighty on the Australian Singles Chart, presumably because all the other songs called in sick that week.

But those who forget history are condemned to repeat it, and I feel that if we don’t recognise ‘One of a Kind’ as a disaster of Hindenburg proportions, we’re not really being honest with ourselves. It’s time to face up to our history – the good, the bad and the Bruce. But of all the forgotten songs of the past, my favourite was performed not a soapie actor, but a footballer.

This feels like precisely the right moment for a Mark ‘Jacko’ Jackson renaissance. Granted, this may be the only time that the words “Mark ‘Jacko’ Jackson” and “renaissance” have been used together in a sentence, but I strongly feel that we could all do with some cheering up. His song, ‘I’m An Individual’ is, shockingly, unavailable on Spotify and Apple Music, which is an absolute shame. For all its faults (and there are many) it’s a song that couldn’t have come from anywhere else. Jacko doesn’t let an inability to sing stand in the way of a great single that’s delivered with energy and no small amount of wit. That’s why I’m voting for Jacko as my number one pick.

Get cracking. By all means, vote for the great, the awesome and the profound. I, on the other hand, will throwing my support behind the forgotten, derided and the dark recesses of the Australian musical landscape. Why? Well, I could give you some made up reason that sounds particularly grand and noble but I won’t. Instead, I’ll content myself to quote Jacko and simply say, well, because I’m an individual.

A Brief Inquiry into the Rise and Fall of a Political Party

Farewell, Trumpet of Patriots – we barely knew you. Gone are incessant YouTube ads that yelled a series of random thoughts; the kind you might expect to hear when you choose the wrong seat on the late bus home but not so much from a political candidate. Goodbye spammy text messages that randomly pinged on phones across the country – and when I say ‘random’ I mean that I received a sum total of ‘zero’ texts, whilst the 12-year old I know, received a steady stream. They will not be missed.

All we will have to remind us that you ever existed are redundant billboards by the side of our major freeways and traffic arterials which will linger until they’re finally replaced by adverts for hair replacement clinics and pet food. But for these hulking expressions of misplaced optimism, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was all a dream.

In times like these – namely, in the immediate aftermath of a Hindenburg-style disaster of epic proportions, it’s appropriate to take stock, reflect and, possibly, leave the country entirely. Not to blow my own trumpet (patriotic or otherwise), I feel I can offer some advice.

So where did it all go wrong? Let’s start with the obvious – Trumpet of Patriots were, to the best of my knowledge, the only political party to use their platform to promote a musical instrument. But did they choose the wrong instrument? I strongly suspect they’d have secured a larger share of the primary vote if they’d named themselves after either the tuba or the glockenspiel. Suffice to say, I’d have a hard time not voting for an organisation called ‘Kazoo of Patriots’.

Perhaps their failure at the ballot box is the first time in Australian electoral history that the result can be chalked up to musical differences.

Weirdly, in all the adverts I saw on YouTube (and, my goodness, there were a lot of them), not once did I see one of their spokespeople playing a trumpet. This was an inexplicable strategic mistake to say nothing of a squandered opportunity. If you start talking about franking credits, there’s a good chance that half your audience will immediately fall asleep – unless, that is, you have a trumpet. Announcements on housing (PARP!), immigration (PARP! PARP!) and the instant asset write off (PARP! PARP! PARP!) would all be far more compelling if communicated by trumpet.

The Greens are more DJ people. The Coalition and Labor candidates were, without exception, brass averse. The inexplicable reluctance of a party name ‘Trumpet of Patriots’ to actually put a trumpet front and centre of its campaign will have to go down as one of the more confounding political miscalculations of this or, indeed, any other era you care to name. But even worse than the failure to blow their own or anyone else’s trumpet, was the lack of originality.

I appreciate that voters don’t often reward originality at the ballot box, but I have to say there were times where I felt the Trumpet of Patriots might be getting their ideas from elsewhere. Put simply, I have a sneaking suspicion that ‘Make Australia Great Again’ was not an entirely original concept. Copying other people can be such an unedifying spectacle. Indeed, it’s that kind of brazen mimicry that saw people (well, me at any rate), refer to them as the ‘Trumpet of Parrots’ instead.

Based on the thousands of billboards I passed, the Trumpet of Patriots were seeking to position themselves as purveyors of ‘common sense’ solutions. Which is why the accompanying photo, in all its twenty-foot-tall terrifying bigness, was so utterly mystifying.

The picture featured two men, one of whom I believe was one-time Fox News host, Tucker Carlson and another man who was not. The former’s face was screwed up as he laughed so hard that he appeared to the untrained eye to be ever so slightly unhinged. Presumably this boisterous display of near mania was a direct result of something the other man either said or did.

For his part, the other man had his fist raised in the air, as if either punching an invisible bat or sticking the landing after a calisthenics routine. It did not so much scream ‘common sense’ as it did ‘pull my finger’. It’s like applying for a job but stapling a photo to your resume of the time you tried to fit an entire container of baby cucumbers into your mouth at once and later wondering why you never got a call back.

Elections are funny things. I have to admit that I felt somewhat disengaged by the process as it seemed positively boring in comparison with events elsewhere. Then again, maybe the fact it was largely dull and uneventful is proof of a democracy in rude health here. That said, I wouldn’t mind a few more big ideas next time. And fewer big billboards. So long Trumpet of Patriots, but don’t hurry back any time soon. PARP! PARP!

(Un)Kool Thing – My Life as a Try Hard

I was having lunch with friends. Between courses, one of my lunchmates said that her favourite song in 1989 was ‘Teen Age Riot’ by grunge rock pioneers, Sonic Youth. I wanted to agree. Indeed, I longed to say that, I too, believed ‘Teen Age Riot’ was, by some considerable distance, the very best song of 1989 and that the album from whence it came was a masterpiece that captured the essence of Generation X in its dissonant squalls and alternative tunings.

I wanted to say anything at all that would suggest that, in 1989, I had any idea the song ‘Teen Age Riot’ existed or what a ‘Sonic Youth’ was. But I couldn’t. Because in 1989, I was tragically and irredeemably uncool.

Saying you liked Sonic Youth in the 1980s is the equivalent of claiming that you liked the films of Ingmar Bergman before he went commercial. It’s an impossibly hip thing to declare. Knowing me, I probably thought that an ‘Ingmar Bergman’ was something you ordered from IKEA. To my great shame, I was totally clueless about anything cool. That’s because I was hopeless unhip throughout the nineteen eighties. I wasn’t cool for a moment, not even by accident.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying. Actually, my lack of coolness was a direct result of trying too hard – overreach was my enemy. Bleach-blonde mullet, pierced ears and home-made acid-wash jeans, I was packed to brim with uncoolness and positively pulsating with daggy energy. Not that I realised it.

In 1989, I had my own band and wrote my own songs. This is, without doubt, incredibly cool. Or, at least, it’s incredibly cool until you listen to any of the songs in question, after which it’s very much something else altogether – most likely a cry for help. Matters were made worse by my voice, which was an atonal squawk that’d have seen John Cage handing his ears back, expecting them to be put out of their misery. It was not pretty. It certainly wasn’t cool.

I had a denim jacket, though, which I used to think was cool but, in retrospect, was a couple of sizes too small and when I wore it, I looked like I was trapped inside a jacket borrowed from a much smaller person. It was, by some margin, the best jacket I ever owned. That year, I was gifted a leather jacket which – again – sounds like it could be cool, except that it had been procured from the Dattner House of Leather. It had the kind of shoulder pads more commonly associated with gridiron. So uncool.

Come to think of it, my life has been a series of failures involving jackets. In a rush of blood to the head that then flowed to my wallet, I once bought a suede jacket at a warehouse sale. It was large, cumbersome and totally impractical. Like the Death Star, it was beautiful to the eye but had a fatal flaw – it was allergic to rain. Jackets that can’t be worn in inclement weather are of little use. Bizarrely, I still chose to wear my suede jacket to a football match at which, by some miracle, it did not rain but, just as I was leaving, a seagull whom I can only assumed had been carb-loading all afternoon decided to let it rip. It was ruined. I never went to the football again.

I had a skateboard in the nineteen eighties which, on its face, is kind of cool. Until, of course, you realise that I lived on a farm in Tyabb and the only place to ride that skateboard was on a gravel driveway. If you’ve never tried to skateboard on gravel, I don’t recommend it. More than uncool, it’s downright dangerous.

Somewhat perversely, some of the things we had then that were considered uncool have now well and truly come back into favour. We had a record player and a lot of vinyl records. Which is all well and good until you realise that we also had my parents’ record collection which largely consisted of LPs from record clubs. (I assume that, at some point in history, ‘record clubs’ were a thing. I’ve never heard of them. That’s because, presumably, the first rule of record club is that you do not talk about record club.) Suffice to say, no-one plays a record entitled ‘Great German Marching Songs’ and expects to be thought of as cool.

In 1989, I had strong opinions about everything – music, fashion, German marching songs – you name it. And I was completely wrong about almost everything. During the recent election, some broadcasters profiled young voters before hysterically lamenting the naivety of today’s youth. Not me – I look at today’s young voters and then picture myself at the same age, before realising that today’s new adults are just fine and superior in almost every respect. Dare I say it – they’re cool.

My friend was waiting for a response. I cleared my throat before being honest – in 1989 my favourite band was probably ‘Mike & the Mechanics’. For me, there was no Teen Age Riot in 1989. Just a gravel driveway, a useless skateboard and a denim jacket that didn’t fit me very well. Things, I feel, are much better now.

A Short Treatise on Motel Philosophy

I cast, therefore I am. Sitting in a motel room, luxuriating in a televisual bounty supplied by Netflix, I had successfully completed a minor technological task and, as a result, felt as though I ought to be awarded a Nobel prize. It’s alarming how little it takes to make me feel utterly elated when travelling – every win, no matter how minor – feels like a triumph not only for me but for humanity more generally, whilst every false start and fumbling failure feels like catastrophe. Such is life on the road.

Sitting on the motel bed, it became apparent that my entertainment options were as limited as the tiny container of UHT milk in the minifridge. Unless, of course, I succeeded in streaming something from my mobile phone. This felt, if not like the cutting edge, then close enough to the cutting edge to come within stepping distance of the safety barrier, necessitating my being ushered to take a step backwards by someone in an ill-fitting uniform. Suffice to say, I could now see the cutting edge from a relatively safe position…

I followed the instructions. I blinked a lot. I accessed parts of my vocabulary that for reasons owing mostly to taste rarely see the light of day. I trained my camera over a QR code and opened a link and, before I knew it, there was a circle spinning that indicated, unequivocally, that something was happening. It wasn’t clear precisely what that was, but when it comes to anything remotely technological, something is a lot better than nothing.

And then it happened. The streaming service on my phone appeared, as if by magic, on the television screen in my room. The fact that I yelled ‘abracadabra’ and waved my hands around made it all the more mystical, to say nothing of the fact that I was wearing my work cape at the time.

I’ve never been technologically minded. Rather, I’ve been predisposed to delegation, gladly relying on any one of my brothers and sisters who, without exception, are of a far more practical bent. But in a motel room in regional Victoria, there’s no sibling to delegate to. I’m not sure what the block is, but when faced by the unfamiliar, I’m always worried about what will happen if I can’t figure it out. (The answer, almost always, is not very much; but that doesn’t stop me from worrying).

But my fear of failure makes success both unexpected and all the sweeter. The simple act of casting a streaming service from my phone to a TV screen felt like an achievement on par with reattaching a severed limb using nothing but string and a knitting needle or parallel parking under pressure. For a brief moment, I genuinely felt like the smartest person alive. Or, at any rate, the smartest person in the room. That I was the only person in the room is a minor detail.

More than that, I felt whole. I felt an enormous sense of wellbeing. I felt happy. ‘I cast, therefore I am’, I whispered to myself. Of course, ‘I cast, therefore I am’ is not how the original quotation ran. Rather, it was ‘I think, therefore I am’, which René Descartes apparently said whilst he was reverse parking his Corolla on a lightning trip to Southland. But I feel as though René would approve of my remodelled version of his quote. That’s because René and I have tonnes in common.

René Descartes was a French philosopher, scientist and mathematician who, in addition to spitting out catchy phrases that look great on a coffee cup, is widely credited with having invented the mullet. Business at the front, party at the bank and philosophy hovering somewhere above the ears, René was the envy of his peers and a big inspiration to my high school classmates. It was for this reason that I ‘rocked a René’ mullet between the years 1986 and 1989.

Of course, it’s worth noting that René Descartes died whilst travelling for work. But, to the best of my knowledge, it wasn’t the result of a motel streaming incident as he tried to binge old episodes of ‘Schitts Creek’. Rather, he caught pneumonia after giving lessons at five o’clock in the morning to a disinterested monarch in a draughty castle.

It’s a shame. When René Descartes fell off the perch, he was one of the most revered thinkers in the world. And yet, when he became ill, he decided his best option was to avoid medicine and to bleed himself three times a day. He thought, therefore he was, but not for very much longer as it turns out.

Sitting on my motel bed, I searched for a documentary on the life of Descartes but had to settle for an episode of Dawson’s Creek instead. As I sat there, marvelling at the adventures of Dawson, Pacey and Joey, I began to think that I should be willing to try new things more often and to be a little less afraid at the prospect of failure. ‘I try, therefore I am’ might well be my new motto. I also decided that I might try and grow a mullet in honour of René Descartes. He’d like that.

The Great John Denver Debacle

It’s not what we planned. To successfully execute a twelve-year old’s birthday party, the two of us would need to work as a team if we were to have any chance of withstanding the onslaught of prepubescent energy, super-fueled by sugary soft drinks and what I can only assume is madness. I had prepared – goggles, shin pads and a helmet for each of us just to be on the safe side (even if, technically speaking, ‘the safe side’ would be the other side of bullet-proof glass). But despite our preparations, the unthinkable happened – Katrina got sick, leaving me to run the party on my own.

This would be a test of character, a battle of wits and a feat of endurance all rolled into one. The last twelve-year-old birthday party I attended was probably my own and, even then, I left early, citing ‘traffic’. There would be no escaping this time. Rather, I would be responsible for ten primary school-aged boys. In public.

Failure, when it happens, is something best done in private. Ideally, it should not include others who are in a position to laugh and point at your misfortune. Of course, I wasn’t truly alone. I was given both moral, practical and emotional support by Katrina’s family, who stepped in to help me as I tried to fill the void left by her absence. As she convalesced at home, I gritted my teeth and embarked on the most gruelling and perilous two hours of my life.

The (about to be) twelve-year old had selected ten-pin bowling as his birthday activity of choice. This came as a relief, as some of the other options under consideration included laser tag and paintball and I expected I’d be the primary target with my pleas for clemency roundly ignored. From bitter experience, I know that these kinds of events quickly evolve from ‘harmless party shenanigans’ to a Hunger Games-style battle for survival of the (un)fittest.

As we arrived, there was a huddle of expectant primary school children. I made a critical decision – they would each choose their own nickname, or I would choose one on their behalf. This would both compensate for the fact that I was no chance of remembering their real names (and I still recall the confusion at the last birthday party when I gave them names I’d made up – a kid I christened ‘Spartacus’ was especially confused) and we could distance ourselves in the event things turned sour.

And so it was that Leemo, DJ Stinkfist and ‘the Ferret’, along with assorted other kids, made their way from the cafeteria to the bowling lanes proper. It was then that most, if not all, hell broke loose. Having the kids sign up under nicknames seemed like a pretty funny idea until I saw them on the overhead electronic scorecards. Everyone could see them and found them less funny than I had. In fact, other bowlers were, at best, slightly disgusted and, at worst, slightly afraid of a noisy gang of youths that included ‘Little Lord Fartleroy’ and ‘Toxic Terry’ amongst their number. As they screamed and ran around like maniacs, I began to regret ordering full-sugar soft drink. Bowling balls flew around with all the randomness of cow in one of those ‘Twister’ films as I hid under a bench.

At one point, the birthday boy expressed concern that his guests weren’t taking the bowling part seriously and I had to tell him that the noise and anarchy meant they were having a great time. Granted, the absence of anything that could reasonably be described as technique was startling beyond belief, but there was too much chaos to worry. Then, just like that, our time bowling was over, and we were sent to ‘the party room’.

I knew there was trouble when the ‘party room’ was comprise entirely of easy-to-clean surfaces. All you’d have to do at the end of a session was hose the place out. As soft drink slushed and food became airborne, I considered whether we could crank up the hose whilst the room was still occupied. For the first time in my life, I wondered whether ‘Lord of the Flies’ was understated.

It was at that point things took a turn for the worse, as our host highlighted that we could select the song of our choice to play through the stereo for a sing-along. What demonic musical atrocity would this group of hyperactive pre-teens choose to subject me too? I braced for impact….

As I melted birthday candles to block my ears, I swore I heard the unmistakable strains of … John Denver’s ‘Country Roads’. They say along. They even knew the words. I could not help but lament for what was clearly a lost generation of troubled youths. Confused, I started tipping over furniture and throwing jugs of full-sugar raspberry lemonade around the room as I descended into madness.

As the security team dragged me away, the kids put on Tiny Tim’s ‘Tip Toe Through the Tulips’. As though I hadn’t suffered enough. Finally, various parents appeared and DJ Stinkfist, Little Lord Fartleroy and the rest vanished into the shopping centre. It was over. ‘I can’t wait for my next party’ said the twelve-year-old as I passed out.

A Message to Elon – Five Things I Did This Week

Dear Elon,

Thanks for your recent email asking me to list five things I did last week. Although you wanted a response within forty-eight hours, I thought it best for both of us if I took my time and gave you a more considered answer. There’s nothing worse than reactions that are impulsive or ill-thought out. I’m sure you’ll agree.

Firstly, I watched you on a stage dressed like twelve-year old on a free-dress day. It’s not clear to me whether that was the look you were going for or simply decided that getting dressed in the dark was a good idea. It’s often said that ‘clothes maketh the man’. Sadly, that’s not the entire quotation – it should actually read ‘clothes maketh the man a complete idiot’. You, dear Elon, are a case in point.

Let’s start with the oversized sunglasses – I’ve no idea how you ended up with Kim Jong Il’s sunglasses. I’d no idea you were even friends. The oversized shades are something that you can only get away with if you’re a despotic dictator and, even then, because no-one has the nerve to tell you that you look terrible. Then there’s the hat.

The oversized hat looks like something that should be worn by a much younger person who answers to a name like, ‘Scooter’ or ‘Chip’. The entire ‘dark, gothic MAGA’ thing reeks of desperation and screams, ‘please like me and my cool hat!’ whilst ensuring your status as a socially awkward outsider remains cemented for eternity.

As for the t-shirt, I had no idea until I googled it that the phrase ‘I’m not procrastinating, I’m doing side quests’ is some kind of gamer reference. The reason I had to google it is because I don’t play video games. And, even if I did, I’d probably do so in the privacy of my own home and not draw attention to it by wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with a gamer slogan. In a way, I’m relieved. As a middle-aged man, I thought it impossible that there might be someone out there who was less cool than I was – turns out there is, and that person is you, Elon.

That said, the three-quarter length black coat is ideal for anyone seeking to make the leap from eccentric, cuddly billionaire to full-fledged Marvel villain. All that remains is for you to change your name to something sinister like ‘the Elonator’ and to threaten to block out the sun for the fun of it and the transformation will be complete.

Secondly, I saw you hold a chainsaw on that very same stage and realised that it was probably the first time in your life that you had, in fact, ever held a chainsaw. For future reference, you don’t wave them around in the air like some kind of tree-felling maraca. Also, next time you’re in public, don’t hold a chainsaw above your head whilst yelling ‘chainsaw!’ like a psychopath. You’ll look like a complete lunatic. Or, more to the point, like an even bigger lunatic.

The third thing I did this week was to watch the stock market take dive because your big orange buddy has decided to treat the world economy like my dog used to treat his favourite chew toy – he’d put it between his teeth, shake it around, slobber all over it and, at some point, bury it in the back yard. I’m sure that, somewhere along the line, the analogy breaks down, but it hasn’t yet. I’ll tell you, Elon, I’m more than a little concerned. The only way I can describe how I’m feeling right now about your pal is that it’s like he’s someone who said they knew how to fly a plane and it’s only now when he’s in the cockpit at thirty thousand feet and behind the controls that he’s willing to admit that he doesn’t.

The fourth thing I did was watch you refer to someone as a ‘traitor’ because they went to Ukraine. You did so on your own social media platform, X, which you have successfully transformed from the digital town square to something more akin to its sewerage treatment plant. Yuck.

The fifth and final thing I did this week? Simple – I wrote this list of five things I did. Granted, it’s not the best use of my time (or yours – presumably there’s a democratically elected official you could be sacking), but here we are. I figured you might appreciate the feedback. I’m mindful that, as the (currently or – by the time I finish writing this sentence – formerly) richest man in the world, you may need it.

My message, Elon, is this: no more side quests – go back to your day job and stop trying to destroy the jobs of others. To borrow the powerful phrase coined by T.S. Eliot – ‘you came in like a wrecking ball’. (On second thoughts, it might have been Miley Cyrus and I’ve just imagined you in the music video, swinging on said wrecking ball as naked as the day you were born whilst yelling ‘chainsaw’ at the top of your lungs.) I look forward to receiving your list of accomplishments from the past week. Hopefully one of them is ‘hired a stylist’.

Yours hopefully,

Godmiddag! IKEA and I

Four letters. I, K, E and A; which, when put together (presumably with an Allen key) spell out the name of Sweden’s most famous exporter of flatpacks with elaborately absurd names. IKEA is not my favourite place and, as a result, we go there on a strictly ‘as needs’ basis.

Sadly for me, the need arose about two weeks ago and we duly trotted off to Springvale. If I had to describe the IKEA experience in one word, I’d go with ‘controlling’. Unlike other retail experiences, you can’t meander as you please; it’s more a ‘Wizard of Oz’ model whereby you ‘follow the yellow brick road’ past a procession of living rooms, bedrooms and studies before you stumble into a giant warehouse.

Everything about it is bewildering – the giant metal trolleys that are the size of a Toyota Corolla and steer like the Titanic; the voyeuristic living displays that ‘neat shame’ you, right through to the grisly display toilets that come fitted with plastic guards warning that it’s strictly for demonstration purposes only. It’s a nightmare, the very thought of which causes me to wake up screaming in Swedish.

Let’s back up – it occurs to me that some of you may not understand the concept of ‘neat shaming’. It’s where you’re presented with a completely unrealistic depiction of everyday life. At IKEA that comes in the form of dozens of small living and dining rooms where there’s not a thing out of place. It’s an insult. Frankly, I can’t imagine a couch that doesn’t have a discarded Two-minute noodle wrapper lying on the floor in front of it and squashed up remnants of chicken shapes rubbed into the cushions. A living room without discarded items of school uniform? Please – no such place exists.

Truth be told, it’s not that I simply don’t like IKEA. It’s that I’m afraid of it. Specifically, I’m afraid that I won’t be able to assemble the furniture because I can’t understand the diagrams. Not that we were looking for furniture.

We’ve entered a special time of life – one where crockery and utensils inexplicably vanish. One day, you’ve got a drawer full of plates. The next, the drawer is empty, as is the dishwasher and a surprise inspection of the bedrooms yields nothing you’d want to put your dinner on. Forks are also a problem. Clearly, someone I know hates forks and throws them out the window after use. It’s the only logical explanation.

Luckily for us, IKEA has both crockery and utensils in abundance. But they’re right at the end of the yellow brick road where, by rights, the Emerald City ought to be. It takes us twenty minutes to get to the bit we want before we realise that we need a trolley and forgot to pick one up at the entrance. Fearing the need to go back the way we came in, which would involve swimming against the tide for the first half and trying to navigate a slow-moving crowd whilst pushing an oversized trolley on the way back, we searched for an alternative.

After a few minutes, Katrina returned with an empty trolley that appeared to have been abandoned. Scouring the crockery section, we selected an eighteen-piece set called a ‘Godmiddag’. This seemed fitting as ‘Godmiddag’ is what we say when one of the kids breaks a plate. We then filled the trolley with as many forks as we could, believing this would get us through the next fortnight or so.

After trundling through the checkouts, we loaded our bounty into the car and headed home. It was only after we unpacked that we discovered the ‘Klockren’. Neither of us had gone to IKEA looking for a Klockren but, somehow, we had emerged with one in our possession. Which means that the empty trolley we had assumed was abandoned was, instead, nursing someone’s Klockren. In turn, the aspirant owner of the Klockren had stepped away from their trolley for a moment only to return to find it missing. We were now trolley-nappers.

The only thing worse that stealing a Klockren that doesn’t belong to you, is trying to figure out what the Klockren does. We were stumped. It was a silver contraption with metal leaves that folded over each other. Was it a peeler? An exotic European ashtray? We couldn’t tell. After several days of trying to solve the riddle that was the Klockren, Katrina pulled the metal stems to reveal some kind of steamer. Which, if I’m being honest, made me think that we’d done someone a favour by taking their trolley.

A few weeks later, I’m none the wiser as to how we took someone’s trolley and deprived them of their Klockren. Yesterday I opened a drawer and found it had no plates in it, following which I raised both my fists in the air and cried ‘Godmiddag!’ And on the subject of forks, I’ve reached something of a fork in the road and am seriously considering making a permanent shift to ‘woons’. How did all this happen? I don’t know. Because like so many things that come from IKEA, try as I might, I just can’t put it together.

ONE MONTH DOWN, TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN MONTHS TO GO

I’m not afraid to say it – I was wrong. In fact, I’ll go further – I was spectacularly wide of the mark and profoundly mistaken when I brazenly, if not recklessly suggested that the world order would be upended, and any sense of global stability would sink into a soup of self-inflicted chaos under President Donald Josephat Trump. Rather than spiralling into a pit of turmoil and pettiness, we have, instead, witnessed the glorious resurrection of a once-great Nation. It’s not just what he’s done so far that’s fantastic, it’s what he’s going to do next that’s truly exciting.

Next week, President Trump will sign an Executive order banning the use of prime numbers. To those who would argue that such an action might be divisive, I would simply point out that this is impossible, as not being divisive is kind of what prime numbers are all about. This is a move that’s long overdue – the refusal of prime numbers to play nicely with the other digits marks them out as elitist and, as such, they must be eliminated. Granted it may have a minor effect on inconsequential things like computer programming and mathematics more broadly, but it’s a small price to pay (and either Mexico or Canada should pay it).

After the glorious triumph that was the unilateral decision to rename ‘The Gulf of Mexico’ as ‘The Gulf America’, it’s high time to take the next logical step. The song ‘Spanish Harlem’ by Ben E. King will, here forthwith be known as ‘American Harlem’, ‘English Ham’ will now be known as ‘American Ham’ and ‘the Dutch Oven’ will be done away with completely. By Executive Order, the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ will be replaced by a Kid Rock song. I’m not sure which Kid Rock song and I doubt that it matters.

If there was a defining issue in last year’s election, it was undoubtedly concerns over the leadership of the Kennedy Centre for the Performing Arts. And so it was that an anxious nation was delivered the glorious news that the Board had been sacked and President Trump had installed himself both as the Board Chair and its principal dancer. His debut performance will consist of a three-hour version of ‘YMCA’. A lot of people are saying that it’s the greatest dance routine they’ve ever had the good fortune to bear witness to, and who are we to disagree?

We can expect a complete overhaul of the performance program. Gone are ballets and operas, replaced by proper cultural pursuits like championship wrestling and hot dog eating competitions. About time.

Tired of fumbling around for the correct change? Not anymore! After dispensing with the penny, the President’s next big move will be to abolish regular currency altogether and make a permanent shift to crypto. Sound confusing? If so, then you’re part of the problem and should immediately hand yourself in.

Golf will remain an Olympic sport. In fact, golf will remain as the only Olympic sport and team USA will comprise of one person and one person only, Donald J. Trump. Having other countries win medals represents a serious trade imbalance that must be addressed as a matter of urgency. That’s why nations seeking to compete in the Olympics will be confronted with (naturally) an Olympic-sized tariff as a means of either evening up the competition or, preferably, eliminating it altogether.

Obviously, podiums will have to be redesigned to have one tier only (for the winner), disposing of the tiers for second and third place getters which are both unnecessary and distasteful, given that these people are, by definition, losers. One tier avoids needless waste. This is a key philosophical shift, where the new administration refuses to recognise mediocrity with the notable exception of cabinet appointments.

If you thought that annexing foreign lands would end with Canada, Panama, Greenland and Gaza, think again. Tuesday mornings will now be devoted to a lottery in which the next country to join America will be chosen. But it’s not all take, take, take. In the interests of fairness, the administration is selling (or, at least, selling out) Ukraine by redefining notions of sovereignty to whatever takes Vladimir Putin’s fancy at the time.

You may ask why I’m writing about another country. It’s often said that when America sneezes, Australia catches cold. Or, given that we’re talking about Donald Trump, if America sneezes, Australia needs a visit to the GP and a dose of penicillin. It may well be I’m reacting to the ‘shock and awe’ of the last few weeks. But stability in government is a good thing and, dare I say it, entertainment is to be avoided. My hope is that the current madness is a phase, but it seems unlikely. There seems to be no boundary that won’t be breached, no gutter that won’t be danced in. I am now counting down the remaining one thousand four hundred and thirty days of the remaining term and crossing my fingers that there isn’t a Constitution-defying third. Here’s hoping.