Author: Stuart McCullough

Like Leif Garrett, I too was made for dancing.  It is for this reason that at social events I have often claimed to be a professional dancer.  When asked ‘what kind?’ my response is always the same: I let the music tell me.  Sadly, opportunities to get my ‘groove thing’ well and truly on have been limited.  Sure, there have weddings and nights at the pub that have descended into disco hell, but these are really social events with dancing tacked on.  If you don’t get to wear a costume with sequins sewn into the front, it’s not really dancing.

    Our family has a proud tradition when it comes to burning up the dance-floor.  My grandparents met at a dance.  Both my sisters pursued jazz ballet with commitment, dedication and fervour; suffice to say that they had a near endless supply of leg warmers and their efforts culminated each year in a concert at the Frankston Tafe Chisholm Hall.  Whilst this extravaganza was the result of an entire year’s graft for my sisters, my brothers and I saw it in a very different light.  

    As we walked through the car park and towards the venue, dozens of mothers fussed at open car boots, making last minute adjustments to hair, makeup and costumes.  And, if time allowed, they would adjust the hair, makeup and costumes of their daughters also. There were sparkles and hair buns and lacquer as far as the eye could see.  There was, it seems, an unwritten law in jazz ballet that required hair to be pulled back with all the ferocity of a discount facelift.  Little girls with their eyebrows arched surrounded us.

    As a kid, I found it near impossible to summon up the necessary generosity of spirit.  For some reason attending these concerts felt like travelling deep, deep into enemy territory.  Perhaps I was jealous.  For in Tyabb, boys who liked jazz ballet were not referred to as ‘dancers’; but something altogether more pointed.  And whilst someone of a more determined character would have cast aside such slings and arrows, I figured playing the piano was already a strike against my name as far as my peers were concerned and that dancing would be a bridge too far.

    There it may have ended if not for my niece, Matilda.  I guess it was inevitable that she, too, would one day feel the irresistible lure of the dance.  She started lessons this year and yesterday was her end of year concert.  We were keen to be supportive.  Kate sewed a bunch of sequins into Matilda’s costume and has, apparently, sewn the leftovers onto some of my suits.  I provided support of a different nature.  Just as Mr Miyagi instructed a young Daniel LaRusso how to wear a bathrobe and not look like a total dipstick, so too did I try and pass to Matilda all that I knew about dancing.  We stopped, however, after three or four minutes.  I say it’s because Matilda refused to address me in the manner required by dance instructors down through the ages.  I’m not saying she should call me ‘sensai’ all the time, but once or twice to know that she’s listening would have been nice.  Matilda, however, would probably suggest that we stopped after three of four minutes because that’s all it took for me to pass on everything I have ever learned about dancing.  She may have a point.

    In spite of her decision to decline the offer of my tutelage, I attended her concert at the Warragul Arts Centre.  When the lights went down and the audience fell into an expectant hush, I found myself keenly anticipating my first dance concert in nearly thirty years.  There were pulsing lights and music and a tonne of hair lacquer – the concert was an assault on the senses.  I loved every second of it.

    They covered all the classics, including ‘Singin’ In the Rain’, ‘Carwash’ and ‘You Spin Me Right Round’ (performed by Alvin and the Chipmunks, mind, rather than the somewhat scarier Dead or Alive).  They even danced to the song that I had taught myself to play on the piano to impress my classmates and was the anthem of my adolescence: ‘Theme From Ghostbusters’.  As the last notes of Ray Parker Junior echoed around the auditorium, the audience descended into a frenzy of applause.  And then I saw Matilda.

    With her sequins sewn tight, Matilda had a look of concentration stitched across her four year old face.  She was covered in so much glitter that, technically speaking, she may have been more glitter ball than little girl.  As she started to bust a move, it was clear to me that she had learned more from her uncle than either of us had realised.  For reasons I can’t fully explain, the experience was oddly emotional.  As Alvin and the Chipmunks did their worst to the song ‘Shake Your Groove Thing’, I watched as Matilda threw herself wholly into her routine.  It was more than merely impressive; it was inspiring.

    It’s never too late.  What I abandoned due to fear of embarrassment as a child I should now embrace.  All I need is a costume and a bucket full of glitter.  Luckily, I always keep a supply of costumes and glitter on hand.  I’ll just sew in a few of the spare sequins and I’ll be set.

Cue the music.  My time has finally come.

No one was more surprised than I at my recent selection in the 17-man Ashes squad. Whilst my grandfather was fond of declaring ‘better never than late’ there are, I think, exceptions to the rule. Whilst your late thirties may seem an odd time to start your career as an elite sportsman, there’s no good reason for this. Whilst I accept that some options are no longer available to me – it’s too late to be a member of the Young Talent Team and my application for Junior MasterChef was not so much resisted as it was flat out rejected – my inclusion into the Australian Cricket Team is simply well overdue. It is a moment for which I have been waiting my entire life.

Cricket is a funny game. For decades, we have taken for granted our ability to beat all-comers. That time, of course, is now over. As a result, our nation has been reduced to naming a squad so unfathomably large and populated with complete strangers that it may have been quicker and more efficient to name which of our citizens were to be left out. Not that I will let this take the gloss off my selection.

We had our own cricket pitch. In truth, it was not so much a pitch as it was a piece of strategically placed concrete. Inspired both by the poultry shed and a desire not to have to go trawling through the paddock for lost balls, my father constructed a tall wire fence around the pitch. Whilst we referred to this structure as ‘the nets’, a more suitable term could well have been ‘the chicken coup.’

I was decidedly average at every aspect of the game, whether it was batting, fielding or bowling. Even at reasonably straight-forward elements such as appealing to the umpire, I was extraordinarily ordinary. Whilst some of my classmates at primary school would make their appeals with all the enthusiasm of winning ‘the lot’ on Sale of the Century, the best I could manage was a half hearted shrug of the shoulders. None of this deterred my father.

Nobody took a game of back yard cricket as seriously as Pete. Not for him the compromise inherent in using a tennis ball – only the real thing would do. He believed that without the very real risk of injury or mild disfigurement, cricket was just about getting sunburned. In truth, cricket is not a sport to be measured in wickets or runs so much as it is in giant welts that take a week or more to subside.

To be a decent fast bowler, you need a good run up. My father’s run up was such that he needed several marathon style drinking stations positioned en route to ensure that he made the distance. As he thundered in like a runaway truck, your thoughts turned not so much to defending your wicket as to something much more personal and private in nature. That’s the great misconception about cricket. It’s got precious little to do with protecting your stumps as it does preventing the family jewellery from being shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Were this anything other than a so-called sport, all kinds of precautions would be taken. Instead, cricket offers only the protection of a ‘box’ when, in the circumstances, a missile defence system would be more appropriate.

When I was growing up, cricketers were a pretty butch lot. In the 1970s and 80s, to be a professional cricketer, you needed only two things: access to a near-unlimited supply of Sard Wonder Soap to remove stubborn grass stains and a moustache big enough to entangle an antelope. It was, dare I say it, a very macho kind of sport. Australian Cricketers didn’t bother much with buttons – they’d be happy to have their shirts more than half open, exposing to all the world the kind of chest hair that can only be groomed by a whipper – snipper. Even the most cursory of glances at the current Australian Cricket team makes it plain that there’s not a decent moustache amongst them, despite the fact that it’s ‘Movember’, to say nothing of a chronic shortage of chest hair.

Upon being named, I sprang into action. I began by hitting a golf ball against a water tank using a stump just as Don Bradman had done all those years ago. After several minutes of losing golf balls, I then upgraded to one of those posture balls you sit on. I also spent many hours in my laboratory, installing a laser-based missile defence system to my cricket trousers. Granted, there were some early teething problems in which my new pants mistook next door’s cat for a cricket ball and nearly blew it to pieces, but I had almost ironed all the kinks out before receiving the bad news.

When they named the starting line up, my name was conspicuously absent. As I slowly removed my gold necklace, buttoned up my shirt and shaved off my moustache, it occurred to me that perhaps it was time to let go of some of those childish ambitions. Folding them neatly, I packed away my cricket whites, perhaps this time for good. Standing in the old wire nets, I can only rue my cruel elimination from the squad. It’s a pity. To have been included could have been quite a chicken coup.

For a moment, I feared the worst.  Last week my birthday came and went without any sign that I’d get my wish.  Perhaps I’d been too subtle.  Even though I’d distributed a list that catalogued my preferred gifts in order of preference, it was largely without result.  Whilst publishing it in billboard form on Punt Road seemed inspired at the time, it has since occurred to me that my family rarely has cause to travel to town.  I don’t mean to be petulant.  Certainly, I received some of the things I’d longed for, just not the big-ticket item I had sitting at numero uno.  Until now.

When news broke that ABBA’s record label had issued cease and desist letters to ABBA tribute bands, it was as though all my Christmases, at least three of my Easters and a couple of flexi-time days had all come at once. The apparently irony free monikered ‘Polar Music International’ has declared that it wished to ‘create clarity’ in the names of ABBA Tribute Bands.  In short, they want to stop people using the name ABBA in their tribute band or a variation thereof.  The reason?  The record company insists it received complaints from people who had assumed a connection between the real ABBA and the tribute bands.

But as the manager for the group ABBAlanche noted, they were yet to have a single audience member confuse them for the real thing, especially since they were paying $8.50 to get in.  He has a point.  If you genuinely believe that one of the most successful bands of the Twentieth Century has reformed after nearly thirty years in order to pick up a Thursday night residency at the Chelsea Heights Hotel for an eight buck cover fee, notwithstanding its strict ‘no denim’ policy, you may well have bigger problems. Granted, the lure of a twelve dollar parma and pot would tempt the best of us, but it doesn’t seem enough to lure them from Sweden.

Bands such as FABBA have already received such a threat.  Abba’s Back are, apparently, seeking legal advice.  The fate of ABBAration remains unclear.  And as for ABBAracadabra – an ensemble that renders the Swedish supergroup’s tunes in the style of The Steve Miller Band – it’s anybody’s guess.  Should this prove successful, it might devastate the tribute band industry and alter forever the on-board entertainment of many of our finest cruise liners.

This has particular connotations for Australia, which has been identified (or, if you prefer, blamed) in Britain as the source of the tribute band industry.  Whilst I have long campaigned for the removal of ABBA tribute bands, albeit not for reasons of potential infringement of intellectual property rights as much a sense of pure musical decency, it occurs to me that other, more noble tribute acts might get caught up in the mayhem.

I, for one, struggle to come to terms with the idea of world in which Mini Kiss – a KISS tribute band comprised entirely of midgets – is no longer able to go about its business.  Or what of that very special category of tribute bands who subvert the traditional rock and roll machismo by forming an all female tribute?  The Iron Maidens, AC/ Dshe and Lez Zepplin are so much more than mere pastiche.  They have a powerful point to make.  So too, for that matter, does Mandonna – the all male Madonna tribute.

    Consider this.  In 2005, a Lynyrd Skynyrd tribute band called The Saturday Night Special Band contained in its ranks more original members of Lynyrd Skynyrd that the actual Lynyrd Skynyrd.  (Beyond ‘Sweet Home Alabama’, I must profess a stunning lack of knowledge and, indeed, interest in Lynyrd Skynyrd.  Surely the key attraction of forming a Lynyrd Skynyrd tribute band is the promise of an early night.)  Even the recently immortalised Little River Band (if, indeed, having your music appear in a Will Ferrell film can be considered ‘immortalised’) had their troubles when three founding members were prevented from using the name.  As Glen Shorrock put it at the time, ‘We’re not the Little River Band but we sure sound like them.’

Indeed, tribute bands have long been bullied in the musical playground.  Sony Music threatened legal action in 2005 against tribute band Beatallica, a band that play songs by The Beatles in the style of Metallica.  Whilst the idea of going up against a massive musical conglomerate must have seemed terrifying, Beatallica managed to prevail, in part thanks to the assistance of fan Lars Ulrich from Metallica.  Bless him.

There’s an old saying, ‘be careful what you wish for’.  Like Dan Ackroyd in Ghostbusters conjuring up the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, so too have I unintentionally opened a Pandora’s worm.  As ABBA tribute bands begin to fall like bewigged satin-coated dominos, the time has come to make something of a stand.  Back off Polar Music International.  If people want to attend a dodgy nightclub, drink their own body weight in bourbon and coke and kid themselves that ABBAsolutley Fabulous are the genuine article, what harm does it do?  Having called up this firestorm, I recognize that I must now do my bit to get things back on track. As for ABBA tribute bands, let me say that I’ll gladly lend my support to GABBA, who perform ABBA songs in the style of The Ramones.  Now that’s something I can respect.  I may even hire them to play my next birthday.

The Premier’s dirt unit was a very lovely place
Stacked with sparkly people, full of charm and style and grace
But in spite of their appearance, the task was none too subtle
All they did was dig up dirt with their gigantic shovel
And add a dash of water, to the dirt that they just dug
To create a steaming pile of stinking sour mud
Mud as dark as night, dark as pitch and dark as coal
It’s the muck that’s meant to fill each corner of your soul

With no issue out of bounds, no orifice too dark
The unit’s sole objective is to try and leave a mark
Or perhaps, if not a mark, at least some sort of stain
For nothing sticks as good as mud upon a person’s brain
And so the little diggers kept on shoveling the dirt
All the while confusing it for actual proper work
They stacked it up on tabletops, floors boards and on shelves
Forgetting for a moment that the mud can’t throw itself

Shocked at such an oversight, the unit lost its spark
As one amongst their number then did casually remark
‘What a shame that all this mud will simply go to waste
And that the general public never got to have a taste’
For no one in the unit dared to touch the mud themselves
It’s widely recognized the stuff is fatal to your health
Until it finally struck them, and so relieved the tension
What they really needed was a mud-flinging invention

They considered everything on which they laid they hands
But struggled to find anything that suited their demands
So they pulled apart a tumble dryer marked ‘Fisher Pykel’
And strapped the bits onto the front of the election cycle
With handlebars of chrome and a basket up the front
The election bike was solid but was never meant for stunts
With bits of string and sweat and spit, they soldered and they beat
Until there sat a catapult upon the cycle’s seat

It needed some adjustments and they slaved the whole night long
And the more they beat it up, the more that it looked wrong
But then as dawn awoke they felt a sense of satisfaction
And gazed upon the fiercest looking mud-throwing contraption
To get the best results you had to place it in the gutter
Made of steel and chrome, it stank like rancid butter
It was a thing to envy and make anyone turn green
The unit had invented the first full-on muck machine

They wheeled it through the office and the corridors of power
Where to operate it cost a thousand bucks an hour
But it was worth each cent just to watch it throw some slime
At anyone who might forget to duck their head in time
The muck machine could smear a target from one hundred paces
It got mud on their feet and hands but mostly on their faces
The unit cheered and clapped – it seemed the thing to do
Never really noticing the mud was on them too

The Premier’s dirt unit are a very special breed
They serve to give us something that we didn’t really need
Dressed in long white coats and other scientists’ apparel
They search to find what lies beyond the bottom of the barrel

When news broke that an ‘Antiques Road Show’-style event was coming to Hastings, I immediately contacted the members of my family.  We, like any family, have our fair share of heirlooms and were eager to have their, no-doubt, astronomical value confirmed to us once and for all.  For those unfamiliar with the process, an Antiques Road Show is an event whereby you turn up with some ancient artefact to have it appraised by guys in tweed jackets with elbow patches and gold rimmed glasses that sit like birds on the ends of their noses.  

    I don’t know the names of the appraisers, but I imagine they’re along the lines of ‘Humphrey Thirstburger’, ‘Aubrey Nimble – Twerp’ and ‘Algernon Thwistlestick’.  

As for the evaluations, they fall into two distinct categories.  The first is best summarized as ‘we’ve had this sitting at the bottom of the broom closet for thirty years and I was about to toss it out but thought I’d find out its worth’.  Almost without fail, if the person says this first, then the object they present – whether it be a ceramic vase, silver samovar or used gym-sock, will be worth an absolute packet.  Thus, an object that was destined for bin night is elevated to the status of heirloom in a matter of moments.  However, it does not work out this way for everyone.

The other category is best described as ‘disappointment’.  This is where people present their object as though it was the holy grail itself, only to learn that the item in question was a promotional giveaway in 1976 with every bottle of schnapps sold by a now-defunct discount liquor store and is worth about as much as a postage stamp.  When this withering verdict is delivered, the job of the person whose hopes of an early retirement have just been dashed on National television is to take it on the chin and say that the sentimental value of the item is all that matters.  Whether the object then survives beyond the next hard-rubbish collection would, I feel, make a fascinating sequel.  Surely the path from the Antiques Road Show is littered with remains of discarded relics in much the same way as abandoned beer bottles and high heel shoes clutter the route leading from the Spring Racing Carnival.

As for me, I had only one object in mind.  Original artworks, antique crockery and what may well be pirate currency have no interest.  Rocking up to have something evaluated is much like getting an audience with the Wizard of Oz – you may only get one shot and it’s best to make it count.  I needed answers, dabmabbit, and here was a perfect opportunity to get them.  

Contacting my father is no easy matter.  I emailed, but then realized that he only checks these on a monthly basis, at best.  After repeated phone calls, I finally got through.  Panicked that time may well be running out, in a voice nearly worn hoarse with excitement I said just four words: ‘get the spider tie.’

It is said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  Granted, that’s often the case, but in my father’s house beauty is in a locked mahogany chest next to the Pianola.  Within its chiselled walls lie all manner of treasures, including the greatest neck tie known to humanity.  And just as true fashion never goes out of style, the same is true of any item of apparel that is hopelessly and gloriously out of fashion.  It is as simple as it is beautiful.  The spider tie is a single, deceptively flimsy piece of silk that has a picture of a spider on it and a large, embroided web.  It was worn by my father, just once, in 1954 to a local ball.  Since that time, no occasion has been deemed important enough to warrant its resurrection.

For those of you who may feel that a spider tie is in poor taste, you’re missing the point.  In fact, stop reading, get a torch and a shovel and start searching.  When you think you’ve found the point, then (and only then) should you continue reading.  For the rest of you, the point is this: back before the first rubber chicken was patented by Humphrey Thirstburger in 1972, the spider tie was the greatest achievement in comedy to that time.  Surely this apocryphal, arachnid artefact had assumed an exalted status in the decades since and would be worth enough to make my entire family eligible for an episode of ‘The Secret Millionaire.’

My father, sadly, did not share my enthusiasm.  According to him, the spider tie was not worth very much at all.   If this were true, then why on earth had it been kept under lock and key for more than fifty years?  

As it happens, my family had suggestions of their own.  Given that the point of Antiques Road Show is to give value to something that’s extremely old, my brother suggested we offer up the contents of my father’s pantry. My sister in law thought the antacid tablets in the medicine cabinet were eligible.  All fine suggestions, but nothing with the knock out ‘wow’ factor of a spider tie.  My hopes were, officially, dashed to pieces.  Dispirited, I then swept up the pieces into an old pillowcase and headed down for an evaluation.  Aubrey Nimble – Twerp took a long, hard look and declared them worthless.  

I kept a brave face for the cameras and thanked him for his effort.  Deep down, I knew he was right – their only value was sentimental.

In truth, I had been ready for ages.  For weeks on end I had been engaged in preparation, readying myself for my maiden ocean voyage.  This consisted mostly of committing every sea shanty I could to memory and dressing like The Love Boat’s Captain Merrill Stubing for several days in advance of our scheduled cast off.

    Aviation and I have never really managed to get along.  There’s something about the combination of defying gravity and painful seating seemingly designed by members of the Lollipop Guild that makes me extremely uncomfortable.  The time had come to admit a gracious defeat and move on to other modes of transport.

    Before people embraced the recordings of R Kelly and believed they could fly, they travelled by boat.  This, I feel, was as God intended it.  There are heaps of references in the Bible to boats – from simple fishing vessels through to Noah’s Ark – but you’ll struggle to find a single reference to an aeroplane.  And in much the same way that a few hardcore fans have remained loyal to vinyl in preference to compact discs, so too have some stuck with sea travel.

    When I was first informed that the Pacific Princess was no longer operating as a commercial cruise liner, I was devastated.  At the same time, the fact that I had been able to purchase Gavin MacLeod’s original uniform on E-bay for only $7.50 suddenly made a lot more sense.  Instead, I would be setting sail in The Spirit of Tasmania.

For the most part, my preparations went as smoothly as a baby’s bottom, all except when it came to sea shanties.  As musical genres go, sea shanties have suffered a diminution in popularity over recent years.  Why this should be is something of a mystery.  I suspect this will remain the case until Lady Gaga and Beyonce finally relent and give their legendary cover of ‘Haul Away Joe’ the commercial release it so richly deserves.  The closest I got to a genuine toe-tapping sea-shanty classic was ‘Sailing’ by Rod Stewart.  Whilst the purists would, no doubt, screw up their collective nose, it’s a very useful song.  By useful, I mean that you can pretty much substitute anything for the term ‘sailing’ and take the tune out for a spin.  Thus, the process of packing can be done to the strains of ‘We are packing, we are packing…’ and so on.

When I told my brother that I was having trouble locating suitable sea shanties for my voyage, his response was to introduce me to the works of a group called The Lonely Island.  They haven’t sought to reinvent the shanty genre so much as make it redundant with their song ‘I’m On a Boat’ (featuring T-Pain).  The title pretty much says it all.  It’s a tune done in a hip-hop style and features young men standing on a very large boat shouting ‘I’m on a boat’ over and over again.  Given the visual evidence, it’s very hard to disagree.  (Incidentally, is there some kind of rule that all new songs have to feature someone with an outrageous name? I can’t imagine The Beatles releasing ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’ featuring T-Pain.  I shudder to think of what would become of Unchained Melody by The Righteous Brothers had it featured Flo-Rida or Pit-bull.  The sad truth is, that if the Three Tenors record was released today, ‘Nessum Dorma’ would be a single featuring Lil’ Wayne).

The first thing I noticed upon boarding The Spirit of Tasmania was that I appeared to be the only person dressed in navy whites.  By the time I reached my cabin, I had nearly despaired from having to explain that I was dressed as a tribute to Captain Stubing and not the singer from The Village People. For their part, they retaliated by spelling out ‘YMCA’ in semaphore.  Idiots.  ‘In the Navy’ would have been far more appropriate.  I could have kicked myself later on at the bar when I invited further ridicule by ordering a milkshake.  You can only decline to ‘do the shake’ so many times before it starts to get your goat.

I then made the huge mistake of trying to get some dinner.  Unfortunately, the main on-board restaurant was fully booked and we were cast into the gastronomic gulag that is ‘The Captain’s Table’.  Although reviewing restaurants is somewhat beyond my expertise, I can only say that I have never been to a restaurant that has a stockpile of vomit bags placed strategically beside the bain marie.  For those who would generously suggest that this was in case of seasickness, had you seen the content of the bain marie you would, surely, revise your opinion.

But just when all seemed lost, the ship turned out to sea and things took a profound turn for the better.  It’s a little known fact that The Little River Band perform three sets a night on The Spirit of Tasmania, in between bussing tables.  As they unleashed their trademark harmonies and gave the safety announcement, I felt a warm sense of wellbeing creep through my veins. Watching fellow passengers form an orderly queue for the bar, I finally learned the answer to the question; what is the spirit of Tasmania?  The answer, it seems, is bourbon.  We are sailing, indeed.

Posters for the last instalment of ‘Sex and the City’ were somewhat confronting.  The protagonists looked decades younger than they did the last time we saw them.  In fact, given that this follows an earlier big screen adventure, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was the sequel to The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

Welcome to Photoshop.  That there should be a computer program capable of erasing wrinkles and blemishes with a mere click of the mouse is a wonderful thing.  My only regret is that it’s limited to photographs and can’t be applied to everyday life.  That said, in reality it’s little more than a controlled form of graffiti.

A couple of months ago, there was uproar in Melbourne after graffiti by the artist ‘Banksy’ was accidently scrubbed off a wall by a council cleaning team.  Whilst some decried the lack of appreciation for art by the cleaners, to me it seems both the ultimate irony and perfectly inevitable.  As criticism goes, it’s hard to beat a wire scrubbing brush and a bucket of turpentine.  Whilst the resulting uproar unfairly belittled the cleaning team as philistines, I think that is way out of order.  Frankly, even if they don’t know much about art, they clearly know what they like.  Besides, if you decide to use a building wall to express yourself rather than, say, a canvas, you take your chances.

I’m not especially a fan of Banksy.  Vandalism is an immature act committed by mindless thugs, no-hopers and hooligans and should be decried and abhorred – with one exception.  As anyone who has had to drive a sizeable distance along this nation’s freeways can attest, the country side can feel as dull as a rainy Sunday afternoon.  We’ve all been frightened witless on occasion by television advertisements promising death or disfigurement should we so much as attempt to change radio stations whilst driving, must less a more complete loss of concentration.  That’s why I’d like to pay tribute to a very special breed of thug, no-hoper and hooligan – those that deface koala road signs.

    No doubt you’ve seen them.  Yellow road signs with a black, stencilled koala silhouettes, alerting the driver to the fact that, at any moment, their attempt to drive along the freeway may be interrupted by a random marsupial which, drug-addled as a result of ingesting eucalypt, wanders across the motorway in a bid to reach the nearest 7-11 for a packet of Twisties.

    However, there is something about the shape of the koala and, in particular, the position of the hands that make it something of an open invitation to the imaginative graffiti artist.  As a result, it is not uncommon to come across such as sign that has been ‘amended’ by an aspiring vandal by drawing an object such as a shotgun, beer can or something more illicit in the koala’s hands.  Either that or they white-out the eyes (who even has ‘white-out’ in this day and age?) or add a set of fangs to Australia’s most cuddly of creatures whose name is not Ian Hewitson.  

    It never fails to make me laugh.  Partly, this is because such signs are almost always located by the side of busy motorways and would-be vandals have to interrupt their journeys for the sole purpose of their artistic embellishments.  These are not crimes of mere opportunity.  They require commitment, devotion and, frankly, a very good texta.

    But whereas once these defaced signs littered the country side, they have become increasingly rare.  There are two possible explanations: one is a possible shortage of delinquent youths with a sense of humour, the other is a renewed effort to ‘clean up’ these signs.  The former of these is utterly implausible.  I refuse to accept that the current generation of youths have yet had all the life ‘facebooked’ out of them, their joie de vivre i-podded out of existence.  Clearly, roadside cleaning teams have elected to up the ante.

    I suspect that they sit in waiting at roadside depots, siren and scrubbing brush at the ready.  At the mere uncapping of a black marker, they set off; their tyres screeching, to save a national symbol from even the slightest despoilment.  These human photo-shoppers are determined to eliminate blemishes as quickly as possible.  It’s a shame; the absence of perfection is far more appealing.

    Listless youths should be free to do their creative best whilst we still have koala signs left to deface.  If, in years to come, these fragile marsupials become extinct or, heaven forbid, are forced to comply with upgraded safety standards and compelled to each wear fluorescent jackets and matching helmets, the signs will no longer be needed.  Sometimes the quest for perfection ought to be resisted.  It’s a lesson yet to be learned by the cast from Sex in the City.  The rest of us should do our best to spot this unpalatable trend and stop it in its tracks.  You don’t need to be an oracle or soothsayer to see the way things are headed.  All you need to do is be ready to read the signs – even if some nitwit has come along and drawn on it.

The campaign to bring back Telecom starts today.  The grand vision of a privatized entity, moulded by market forces to serve your every telecommunications whim and desire, can now be dismissed as a noble theory, thoroughly disproved by the cold hard truth.  The dream is over.

    A couple of weeks ago, I had cause to complain to a major telecommunications company (who, for the sake of anonymity, I shall refer to as the Smurfatron Mega Corporation) after they left me on hold for an entire hour.  Whilst an hour may not be that much using whatever method the people at Smurfatron rely on to measure the space / time continuum, the choice of music meant that the time on hold was better calculated in terms of dog years.  Upon reflection, it was not so much a complaint as an outpouring of frustration – fevered but basically transitory in nature.  In the first instance, I received an automated reply.  This, as it turned out, was a much better response than the one that followed a few days later:   

I am not one to take these things lying down, standing up or any other way you can think of.  Determined not to be defeated by organizational gobbledygook, I was quick to respond.

Upon sending it, I received yet another automated response to add to my steadily growing pile.  But these were desperate times that did not so much call for, as flat-out demand, desperate measures.  Willing to throw caution to the wind from a vehicle moving at high speed, I dialled the number for Smurfatron.  This time, perhaps only by chance, somebody answered.

    The operator calmly explained that my current Internet plan allowed 400 megabytes to be downloaded per month which I was exceeding.  Until that moment, I had thought a megabyte was a kind of dinosaur, much like a Triceratops but with wings and the ability (hopefully) to shoot lasers from its beady reptilian eyes.  It is, apparently, the computing equivalent of a horse and buggy.  Whilst I was busy taking my surrey with a fringe on top for a spin on the information superhighway, the world had moved on.  So much so that it was no longer possible to sign up for the piddling Internet plan I had – the least you could now ask for was, at 2 gigabytes, five times larger.  And, just to sink the boot in, slightly cheaper than my current plan.

    It begged the question – how could I possibly be on a plan that no longer existed?  That the Smurfatron Mega Corporation thinks that it is somehow appropriate to charge me for a product so inferior that it no longer survives is surely the corporate equivalent of a snatch and grab.  Leaving aside my own sense of righteous fury at having been the subject of a telecommunications punking, part of me can’t but help admire a mind so purely evil.   Genius aside, I just can’t be their customer any more.  Come back Telecom, all is forgiven.

I haven’t felt this confused since I watched Donny Darko.  What on earth just happened?  When you toss a coin, you either call it ‘heads’ or ‘tails’.  Nobody expects it to land exactly on its side. Whilst the dust is still in the process of settling, it’s apparent that the three regional former National Party MPs (who – for ease of reference – I shall refer to as ‘Paper’, ‘Rock’ and ‘Scissors’) wield an almighty degree of power.

It’s a lot of responsibility for so few shoulders.  Where do you begin?  Do you make a choice about which party to support in the formation of the government based on who has the greatest number of seats, primary votes or two-party preferred votes?  Or do you throw conventional wisdom squarely out the window and support the party that showed the most restraint in the use of ‘Photoshop’ technology for their campaign posters (let’s be honest – in some instances the difference between the picture on the placard and the actual candidate can only described and ‘gapingly, gob-smackingly enormous’).  Perhaps it would be best to flip a coin and shout ‘heads’ or ‘tails’ but, then, that’s what gave us our current predicament.

The temptation to go overboard must be huge.  In less disciplined hands, I can imagine a list that includes demands for a monster truck, the removal of all brown M and Ms and a public holiday in honour of their pet Spoodle.  In fact, perhaps we ought all be impressed that the demands of the regional independents do not, to date, resemble Van Halen’s tour rider.  It’s a reminder of what a fragile and unpredictable thing democracy can be.  Which is fair enough when you consider how long it has taken to perfect.  Although democracy was invented by the Greeks, it was the Romans who really took it up a notch.  

Although famous for its Senate, democracy had fallen from favor in Rome.  It made a comeback after the tyrannical Emperor Tiberius was succeeded by Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanics (also known as ‘Caligula’ to his friends – of whom he had many) in 37 AD.  Notwithstanding his later reputation for being as mad as a cut snake, Caligula’s ascension was greeted with joy by the Roman people, largely because they now had an emperor who wasn’t Tiberius.

He got off to a roaring start.  He reintroduced democratic elections and commissioned work on two new aqueducts as well as tax reform.  But in spite of his devotion to public works, there were early signs of trouble.  In 39 AD, he ordered the construction of a temporary floating pontoon bridge across a bay – a distance of two miles – so he could ride over it on a horse whilst wearing the breastplate of Alexander the Great.  He did this solely to antagonize a soothsayer named Thrasyllus of Menda who had once declared that Caligula had as much chance of becoming emperor as he did of riding a horse across the Bay of Baiae.  No doubt Caligula took great delight in declaring ‘In your face Thrasyllus!’ as he reached the other side.

Then trouble struck.  Caligula started having difficulty with the Senate, but rather than dissolve it, he retaliated by forcing senators to perform acts of servitude such as running along side his chariot.  Worse still, the power started to go to his head and poor old Caligula began to believe that he was a god.  But, classy guy that he was, he didn’t come flat out and declare it – he dropped hints, such as turning up to work dressed as other gods such as Mercury, Apollo and Hercules.  It is a shame, I think, that people rarely make their point through outrageous costumes.  Bob Katter excepted.

Caligula then demanded that the heads of statues be removed and replaced with his own head.  As you do.  Then things really went off the rails.  Legend has it that he once threw an entire section of the crowd into an arena to be eaten by wild animals because he was bored.  Historians regard this event as the very first example of a citizen’s assembly going horribly wrong.  He then attempted that most herculean of political tasks – reforming the Senate. Thank goodness he had the costume for it.  But rather than change the manner in which voting occurred, he tried to appoint his horse, Incitatus.  Presumably, he wanted to increase the ‘Nay’ vote.

By 41AD, he was declared an enemy of the State but before assassins could carry out their grisly task, Caligula committed suicide.  A sad end, no doubt.  Within four years, he’d gone from reforming hero to despot and his name forever associated with villainy.  However, not all democratic stalemates are resolved in so dramatic a fashion.  A few years later, Nero responded to plummeting popularity by singing in public.

Who knows how the current impasse is to be resolved?  Personally, I’m quite taken with the singing idea. It could be just like an Idol audition – starry-eyed hopefuls would be wheeled in before a table at which the country independents are seated, before giving it their all.  Then again, maybe it’s all too difficult and we’ll be returning to the polls sooner rather than later.  There’s at least one up side that I can think of.  If nothing else, another election means one thing: a second sausage sizzle.  This could well be the greatest and most unexpected boost to educational budgets in living memory.