Stuart McCullough -

The Tale of a Middle-Aged Dance Machine

I’ve been to plenty of concerts in my time – big stadium shindigs where one end of the room inhabits a different postcode to the other, through to venues so intimate that the performers are, for all intents and purposes, sitting in your lap. They’re very different experiences but each enjoyable in their own way. And I’ve also learned that there are certain rules that should be adhered to when attending a musical performance.

Firstly, don’t try and ‘level jump’ on your friendship with the artist. That’s especially important when attending a small gig and the first thing that happens is that you run into members of the band you’ve come to see. A nod of acknowledgment or a subtle tip of the hat are both entirely acceptable, but squealing like a child and asking for a hug may see you escorted from the venue before a note has been played.

A few weeks back, we saw one of my all-time favourite bands, The Burning Hell, who’d travelled from Canada. As we raced indoors and out of the rain, we almost collided with the group. Knowing that I had to keep my cool, I nodded sagely in their direction. They nodded back. Nothing was said – no words were required.

Things only became awkward later when we ordered bar snacks, including a gigantic bowl of potato wedges. Because seating was limited, everyone I’d come with was sitting down along a wooden siding whilst I hovered, a metre or so away, trying to simultaneously blend in with the gathering throng and remain connected to my group. Then the unthinkable happened – I leaned over to get a potato wedge. As I pulled myself upright, I came face to face with the lead singer of The Burning Hell.

In standing up, a fistful of steaming potato goodness clenched in my fist, I had inadvertently blocked the singer’s passage as he attempted to make the all-important journey from the stage to the bar. To break the deadlock, we each moved to get out of the way of the other but moved in the same direction. Then we did it again. From his perspective, I doubt he saw someone doing their best to be helpful but, rather, someone that was actively seeking to obstruct him from getting through. He may even have considered it a hostage situation. I saw a flash of panic in his eyes as I realised that this fleeting interaction had suddenly driven a (potato) wedge between us.

After being restrained by security, I enjoyed the subsequent gig from outside the venue. Given a choice, I’d have rather remained indoors, but at least I wasn’t hungry.

Last week we trekked over the Festival Hall to see The Flaming Lips. For the uninitiated, there’s no experience on earth quite like a show by The Flaming Lips. It’s a unifying, uplifting, multimedia extravaganza that soothes the human spirit. Unless, of course, you are terrifyingly drunk.

It’s been a while since I’ve stood in the ‘general admission’ area of a large music concert. Things have changed. Whereas once, general admission was a sea of steaming sweat in which individuals clung to their beers like they were the last floatation device left, now it’s mobile phones. I’ve never seen a concert filmed on a phone that I’d ever want to see a second time but, nevertheless, people seemed compelled to record the concert they were ignoring so they could watch an inferior version of it at some future point.

I don’t know where he came from – he simply appeared. Of stocky build and wearing a ‘Regurgitator’ t-shirt, he took up position right in front of us within a distance that means, technically speaking, I may well now be married to him. He hugged his friends, he pointed towards some indeterminate point in the ceiling, he splashed beer all around and danced like a man possessed, if not by the devil, then certainly by beer.

It was then that I realised I was in trouble. Here was a man determined to dance as if he was alone in a paddock and not squashed in with thousands of other human beings. He jumped around. He flailed. Worst of all, he danced backwards towards me. He then seemed surprised when he stood on my feet and even more surprised when I looked unhappy about it. He quickly turned away.

It got worse. At one point, he was so overwhelmed by the moment that he started running up to strangers and demanding that they give him a ‘high-five’. If there’s one thing that strangers don’t appreciate, it’s a high-five from a random drunk person. When they didn’t reciprocate, he then reprimanded for failing to display that right level of enthusiasm. Frankly, he was being something of a jerk.

We were all silly back when we don’t know any better. But, at some point, you leave it behind. The concert – which was spectacular – ended and as we departed Festival Hall, I could see the middle-aged man throwing himself about an empty room. For him, it seems, the music simply never stops.

For Whom the Tin Whistle Blows

This is how it works now. You buy something, you blithely surrender your email address to facilitate the sending of an eco-friendly e-receipt and, low and behold, you start receiving emails from the company with a fervour and frequency that would embarrass Baby Reindeer. I appreciate that I could block these missives and otherwise treat them as the spam they most certainly are, but they invariably dangle the promise that some astounding offer is just around the corner… if only you keep receiving their emails.

If I were to describe these correspondences in a word, that word would be ‘needy’. They never ask how I am or how my day was. They only want to talk about themselves. It’s incredibly narcissistic and shallow. Granted, they may say the same for me, given that all I wanted was to buy something and then move on with my life unencumbered, but I prefer to think of myself as a traditionalist rather than selfish.

The one thing these emails are not is humble. In fact, these communiques go out of their way to be memorable. Grandiose, even. If Mohammed Ali wrote marketing emails, they would be nothing compared to some of the messages I receive in my inbox.

Some time ago, we bought a musical instrument from overseas. In December, I received an email from the retailer that saw fit to describe a CD featuring the Irish tin whistle as ‘the hottest item this Christmas’. This struck me as unlikely. I, for one, cannot imagine a world in which kids toss aside their Play stations and Gameboys because someone just gifted them a compact disc chock full of tin whistle. The idea of little tykes everywhere running up to their parents and breathlessly begging for a tin whistle CD is some considerable distance beyond ludicrous.

For starters, upon hearing the news of an Irish tin whistle CD, most kids would begin saying ‘what’s a CD?’ After this was explained to them, and having broken to them the somewhat discomforting news that, once upon a time, people paid for music, they’d invariably follow up with: ‘what’s a tin whistle?’ And whilst there’s nothing wrong with these questions, as such, and they may well denote a curious mind, they weigh against the possibility that such an artefact would ever be ‘the hottest thing this Christmas’.

The email went on, with a list of testimonials that proclaimed in glorious prose the power of the recording. Two things were striking – the sheer breathlessness of their praise as fawning words of adulation vaulted over their tongues (or, as the case may be, through their fingers to the keyboard below). I very much doubt that Penicillin provoked reviews that raved as much as these did. These were the kind of testimonials that were so glowing in nature as to render lightbulbs redundant.

Part of me was sceptical. The other part was disappointed that I was unable to muster up this level of enthusiasm for anything, much less a compact disc of tin whistle. What was wrong with me? Had I become so deadened to the majesty of God’s creation that I was condemned to stumble through life with barely a pulse and a dead-eyed stare? Probably. But that doesn’t mean I ought to accept these cult-like devotionals as being anything close to reliable. Before I knew it, I was writing back.

Responding to a marketing email is the one thing you should never do. But beyond incredulous, I was also insulted. As it happens, on the same day the greatest Irish tin whistle album ever to be unveiled to humanity had been unleashed to an adoring public, we had put a record out. Frankly, I was jealous that the tin whistle guy was soaking up all the attention.

I couldn’t say our record (Country & Western Suburbs, if you’re asking) was ‘the hottest thing this Christmas’ as all the children in my life would rather mow the back lawn with nothing but a pair of nail clippers before listening to anything I might produce, but I’d like to think that it was well regarded on, at least, the less consequential holidays like AFL Grand Final Eve. It’s on Bank Holidays and Arbour Day that I feel we can really make our mark.

Here’s the irony. After being pummelled with messages on a daily basis, I finally write back and am greeted with nothing but stone-cold silence. Well, mostly stone-cold silence with the sound of an Irish tin whistle way off in the distance. Maybe I hurt their feelings. Most likely I confused them by replying to a marketing email. Or perhaps I failed to notice the tiny disclaimer that so often resides at the bottom of so many such emails: this inbox is unattended.

I won’t tell you what I got for Christmas. What I will tell you, though, is that I didn’t get a CD featuring the Irish tin whistle. I did, however, nominate all its tracks for Triple J’s hottest 100 and was disappointed beyond words to see that it not only failed to take out top spot, but missed the countdown entirely. Still, there’s always next Christmas to look forward to.

Solider of Fortune Teller – Predictions for 2025

Here we go! The year of our Lord 2025 got off to a wonderful start when I returned to work and found I was still able to fit inside my trousers and secure the top button of my shirt. Hooray! Given that Christmas lasted a full week and that I consumed more than my own bodyweight in ham, I consider this a Christmas miracle. But as we free ourselves from the smouldering wreckage that is 2024 and lift our eyes to the horizon, squinting at the year that lies before us, something in my gut – possibly ham – is telling me that there are more than a few road bumps ahead.

I’m no soothsayer, but there are a few predictions I’m willing to make.

I predict that in 2025, Elon Musk will finally realise that his name is an anagram of ‘Noel Skum’ and, given his penchant for renaming things, will insist of being referred to as ‘Noel Skum’ for the foreseeable future before eventually changing his mind and officially altering his name to either ‘Lord Custard Guts’ or ‘E = mc2’. But before then, ‘Noel Skum’ will continue to delight us all by throwing his not-inconsiderable weight around by skulking about on social media like a schoolyard bully, looking for someone to beat.

Donald Jezebel Trump will be the first sitting President to deliver the State of the Union address as an infomercial and will nominate Judge Dredd for a vacancy on the Supreme Court. In addition to annexing Greenland, he will also relocate Hawaii (too far to travel), carpet Rhode Island (so much better than sand!) and release the first volume of his political memoir entitled ‘The Art of the Steal’, a cookbook (‘The Art of the Meal’) and a short novella on his medical deferment from military service (‘The Art of the Heel’).

Actually, when it comes to the ol’ Trumpster, you can speculate as wildly as you like and still find that reality turns out to be far more outrageous than you ever dared to imagine. He could appoint Sherlock Holmes as the head of the FBI, or nominate a hamster named ‘Dennis’ as the new US ambassador to Lapland and no-one would be the least bit surprised.

I predict that this is the year that Elvis comes out of retirement. After wisely biding his time for the past forty-eight years, the King will return in a low-key kind of way with a Tuesday night slot at the Pier Hotel before word gets out and he lands a job with another Colonel, advertising KFC and singing ‘Love Me Chicken Tender.’

Just as people in the nineteen eighties were nostalgic for the sixties, in 2025 we’ll all be pining for the turn of the millennium. This means I’m going to be spending an inordinate amount of time worrying about the Y2K bug and sending out messages that predict the end of the world on my Blackberry whilst listening to the Backstreet Boys.

The appetite for nostalgia won’t stop there. Just as the digital age has inspired a generation of vinyl record enthusiasts, I predict that people will start dumping their NBN service in favour of dial up. The soothing sound of the modem as it wails and scratches in search of a signal will be a balm for those of us who long for a time when things were a little less hectic.

But it’s not all about the past. This will also be the year of astounding innovation. The people that brought us crypto currency will soon start selling the holes in donuts and the spaces between sentences. It won’t make any sense, but it will generate plenty of dollars as the market salivates at the thought of the emperor’s new donut hole.

The Boogieman and Bigfoot will turn out to be real and living together in a flat in Seaford. The Wu Tang Clan will register themselves as a political party and field candidates in every state in the upcoming Federal election using the slogan ‘Who can? The Wu Tang Clan can!’

Coldplay will release a metal album. Taylor Swift will form her own religion. Francis Ford Coppola will release a re-edited version of ‘Megalopolis’ that runs for ninety minutes and is a rom com. Donald Trump junior will star in a movie entitled ‘Magalopolis’ that runs for four years and ends in tragedy.

These predictions may or may not come true and it will be interesting to pick over the bones of 2025 once it’s done to see how I fared. What I predict with absolute certainty is how this year will end – I can confidently say that on New Year’s Eve in 2025 I will fall asleep long before midnight, much to the disgust of the other people in my life.

So let me end by simply saying, ‘Welcome 2025! We’ve been waiting for you’. Truth be told, I am happy to see the back of 2024 and am hopeful that the year to come will be more peaceful, productive and pleasant, in stark contrast to last year’s cataclysmic bin fire. Happy new year!

World Series Christmas

A good Christmas doesn’t just happen; it requires the kind of planning usually reserved for major military exercises. Like so many things in life for me, Christmas begins with a spreadsheet on which I meticulously account for each family member and the gift I plan to give them. The beauty of this is that I can refer back to spreadsheets from previous years to make sure I don’t inadvertently give the same gift twice. Depending on the day, this overly officious approach to the most festive day of the year is either endearing or incredibly grating. Or both.

Christmas is too big to be contained to a single meal or even a single house. Like my stomach after a third helping of Christmas pudding, Christmas day spreads out. When we were kids, Christmas morning was always at home. There’s a subtle kind of agony in the lead up to the big day where, thanks to daylight savings, it feels as if the sun will never get around to setting. Eventually darkness descends and you wonder whether you’ll ever be able get to sleep or, indeed, whether this is the year that you finally catch Santa in the act. But I always slept through.

Being the eldest of five children meant that I could leave the dirty work to others. Younger siblings were invariably up on Christmas day before I was, and they would gleefully volunteer to undertake reconnaissance by crawling up the hallway to the living room with the Christmas tree. The tree was nothing much – a metal frame that may or may not have once been an antenna, clothed in synthetic pine needles. We’d had a real tree once or twice, but finding a suitable tree in bushland was a lot of effort, to say nothing of the fact that it’s harder still in the dead of night, which my father judged to be the best time to get a tree whilst still evading detection. In those circumstances, a fake tree seemed like a pretty good idea.

There are families who, in their passion to liberate their gift, maul the Christmas paper like wild animals. Not us. Under the watchful eye of my father, we were expected to remove Christmas paper from presents with the skill of a surgeon. I hadn’t realised that most families don’t hand their children a scalpel on Christmas morning. As we went, my father eagerly collected the paper, carefully folded it again in the hope of using it again the following year. Christmas after Christmas, you’d receive a gift wrapped in the same paper as the year before. This was in the nineteen eighties, before the term ‘recycling’ had been invented, and my father now claims that he was ahead of his time.

Once the present-opening ceremony was complete, we’d hit the road so that we had almost no chance at all to play with the presents we’d only just received. Or, worse still, we took the gifts with us, thus creating a risk that we’d leave some vital part behind when we eventually left. It seems crazy, but taking the whole show on the road to visit our grandparents was our tradition. That and stale coloured popcorn, chocolate coins and miniature boiled sweets that would be lucky to survive to boxing day.

Things have changed since then. The older we got, the more complex Christmas became. If you throw a divorce into the mix, suddenly you’ve get two completely separate Christmases to contend with. Then everyone gets married or partnered and the complexity factor multiplies. Soon, Christmas involves seven or eight separate events and takes about a week to execute. That’s more Mariah Carey and ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ than any one person should have to endure. Ever.

Now the week between Christmas and New Year is a blur. In that time, I will wear more paper hats than I will for the entire rest of the year and the top button of my jeans is going to be working overtime under all the additional pressure. As 2024 falls into 2025, the scent of gunpowder from all the Christmas crackers will linger in my nostrils.

Life takes unexpected turns. I now find myself with the company of someone for whom Christmas is the year’s major event. The tree is real, as are all the insects that live in the tree, as are the pine needles and the resulting hay fever. But the end result is a fitting monument to the day. It’s a long way from a re-purposed antenna. The Christmas playlist gets its first airing a month beforehand and remains on rotation. I’ll be honest – it’s the only time I ever hear Gene Autry. And when it’s done, I’m happy to wait a full year before hearing from Gene again.

We no longer re-use the wrapping paper. It is ripped to shreds in a feeding frenzy. As I watch the kids open their gifts, I wonder if what I’m experiencing is anything like what our parents went through when we were little. It’s a glorious thing. When it’s all done, I save and close my spreadsheet until next time. By any measure, 2024 has been a long, strange and difficult year. 2025 could easily be stranger still. But, at this moment, in the shadow of the most spectacular Christmas tree in the Southern hemisphere, I am thankful just to be here. Merry Christmas to you all.

Notes from Table 29

We were excited. We unexpectedly found ourselves shortlisted for some songwriting awards and were invited to attend a swanky ceremony in Sydney. We had to go. Not that travelling to Sydney is easy.

I am a terrible flyer. Usually, I’m the only one taking notes during the safety demonstration. I’m definitely the only person asking questions. Whilst some might consider this level of attention to detail admirable, it tends to annoy other travellers. But I had no choice but to fly. Partly because I was travelling with Katrina, who certainly expected to fly; and partly because there wasn’t enough time to take my preferred mode of transport – walking – and get back to Melbourne before Christmas.

We had no idea what to expect from the ceremony. There was the promise of a red carpet which I assumed a ‘red carpet’ would involve a trail of plush, crimson Axminster leading to the entrance, framed by flashing bulbs and shouting reporters. In actual fact, it was a space about two metres squared. It was more a ‘red rug’. And instead of a pack of photographers, there was one; albeit it was Tony Mott, who is undoubtedly the most renown photographer of musicians in the country.

(You know you’re in for an unusual night when you’re starstruck by the person taking your photo. It’s possible I embarrassed myself by mumbling something along the lines of ‘you’re amazing’ which, based on the photo he took, Tony didn’t hold against me.)

As first-time attendees, we weren’t sure what to expect. We certainly didn’t expect to find a program on our table announcing the winners before the ceremony had started. And so it was that we learned we’d lost before we’d had a chance to take our seats. If the Oscars operated like this, it ‘d be a much shorter night. They could, at least, have added the words ‘contains spoilers’ to the cover. Nevertheless, there was still the possibility of being called onto stage, and on that basis, I decided to make a strategic trip to the gents before our category – ‘Best Comedy / Novelty Song’ came on.

The room was cavernous. But on either side of the stage, there was an illuminated sign that, in no uncertain terms, told you where to go. Carving my way through the crowded room, I turned down a small hallway. The first door I reached had a brass plaque that said ‘Performers’.

‘How quaint,’ I thought, reasoning that the organisers had decided to use this nomenclature in the same way some bars prefer label their comfort stations ‘Fillies’ and ‘Colts’. I confidently burst through the door, at which point I was confronted by the sight of a sad and dishevelled cubicle. It barely seemed sufficient to meet the needs of a busload of people, much less a room of five hundred, many of whom were drinking.

Perhaps I was a little overawed by the occasion. Maybe I was keen to get back to my seat before our category came up. But whatever the case, I strode purposefully forward towards the sad little cubicle. After three metres or so, the wall to my left came to an end, revealing a room with couches and a mirror. And people. Standing in front of me was an older gentleman with a long, white beard dressed as a cowboy. He looked like Santa Claus if, indeed, Santa had decided to go undercover to infiltrate a gang of cattle rustlers. I should have stopped. I should have turned around and left. I should have done anything other than press ahead.

As the door to the cubicle slammed shut behind me, it realised I was not in ‘the Gents’ but somebody’s dressing room. I could hear murmuring and chatter outside. Doubtless, they were trying to determine who was currently residing in what might once have been referred to as ‘the Executive washroom’.

Then there was the matter of an exit. As soon as possible, I peeled back the door and walked quickly without making eye contact. I was back on my seat just in time to hear the name of the winner read out, rather than our own. As the applause died down, the ceremony moved along and they brought out a very special guest. As people whooped and hollered, Undercover Cowboy Santa appeared on stage and took a seat, ready to be interviewed. I was mortified.

It turns out that I’d just used the private bathroom of a revered singer-songwriter responsible for hundreds of memorable songs, including the theme song from the TV show, ‘Prisoner’. Which, given that I’d just been ‘on the inside’ of his dressing room, was kind of fitting. I withered in my seat, hoping the guest of honour didn’t decide to regale an eager audience with an amusing anecdote from backstage.

Had I been standing on the red carpet/rug at that moment, I’d have blended right in, such was the scale of my humiliation. But Allan, as I now knew him, was too much of a class act to use me for comedic fodder. And for that, at least, I can be grateful.

The New Bronzer Age: Trump, the Sequel

I saw it all. The excited supporters, the rows of flags and the map as it was slowly devoured by blocks of red and blue. When I was younger, American elections were a distant curiosity; a largely administrative affair that would merit little more than a slight lifting of the eyebrows. It’s different now. What was routine now feels more volatile, less predictable. Welcome to Trump, the Sequel.

When Donald Trump took to the stage of the Palm Beach County Convention Centre and Drive Through Bottle-shop, I was certain he was going to announce that he’d already built a fully operational Death Star. As Darth Donald stood astride the stage, his face aglow both with a sense of vindication and whatever industrial-grade bronzer he’s currently using, I’ll admit I felt a little deflated. It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.

Traditionally, the slightest whiff of scandal is enough to end a political career. In Donald’s case, it seems to be the fuel that enhances rather than diminishes his standing. Charm used to be considered an asset. Now, it’s something to be avoided. Despite his best efforts to repulse a nation if not the globe more broadly, it has drawn more people to him. He can swear, denigrate and do unspeakable things to a microphone stand, to no avail.

Once, I saw the film ‘Stakeout’ starring Richard Dreyfuss and Emilio Estevez. Even though they’re both more than capable actors, the movie was a stinker. For reasons that defy logic, they made a sequel imaginatively entitled ‘Another Stakeout’. Although I hadn’t thought it possible, ‘Another Stakeout’ was even worse that the first one. This is how I feel about the news of another Trump Presidency.

But it raises the question as to what’s worse – that they made both films or that I watched both films. (Or, in the case of ‘Another Stakeout’, the first twenty minutes – it was that bad). Anything was possible the first time. But there was little hope for the sequel. The ‘Another Stakeout’ rule applies here.

A second act in politics is usually about redemption. People return older, wiser, chastened. But this is a comeback that seems to be more about revenge than redemption. Granted, by any measure, it’s a remarkable feat. But it’s also one that’s difficult to understand. There were times when he seemed to be doing everything within his power to alienate as many people as possible. I don’t know why it didn’t work.

Do you remember the Mel Brooks film, ‘The Producers’? It featured Zero Mostel and the always fabulous Gene Wilder. Zero plays Max Bialystock, a Broadway producer, who learns he can make more money producing a flop than a hit. He and Leo Bloom set off to find the worst musical possible and eventually stumble across ‘Springtime for Hitler’. But when it makes its debut, the show is so incredibly bad that people find it funny. Later, the two protagonists lament, saying, ‘where did we go right?’

Now comes the inevitable parade of characters from the MAGA-Extended Universe. What role will Hulk Hogan play in the upcoming administration? I can imagine the Hulkster being deployed to North Korea and….on second thoughts, that’s as far as my imagination takes me – Hulk Hogan goes to North Korea and stays there. But just as the Hulk-meister probably thinks he can rip a t-shirt from his sagging torso just as well now as he could in the good old days, I’m sure he has visions of striding into the UN General Assembly, wearing a MAGA bandana and red speedos, threatening to body slam any member of the international diplomatic corps that might defy him. Lord help us all.

Robert F Kennedy junior will apparently have some role in health policy. This is a missed opportunity. He should be White House press secretary if only so he can regale the assembled media with tales of dumping a deceased bear cub carcass in a New York park and then trying to make it look like it was the victim of a bicycle accident because he had a plane to catch. Which sounds like a joke, except it isn’t. Rudy Guiliani would be on hand to freshen everybody’s drink.

And then there’s Elon. It’s hard to imagine a more disappointing and conflicted human being. On the one hand, there’s the electric car thing, which seems quite awesome. On the other hand, there’s everything else. From turning Twitter into a conspiracy-laden sink hole of stupidity to his attempts to address population decline single handedly, he is both the world’s richest person and one of its least likeable. Today there’s news that Elon’s new job is to cut government spending. If he does half as well as he’s done Twitter, chances are it will be a shambles. Whatever his skills, Elon is not a people person.

It’s strange when things don’t turn out as you expect. And, in this case, kind of jarring. But history isn’t a straight line. It’s a pendulum and as surely as it will swing in one direction it will come back to the middle in due course. I hope.

Postcards from the Edge – The improbable return of the Donald

How did it come to this? The world teeters on a precipice as a former American President seeks to snatch back the reins of power, possibly without breaking any windows or ransacking anybody’s office this time. But here we are – days out from an election in which Donald Trump is the nominee of a mainstream political party as opposed to being the guy that works Mondays and Thursday in the laundry of a medium-security correctional facility and who shares a room with a guy named ‘Pitbull’. Go figure.

With thirty-four felony counts to his name, Donald Trump is now the ultimate conviction Politician. Weirdly, no one in his party suggested that the Donald should respond to his status as a convicted felon by dropping out of the Presidential race. In contrast, his former opponent (and current President) spaced out in a debate, and suddenly ‘fitness to serve’ was a major issue. None of it makes sense.

When a candidate for high office in America is not travelling too well, they don’t simply pack it up. Rather, they ‘suspend’ their campaign. Donald Trump, however, seems to be able to inspire people to suspend disbelief. You can forensically collect evidence and present it in a clear and methodical manner, only for it to be dismissed with a single word. Whenever words like ‘hoax’, ‘fake’, ‘rigged’ or ‘witch hunt’ are uttered, it’s an invitation to disengage with facts and, instead, assert your own reality as the truth.

I sometimes think that Donald Trump didn’t leave reality television to get involved in politics; he dragged politics to reality television. On one level, I can see why he might appeal to some people – the whole bin-fire catastrophe that is his every public appearance is perversely entertaining. On another level, it’s difficult to see how anyone, much less millions of people, can take him seriously.

When the insurrection occurred on 6 January, 2021; I assumed that would be the end of him. That’s usually the price for attempting to overthrow democracy. Now he refers to those imprisoned for their actions on that day as ‘hostages’. I’m not entirely convinced that Donald Trump knows what the word ‘hostage’ means. But whatever the constraints on his vocabulary, he has defied logic and political orthodoxy by doing and saying things on a daily basis that would instantly kill the political aspirations of anyone else. Seemingly indestructible, he’s the Keith Richards of American politics.

The constant references to Hannibal Lecter are bewildering. At least by referring to him as ‘the late, great Hannibal Lecter’, Trump is proving that he knows Hannibal can’t be appointed to his cabinet, even if he’s unaware that he’s a fictional character. Which is also true of Hannibal Lecter.

It’s fair to say Trump has gone low, especially when it comes to immigrants. The whole ‘they’re eating the dogs’ thing was immediately debunked but that hasn’t been enough to stop it being spewed forth with what is now monotonous regularity. It’s as though by repeating the lie, he’s hoping to make fact-checking redundant by drowning it in a sea of perfidious claptrap. More recently, he’s started referring to his own country as a ‘garbage can’ because of immigration. It’s about as far away from ‘give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses’ as it’s possible to get.

He’s obsessed with Vladimir Putin. Which is strange because the United States and Russia were once enemies. Such was the enmity between them that Sting felt the need to intervene with his song ‘Russians’. It was a tune that took the world to the brink of annihilation until both sides realised that they had something in common – namely, neither of them liked Sting that much. The Cold War ended a short time later.

But, for Trump, dictators like Putin are potential BFFs. If Taylor Swift hadn’t endorsed Kamala Harris, there’s no doubt Donald Trump would have casually slipped a Taylor friendship bracelet into the next muffin basket he sent over to the Kremlin.

His campaign mimics autocracies. The Iraqi government once has a spokesperson whose job it was to speak to the press and talk up regime in the grimmest of circumstances. He did this with a rhetorical flourish so grand and silly that he earned the nickname ‘Comical Ali’. Two decades on, and Donald Trump’s spokesperson has described Bob Woodward – of ‘Watergate’ fame – as ‘deranged’, Anthony Fauci as a ‘liar and a fraud’ and a four-star general as having ‘beclowned’ himself. I didn’t even know that ‘beclowning’ was a thing.

There’s a video. Back in 2008 when Barack Obama bested John McCain, the then-president made an announcement. At the time, George W. Bush was derided by many as something of a dunce, the ultimate nepo-baby. But the speech he gave was beautiful. It met the moment. It drew people together. It seems almost unimaginable in the current climate. Go and find it on YouTube. It’s how things are meant to be done.

The King and I

I’ll be honest – I wasn’t looking forward to it. But as the weeks peeled away from the calendar and the arrival date edged ever-closer, I steeled myself for the inevitable imposition that was to come. It wouldn’t be easy. I’d need to prepare myself for the disruption to my routine and the burden that is making people feel comfortable, although not so comfortable that they forget to leave. I’ve never been fond of house guests.

I do my best to be a good host. But if I’m being honest, the entire time they’re here, I’ll be thinking about how relieved I’m going to feel when they finally call an Uber and head out to Tullamarine. That moment can’t come soon enough. If it sounds like I’m lacking generosity towards my guests, it’s not as though I asked to be put in this position. These people weren’t invited. Rather, they have been imposed upon me. Truth is, I hardly know Charles and Camilla at all.

It’s the fault of a ridiculous loophole. Back when Melbourne hosted the Olympics in 1956, a large billeting program was proposed by which ordinary Melburnians would open their doors to international athletes and visitors. The people of Melbourne, a somewhat suspicious lot, resisted the invitation. This resulted in the ‘Home Billet (Olympics) Act’ of 1956, which saw international interlopers imposed on locals against their will. The anger associated with the program was largely forgotten in the Olympic afterglow but, as it turns out, the ‘Billet Act’ was never revoked and it remains the case that any one can be required to play host with fourteen days’ notice.

When I was told that I’d need to clear out the spare room for the King and Queen of England, I felt royally put out. The spare room is the one I use to dry my laundry and I’m not inclined to pack up the clothes horse just to make them feel more comfortable. Indeed, the guests should make themselves useful and pair the socks.

I gave the lawn a quick mow and the floor a vacuum – which I understand is more or less expected when you’re hosting royalty. When the doorbell rang, my heart sank. As I pulled back the door, there they were, all smiles. Charles had already made the most of the retail opportunities at the airport and was wearing a Ken Done koala t-shirt. Camilla had bought a box of spicy wings from the KFC drive-through. She tipped the box in my direction by way of a greeting, but I declined.

I bundled them inside before the neighbours could see and put the kettle on. They were, naturally enough, tired from the journey. They had a lot of baggage – both physical and emotional – and I’ll admit that I tuned out when Charles told me how worried he was about one of his kids.

I moved the bags into the spare room. It was a tight fit – so much so that the Royal couple had to crawl over their own suitcases to get to the bed. I almost felt bad for not moving the clothes horse into another room. Almost. For a moment, I feared Camilla might drop her box of spicy wings but she soon steadied and propped herself on the bed. I can’t say I was thrilled to see her getting crumbs on the doona and I made my point by offering to her a plate, a serviette and a mop and bucket, but there was nothing I could to deter her.

It’s been a rough couple of days since. I’ve lost control of the television. Charles, as it turns out, is a big fan of ‘Are You Being Served?’ It’s ruining my algorithm on Netflix. I tried to persuade him to give ‘Kath and Kim’ a go, but he told me sternly that he didn’t like documentaries.

I took them for a counter meal at the pub. Camilla was intrigued by the idea of a ‘chicken shnitty’ and, on arrival, she immediately put her name down for the darts tournament. We were having a great time until the conversation took an unexpectedly dark turn. I made the mistake of asking them why they’d come to Australia and the atmosphere turned instantly chilly. Charles leaned in, bearing his teeth and said, ‘Why do you ask? Don’t you want us here?’ In retrospect, shrugging my shoulders may not have been the best response. As they reeled from the impact of my indifference, I made things worse by asking Camilla whether she was going to eat her chips to which she responded by covered them with her hands and turning slightly away. It was super awkward.

Things still felt tense when I dropped them off at the airport shuttle bus. Although I was relieved to see them leave, I’ll admit that I (mostly) enjoyed their visit. But that said, I wouldn’t want them to stay. I’d never get my washing dried if they did. As the bus pulled away and the faces of Charles and Camilla were pressed against the glass of the rear window, it occurred to me that the way I felt about them as houseguests is how I feel about them more generally. It’s nice to see them, but I don’t need to see them all the time. It is, perhaps, time for us to have the house to ourselves.

I’ll Tumble Dryer For Ya

It was an unexpected message. In the middle of the day, my phone vibrated to indicate that either it was incredibly cold or had just received a message. Upon closer inspection, I could see the message preview that read as follows: ‘WE MISS YOU’. Presumably the use of upper case was intended to emphasise exactly how much they missed me. Who could it be? Who did I know that valued my presence so deeply that they felt the need for an all-caps message in the middle of the workday? I eagerly picked up my phone to find out. It was, as it transpired, a message from my dry cleaner.

This is embarrassing. Some months ago, I dropped off some suits for a bit of a spruce up. A couple of days later, I stopped by to pick them up again. Money was exchanged. All was (or so I thought) well with the world. It was simple. It was transactional. It was over. But what I regarded as a casual dalliance that was motivated by a need to get the chocolate stains out of my work pants, was clearly interpreted as something far more meaningful and enduring by the dry cleaner. To put it mildly, I was caught off guard.

How did I get it so terribly wrong? I had assumed that we were on the same page, never thinking for a moment that there might be an expectation that we’d keep in touch. Granted, it’d been a while since I’d been to the dry cleaners and it’s quite possible that the entire dynamic has been the subject of a dramatic overhaul whilst I was off spilling chocolate on my work pants. Serves me right.

When it comes to service providers, I’d describe myself as having a somewhat mercenary disposition. Granted, I visit the supermarket once a week, but I don’t call it in between trips to see how it’s feeling. Excursions to my nearest department store are more seldom still but it’s never occurred to me to send it a card just to let it know that it’s in my thoughts. I just want what I want before moving on. If that seems cold hearted, I can only say that this approach was once considered standard practise.

When did shops get so emotionally needy? When I drop off a suit and some pairs of slacks for some minor titivation, I’m not expecting any kind of emotional attachment. I’m not sure what I said or did that charmed them so, or how it is that I managed to make such a deep and lasting impression on them, but I better figure it out, because I’ve got to duck to the shops for milk and I don’t the Coles Express to fall hopelessly in love with me.

What if the text message is just the start? What if things only get worse? Before long, I’ll be overwhelmed by the sense that maybe, just maybe, I’m being watched and my mail read. With very little warning at all, it’s gone from a harmless and well-intentioned interaction that meant nothing to me, to full-blown Baby Reindeer-style obsession. Nobody wants a clinger, even if they do offer competitive prices that include a thirty per cent discount when you get three or more suits cleaned on a weekday.

Sometimes the phone rings and, when I answer it, all I hear is the sound of steam. It’s only six months to Valentines Day – if I don’t break it off now, I’m at serious risk of the local laundry taking out a full-page ad in the Herald Sun to declare it’s undying love for me. Best to take decisive action now in the hope that things will die down and life can get back to normal.

I picked up the phone and contemplated sending some kind of brilliant retort, such as ‘New phone, who dis?’ before hesitating. Engaging would, I feel, only make things worse. I could try saying ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ but that would be a gigantic lie as, deep in my heart, I’d know it’s absolutely one hundred per cent them. They could get sad. They might get angry. If things got really out of hand, they might even threaten some kind of legal action. Given the business they’re in, they’d inevitably try and take me to the cleaners.

At the end of the message was an opportunity to ‘opt out’ of future messages. I hesitated. Granted, being told by your dry cleaner that they ‘miss you’ is worrisome in the extreme, but it begs the question – why aren’t I getting these kinds of messages from anyone else? Is it because I’m really good at keeping in touch with my nearest and dearest? Definitely not. This leads me to that somewhat sad but inevitable conclusion that my dry cleaner likes me more than members of my immediate family. Sniff. It’s a hard truth, but there it is. Not only do I not hear from some of them, I couldn’t tell you the last time any of them starched my shirt collars.

When faced with the chance to opt out, I did nothing. I will, I think, keep things as they are for a little while. For now, I still receive lovelorn messages from the dry cleaner, telling me how much they miss me. And, for moment at least, that’s all I want.

Grand Prick: Turning a Go-Kart into a Slow-Kart

It all came rushing back. As I sat, gripping the wheel, it dawned on me that this was the moment I’d be training for, if not my whole life, then every other weekend between the ages of seven and sixteen. The engines roared, my seat belt was pulled tight and my helmet visor down. I was ready. But as I sat, I experienced a crushing sense of doubt – did I really want to subject my loved ones to the humiliation that comes with being beaten on a go-kart track?

We went to Phillip Island. It was a school holiday/ kid-friendly trip, so certain things you might otherwise associate with a vacation – such as ‘rest’ and ‘recuperation’ – were instantly eliminated. This would have more in common with an episode of ‘Survivor’ than it would ‘Postcards’. Nerves were destined to be frayed as we would be pushed to the limit, both physically and emotionally.

First cmes the car trip. Loading a car for a family vacation is an art, a science and (possibly) a divine miracle, all rolled into one. For reasons that escape me, we pack not so much what we need but whatever we can find that isn’t nailed down. We’re a tribe of chronic over-packers. As a result, loading up the car is kind of an out-sized reverse-Jenga experience. It takes ages.

As a result of some previous, quite fractious car trips, we now have a strict rule when it comes to music – each person can select two (and no more than two) songs for the Spotify queue. This rule was imposed after some rather harrowing journeys that involved nothing but tunes from obscure off-off-off Broadway musical productions that weren’t so much songs as they were an assault on the senses. Some things are off Broadway for good reason. If that sounds harsh, then try travelling to Diamond Creek with the sounds of ‘Operation Mincemeat’ ringing in your ears. (Yes, Operation Mincemeat is a musical. Allegedly.)

But I can handle two songs. For two songs, I can be curious and interested and polite and not overwhelmed by the sudden urge to rip the ears from my head with my bare hands. Granted, there have been attempts to subvert this iron-clad car rule – such as when the twenty-one-year-old chose an eighteen minute piece by Rachmaninov (which I liked, but which outraged the others). The ‘two song rule’ largely works; save that the eleven year old wants to hear the same two songs repeatedly. Right now, the two songs on constant rotation are ‘Love Story’ by Taylor Swift and (sigh) ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ by ‘NSYNC’. Apparently, the latter is featured in the ‘Deadpool and Wolverine’ movie.

We were always going to end up seeing the penguins and looking at koalas – it’s hard not to at Phillip Island. But it was also inevitable that we’d wind up at the go-kart track. To put it simply – I am surrounded by highly competitive people. I knew I was in trouble when each family member started talking down their prospects before we’d even begun.

It’d been raining and the instructor spoke to us sternly about the treacherous conditions, saying that each one of us was ‘destined’ to come off the track at some point. We lowered ourselves into tiny bucket seats and waited as the engines growled. It was then that instinct kicked in – this was, essentially, a faster version of the ride-on lawnmower that accounted for my every other weekend when I was a kid. I was in my element.

When the flag dropped, I took off at a great rate of knots. There was water everywhere. I knew the eleven-year-old was in front of me, because I could hear the strains of NSYNC’s ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ from somewhere over the other side of the track. The nineteen-year-old – who we thought would baulk at the whole idea – was now hurtling through space (and possibly time) as his go-kart left the track entirely and plunged into the lawn. He was having a lot of fun.

I, on the other hand, was putting safety first. In that respect, I was very much on my own. One of the rules of the go-kart track is that you must slow down when the lights are orange because someone might be on the track. When I dutifully eased to a crawl in the face of an amber flashing light, I was then overtaken by my partner, Katrina, who had seen her chance to leave me in her wake and had taken it.

I came stone-cold last. But of all those driving that day, I was almost certainly the safest. I was definitely the only one using their indicators. After our time was done, we each exited our vehicle and awaited the official results which, of course, could then be disputed on the journey home. After we piled into the car and I started the engine, I was greeted by the sounds of NSYNC’s ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ for the thirtieth time that day. I was wet, cold, I’d just come last by a considerable distance and now I was being subjected to a dodgy boyband from the nineties. And I was happy.