Stuart McCullough

Who am I kidding?  Whilst I’d like to think that I always manage to maintain the kind of stately sense of decorum usually the sole preserve of middle-European monarchy and butlers, the reality is altogether different.  The smallest things are regarded by me as outright provocations and I am prone to over-reacting.  Whilst a smarter man would take a short walk around the block and cool-off, I tend to use rage as a means to fuel a loathsome kind of self-righteousness.  It results in letters such as this

It may be petty and it may even be cruel, but it is also enormously satisfying.  To date, I have received only a reply that was automatically generated by a computer.  This seems strangely fitting.  I am sure that, from this point on, my filed under ‘M’ not for ‘McCullough’ but, instead, ‘dead-set flat-out mental’.  

    I wouldn’t have it any other way.

For years we’ve had an agreement.  For mercy’s sakes, I’d even go so far as to say that we had a pact – a sacred understanding, the terms of which were known only by those who were party to it.  Each us knew that abiding by the terms of our contract was the thing that ensured a respectful difference of opinion rather than a loosing of the dogs of war.

    One of us, however, has broken this bond with nary a thought for the consequences.  Quite simply, Phil Collins has unleashed merry hell.  Our agreement was simple: we would maintain a mutual and respectful distance.  Phil Collins would be free to go about his business and I, mine, with our paths never to cross.  All that has now changed.

    I realise that plenty of folks hold warm thoughts for Phil Collins.  After all, what’s not to like?  The former Genesis drummer and accidental solo mega star and his ‘hello Guv’ner, polish your boots?’ style of cockney charm certainly has its fans.  But for reasons that have never been quite clear to me, I am not one of them.  Put simply – like a pair of sandpaper underpants, Phil Collins has always rubbed me up the wrong way.

    I appreciate that I am in the minority.  But just as Phil can’t dance or walk when he’s hanging out with Tony Banks and Mike Rutherford, I can’t listen to his music.  Not even when a giant gorilla is kicking out the jams on ‘In the Air Tonight’.  

    I was watching ‘Rage’ on ABC TV, traditional home to unwashed indie upstarts – who frequently seek to compensate for an absence of talent with an overdose of feyness – when it happened.  Without so much as a warning, Phil Collins appeared on my television screen.  Sadly, this wasn’t classic Phil programmed by some obscure band member in a misplaced quest to achieve irony.  It was a brand new video clip for the song ‘Heatwave’.

    There’s only one thing in this world worse than a new song by Phil Collins – and that’s Phil covering someone else’s song.  This is exactly the kind of musical profanity that Phil has decided to visit upon us.  Were the book of Revelations to be written today, it would no doubt list pestilence, plague and a Phil Collin’s cover album as being sure-fire signs of an impending apocalypse.

    Brace yourself – Phil is releasing an album of Motown covers.  Before I go any further, I should declare that I love Motown.  It is for that reason I think that the amazing musical legacy of Motown artists should be preserved rather than desecrated.  Those songs were perfect the first time.  Simply producing a poor facsimile of the original is, surely, the last refuge of the desperate.  It is a rule that applies to Phil Collins as much as it does to anyone else – a Motown cover album is an act of musical vandalism and is solely a means of deferring attention to an obvious creative low point.  Human Nature, if you’re reading this, I’m talking to you.

    In a last attempt to reinvigorate a flagging solo career, an artist will often spit out an album of covers.  For some reason, these cynical exercises in exploitation only seek to reinforce how much the art of song writing has fallen from favour.  Suffice to say, I can’t imagine that anyone will release an album of Lady Gaga covers in forty years time.  

    It’s often the case that prior to Rage or Video Hits going to air that a warning will appear on screen.  Actually, it’s not so much a warning as it is a promise of the entertainment that’s heading your way.  They promise ‘adult themes’ and ‘mild horror’ or even violence.  All of which is a bit much for a Saturday morning.  Surely, however, a warning that Phil Collins might appear is not too much to ask?  They don’t need to mean about it – they could easily do it in the manner of an M & M packet and say, ‘The following program may contain traces of Phil Collins.’

    I don’t know why I dislike him so much.  By rights, he should command my respect, especially when you take into account his extensive charity work and his efforts to raise awareness for dyslexia by naming an album ‘Hits’.    But I just can’t stand him – perhaps because he was almost omnipresent in the 1980s.  For some reason he seemed to represent everything that was wrong about music in that decade.  

    Had Phil turned up in my kitchen and helped himself to a piece of toast, I couldn’t have been more surprised.  By appearing on Rage, Phil Collins has trespassed upon my Saturday morning and I simply won’t stand for it.  He may have caught me by surprise but, next time around, I will be ready.  From now on I will keep a small vile of holy water by the television in case of further incursions.  And if it should happen again or – Lord save us – if it becomes a pattern, then I will have no choice – I will join Genesis as their new lead singer.  Mike Rutherford and Tony Banks would surely welcome me just as they once did Phil after Peter Gabriel scarpered back in the 1970s.  Not for us the commercial prostitution that is a Motown tribute album, no Sir’ee.  As our first order of business we would, of course, release an album of Phil Collins covers.

I hope I don’t sound strange or sinister
But just like our dear Prime Minister
I must set a secret free
And reveal the ‘real me’.
For all these years, I kept it locked
In a little wooden box
I held it under lock and key
The poor, forgotten ‘real me’

Unclear to the naked eye,
The real me’s a nicer guy
Nicer, sweeter and less bland
He’d surely be in great demand
If I ever let him out
I suspect there’d be no doubt
The real me would become feted
Lauded, loved, congratulated

For reasons that elude me now
I could not stand to let him out
So he sat for years on end
Devoid of either foe or friend
True to myself he always stood
In his little box of wood
High above the muck and grease
Up there on the mantelpiece

He hovered high like a balloon
– The real me remained immune
To life’s unwanted sour surprises
Tragedies and compromises
Plain, resilient and pure
The ‘real me’ could well endure
Any level of rejection
By straw poll or an election

But over time, a nagging voice
Caused me to question if this choice
Was as wise as it could be
– Should I unleash ‘the real me’?
My conscience constantly was gnawing
Until began a gradual thawing
Between me and my better self
I brought the box down from the shelf

The real me appeared quite shocked
As I pulled him from his box
And was he pleased, do you suppose?
No! He punched me in the nose
Instantly, I dropped the box
The little beggar then took off
Through a door that was agape
– The real me had now escaped

For in this world of chairs, it’s true
It’s rough to ask the real you
To stand up when all else are seated
And not to feel that you’ve been cheated
So I agree with Jools and Tone:
It’s simpler to remain a drone
To do what others tell you to
And not unleash the ‘real’ you

The real me remains at large
So I’ve cut up my credit cards
The whole thing has become absurd
It’s been three weeks and not a word
But perhaps it’s good I set him free
And unleashed the real me
But on a purely selfish note
Which one of me’s enrolled to vote?

The internet is an amazing thing.  You could go so far as to say that it’s the best thing since sliced bread – which is a pretty big call given that the bread slicer was invented in 1928 by Otto Frederick Rohwedder.  It’s also worth noting that the invention of sliced bread paved the way for other really useful inventions such as Charles Strite’s electric pop-up toaster.  Ironically, the only reason I know any of this is because the internet told me so.

    However, it’s not all beer, skittles and sliced bread on the internet.  It’s also a place of considerable danger.  For that reason, my computer has a plethora of software committed to combating computer viruses and spam (of both the email and spiced ham variety).  Like a home owner cradling a shotgun in case of intruders, my computer sits in a state of eternal readiness to ward off any attempted break in.

    And, just like that home owner, this software occasionally intercepts well-meaning people doing no more than going about their daily business; who are not asking me to purchase discount pharmaceuticals or invest in the Nigerian banking industry.  When this occurs, attachments are removed and – presumably – led away for questioning.

    On other occasions, the software intercepts suspect transmissions for a good de-lousing before dumping them in by ‘junk’ box.  I received such an email last week.  The subject line was, pointedly, ‘Not game, serious relations!’  Frankly, it made no sense.  Intrigued, I peeked into the quarantine section of my computer.  The email began: ‘Hello friend!!!’

    Whilst the subject line had deployed an exclamation mark in an unusual manner, the opening greeting displayed a reckless disregard for conventional punctuation.  It then continued:

    This is not spam or other bad things. So, please, answer to me!!!

Another triple.  Much like a half pike with a triple twist on the Olympic long board, it was a sentence that would best be described as suffering a high degree of difficulty.  To put it mildly, there is something slightly terrifying about an email that demands with three exclamation points that you ‘answer to’ them.  Whilst the email was going to some lengths to assure me that it wasn’t ‘spam’ (or for that matter, the unspecified ‘other bad things’), it was hard not to conclude that like the Queen in Hamlet, the lady doth protest too much, methinks.  Then came the resume:

My name is Anna. I’m 28 years old.

I live far from Moscow, about 1200 km. I hope you know a town Cheboksary.

You can see it in Google if you want.

Presumably, if it’s good enough for Google, it ought to be good enough for me.  According to the internet, Cheboksary is a city with a population of just under four hundred and fifty thousand.  However, if Anna had her way, the town’s population would fall by one.

I want to search man from other country for serious relationship and may be love.

I’m not married and have no children.

I’m attractive and no-smoking girl.

    There’s a simple rule in life – if you describe yourself as attractive, you’re probably gravely mistaken.  Worse still, if the best you can say for yourself is that you won’t be sucking down the best part of a packet of Peter Jackson Super Mild in the foreseeable future, you’re not so much scraping the bottom of the barrel as you are tunneling through the other side.  However, it was then that things took a turn for the ridiculous:

I’m really tired of my boring life and i want to meet new man in my life to change it.

    How could this be possible when, according to its Wikipedia page, the town of Cheboksary is a cultural hotspot with its own opera theatre, orchestra and – I kid you not – ‘a number of heated pools’?  Better than that, it also has Russia’s only beer museum.  Whilst Melbourne has a lot to offer, it’s well accepted that it suffers a chronic shortage of beer museums.  The claims to boredom are even more improbable when you consider that Cheboksary is the tractor capital of Russia being, as it is, the official headquarters of Concern Tractor Plants.

The email begged for a response and was signed ‘Anna from Russia’.  The email address to which you were encouraged to respond bore no resemblance to this name; referring, instead, to someone called ‘Solishko’.  There is, sadly, nothing to explain what or who a ‘solishko’ is.  Not even on the internet.  Whilst such a slur on the great city of Cheboksary should not ordinarily go unchallenged, there seemed little point.  Not even to correct the numerous spelling and grammatical violations.  Leaving aside the rather substantial fact of being committed to Kate, to respond to an email headed ‘serious relations!!!’ or, indeed, any email with a triple exclamation point is surely asking for trouble.

    Perhaps it’s best if I switch my computer off.  Just for a while.  Maybe I’ll go find myself some decent sliced bread and make myself a great big spam sandwich.  Anna from Russia might not be impressed, but Otto Frederick Rohwedder would be proud.

Well that’s it.  My break-dancing career is officially at its end.  This, of course, changes everything.  No longer can I define myself in terms of the way I shimmy, move and shake. For I confess that I have had a secret life – one that existed solely whenever I had the house to myself.  Whilst I realise that this charade could not continue forever, I find myself mourning its sudden passing.

    Lost to me now are the days I could throw down a piece of cardboard and start performing back spins on the living room floor as the sounds of The Rock Steady Crew pumped from the speakers of my ghetto-blaster with the force of a 747 jet.  Gone are the afternoons spent popping and body rocking.  As for the Electric Boogaloo, I will bid it a teary-eyed goodbye. I must now look at myself in a way that is entirely and wholly inert.

It was a neck injury that did it.  Like a junior footballer that never quite realises the full promise of his natural talent due to a crippling knee injury, so too has my dancing career been snuffed out like a candle in a hailstorm.  The producers of So You Think You Can Dance have no idea what they’ve missed out on.

I knew I was in some trouble the moment it happened.  After going for my morning run and just before my daily callisthenic routine, I felt a pain in my neck.  Whilst I have often been accused of being a pain in the neck, I was to learn that having a pain in the neck is an entirely different kind of experience.  It soon became apparent that this was no mere transitory ailment that would vanish as quickly and unexpectedly as it had appeared.  Rather, upon realising that I could only move my head by using my hands, it became clear that something much bigger was occurring.  I’ll admit that it’s a very odd and somewhat confronting thing to need your hands to move your head.  It’s as though you’re a giant piece of claymation.

As unpleasant as it is to have a pain in the neck there is, at least, a scientific reason behind it.  The long and the short of it is that I have a long and short leg.  This, in turn, was the product of a brief and disastrous period during which I convinced myself that I could fly.  And, for about two seconds, I was absolutely right.  But when I plummeted to earth with all the grace of Skylab, there was the neat sound of my leg breaking.  That was not the worst of it.

    As my parents drove me to Frankston Hospital, I realized that the unsealed road from our house must hold some kind of record in the ‘most potholes’ category.  Things went from bad to worse when, in the emergency ward, they cut my gumboots off.  Naturally, I protested, but it was to no avail.  Often and to this very day when my sneakers are coated in mud, I look back in fondness at my fallen gumboots.

    Being possessed of legs like a mis-buttoned shirt, I get the occasional problem with my back.  When it seized up last week, I was faced with the prospect of making numerous trips to the chiropractor of the most serious variety – the type during which the adjustments to your spine sound like someone stepping in a puddle of cornflakes.  That, however, would not prove to be enough.  Sadly, I was sentenced to something far worse – I was condemned to life with an orthopaedic pillow.

    For those of you unfamiliar with an orthopaedic pillow, to understand the unique kind of misery it brings you must first forget everything you ever knew about conventional pillows and reject traditional notions of comfort.  If Marty the Monster were to cut up into tiny pieces as part of a bizarre voodoo ritual and you were asked to sleep on what remained of his battered carcass after it was dipped in concrete, you’d start to get the idea.  It’s like trying to sleep on a hardened piece of foam.

But sleeping on an orthopaedic pillow is not solely something you do.  It’s something you are.  For whilst it feels about as comfortable as sleeping on a telephone directory, I know that before too long I’ll get used to it and this will become my new normal.  In the not so distant future when confronted with regular pillows, I will screw my nose up in horror and tell people that I have to use my special pillow.  Indeed, those to whom I make this impassioned declaration will tell others that I am special, but in the worst possible way.

So whilst only a few short weeks ago I was a hipster b-boy break-dancing colossus, I am now reduced to little more than an orthopaedic pillow-toting nancy pants.  How the mighty have fallen.  Then again, perhaps it’s our weaknesses that define us.  If you were perfect, you’d probably not get anything done.  There just wouldn’t be a point in trying.  It’s your ailments that drive you to try harder, to think more deeply and consider just what it is to be the person you are.

Perhaps my break-dancing career need not be at its end.  Even as I’m writing this, I’m listening to the greatest hits of The Rock Steady Crew at a volume best described as ‘hyper drive’.  Perhaps it’s time to flatten out a cardboard box for one more spin.  As for my neck, it still occupies the space between my shoulders and my head and is becoming quite accustomed to the awesome and unfailingly firm support of my orthopaedic pillow. 

It’s difficult to know where to begin.  Whilst Elton John encouraged people to do the ‘crocodile rock’, even he would draw the line at the idea of climbing into an enclosure to give one of them a pat.  In truth, the old children’s song had it right: never  smile at a crocodile.  And, much like Advance Australia Fair, there’s a little known second verse of ‘Never Smile at a Crocodile’ which, in addition to encouraging people not to flash their pearly whites at any member of the crocodylidae family, flat-out urges folks not to get half-cut and decide to slap one of them around.  If only Michal Newman had been paying attention.

    Newspapers are sometimes accused of sensationalizing things.  Whilst this may be true from time to time, they handled the news of a crocodile attack on Mr Newman with a degree of understatement that can fairly be described as ‘beautiful.’  The attack occurred after Mr Newman climbed into the animal’s enclosure.  The newspaper reports simply stated that he was ‘believed to have been drunk at the time.’  

    Fatso the crocodile lives at Broome’s crocodile park.  Mr Newman usually lives in Perth but, on this particular evening, had taken up residence at a local tavern.  That is, until he was ejected on the grounds of being drunk.  In similar circumstances, many of us would probably head for home, notwithstanding a possible diversion for a souvlaki.  Mr Newman, however, decided to go and pat a five metre reptile.

    In his defence, Mr Newman noted that he believed that crocodiles were slow and stupid.  Given the events that were to transpire, Fatso the crocodile could be forgiven for reaching a similar conclusion regarding Mr Newman.

    Having entered the crocodile park, Mr Newman came across Fatso’s enclosure.  According to reports, the crocodile was ‘growling’ in its pen.  Frankly, that would have been enough to convince me that getting in was not such a great idea.  However, Mr Newman is made of, if not sterner stuff, then certainly stuff with a higher alcohol content.  After trying to touch the creature through the fence, Mr Newman decided that this was not enough and he went ‘over the wall’ in an attempt to get up close and personal.

    In 1978, Dan Hill had a smash hit with a song that claimed, ‘Sometimes when we touch, the honesty’s too much.’  Whether Mr Newman was overwhelmed by honesty or the reptile’s razor sharp teeth as they sank into his leg is, frankly, anyone’s guess.  Leaving aside the fact that the creature is a crocodile, that its name is ‘Fatso’ should, of itself, be considered something of a cause for caution.  For myself, I make it a rule not to avoid altercations with anyone called ‘Fatso’, ‘Chopper’ or ‘The Enforcer’.  In my experience, little good can ever come from such confrontations.

    That said, the plan was faultless.  Mr Newman decided that he would jump the fence, walk up behind the animal and sit on its back.  He would then be well-placed to pat it to his heart’s content.  With a plan like that, it’s difficult to see where it all went wrong.  However, according to Mr Newman, before he had a chance to lay so much as a finger on it, the crocodile had turned and sunk its teeth into his leg.

    Whilst Mr Newman was, without doubt, surprised, the crocodile was most probably disappointed.  Poor Fatso must have thought all his Christmases had come at once and that he was about to chow down on some unsuspecting piece of fauna only to find he had an inebriated bogan stuck between his teeth.  As Mr Newman tells it, he grabbed the fence and told the crocodile to let him go.  Luckily, crocodiles are well known for their willingness to respond to such requests when put in the right way and released its grip.  It was all Mr Newman needed to clamber back over the fence to safety and, naturally, back to the pub.

    For whilst most mere mortals would probably head straight for the Casualty Department of their nearest hospital, Mr Newman decided that a different approach to pain relief was called for.  He returned to the tavern and had a beer.  Then, and only then, did he go to Hospital.

    We all do stupid things.  Frank Zappa put it best when he described us as ‘Dumb all over, a little ugly on the side.’  Truth is, for all the ridiculous and brain-meltingly, flabbergastingly stupid things we do, it’s important to have people like Michal Newman around.  It helps put our own stupidity into perspective.  Ever driven away from a petrol station with the petrol cap on the roof of the car?  That’s nothing compared to leaping into a crocodile enclosure and trying to give it a hug.  Forgot to pay your electricity bill on time?  At least you didn’t have a five metre reptile lodge its incisors in your lower calve.  

    Max Walker once wrote a book entitled How to Kiss A Crocodile.  I think I might send Mr Newman a copy to read during his convalescence so that, next time, he’ll be prepared.  I’m sure he’ll be excited to receive it and dive right in.  As for me, I think it only fair that both Mr Newman and Fatso should have something to sink their teeth into.

Last year for Christmas I received socks, a book and a voodoo doll. It confused me greatly – particularly as I had just purchased a whole shed-full of socks and, short of growing a few extra legs – was unlikely to need any more in the foreseeable future. What was doubly disappointing was that no apparent regard was had for the actual items on my Christmas list. Sadly, it appears that my annual request for a Time Machine has become ‘tiresome’.

Still, there is something to be said for the element of surprise. Specifically, ‘what in God’s holy name is this?’ springs to mind, as I tore away the paper to be confronted with a small, featureless doll. It was a gift from my mother in common law who assured me that it was not intended to suggest that I was childish or regressive. Rather, the doll was a simple tool to allow me free access to the world of the black arts. Relieved, I examined the object more closely.

There were no distinguishing features. This was entirely on purpose; to ensure that I could rely on it whenever the need arose. Not for me a voodoo doll burdened with a specific identity – that would be wasteful. This was a voodoo doll fit for multiple uses. It meant I could use it to channel dark energy towards anyone – from a sworn enemy to the person that cut me off in traffic on the way to work this morning. If I stored it in the glove compartment, barely an infringement would go by without me plunging the sharp end of a needle into my voodoo doll. ‘Take that, SRZ468!’ I would cry as my car was overtaken in the fifty zone that everyone except me pretends is a sixty around Lakeside Drive. Perhaps I should strap it to the steering wheel rather than leave it in the glove box for ease of access. Rather than shout abuse at red-light running cyclists dressed in lycra pants that make them look like human anatomy models, I would both toot my horn and squash my voodoo doll simultaneously.

Notwithstanding the somewhat anonymous nature of my voodoo doll, there was a particular person who inspired the choice of gift – a point reinforced by the fact that a large number of sewing pins had been plunged into the genital area. As I spent the next hour or so removing the worst of them, I began to wonder why it is that there are so many options to wish the worst for people and so few to hope for the best. Nobody creates a doll for the sole purpose of wishing somebody well.

Back when I attended Flinders Christian Community College, dabbling in the black arts was something that, if not prohibited outright, was certainly frowned upon. However, I had no need for voodoo then, for I had something much better. I had a band. Not just any old band, either. Ours was a twelve legged rock machine of great renown called 20/20 Vision and I held the esteemed position of ‘lead singer’. You could say that I was the Justin Bieber of Tyabb, if not the greater Westernport area. And, if you did, I would probably feel compelled to hunt you down and extract some kind of revenge.

Last week it was announced that Justin Bieber has been the subject of more internet searches in the past year than any other human being on the planet. He outranks President Obama by a factor of three or more. I find this absolutely astounding. For those of you over the age of twelve and, therefore, possibly unfamiliar with his work, Justin is a sixteen year-old singing sensation who has sold millions of copies of his debut album ‘My World.’ Whilst such a title really ought to be more specific (is it Dreamworld, Sea World or Disney World?) given his age and experience, you’d be forgiven for assuming that such a CD could only really last three or four minutes at most. It’s a ridiculous title, right up there with The Shaggs and their memorably titled debut album ‘The Philosophy of the World’.

Being a teenage singing sensation is no easy thing. It rarely ends well. From Frankie Lymon to Leif Garrett, it’s a kind of success that rarely survives into adulthood. Worse still, it’s the type of popularity that guarantees that some people will dislike you intensely as a matter of principle. Not that they need a voodoo doll to wish you bad luck – the internet will suffice.

Firstly, there was the campaign to establish the words ‘Justin Bieber Syphilis’ as the top ranking item on a Google Search list. Other efforts include the bog-standard manoeuvre of replacing photos with pornographic images. Personally, I find that quite infantile. There are, however, other pranks I cannot help but admire. As part of the promotion for his apparently longer-than-four-minute album ‘My World’, fans were asked to vote for the country that Justin should tour first. The winner? North Korea. Whilst you’d be forgiven for assuming that this was the result of a nasty on-line campaign, it’s also possible that a certain Kim-Jong Ill pulled out all the stops to get a little Bieber action in downtown Pyongyang. Justin’s subsequent refusal to go has – let’s been honest – probably set back relations back further than the end of the popular TV series M*A*S*H.

I doubt that regular people in North Korea have much access to the internet, but I bet they have an ample supply of voodoo dolls. Poor old Justin Bieber. That said, if nothing else it would explain the high-pitched nature of his singing voice.

There you have it. For the first time in living memory, a person of the red-headed persuasion has managed to ascend to the highest office in the land. That this was achieved with the kind of brutality that would make a Mafia kingpin blush is beside the point. Politics, much like Masterchef or germ warfare, is often a cruel business.

There’s no getting around the fact that our new Prime Minister is a red-head. Sadly, those with a titian tint are often the subject of unwarranted nastiness and prejudice. It’s not difficult to imagine that as a school kid, a nascent Julia Gillard may have been surrounded by snot-smeared children who would taunt her, throwing around terms of abuse like confetti. They’d have pitched everything at her; calling her a carrot top, a ginger, a ‘ranga, a human stop sign or blood nut, before tossing her in a pond to see if she floated. Luckily, those unenlightened days are behind us.

It’s worth noting that the term ‘red head’ is not merely a reference to a person’s hair colour. It’s also the title of a Tony-award winning musical from 1959. ‘Redhead – the Musical’ is a murder mystery set in a wax museum and, indeed, the similarities with recent events in our nation’s capital don’t end there. In fact, Music Theatre International describes ‘Red-Head the Musical’ as ‘a romantic, fast-paced adventure involving cunning disguises, spine-tingling chases, startling visions, an ill-fated show ….and a cold-blooded killer on the loose… not to mention some great songs and high-spirited dancing!’ It’s almost spooky. All except for the bit about ‘great songs’ and ‘high spirited dancing’. But imagine how much more gripping those events would have been with a bit of song and dance thrown in? If nothing else, the deposed Prime Minister’s final press conference could have been transformed by a rendition of ‘My Way.’ For all that, however, I have to profess some disappointment. Having been elevated to the esteemed role of Prime Minister, it must be said that Julia Gillard missed an important opportunity to bring other flame haired types with her. Granted, Martin Ferguson was already there, but surely there were other red heads who could easily have been catapulted into the Cabinet. Given that democracy has now been transformed from an expression of the will of the people to something resembling an episode of Survivor, the simple fact of not being elected should no longer be considered an impediment. It is, quite clearly, open slather. Luckily, there are many quality redheads to choose from. Maybe Nicole Kidman or Vincent Van Gogh appointed as Minister for the Arts? Or perhaps Thomas Jefferson as the Minister for Communication? I, for one, would certainly throw all my support behind having Willie Nelson as Health Minister. That Trotsky was a redhead seems not so much a revelation as it does a statement of the inevitable. Not that he’d necessarily take up the offer of a Cabinet role – he’s been on the wrong end of a factional dispute before and is probably, if not a little gun shy, then at least slightly paranoid when it comes to ice picks.

It was an opportunity that, sadly, went begging. Instead, the new Prime Minister elected to go a rampage of intolerance. Almost the very first thing Julia Gillard declared is that she didn’t believe in a ‘big Australia’. Naturally, I was outraged. How anyone can lead this great nation and not support the likes of the Big Banana and the Big Pineapple is beyond me. Perhaps her problem is not with oversized objects made of fibreglass but with fruit more generally. As it turns out, the Prime Minister was referring to was the country’s population growth.

Arguing against population growth is a funny business. In many regards, resisting an influx of people – whether by birth or by immigration – is something of a reflex reaction. Had the average Australian been asked the same question thirty years ago; back when our population was a mere twelve million, chances are most would have suggested that we were at our capacity. Granted, planning for the future is important. But ultimately, hysteria regarding claims of ‘overpopulation’ was best described by PJ O’Rourke who noted that such debates usually centred on there being ‘too many of you, but just enough of me.’ When you take into account that she was born in Wales and did, herself, immigrate to this country, it’s an odd way to begin. For any criticism that our immigration program might endure, there is no greater validation of its success than the fact that you can arrive here in pursuit of a better life and ultimately become prime minister.

Julia is not the first blood-nut to grasp political power. Winston Churchill is another ranga of note, as was Malcolm X. So was Judas Iscariot, as it happens. Not all red heads are quite so popular, however. Indeed, for all the wonderful redheads through history, there’s always the matter of Oliver Cromwell – an oppressive tyrant who was so despised that whilst he died of natural causes in 1658, he was exhumed for the sole purpose of being posthumously executed in 1661. No matter how her tenure turns out, hopefully Julia will at least have the comfort of knowing that she did better than Oliver Cromwell.

Oh dear. Tourism Australia has just unleashed a new advertising campaign on an unsuspecting world. Why these assaults are celebrated at functions with warm white wine and canapés when they should, in truth, be greeted by an emergency session of the United Nations Security Council remains something of a mystery.

If Tourism Australia was a spotty adolescent, it would be best described as ‘troubled’. Ever since the debacle that was ‘where the bloody hell are ya?’ – an advertisement which introduced the world to a scantily clad Lara Bingle who could simultaneously model a bikini whilst sounding vaguely threatening – the ads have lacked a certain charm.

That ad is generously regarded as a colossal flop and so a new one was quickly commissioned. The Baz Lurhman directed extravaganza was a ‘scratch my back’, ‘kill two birds with one stone’ tie-in type of deal with the film Australia; a movie that, in reality, ought to have been named after another country altogether: Turkey. Statistics suggest that more people than ever were now in real danger of confusing us for ‘Austria’.

Quick to counter such a misapprehension, there’s now a new ad, one which relies for its success on a jingle that sounds as though it’s been taken directly from the sequel to the musical ‘Oliver!’ Rather than choose something uplifting or anthemic, the powers that be have gone with a tune that’s best described as ‘jaunty’. It’s the kind of song best suited to a performance by Dick Van Dyke whilst leading a small army of chimney sweeps. Presumably, however, Dick was not available at short notice. At the launch they described it as a song performed by ordinary Australians. To hear the results, they must have been very, very ordinary Australians, indeed. Apparently, the ad campaign has a budget of about squillion dollars. They could have set at least twenty bucks aside for the theme tune.

Frankly, it’s the wrong song. Again. It’s time that the tourism big-wigs tapped into the things that make this country great by choosing the right piece of music. Picking a tune that sounds as if it ought to be interrupted by a tap-dancing solo is the stuff of amateurs. If that popped up on my television screen, it wouldn’t make me want to go on a holiday – it would make me think that standards have slipped over at Eurovision.

Luckily, this country has an incredibly rich musical history to draw from. Indeed, any number of moods could be struck solely based on the song that was chosen. For those who thought that ‘Where the Bloody Hell Are Ya?’ was a step in the right direction, ‘Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again?’ is, in my view, the next logical question. Surely the response would take the world by storm. However, if Tourism Australia really wants to set the controls for ‘jaunty’, then it should look no further than ‘C’mon Aussie, C’mon’.

It ticks all the boxes. Firstly, it’s as catchy as a box full of fish-hooks. Secondly, anyone can sing it. Thirdly, it is a tune that is inextricably linked to that most Australian of icons: the moustache. Forget Uluru and the Opera House; nothing says ‘Australia’ like a decent moustache, particularly when combined with an open neck shirt, a plush piece of chest carpet and a gold chain.

It was originally used to promote World Series Cricket back in the 1970s. The best thing about it is that the lyrics changed each year to refer to current players. Given that the words are already ‘flexible’, there really shouldn’t be a problem adapting it to a new campaign. Although performed by a group called ‘The Mojo Singers’ it was, in fact, the product of an advertising agency. That’s right – it’s already a jingle.

Whilst some might prefer a more contemporary piece, such as ‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie (oi, oi, oi), the fact that it only consists of two words (assuming that ‘oi’ is, in fact, a word) works against it. It’s better to rely on something that has stood the test of time. But having built a tourism campaign around ‘C’mon Aussie, C’mon’, I can’t help but feel that the job is only half done. If you don’t quite catch my drift, then let me put forward a single word: anthem. Imagine if our athletes could scale the Olympic dais and be honoured with a blast of ‘C’mon Aussie, C’mon’.

I appreciate that not everyone would support it becoming our national anthem. Unlike our current anthem and our national song, it really doesn’t tell much of a story. Whilst ‘C’mon Aussie, C’mon’ is good for the tourists, perhaps it’s time we bowed to the inevitable and made ‘Up There Cazaly’ our national anthem, instead. Now that’s a song we can all be proud of.

Thank goodness that’s over. If ever I was afflicted with World Cup Fever, I am now wholly and utterly cured. In this life, there is nothing quite as useful as a complete and utter bollocksing to convince you that it’s time to gently ease yourself off the bandwagon and let it continue on without you. In fact, I intend to watch it as it trundles along before disappearing into the South African sunset; its wheels ever-ready to come spinning off into the nearest ditch.

I had been so well prepared and had collected nearly all the memorabilia that fell daily from the pages of the newspapers. I had the plastic support flag on my car, the green and gold scarf around my neck and the novelty soccer ball. Heck, I even indulged in face paint. Sadly, it was all for nought.

It’s often said that success has many fathers whilst failure is an orphan. And when they say ‘orphan’, they’re not referring to the singing and dancing, red-hair and freckles, ‘couldn’t be cuter if she tried’ variety. (Although, that said, ‘Hard Knock Life’ would certainly be an appropriate anthem for the Socceroos). Rather, they mean the kind of orphan that exists solely because his or her parents have decided to move house without informing the child.

It’s tempting to give our national soccer team a hard time after their comprehensive thrashing. I, for one, am determined to give in completely to that temptation. Too often, we make excuses for our elite sports people and, for the most part, we support them in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. However, such support is not for nothing. There is the tacit but very real understanding that failure will be treated with all the tolerance of bullants in a pair of Y-fronts. To lose is one thing – that much is forgivable. But to be so utterly trounced, especially when the beating is at the hands of a bunch of strudel-eating blouses requires a level of retribution usually reserved for those who steal your parking spot. For whilst the German team were (without doubt) extremely skillful, they also had a tendency to squeal like a punched pig at the slightest hint of physical contact. Indeed, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much diving without the support of scuba gear.

Sadly, there is no crime so great as to get an entire nation out of bed early without something to show for it. Robbed of vital hours of sleep we are even quicker to judge than usual. Going by the footage on the news, fans were demanding answers and that heads roll before even the next match was played. Had this advice been taken, a seriously depleted Socceroos side would have emerged to play Ghana as a result. But, then again, when you consider last night’s draw, perhaps all is not yet lost. There’s still a slight hope that the Socceroos may yet reconnect with the public. In fact, now that I think about it, there are lots of things that the big wigs at Soccer Australia could do to recapture the public’s collective imagination.

Firstly, Barry Hall should be recruited. If the Germans flinched at the prospect of bouncing off one of our current crop of soccer players, the prospect of colliding with Planet Hall may, of itself, be sufficient to inspire a forfeit. Secondly, Men At Work should be forced to reform and play the song ‘Down Under’ – complete with the copyright infringing flute-line – on a continuous loop. Thirdly, all meals and catering supplies should be donated to charity and replaced with a strict Shane Warne-endorsed diet of tinned baked beans to ensure not only a fire in the belly but in the compartment directly beneath it also. Fourthly, the team needs to draw its inspiration from a suitable source from within the Australian sporting pantheon – one of the most impressive sporting performances within living memory was in 1991 when the Hawthorn Football Club dished out a fifty three point thrashing to the West Coast Eagles. Clearly they were inspired and, I’d suggest, inspired by Angry Anderson in his Batmobile and the performance of ‘Bound For Glory’ at half time. If I had my way, Angry would be forced to do a lap before the game, kind of like an Australian ‘haka’. If ‘Bound for Glory’ doesn’t get the opposition teams trembling in their boots, then a quick burst of ‘Suddenly’ would most certainly do the trick.

Sadly, however, I don’t think the powers that be possess the necessary vision to pick up these thoughtful and yet very practical ideas. For that reason, I suspect we’ll have to get used to hearing about our dismal performance at the World Cup. I, for one, will be tuning out. That’s not to say that the World Cup is not without merit – it provides a useful reminder of why we dislike Continental Europe and why, broadly speaking, soccer is the most magical of sports in that it takes eighty otherwise useful minutes and makes them disappear.

Then again, perhaps the most amazing thing about the World Cup is its ability to prove just how fickle I am. I’ve never really cared for soccer and it was a fool’s errand to pretend I ever did. So I shall dislodge the car-flag and tuck away the green and gold neck scarf in a lowly dresser drawer. I will turn off my alarm, deflate my novelty soccer ball and dismantle my cardiac worrying air-horn. And as for the face paint – my decision to skimp and use regular paint rather than proper face paint, has never seemed more foolish.