Independent's Day

Do you remember when we were discussing the Australian election, all those many moons ago? Well, the results are finally in. It’s taken so long that you have to wonder whether Burke and Wills were responsible for delivering the memo. Being British, I’m aware of the lack of coverage that Australian current affairs gets in the western press. They could be testing nuclear weapons out here in the Simpson Desert and it wouldn’t arouse UN suspicions for at least a few months. Australia - the world’s largest island, remember - seems so far down under that no one else in the whole western world seems at all bothered by it. So if you do feel this way, feel free to skip to the bit about custard apples. But if you want to know, the country now has a government, and a most interesting one at that.

Needing 76 seats to form a majority, the two main parties (Labor and the Liberal-National Coalition) were both tied to 72 each the last time we spoke. This sparked a two week getting-to-know-you session with a trio of Queensland country independents (all ex-Nationals) who found themselves in the unenviable position of tipping the balance of power. No one enjoyed their fifteen minutes more than Townsville hick Bob Katter (‘Mad Katter’), who wore a cowboy hat to every press conference and bellowed his demands from the podium. He opposes gay marriage, refutes the evidence supporting man-made climate change (are people still arguing against this?) and wants to stop Australia importing bananas. He went with the Coalition.

Even with Green Party backing and one other sympathetic independent, Labor still managed to coax the remaining two conservative indies into joining them, making up their wafer thin majority. Opposition leader Tony The Terminator Abbott must be fuming to find himself still in opposition despite having a larger share of the public vote and taking a storming swing away from Labor. Labor had a rotten election, all in all, and if things go haywire again (like, say, spontaneously dumping your leader), then the next election could well be called Judgement Day: Rise of the Machines. Tony Abbott made an impassioned defeat speech which could have been summed up in three words: “I’ll be back.”

Although Julia Gillard may look happy to still be in charge, she’ll certainly be having fun negotiating those hard fought Labor polices with three independents and the Greens. Toxic Math can’t help but picture a scene involving the normally quiet resolve of a motherly Gillard frantically unravelling as she oversees a party of squabbling babies at bath time. But if it works, then just imagine: multi-billion dollar funding reforms for regional areas, stricter gambling laws and a whole heap of parliamentary reforms, not to mention new hospitals in Hobart. It’s a long way to go, I’ll give you that, but let's give it a chance.

So then, my first gig in Australia turned out to be the West End Community Block Party, hosted by holistic health agents Black Dove Body Bar and situated in their car park, complete with a homemade jewellery stall, tofu hot dogs and tarot card reading. As a last minute addition to my girlfriend’s singing duo - adding percussion to her melodic pop songs and very clever, harmonic structures - we were sandwiched after the African drumming but just in time for those wanting to take part in the Zumba demonstration.

Playing this sort of outdoor community event always conjures up romantic notions of legacies born, memories made and fateful occurrences, like the Woolton Village Fair where Lennon first met McCartney. Perhaps a passing A&R man would happen upon Vulture Street, taken in by the sound of the shaker and my girlfriend’s sweet singing on his way to picking up a coffee and sign us on the spot. Residents would tell news reporters that they were there on that historic day, when the traffic would stop in stunned adoration… But, alas, no. We opted for a ‘meat dog’ after the gig and went home.

There was a fantastic cross-cultural episode between my girlfriend and I the other day, caused by the new music video to ‘Shame’ by Robbie Williams and Gary Barlow, which you‘ll find on YouTube. Their long running feud was a big deal to idiots up and down the UK for many years, so this folksy, self-conscious, irredeemably crass reunion may act as ‘closure’ for some (and not just the two main idiots involved), but it’s somewhat reassuring to know that the whole incident will have absolutely no baring whatsoever on the people of Australia.
“Robbie Williams and Gary Barlow have done a single together - it’s shit,” is essentially what I said.
“Who’s Gary Barlow?” my girlfriend asks, adding: “Is he that paedophile?”
For some reason, I find myself jumping to Gary Barlow’s defence. This isn’t something that I would normally do, but then calling the man a paedophile is going a bit far.
“No,” I say giggling. “He was in Take That…” But that hasn’t made matters any clearer. “Oh right... weren’t Take That very popular here? They were huge in the UK.”
“Who am I thinking of?…” She’s thinking out loud now. “Sparkles?... Gary Sparkles?”
“Sparkles?” I reply. “Do you mean Glitter?”
“Glitter!” she exclaims, “Gary Glitter!”
Quite what this says about fame - or infamy, rather, which is probably the more accurate term - is clearly open for discussion.

I’ll keep my talk of custard apples to a minimum (after all, you don’t read Toxic Math for it’s nutritional guidance), but this fleshy, green-skinned, brain-like structure is a sweet and tropical delight, pictured opposite. I’ve never seen them in the UK, but then I reckon you would struggle to send one back in time via Airmail. Now I just can’t get enough of them, so we try to stock up whenever we're visiting the weekend markets. Aside from halving and scooping out the innards, watching out for any potential choking hazards, if those of you who are more familiar with the fruit have any serving suggestions then Toxic Math would very much like to hear them. Leave a comment, if you can.