Stumped

Let me clarify something straight off the bat: despite being English, I don’t profess to being an expert on cricket. Cricketing metaphors aside - and you’ll be hard pressed to fit many more punning atrocities into one speech than during this year’s final sitting of State Parliament, where sports minister Phil Reeves knocked everyone for six (groan) in a fit of Ashes-fuelled delirium – I think I have finally discovered the root cause of the problem: the scoring. There are just too many fractions for my liking. A cricket scoreboard looks like a GCSE maths equation that I’ve tried quite hard to bury.

But I can still see the binge-drinking appeal of test cricket, something that both the Aussies and the English adhere to with proud commitment, while any sport that breaks for tea is fine with me. Just don’t quiz me on the current form of English batsmen and selection policies, which seems to be such an assumed notion for Brits entering Australia that I’m surprised there isn’t a section for it on the landing card, just below the list of quarantined items: “Before entering Australia, it is compulsory for overseas migrants to name all left handed test match cricketers who have scored a century for England since 1945. Please select from the following options...”

I passed a quartet of beery, flag waving Aussies heading to The Gabba for the first test and felt myself physically retreat for fear of making some form of pommy-esque noise that might denote quite clearly where my allegiances lie. Upon their approach, I cowered slightly behind a lamppost. They were already attracting hoots and hollers from passing cars and had made good progress on being inebriated before breakfast. Assimilation into Australia is doubly hard during an Ashes series: without a basic understanding of the game, you’re just left floundering with a plummy accent like a noose around your throat.

There is a mutual respect between both sets of fans, obviously, but a lot of this seems deep rooted on drinking grounds and who can act like the biggest prick. The England team seem to be front runners at the moment with that Sprinkler dance routine, which successfully riled most of the Aussie news bureaus. There was a slight pitying, but mostly mocking air to the news that the number of travelling Barmy Army followers would be reduced this year due to the global financial crisis. A ‘Courier Mail’ article couldn’t help but rub it in: “Last time they were here, watching their team get thrashed 5-0,” it starts, “the Barmy Army mocked Australians for the low value of the dollar. 'We are fat, we are round, three dollars to the pound,' they sang, while applying factor 50 sunblock.” Ouch.

Anyway, Peter Siddle’s storming six wickets on the opening day (including a hat trick) seems to have set a precedent for a disappointing first test for England, but, like with most test matches, that still doesn’t really mean anything, because this game won’t end until January 7th 2011, after travelling to Adelaide, Perth, Melbourne and Sydney, so who knows what could happen in between. But if England do manage to win in the Ashes in Australia, it will be the first time since 1987, which should leave the Barmy Army truly bowled over. Groan.


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘Hey Hey It’s Saturday’ (Channel Nine)

A contestant who last appeared in 1984 has the opportunity to gamble her prize of an Xbox including “the ultimate interactive snowboarding and skateboarding game, Tony Hawk Shred” for a number of mystery prizes attached to a series of fluffy ducks on a giant wheel. This round is called Plucka Duck, endorsed by one of the show’s main mascots: a man in a giant, white feathered duck costume wearing Ashes-themed cricket helmet and shin guards.

The audience scream as he frantically peddles on a bicycle to operate the wheel. All the while, crudely drawn cartoons flash up on screen with very little reason, as if the cameraman has been sidetracked by the Beano, and random captions appear fleetingly to further confound the coherency of this epileptic show. When the audience aren’t screaming their heads off, each gag or pratfall is accompanied by a spray of triggered sound effects. Then presenter Daryl Somers, who looks a bit like a cruise ship singer, starts conversing with a shaggy blue puppet, interrupting the show every so often by bobbing in front of the camera. There are acid trips less surreal than this.

In 1984, our contestant went home with a car (but traded it in because - and this is gratitude for you - it was “too small”). Thankfully, the prize beneath her plucked duck reveals a set of saucepans. Now that’s karma.

The show is essentially a collection of those Saturday variety shows that used to be quite popular, if your memory can stretch back far enough to when children used to spend more than five minutes with their families, and usually to watch crinkly morons like Jeremy Beadle, Noel Edmonds and Jim Davidson. Yes, I know, thank god the internet came along.

Clearly Channel Nine didn’t get the email, although it is interesting to find such an archaic format still plugging away. It moved to a prime time evening slot in 1984 after being a children’s morning show which, essentially, it still is, and most of the jokes seem to be dated from around the same period. So Plucka Duck is a bit like ‘Wheel of Fortune’, there is a gag-blowing segment like ‘The Comedians’, and Red Faces is ‘Opportunity Knocks’, where disgruntled Skyhooks guitarist Red Symons is the regular sourpuss on a panel of three celebrity judges who usually humour the slightly unhinged variety acts that perform, apart from Red, who goes for the jugular.

He proudly gives a score of zero to two seven year olds who perform some Irish dancing, creepily made up like Victorian dolls despite the gaps in their teeth. It’s weird, obviously, but come on Red, they’re only kids, mate.

The Royal We

It’s good to see the ‘Daily Mail’ still don’t miss a trick. Amongst the feverish but mostly apathetic reaction to Prince William’s engagement to Kate Middleton, the paper went with the headline ‘…William Proposes to Kate Middleton with Diana’s Ring’. This was the bugbear behind most of the tabloids, a mixture of hysteria and outrage. In Australia - a Commonwealth country still ruled by monarchy, one that continued singing ’God Save the Queen’ until 1984 - reaction was best surmised by an email to the ABC Breakfast News: “Who are they?” the viewer asked, “are they some kind of soap stars?”

That’s actually quite accurate, given the regurgitating, voyeuristic column inches that we can now look forward to well into next year when the couple do finally tie the knot. The royal family are no more than a soap opera anyway: divorce, death, delinquent youth, an embarrassing granddad and a Queen played by Helen Mirren. Unelected, their antiquated role is questionable even in Britain, but here in Australia, opinions are understandably more divisive.

Although a referendum was last held in 1999 to establish a republic to replace the Queen, the No vote won by almost 55%. That’s hardly emphatic, but you do wonder how far this would swing today, where general indifference from a new generation of Australians is rife, spearheaded by a political elite desperate for change. Here’s what Ms Gillard has to say on the matter: “I think the appropriate time for this nation to move to be a republic is when we see the monarch change.” Queen Julia I, anyone?

Despite all of this, our paper still spent most of Wednesday trying to track down an engaged Brisbane couple called Kate and William in that slightly mind-addled way that community newspapers try to localise an international story. This is a common practice that you’re probably already familiar with; lets recall the launch of ’Desperate Housewives’ where reporters commonly found a street that sounded a bit like Wisteria Lane and four local dour-looking plebs to discuss how similar they were to the show’s fictionalised characters, next to images of Maureen from Barrow pruning her rosebush. The paper's task is ultimately pointless, yes, but somewhat indicative of the royal presence that still permeates the country.

Toxic Math is celebrating six months down under - the half way point, in legal terms. On such an anniversary, it seems appropriate to be unashamedly self-indulgent. So here is what TM has learnt so far…

- Wannabe rock stars can be real rock stars, re: Altiyan Childs
- Surfer’s Paradise has two condom shops
- Wyatt Roy, Australia’s youngest elected politician, is 20 years old
- The average length of time refugees spend in an Australian detention centre is one year
- There are only 400 grey nurse sharks left in Australian waters
- Didgeridoo is not an Aboriginal word
- Aussie Rules is played on a cricket pitch
- There are over 200 million European rabbits in Australia
- Most Australian meals come with sweet corn, beetroot or avocado 
- It is legal to shoot kangaroos
- The venom of a blue ringed octopus can kill within minutes
- Thongs are sandals; togs are swimming shorts
- The state of Queensland is the size of Western Europe


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘We Can Be Heroes: Finding the Australian of the Year’ (ABC1)

Chris Lilley is one of my favourite Australian comedic performers, famed for his observations on all aspects of the country’s population through characters which transcend both sex and culture. His characters are so well nuanced and accurate that it is difficult to locate any trace of the real Chris Lilley, like Sacha Baron Cohen before him, and given his TV absence since the international success of his 2007 mockumentary series ‘Summer Heights High’ - set solely within the confines of an Australian high school and with Lilley playing all three central characters - his subsequent silence only acts to highlight his notoriety.

In ‘Summer Heights High’, one of Lilley’s characters is a rebellious islander student named Jonah, whose disruptive antics may make him the class clown (scrawling a penis on school property and break dancing at lunch time), but only act to highlight the deficiencies in the school’s teaching methods, from teachers who both attack and sympathise with the problem child. The breakdown results in Jonah’s reluctant expulsion and his emotive departure from perhaps his only true beacon of hope. It quickly becomes apparent that these are not just cheap pot-shots exploiting the most obvious stereotypes, but rather Lilley underpins his work with a sensitivity that matches the show’s realism.

‘Summer Heights High’ also introduced the flamboyant, narcissistic Director of Performing Arts Mr G, who turns the school play into an autobiographical musical, while Lilley is creepily accurate as privileged, public schoolgirl Ja’mie, who launches an appeal to raise money for charity only to fund a school fashion show.

Ja’mie appears in this, Lilley’s first breakthrough series from 2005 currently enjoying a repeat run on the ABC network, and is very much the precursor to his ‘Summer Heights High’ series. Here, his characters are spread across the country with the unifying theme of qualifying for the country’s Australian of the Year competition. This, of course, brings out the worst in Ja’mie, who holds the national record for sponsoring 85 Sudanese children through ‘Global Vision’ and has become the face of the organisation, only to flip out when the posters come back and she complains about looking too fat.

There are shades of Jonah in country twins Daniel and Nathan Sims, who donates an ear drum to his deaf brother and only agrees to go to the finals in Canberra because it is the only state where you can legally buy porn. While Lilley adds stark depth to Perth woman Pat Mullins, who dies of liver cancer before the finals. With one leg shorter than the other, she spends the series training for a sponsored roll from Perth to Uluru.

For all our sakes, lets hope that Lilley comes back singing, dancing and rolling soon.

Dead Kelly

My paper was left frantically looking for a photograph of Ned Kelly to print on the 130th anniversary of his execution, which is a particularly high demand even by most editors’ standards, considering that there is only one photograph of the notorious bushranger in existence. In the end the best we could send was a drawing, to which the picture department replied - and I love this bit - “do you have it in colour?”

Kelly is like an Australian Billy the Kid, an outlaw whose mysticism only confounds his legacy. His story has influenced TV shows, books, poems, songs and movies - starring, among others, Heath Ledger and, yes, Mick Jagger. The world’s very first feature-length film was The Story of the Kelly Gang, made in 1906. His stalking ground in north east Victoria is now known simply as Kelly Country. On the centenary of his death, Kelly got his face on a stamp. More importantly, in 1992, he was the subject of this brilliant Weetabix commercial.

Sidney Nolan famously painted Kelly in surrealist form with stark block colours to denote his metal plate armour, the helmet of which is now commonly used across the country as a makeshift post box. For extra authenticity, these can often be found riddled with bullet holes. Which is all high praise indeed for someone who was, by all accounts, a bastard.

Incidentally, the iconic metal armour used by Kelly’s gang during their final shootout with police didn’t quite work, being as Kelly had no protection for his legs and therefore copped a few rounds before capture. Prior to this, between 1878-1880, Kelly and his gang of bushrangers moved from minor misdemeanours of drunkenness and cattle-rustling (at 16, Kelly was arrested for “feloniously receiving a horse”), to the shootings of three policemen at Stringybark, where he also stole the watch from one of the murdered sergeants. At the trial he asked, “What use is a watch to a dead man?” The gang then conducted two large scale bank robberies, the latter of which saw them make off with £2,414 and set fire to the towns people’s mortgage deeds. The strangest Kelly legend revolves around the mailing of two calves’ testicles to the wife of a street hawker. He got three months for that one.

Kelly famously showed little remorse at his trial, even spending time to debate with the judge. According to a newspaper at the time, “The judge finally passed the sentence of death and concluded: ‘May the Lord have mercy on your soul,’ to which Kelly’s reply was, ‘Yes; I will meet you there.’” Kelly’s ambivalence held out to the very end: his final words before facing the drop were, “Such is life”.

Of course, you can choose to read the Kelly story differently depending on your viewpoint of history, so where some see a violent, renegade brute, others see a fearless Robin Hood figure, a symbol of colonial resistance against the British ruling classes (lets not forget Kelly’s Irish lineage), and as an important figure in the development of Australia. Indeed, he was not without his sympathisers, even at the time: a petition to spare Kelly's life attracted over 30,000 signatures, and during a desperate crackdown by police in 1879, all of Kelly’s followers were arrested and held without charge for several months, which would only have helped his cause. Indeed, depending on who you read, depictions of the Victorian police at the time are particularly horrid: in one instance, following Kelly’s execution, it is said that the police were using Kelly’s head as a paperweight.

Considering how his final wish was for his portrait to be taken, Kelly must have been aware of the need for him to write his own history, and that would have doubtlessly included a more dignified passing. After all, you can’t quite work a quiff like the one pictured without a whole heap of pride.


A weird thing happened the other day: an Australian asked me for directions. While trying to decipher the connotations of this cross-cultural conundrum, the thought suddenly struck me that I actually knew where she wanted to go: to the top of Queen Street and the interception with Edward Street. (Brisbane’s CBD is actually dead easy to navigate, as the monarchical grid system is labelled accordingly with all male streets, like Edward, Albert and George, intercepting all the female ones: Ann, Mary, Elizabeth, Charlotte, Alice).

It made me think of all those tourists who try so adamantly to look inconspicuous on their travels but still end up looking helpless, befuddled, out of space and time. But, quite contrarily, within only a matter of months I must have developed some form of all-seeing oracular presence to help shepherd lost locals to their desired locations, when even at my most attentive I would find it difficult to locate a lavatory. It doesn’t take a neurologist to work out that visual thinking is not my strong point (you should see me drive), but it is nice to know that you are still capable of surprising yourself every now and then.

Melbourne Cup day was like a hazy gonzo vision straight out of Hunter S. Thompson - some real bad craziness. The most common concern on race day involves tipsy fashionistas in their best Ladies Day glad-rags chucking back the champers before the horses have even bolted. By lunch time, the town centre is already a blurry sight: girls stumbling in posh frocks and dirty feet, holding their heels; men with ties flailing and saying no, seriously, you’re my best mate, you are. I walk into a 7-11, stepping out of Dawn of the Dead and into a much stranger scene, where a convenience store takes on a strange, combustible quality. There’s a bad smell in the air. I couldn’t quite decipher what was going on at first, as I stood patiently waiting to put money on my Go card. But ahead of me, a more observant customer has spotted the cause of confusion. “Your bin’s on fire,” he says to the shop assistant. Bad craziness indeed.

Incidentally, my girlfriend put a two way bet on Maluckyday, So You Think and Shocking, and although French-trained Americain won the $3.5 million prize, both Maluckyday and So You Think placed. So we got $20 back, went to Bargara and bought ice cream and waffles. Which, if you’ve never been to Bargara, is just about enough. Granted, the initial bet cost $24, but still.


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘Packed to the Rafters’ (Channel Seven)

Emotions are running high this week as the news of Melissa’s death turns from shock to sadness to anger. Last week she ran a stop sign after checking her voicemail while driving and exited the series in a fatal car crash. Husband Ben Rafter was planning a sexy night of consummation in a top hotel at the time, bless him. Now he’s planning a sudden funeral for his beloved while battling over burial rights with the in-laws.

Melissa has been in the series since it started in 2008, so the nation has taken the news pretty hard. Her final episode attracted the highest ratings in the show’s history: 2,335,000 viewers. Of course, the Rafters aren’t the only family currently revelling in the voyeuristic concerns of the domestic roost: see ‘Offspring’, ‘Parenthood’ and ‘Neighbours’ for other popular shows currently riffing on the dysfunctional family premise. This is probably the most charming out of them all, even if ‘Offspring’ is funnier.

The Rafters are all ostensibly nice people, which makes the show quite comforting. So we’re not talking ‘Jerry Springer’ dysfunction here. Dave the Dad gets a bit angry sometimes but then he soon apologises - he threw young Coby into a tree once, but then he did break into his garage. Mummy Julie had a secret crush on someone for a while but I think she’s over that now. The worst you can accuse high-flying career girl Rachel of is that she’s more married to her job in advertising than she is to her partner Jake. He’s a bit sensitive about his epilepsy, which makes him vulnerable as a stock Aussie tradie. While rascal son Nathan is the sort of chirpy dweeb who would most definitely buy you a pint if you were a bit short. It’s all so refreshingly wholesome.

And they all live together. Including granddad, so there are three generations living in the same house. Rachel’s mum still makes her breakfast. She must be in her late twenties by now. That’s nice and everything, but it’s a bit weird, like ‘The Brady Bunch’ in arrested development.

Still, I quite like the show, even if Ben did choose to play ‘Fix You’ by Coldplay at Melissa’s funeral, then started having soft-focus hallucinations involving his dead wife hanging out the washing. But when handled appropriately, you can’t help but still get behind the sentiment.

Although clearly they came up with the title first and then built the show around it. I’ve taken to playing my own version of this to occupy my addled mind during the ad breaks. For example, if Michael Winner had his own reality show, they could call it ‘Everyone’s a Winner’. So I’ve started you off, now you try one.