Mistletoe and Strine

TM would like to wish everybody a merry Christmas, regardless of hemispheres, and regardless of snow storms. I’ll be in Bundaberg on Christmas Day where the temperature will allegedly reach 28 degrees. To build up anticipation, we’ve been listening to A Bush Christmas at work, a dubious collection of Christmas music done in an Aussie country style. The irony of singing ‘White Christmas’ is not lost on the Australians, so over the decades, a glut of sensitive, romantic, colloquial but mostly funny seasonal songs have been created to better suit the temperament (and temperature) of the people. Here are some of TM’s favourites.

Rolf Harris - ‘Six White Boomers’
A zoo-bound joey spots Santa on his Christmas run being led by six old kangaroos (‘white boomers’), and because ol’ Nick is in a particularly giving mood, he decides to extend his stay Down Under an extra day to help reunite the baby with its mother. “The last they saw was Santa heading northwards from the sun/the only year the boomers worked a double run.”

John Williamson - ‘Christmas Photo’
Williamson’s Christmas Day revolves around the pressure of getting everybody to pay attention long enough to take the family photo. The grandkids are surprised to see Santa’s big black boots “in the back of Jacko’s ute”, the ladies do the cooking while the men play cricket. Then a goanna runs up a gum tree (this happens a lot in Williamson songs), feeding on leftover chook and cake. And if you were wondering, yes, they do take the photo in the end. But, “hang on Dad, where did Sam go?”

Paul Kelly - ‘How to Make Gravy’
I went to a Paul Kelly Q&A recently where the singer-songwriter discussed his autobiography and explained in detail this particular Christmas commission. “I’ve got one,” he said to the producers, “but it doesn’t have a chorus and it’s set in prison.” The lamenting story of a prisoner writing to his brother about missing his family at Christmas time would go on to become Kelly’s biggest hit. “I guess the brothers are driving down from Queensland and Stella’s flying in from the coast,“ he sings, “They say it’s gonna be a hundred degrees, even more maybe, but that won't stop the roast.” The pressing concern is who will make the gravy in his absence? “I bet it won’t taste the same.”

John Wheeler - ‘The Three Drovers’
A bush poem from 1948, here’s a not untypical romantic verse regarding three Aussie drovers, who herd sheep and cattle at Christmas time through “dry summer heat” with “smoke on the yellow moon”, when they spot a “starry lustre blazed on high/Still echoed on the heavenly strain,” and recognising religious iconography when they see it, start up a chorus of ‘Noel’ as they continue their amble. It’s the Wise Men parable ascribed to Australia’s most cherished and inspiring image of the brave, pioneering stockman in a vast and insurmountable wilderness, a vision which was channelled by a number of poets during the age like the equivalent of Wordsworth’s daffodil.

Bucko & Champs - ‘Aussie Jingle Bells’
A staple summer Christmas to the tune of Jingle Bells: “Kelpie by my side/Singing Christmas songs/It's summer time and I am in my singlet, shorts & thongs.” You might need your Strine dictionary to work out what on earth Bucko & Champs are going on about, particularly with talk of swaggy climbs and kelpies. But you get the idea. All together, then: “Jingle bells, jingle bells, Christmas time is beaut’/Oh what fun it is to ride in a rusty Holden ute.”

I see that Channel 4 are showing Carrie in the early hours of Boxing Day. That's like putting The Exorcist on Good Friday. Carrie's blood curdling tale of bitter retribution succeeds a seemingly unremarkable folly of programming, the best of which seems to be a new ‘Poirot’, a new ‘Doctor Who’ and the obligatory ‘Eastenders’ special. To be fair, that’s the only episode of the show I’ll actually watch. Let’s hope the producers have taken Channel 4’s lead in turning bullied Billy Mitchell into some possessed Carrie-like devil child, exacting his bitter vengeance against all of Walford by spewing his guts in the Queen Vic. More potatoes, Gran?

Australia’s 7Two have been showing a run of Christmas Specials. I was quite excited to see a ‘Jonathan Creek’ special featuring Bill Bailey until it quickly became apparent that it was made in 2001. The mobile phones were a dead giveaway. Continuing the bygone theme, this Christmas Day they’re showing ‘One Foot in the Grave’, ‘Keeping Up Appearances’ and - I’m not making this up - ‘Love Thy Neighbour’. The popularity in this country for dead 70s Britcoms is quite baffling. The still resonating appreciation for ‘The Goodies’, in particular, is quite perplexing.

But the big clinchers on Christmas Day will be a ‘Spicks and Specks’ Christmas special, a TV movie of ’Anne of Green Gables’ and ‘The Graham Norton Show’, which may not all be riveting, but are at least from this current millennia. And we get the Queen’s speech in the evening over here, which is just in time for the ‘Extras’ Christmas special. From 2007.

Congratulations to Kim Fredericks of 253 Formosa Road, Gumdale, who has been crowned the Brisbane East division winner of the 2010 4KQ Christmas Lights Competition, pictured above. Incorporating more than 70,000 lights, Mr Fredericks orders new bulbs in July and spends over 280 hours (nearly two weeks) preparing the display. The cost of the lights is around $30,000, while December’s electricity bill is $500. No doubt the prize money of $1000 will come in handy.

Henry and Mary Cichowski, of Kuringal Drive in Ferny Hills, have been building on their light display for seven years. “It takes me four and a half weeks to put it up,” said Mr Cichowski. But the real Christmas crackers are 70-somethings Walter and Beverley Wood of Kenmore (pictured below), who were crowned Brisbane West division champions for the 20th year in a row. Attendances at their suburban display reach upwards of 3000 people a night, with visitors travelling from as far flung locations as Lismore and Rockhampton. To put that into perspective: according to Google Maps, Rockhampton to Kenmore will take you 7 hours and 49 minutes in a car. One way.

“Every year people tell us that we can't possibly ever do better - but every year we manage to come up with something new,” said Mr Wood, who also won Best Lighting Display at the awards. The full winners list is here, if you care, and is considerably more extensive than you would ever have thought possible, with geographical distinctions and categories like Best Use of Recycled Materials, Best Logo Display, and the enticing achievement of entering the Bill Stratton Hall of Fame. While Michael and Jessica Sallaway of 2 Childs Street, Rochedale South, winners of the Best Synchronized Music & Lights Display, should seek inspiration from this for next year’s competition - perhaps the single greatest combination of the spirit of Christmas and the music of Slayer.


Which thankfully leaves enough room for my favourite Christmas joke. Santa Claus goes to the doctor and says, “Doctor, I think I have a mince pie stuck up my bottom.” The doctor quickly investigates and says, “Yes, indeed you do Mr Claus, but don’t worry, I’ve got some cream for that.”

Merry Christmas.

Listful Thinking

We probably shouldn’t read too much into the fact that a video featuring a talking orange made it into Australia’s most viewed YouTube clips of 2010. After all, that Old Spice advert made it in, and you can’t even buy Old Spice in Australia.

The most viewed video is an auto-tuned remix of a rape story from local American news. At last count, the video had been watched by nearly 50 million people, and we can only hope that in the future all of our news is presented in this way. (If by some fluke you don’t know what I’m talking about, the footage works better in context, so watch this first before you watch this). I mention all this only as a way of highlighting how the media fill their pages as we prepare for the Christmas lull and all of their advertisers go on holiday.

But if you’re looking for a good list, then can I push you in the direction of journalist David Dale’s stocking filler The Little Book of Australia, which is a fully updated stat attack painting a picture of where Australia is in 2010. As a dissection of modern Australia, it’s actually quite handy, particularly if you’re in the process of blogging about the country, but especially at a time when the nation’s politics continually purport the notion of ‘Australian values’. “It seemed to me that most of their generalisations were based on guesswork, prejudice or wishful thinking, and hardly ever on facts,” Dale writes.

As a reference guide, I’ll probably be dipping into this book quite a bit, and not just for little gems like Australia’s Top Selling DVDs of All Time (Finding Nemo) or Most Liked People (Hugh Jackman), or factoids like Queensland currently holding both the highest marriage and divorce rates in the country, but it is also indispensable for lists of things that a pom, particularly, should really know about. Like what the hell a Lamington is, what politicians mean when they refer to the ‘Magic Pudding’ metaphor, and why people here laugh when they say, “a dingo ate my baby”. There’s also a section on Self Deprecating Humour which, in my experience, always seems to involve a rude joke. To assist in our understanding, Dale provides the following example:

Q: What's an Aussie man's idea of foreplay?
A: Are you awake, love?

My girlfriend can do a rather hilarious Oprah Winfrey impression, usually in that broken, football mom voice that Oprah does when she’s really excited, like when she's introducing a special guest, for example, “Tooom - Cruooooosssssseee!” Her two Sydney shows won’t be broadcast until January, and although Channel Ten didn’t want to “give too much away”, they still displayed about as much restraint as a US embassy diplomat with their non-stop obsessing, from live feeds of Australia's Most Liked Person Hugh Jackman cascading down a rip wire to dramatically blacken his eye before even being interviewed, to the sickly culmination where Russell Crowe, Nicole Kidman, Olivia Newton-John, Keith Urban and Jackman sing ‘I Still Call Australia Home’.

I don’t want to talk too much more on this, but there is actually something quite un-Australian about that clip, for a nation prone to laughing at itself and retaining a sense of the stiff upper lip. Both Britain and Australia aren’t quite as prone to psycho-analysis in the same way that the Americans are, and general consensus seems to confirm that the Oprah schtick doesn’t quite wash over here. Not that the tourist board will be complaining: broadcast in over 145 countries, there may now be considerably more people considering a trip to - in Oprah’s words - “Aus - traa - leeee - aaaaarrrrrrr!”


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘Schools Spectacular 2010’ (ABC1)

Imagine if Leni Riefenstahl had directed your school play, then chances are it might end up looking a bit like this - minus all the swastikas, obviously. A parading, epic and relentless naff end-of-year assembly that is never once understated, this is two hours of glorious television that lurches - good naturedly, I should add - from the completely sublime to the completely ridiculous.

Filmed at the Sydney Entertainment Centre (the sort of auditorium that wouldn’t look out of place on ‘Gladiators’) and now in its 27th year, this is sort of thing the UK would still do if we could persuade our kids to stub out their spliff and turn off the Xbox.

But even if we could, would we want to tune in to watch school kids perform really earnest excerpts from Aida, or belting out Billy Joel’s ‘River of Dreams’ with over a hundred 10 year olds dressed as fairies and dancing around a farm of giant mushrooms? Probably not, unless you’re suffering some pining hangover from the last time you tuned in to the ‘Junior Eurovision Song Contest’. Which is why I feel this bit needs repeating: this show has been running, without fail, without irony, for 27 years.

And what a wonderful thing that is. Frankly, I could have done with less of “ABC3’s Kayne and Amberley”, a gaffawing pair of yoof TV goons who provide a running commentary on the “crazy” backstage antics. “Mate,” Kayne says, “it’s going off like a frog in a sock back there.” And perhaps re-addressing the running order may have been helpful, even if just for diversity’s sake. We probably didn’t need two particularly long and nonsensical circus numbers from the same token doe-eyed dweeb performing an Elton John skit far too accurately, and could have done with more than a mere minute of indigenous hip-hop from kids who had travelled more than 750km from the most inland corner of New South Wales to be there. In between break dancing, the kids rap “we’re talking about harmony/we’re showing you how,” and contemplate creating a “culture of trust”. It’s all very sweet, but I reckon teacher helped with the lyrics.

The most shocking aspect is that all of the kids are startlingly talented, with one section in particular - a mesmerising interpretative dance sequence marrying ballet to a cabaret versions of ‘Cry Me a River’, sung with great sass by an Aboriginal singer whose name I shamefully failed to note. But if she’s not singing a James Bond theme in a few years time then there’s simply no justice in the world. Then it’s quickly back to clowns on stilts, juggling acts and a sea of jazz hands like some unforgiving high school flashback, and you can almost hear all of their parents welling up with pride.

Match of the Day

Let’s start with a good visual gag: a special, limited-edition packet of Redheads matches, suitably changed with true Australian gumption…

To further the footballing headline, the Weekend Australian went from moral outrage to slight petulance at this week’s “embarrassing” dismissal from the 2022 World Cup bid, “outshone even by South Korea”. The comments on winners Qatar are quite bitter: “the world’s most watched sports tournament would be held in a desert outpost with just 1.5 million people and a climate that makes outdoor sport potentially lethal.” Sour grapes, anyone?

Their main concern is for 80-year old Frank Lowy, head of the Football Federation Australia and chairman of Westfield shopping centres who fronted the bid. “From his childhood in wartime Hungary to his spells as a refugee in detention camps in Cyprus and Palestine, it was playing football that gave him a sense of belonging.” And if you’re not welling up yet, here’s the clincher: “…helping to win the 2022 World Cup would be a wonderful legacy, even though he admitted that he did not expect to be alive to see it.” I hope you're proud of yourself, Qatar…

Here’s a hunch, but I reckon investing $45 million Australian taxpayers money on a pitch which included a video of a cartoon kangaroo on a surfboard probably wasn’t quite what FIFA had in mind. Much better to side with an oil-rich emirate nation with bottomless funds and high concept ideas. Not only will all of the stadiums have airconditioning, but Qatar have promised to donate them to other nations in the Middle East once the tournament has finished; what better way to help unify such a rapidly modernising part of the world. And given Qatar’s support for the latest technologies, imagine what wonders they will have in place by 2022. They might even have something that will work on English goalkeepers.

As Johnny Mathis once said, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Although, in Australia, it’s actually beginning to look a lot like Spring break. For me, hearing Bing Crosby sing ‘White Christmas’ in a hot climate is causing a strange sort of metaphysical imbalance. We’re approaching the height of a Queensland summer, where Christmas consists of paddling pools, seafood and barbecue. Somewhat different to 'Morecombe & Wise', turkey roast and logs on the fire.

There’s a lot of wallowing at Christmas time, where the whole family come together for the first and last time of the year to feel horribly nostalgic. The same underlying sentiment seems to be shared between both nations, but the lead up isn’t quite so oppressive here, unlike in the UK, where most campaigns start around October, with geese a-laying and maids a-milking for much longer than their allotted 12 days. There still seems to be a creeping, imminent sense of occasion, but for the pom abroad, it’s not quite looking like Christmas. Not yet anyway, Johnny.

It’s been a while since TM shared a terrifying spider story, but look at what greeted us after work today. Amazing creatures, really, to have poised unashamedly all afternoon as the centrepiece of a sprawling, sinister web stretching maybe three feet wide, hovering over our outside table like a spindly gargoyle. My flatmate believes this is the very same arachnid spotted doing reconnaissance work near the deathly hallows of our patio furniture several days ago, a little too close to the relative safety of our interiors for my liking. I’m sure with further probing we will soon locate his building plans for the house, and grand schemes to populate the laundry room following his domination of the terrace.

Re: spiders; a general rule of thumb in Australia seems to suggest that the larger the spider, the less harm it will cause. So whereas an agitated nip from the tiny redback might quite convincingly send you into an infinite snooze, a larger blighter like this one - which we think is probably a tree spider - will only harmlessly jump at you or, say, land on your face in a last chance bid for recompense. So if you can help it, try not to kill them: consider the huntsman spider, which may look like the embodiment of pure evil, but would much rather make light work of your cockroaches than your kin. While some house spiders are incredibly territorial, and ending one from bothering your skirting boards will only encourage more to take their place. Knowing this probably won't alter your instincts, of course, which is to fetch the nearest boot and start walloping, Norman Bates style, until the once nimble creature starts to resemble a stubborn food stain; a death which is, by anyone's standards, a sorry way to go.

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.

Bring Your Own Boos

Ex-PM John Howard had a fright this Halloween week, dodging the shoes of angry protestor Peter Gray who hurled his footwear during a live broadcast of the ABC’s ‘Q&A’ TV show, shouting “this is for the Iraqi dead”. It was interesting to see the former Liberal-National Coalition leader face such a physical and literal dressing down while he sat high on his book-promoting pedestal, even if the studio unease only lasted a minute or two. Mind you, Gray hardly put much venom into it, unlike the George Bush attack of 2008. Bush had to physically duck to dodge those missiles: Gray’s first is high and wide, the second awfully limp. Here’s the original clip, where Howard still remains remarkably self-assured; it's the sort of poise which suggests he has become accustomed to people throwing things at him. And if you didn't know, John Howard’s political memoir, Lazarus Rising, detailing his 11-year stint as Aussie Prime Minister, is out now.

I managed to get some temp work as a copywriter for a government office in Brisbane, compiling newsletters on subjects that I didn’t fully understand. Copywriter is such a derogatory term, and succinctly diminishes any hint of creativity that may be involved in the role. I’ve done public sector work before and, if it’s taught me anything, it’s to avoid using one word when you can use at least four or five. For example: why write ‘university’ when you can call it a ‘registered state funded tertiary education provider’? Jobs like this remind me of that scene in ‘The Day Today’ where an angry Steve Coogan takes a swipe at the Americanised business speak of a workplace training rep: “When you go to the toilet, do have an ‘Armitage Shanks interface defecation scenario’ or do you just have a shit?”

Anyway, look at the view: 19 floors up and surveying the entire south side of the city, including the 49 acre Botanic Gardens, the Southeast Freeway which crosses the Brisbane River and into the district of Woolloongabba. I would spend about 20 minutes of every day just staring out at this, at the rooftop hot tubs, the ferries cruising up the river and the miniature bodies rushing to and from work. On Thursday there was a thunder storm, not untypical for Brisbane: ten minutes of oppressive tropical whirlwind and rain. I saw the darkness descend from one corner of the window while the sun shone blue and radiant on the other. It certainly beats the view from my last public sector job: a dilapidated industrial estate overlooking the A629.

Bizarrely, I did manage to find something interesting in Council Leader magazine (“a bi-monthly magazine featuring up-to-date information on local government news and relevant issues affecting councils throughout Queensland”), for which I had been asked to write an article. The following are genuine exam answers from 16 year olds in the UK and can be found in the 'Time Out' section of the magazine. It’s enough to make you positively homesick…

Q: Name the four seasons?
A: Salt, pepper, mustard and vinegar

Q: What are steroids?
A: Things for keeping the carpets still on the stairs

Q: What happens to your body as you age?
A: When you get old, so do your bowels and you get intercontinental

Q: What is the most common form of birth control?
A: Most people prevent contraception by wearing a condominium

Q: Explain one of the processes by which water can be made safe to drink?
A: Flirtation makes water safe to drink because it removes large pollutants like grit, sand, dead sheep and canoeists.

Q: Give the meaning of the term 'Caesarean section'?
A: The caesarean section is a district in Rome



AU Tube - Understanding Australian TV
‘Top Gear Australia’ (Channel Nine)

There are over 900,000km of road in Australia, including some real humdingers: the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the Great Ocean Road, the Nullarbor desert highway and the alluring expanse of the outback. We travel everywhere in my girlfriend’s automatic Holden Commodore, a reliable, hulking fridge of a car which is notoriously difficult to find in a supermarket car park for being the exact shape and size of just about every other car in Australia. That’s an exaggeration, obviously, because even a pom can tell you that the most identifiable Australian automobile is the coupe utility, or ‘utes’ to you and me, mate. The ute was supposedly invented in Australia by Ford as a response to a farmer in Victoria who wanted “a vehicle to go to church in on a Sunday and which can carry our pigs to market on Mondays”. They’re a bit redundant in the cities so the new pimped out Holden utes are more of a status thing, seeing about as much dirt as an agoraphobic farmer. But they’re everywhere in rural Queensland, used functionally by hard-working tradies (possibly my favourite Strine word of them all): you’ll find fishing rods and dogs clawing onto the open back tray of a truck doing 70ks for fear of being turned into instant road kill. For the practical, hands-on, four-wheeling bush tucker Aussie, the ute is your best friend.

And then we have the RVs and those ‘Old Farts in Caravan Parks’, as John Williamson would sing: silver surfing nomads who pack their lives into collapsible motor homes and jolly around the country. It’s a retirement rights of passage, of sorts, as the masses of Aussies who hit their 60s realise that they should probably see Uluru before they clock out. There are dedicated web sites comparing campervan journeys: Sydney to Sydney in 42 days; wine tours of South Australia, Cairns to Cairns with a two year old. There seems to be an intrinsic link between this vast, open country and the motor vehicle. And for those of you who doubt me, just try walking somewhere.

So, for a rev-head country like this one, their own copycat version of the BBC’s ‘Top Gear’ should be a triumph. Britain’s original, flagship, popular-beyond-all-proportion car show hosted by Dopey, Sleepy and Grumpy is already very popular here - it's on after the Australian version on Channel Nine. This flat-packed self-assembled rendition comes complete with the same studio set up, the same seating arrangement, the same Stig character, the same ‘Jessica’ remix, the same reticent male midlife cry for help. And, crickey, if you think the UK version is blokey, can you imagine what it’s like here in Australia? It makes the UK show look like ‘Loose Women’. Burly main host Shane Jacobson is all mates and handshakes like a pub landlord. Aside from a few neat cultural tweaks - the ‘reasonably priced car’ is a ute, of course - it’s mostly a shaky start.

But none of that matters really when you look at the crux of the problem, that a show like ‘Top Gear’ wouldn't work on a commercial network station. Take the US version, which has finally been given the green light despite numerous false starts, like main Jeremy Clarkson saying that “they just don’t get it” in response to a flopped re-edited version of the UK show supposedly tailored to American tastes. At one point, car nut Jay Leno was rumoured to be the host, before slamming the whole concept. “My great fear in America is that, for instance, if Kia was our sponsor this week, we’d have to say the car was fantastic,” Leno said in a 2008 interview with the Times. “In my mind I can just see Jeremy lambasting Americans for what they did to his show.”

But, evidently, it is not the integrity of the BBC that the corporation are holding in such high regard when selling their TV concepts to the highest bidder. The Nine Network is known for shows like ‘Australia’s Funniest Home Videos’, ‘Two and a Half Men’ and the ‘CSI’ franchise - all commercially durable products - and ‘Top Gear’ is no exception, with this week’s episode featuring marketing slots for Audi, Shannons car insurance and the Volkswagen Golf. This safeguarding seeps into the program, so you don’t really get an opinion on anything. On Tuesday’s episode, I discovered that some cars can go very fast, that the V8 Supercars aren’t really designed to be driven around the main streets of Sydney, and that they work much better on a race track where they can also be very loud and go very fast.

And on that bombshell…

Fowl Play

The thought crossed my mind that I have been talking about our resident bush turkey for weeks and not once shown you a picture of it. We’ve seen this creature more than the landlord, so I wouldn’t be surprised if this turkey actually runs the gaff, storing cheques in the 4ft mounds he’s busy building from garden debris in the back yard. As you can see, they roam quite freely in these parts, waddling right up to your front door and, if you’re not paying attention, they’ll knick your sandwiches off the picnic table. I’ve also recently learnt that buried deep within these mounds of leaves and dirt could be up to 24 eggs, that’s if the goannas don’t get to them first. Both of these creatures are native to Australia, so although the locals may get used to the sight of a turkey v. goanna bush brawl, I’m still utterly captivated by the pair of them. So remember, kids, a turkey’s not just for Christmas.

Another quick Altiyan Childs update, who has become a bit of a Toxic Math favourite and is now finally being recognised as the nation’s favourite TV nutcase. According to this, ‘The X Factor’ singer missed midweek rehearsals with his mentor Ronan Keating after falling asleep in a cave. “I fell asleep at sunrise and my phone died,” said Childs, a 35 year old forklift truck driver from New South Wales. “I rushed back to civilisation and I realised it was 1pm… I had commitments at 8am and I wasn't there.” The singer went to the cave at 2am on Tuesday morning to “reconnect” with the “beautiful sadness” of Sydney's northern beaches. His “sadness”, according to the singer, is “my secret power… what drives me through the song.” It must have been that same ‘beautiful sadness’ that really helped last week, when he so passionately belted out ‘Living on a Prayer’ by Bon Jovi.

This will only help his cause, what with being the only rewarding aspect of a relatively dry competition. Altiyan’s problem is that he’s actually quite good, in a guilty, pub singer, no-hoper kind of way. Given how he’s in a perpetual state of anguish, it’s hard to tell whether he’s actually enjoying all the hype. He’s got a face that, even if he was offering you a compliment, it would still look like he’s breaking up with you. The slightly troubling news regarding ‘Cavegate’ (just go with it) is when you read the bit about the cave being a special place for him and his ex-fiancé, with whom he has been separated for eight years. Eight years! Who else is bargaining on a reunion photo shoot of the couple on the cover of New Idea when the show’s over? Get the hankies ready.

Ever ready to credit a good gag, my girlfriend’s explanation of a Roman Catholic canonisation process being one where you are “fired out of a canon” certainly deserves acknowledgement, although maybe a little gunpowder might have helped to spice up the extended live coverage of Mary MacKillop’s ceremony to become Australia’s very first saint. Some 8,000 Aussies made the long haul to Vatican City for the show. I’ve been there before when the Pope is in residence and it’s like a U2 concert, only a little less reserved. You can now relive the magic with the Blessed Mary DVD: a day of huge international significance for Australia, whether you believe in miracles or not, recognising a woman who was, by all accounts, highly regarded even in her own lifetime, founding schools in regional Australia with an emphasis on educating the poor.

She died in 1909, which is quite important to the whole canonisation process, alongside the evidence of miracles, which caused most of the cynical press to open up the ‘science versus religion’ cupboard and rattle a few skeletons, something that tends to happen during big religious celebrations. “These things betray a false thinking that is not limited to Mary MacKillop or religion,” says Professor Chris Del Mar from Bond University to the Brisbane Times, questioning the testimony of Kathleen Evans, 66, who seemingly recovered from lung cancer in 1993 after praying to MacKillop. Del Mar believes miracles are part of a “wider problem of people not understanding scientific and mathematical methods”, which the article claims has been “exemplified by newspapers printing horoscopes and people using alternative medicines that had little evidentiary support.” When asked why she felt she had been chosen for the miracle cure at a press conference in January, Evans said, “When I finally do get upstairs [to heaven] that'll be the first question I'll ask.”

Anyway, my girlfriend’s joke reminded me of that old one about the two nuns who are driving at night when they encounter Dracula in the middle of the road. “Quick,” says one of the nuns, “show him your cross.” The second nun agrees, winds her window down and shouts, “Oi! Dracula, get out of the bloody road!”

The Australia Games

Australia’s dominance at the Commonwealth Games shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise, given such stiff sporting competition as Guernsey, Nauru (population 14,000, about the average match attendance at Hull City football club) and Wales. They’ve won so many medals that surely most of the world would stand a chance of reciting the opening lines to ‘Advance Australia Fair’. They’ve won gold in gymnastics, archery, swimming, cycling, tennis, diving, shooting, weightlifting and wrestling, not to mention all the track and field events: hurdles, walking, men’s relay, discus, javelin, long jump and pole vault, plus a whole heap of para sport medals. In Nauru’s defence, they did manage to pick up two medals, both in weightlifting. Must be a lot of heavy things in Nauru.

Outside of the Commonwealth Games, let’s not underestimate Australia’s proficiency in just about everything else, and the home grown heroes they adore: Greg Norman’s dominance at golf, Jack Brabham at motor racing, Lleyton Hewitt at tennis and Dawn Fraser in the pool. There’s the annual Melbourne Cup, skiing in the Snowy Mountains and hotly contested State of Origin rugby games, not to mention their own incomprehensible Aussie Rules. The Ashes never fails to divide the English and the Australians on social grounds, while in recent years the Socceroos have developed into something much more resembling a football team, playing well despite exiting this year’s World Cup finals in the group stages. And I haven’t even bothered to go into watersports: all those windsurfers, boogie boarders and rowers. No wonder sport is referred to as ‘Australia’s national religion’. So the real question is how can any of this be possible when Australia’s population is somewhere over the 20 million mark? Using a Commonwealth comparison, England’s population is 51 million. India’s is 1.1 billion, nearly 60 times as much.

I don’t have an answer to this, by the way, in case any Delhi officials are looking into this as some kind of Commonwealth conspiracy, but it would probably have something to do with the good weather, funding for sports lessons in just about any discipline from an early age and a whole heap of space. It’s very difficult to learn the shot putt in, say, Willesden. Probably not impossible, of course, which might be why all those English hoodies learn with shopping trolleys first. And I would imagine that having an ocean on your doorstep is quite encouraging, too. When Jessica Watson (pictured) became the youngest girl to sail non-stop around the world aged 16, the rest of us weren’t too shocked to discover that she originally hails from the Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia.

But then we haven’t factored in just how inherently enthusiastic Aussies are about their sport. Nine out of the 10 highest rated shows in 2005 were all sports programmes: the year Hewitt reached the final of the Australian Open, Australia’s Makybe Diva won it’s third consecutive Melbourne Cup and Sydney played Perth in the AFL final. Heck, even Australia versus Uruguay in the football got nearly 2.5 million viewers. (As a sidenote, I should point out that the one program in the top ten that wasn’t a sports show was ‘Desperate Housewives’, and in Australia’s defence, the show was at least semi-bearable back then).

Not that the English aren’t fiercely proud about their sports stars, but Down Under, the sense of ownership is much more prominent. Even your average Joe Plummer will be able to list Aussie test cricketers from decades gone (and English ones, for that matter), and if you turn on your TV, you’ll find Aboriginal sprinter Cathy Freeman advertising the Coles supermarket's Sports for Schools campaign (pictured), or Olympic medallist Emma Snowsill plugging the Natural Confectionary Company. Can you name a British pole vaulter? I didn’t think so, but here you’ll find the golden hair of Steve Hooker pushing the sporting coverage on Channel Ten. “It’s not only who we are,” the voiceover on the ad' says, “It’s who we aspire to be.”

No one could have accused Channel Ten of impartiality during their live coverage of the games. You could read the signs early on, even before the competition had started. “Our arch rivals the English…” a deep voice was saying over a slow motion montage of athletes draped in the flag of St. George, “they’re cashed up and cocky…” But it was gymnastics commentator Daniel Ryan who stands the best chance of a knighthood for contributions to bias reporting with his gloriously one-sided devotion. “The gold rush continues!” he says, very elated at this point. “They ooze quality!” Ergh. “Lauren Mitchell, you are a superstar!” For the record, Mitchell did leave Delhi with four gold medals and one silver, but still, control yourself man.

It somewhat proves just how proudly Australian sporting achievements are received, even more so when things don't go their way. It was quite telling how the English football squad were fiercely reprimanded and their manager harangued upon their return from the World Cup finals earlier in the year despite progressing further than Australia, who returned to a heroes welcome. There might be something more deep rooted in the Australian psyche that could explain this better, perhaps something about the underdog spirit of a relatively young nation which still permeates most competitions despite the fact that they actually end up winning everything. Maybe that’s it. All I know is that Aussie sporting dominance leads to some interesting late night TV decisions, like netball and mixed squash doubles, which may be fun to play, but on television, just looks like four sweaty people going mental in a box.


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘At the Movies’ (ABC1)

The ABC movie show is a bit of an institution, comparable to ‘Countdown’ in it’s heyday, being as it has lasted in some form since 1986 with the same two presenters, Margaret Pomeranz and David Stratton. The appeal, of course, is their on-screen marriage, complete with constant squabbling and a subliminal questioning of each other’s judgement. It’s basically your parents arguing at the dinner table. I like to think of them watching the movies together and then erupting into argument over what popcorn to buy.

Stratton, a lecturer in film history at the University of Sydney, has an air of Barry Norman in his presentation style only with the added hesitancy of having to choose his words carefully for the fear of another Pomeranz-fuelled domestic. In her defence, she doesn’t vehemently disagree with everything Stratton offers, and she can at least see the virtues in gun-happy zombie yarns like Resident Evil: Afterlife before then giving every film “three and a half stars”.

Here’s a not untypical if heavily paraphrased example from Wednesday’s episode regarding Ben Affleck’s new movie The Town, and should go some way to explaining why the show works on nearly every possible level:

MARGARET: Do you know, I enjoyed it but I felt I had seen this film a zillion times before and I felt that every step of the way I knew what was going to happen and it pretty much did…
DAVID: Look, I know what you’re saying about the familiar material, but I’m fond of a good thriller and, sure, we...
MARGARET: But you’ve got to be thrilled by a thriller. You’ve got to go...
DAVID: No, I was… If I may say, I was thrilled by this… You’re right, the basic material is familiar.
MARGARET: Yes.
DAVID: But he brings a freshness to it which I think is...
MARGARET: Well, I don’t know that he does, but...
DAVID: Well, I think he does.
MARGARET: What I thought was interesting, it’s the first time I’ve seen John Hamm in a significant role after his success in ‘Mad Men’… surely we’re going to see him in bigger roles in the future.
DAVID: Probably.
MARGARET: And… I don’t think this has got anywhere near the subtext that Gone Baby Gone had. [Ben Affleck’s first film as director].
DAVID: Different kind of story. It’s not the same...
MARGARET: I think Gone Baby Gone is a much, much better film.
DAVID: It’s probably a better film and it’s a more interesting story.
MARGARET: And it’s most probably got a better actor in the central role, too.
DAVID: I don’t know that you can say that.
MARGARET: But he’s a - look, he’s a director.
DAVID: But it’s different. It’s like comparing apples and oranges. They’re different kinds of stories.
MARGARET: Well, I don’t know. You can say one film from a director is better than the other and I think his first one was definitely better than this one.
DAVID: I think this is just as well directed as Gone Baby Gone.
MARGARET: It’s just not as interesting a film.
DAVID: You think…
MARGARET: Look, three and a half stars from me.
DAVID: I’m giving it four.

Hello Possum

A crafty little scavenger, the urban possum, with their revving motor call, bushy tails, bulging eyes and ratty face. I’m inclined to compare them to a fat grey squirrel if only they didn’t boast a connection to both the koala and the kangaroo within their marsupial make up. Despite their native credentials, the Aussies can still spot a pest in these cute-ish bundles. At our previous address, possums were discouraged daily from devouring the paw paw trees. Where a bush turkey will build dirty embankments in your back yard (just for laughs, by the looks of things), the perilous possum will have the audacity to nest inside your actual house. The attic, mainly. Now that is crafty.

The noise becomes problematic, you see, not to mention the associated safety hazards, best encapsulated by the vitriolic Brisbane Times writer John Birmingham in one of his blog entries. “I have given no cause for aggression,” he fumes, “save a few muttered curses at four in the morning, some two days ago as the thunderous shenanigans of these wretched lice-infested, rat bastard vermin dislodged a line of track lighting in my kitchen.” No sympathy there, then. The Hardtuned.net forum offer a more hands-on approach under their thread ‘Rat or Possum in Attic: How to Catch the Bastard’. User KNG-515 suggests “put a snake in your roof”, which might work, but may also incur some bizarre animal-related Russian doll situation.

But I quite hate the thought of a taipan getting it’s poisonous jaws around this inquisitive joey which we have caught, quite brazenly, on our doorstep and now - with a little coaxing - on camera. We have watched this little possum develop since our initial meeting some months ago, when it was still digging it’s baby claws into its mother’s back. So close, in fact, that we’ve even given it a name: Paw Paw. I’ll be sure to update you on her developments in later entries. Now, as for the geckos, that’s a whole other story.

Australia’s most easterly point is Cape Byron, at Byron Bay in northern New South Wales, which, if nothing else, should make it quite easy to locate on a map. Here you’ll find a turn of the century lighthouse 100 metres above sea level and pristine views over the Byron coast. We needn’t have taken a tour of the lighthouse as I end up in deep conversation with the curator in the vestibule who tells me more than I needed to know about the physics involved in light refraction, pointing at the original kerosene burner and telling me, with some considerable enthusiasm, how the original optical lens (made by a Frenchman, Henry Lepante, and containing 760 pieces of prismatic glass) would help to navigate wayward ships from a range of over 20 kilometres. Weighing eight tons, it’s transportation alone must have been a frightfully careful process. I carefully sneak out when the curator is trying to locate a pen for the guestbook.

From here, we follow the well worn tourist trail passed schools of mostly English backpackers to the tip of the cliff where you will find a sign indicating your arrival at Australia’s fingertips. Not quite knowing what you’re supposed to do when you reach such a landmark, I take to admiring the scenery, which is much wilder and unkempt than the concrete jungle of the Gold Coast further north. We stand there for some time, windswept, hypnotised by crashing waves and rip tides, and trying to make out the movements of tiny people as they battle against the all-conquering ocean. The image I remember now is one of complete uninterrupted blueness, from both the sea and the sky.

We eat lunch at Twisted Sista, one of Byron’s many deli bars serving healthy yet hearty alternatives and monster portions of homemade cake that could easily double as a bookend. Alongside herbal high shops, vintage emporiums dealing in bohemian chic and quirky surf attire, the small township seems to have been developed in the eccentric spirit of entrepreneurial hippy escapism which understandably helps to make this one of Australia’s favourite beach towns. There’s an easy loveliness to the place, and I certainly had a great if brief time exploring it’s quaint high streets and mini roundabouts. The idea of some 20,000 revellers camping here for the Splendour music festival seems almost unfathomable to me, which may be part of the reason why it has now moved further north and into Queensland, in respect for both the local community and it’s environs. I don't balme them. Music festivals do have a tendancy to make even the most beautiful areas look like the fallout from Vietnam.

And, because Toxic Math seems to be brimming with inane Byron Bay facts at the moment, I feel obligated to tell you that the name is not in recognition of the poet Lord Byron but actually his grandfather, Royal Navy officer John Byron. Captain Cook must have found a kindred spirit in old ‘foul-weather Jack’, being as he was also a colonial explorer of some distinction, possessing the Falkland Islands for the British in 1765 and causing his fair share of conflict along the way. Also, Byron was no stranger to rotten luck: after his vessel, HMS Wager, was shipwrecked in Patagonia and a mutiny divided the crew, it took him six years to get home again.


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘Stephen Fry Live at the Sydney Opera House’ (ABC1)

I once saw Stephen Fry while punting in Cambridge. That, of course, makes me sound like a twat, but nonetheless it’s the god’s honest truth: there he was, reclining, like Norfolk royalty, being punted down the Cam. But even a rather redundant anecdote like that proves how everyone in England somehow feels connected to the 'National Treasure', whether through his incessant Tweeting, column inches, publications, TV or live appearances. Even for a class-conscious nation, he’s still the toff we’re proud to call our own: witty, self-deprecating and an unrivalled force of knowledge. Along with fish and chips, he is probably our finest and proudest export. So I won’t spend this column banging on about how brilliant Stephen Fry is, because it is clearly a notion that both the Aussies and the Brits can completely agree on.

This 90 minute talk fest proves his worth as an unbridled motor mouth, talking openly to an Opera House audience with no script or theme - apart from a very loose one, the letter W. So we’re drawn into Fry’s world of Wodehouse, Waugh and Wilde, the world wide web, and his episode of ‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ which has the raconteur trawling through Cambridge memories, his first graduate job (a teacher in Yorkshire) and meeting fellow Footlights Thompson and Laurie where hilarity ensues. The real revelations come out during his Q&A session with smiley Aussie talk queen Jennifer Byrne, where all the disturbing stuff from Fry’s past is expanded upon (his bipolar, cocaine abuse and time in prison). But all the while he remains his erudite self without once being aloof or patronising: a skill, of course, and his most endearing trait, something which is not common in every scholar.

So, in hindsight, I may have banged on a bit there, but watching Fry at the Opera House was like witnessing the meeting of two country's most iconic institutions. His growing adoration here makes me think that we should quickly draw up some form of rota system so that we can feasibly share him with the rest of the world.