The World According to Oscar Wilde

Songs About People: Love

2014-04-10T22:17:00.001+10:00

The latest in a much-loved series (by me) is dedicated to former Australian cricket player Martin Love.

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(With apologies, again, to David Bowie)

I catch a paper boy

But things don't really change
I'm standing in the wind
But I never wave bye-bye
But I try, I try
There's no sign of life
It's just the power to charm
I'm lying in the rain
But I never wave bye-bye
But I try, I try
Never gonna fall for

Martin Love - walks beside me
Martin Love - walks on by
Martin Love - gets me to the church on time
Church on time - terrifies me
Church on time - makes me party
Church on time - puts my trust in god and man
God and man - no confessions
God and man - no religion
God and man - don't believe in Martin Love

It's not really work
It's just the power to charm
I'm still standing in the wind
But I never wave bye bye
But I try, I try

Martin Love - walks beside me
Martin Love - walks on by
Martin Love - gets me to the church on time
Church on time - terrifies me
Church on time - makes me party
Church on time - puts my trust in god and man
God and man - no confessions
God and man - no religion
God and man - don't believe in Martin Love

Martin Love - Martin Love (x12)
Martin Love - Martin Love, walks beside me
Martin Love - Martinn love, walks on by

Pinioned by Opinion: prologue

2014-02-10T21:46:00.004+11:00

Following last week's pastiche of Gerard Henderson and Bob Ellis, the folk at Catalyst told me to re-tool slightly. Here follows a slighly broader version of that pastiche, titled Pinioned by Opinion, free with complimentary #hashtag, #sayyestoPBO

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The Farrow-Allen case is a sad private spectacle now playing out in the public sphere, and frankly I don’t want to hear any more about it. (John McQuaid, Forbes. 2/2)

So began the week when late Western capitalism (to use a favourite term of late) –or I—began cleaning long-abandoned cupboards—or re-reading half-remembered op-eds--where soused uncles—ah, I’m not going there—were found to speak truth to power about the ancient saying, ‘in vino veritas’, or, for those still not cognisant of English’s Latin roots, ‘in wine, there is truth’.

Welcome to Pinioned by Opinion, the weekly blog in which I’ll take a look at some of the most out-there comments and columns of the week (but probably not anything from the ‘Out There’ column, if it’s still running, by Baz Blakeney for the Herald Sun, which, as I recall, is actually mildly humourous and not at all ‘out there’).

Woody Allen has been the poster boy for psychotherapists for years, and when allegations emerged of Allen’s treatment towards family members—and let’s not kid ourselves by restricting the definition of family members to those with the same surname as a given person—views as large as the ‘Hollywood’ sign through which Allen has made his name surfaced. We’ll return to McQuaid shortly.

Everyone’s favourite executive director (and I speak of none other than Gerard Henderson of the Sydney Institute), got an article concerning (for the problem that it covers is concerning) the Allen affair published in the Australian. Mr Henderson (for a mister he is!) saw the matter face-to-face with allegations of child abuse in the Catholic Church. Whether abuse committed by organisations or individuals is worse is moot, but there seems to be a wider body of evidence about the Catholic Church’s activities than Allen’s. That is not to condone or exculpate the fact there is an allegation of such heinous activity, by the way.

McQuaid, who in his bio for Forbes says he writes about “dysfunctional America” (don’t we know a bit about that!), was the kind of article that pedants (no, pedants) prey on. Titled ‘No, You Don't Have To Have An Opinion About Woody Allen And Dylan Farrow’, McQuaid got nowhere fast with his argument that esteemed media organisations such as the one he is paid by shouldn’t be covering the story that he is being paid to cover. Or maybe he thinks Forbes should be the only esteemed media organisation to cover the story. Exclusivity, and all that.

(Nick Cater, eat your heart out.)

Certainly, we know Dylan Farrow wrote an open letter—the very nature of which is designed to be seen by as many people as humanly possible—in which she detailed her claims. Logically speaking, McQuaid is saying Farrow should have kept quiet. Blaming the alleged victim is such a fantastic way [sarcasm font] for a putatively impartial observer to make a point.

For those playing at home: the easiest and most effective way for McQuaid to make his point would have been to not make it at all. But, as McQuaid writes:

the toxic mix of celebrity and molestation charges is irresistible to the media. We can’t look away. Even if we do, the moment we look back there’s some new bit of news or commentary about the case.

So McQuaid is simply compelled to use some of his ‘valuable editorial space’ to write about it, which over-rides any complaints he has about the whole affair. He’s just doing his job, I’m guessing.

From that we turn to testosterone in teenage boys. For The Daily Telegraph, Clare Masters, who would have so much first-hand experience about the topic, decides to lead with an anecdote about smashing a car—probably a worn-out bush basher—that, later on in the piece, Masters reckons doesn’t have to be that soul-destroying:the utter destruction of cars can be a positive exercise if the destroyers are then taught how to put the pieces back together.

Why Masters would think that teenage boys who have gone to the effort to destroy the car with ‘bats and concrete blocks’ would then go on to ‘put the pieces back together’ is beyond me. But then, I’m not a mother of two young boys, so I wouldn’t know about the psychology of teenage boys.

Masters gives us a clue as to what she thinks of the topic she’s writing about:

As the mother of two young boys I frequently come across the sympathetic eyebrow-raise of the

stranger who usually spouts off the very unoriginal: "you've got your hands full don't you?”

Unoriginality is more honoured in the breach than in the observance, and the piece is riddled with more clichés than an exposition on lateral thinking by Edward de Bono. The article (which comes to the tame conclusion that parents are responsible for whether their young boys turn into malevolent, shiv-wielding gangsters in Kings Cross and King St) has no relevance and hardly any timeliness (Barry O’Farrell’s new pub laws are briefly mentioned). What have we learnt?

Lastly, in this first dispatch, I would like to address Helen Razer’s leggings.

That sounds incredibly creepy. Let me try again. Helen Razer took issue with an article on leggings as revolutionary object or something-or-other. To me, the article was extraneous guff but Razer decided to live-Tweet the thing. It was decent sport on Sunday evening now that the cricket’s finished, and definitely a better option than the Winter Olympics. Enjoy.

You can suggest op-eds for Cameron to cover, and/or abuse him, on Twitter at @Cameron_Magusic.

Hellisian Fields: a Pastiche of Bob Ellis and Gerard Henderson

2014-02-06T20:58:00.002+11:00

Happy New Year! (If the year starts in February.)

I proposed to the cool cats at Catalyst that I do a weekly pastiche of the ~~comedic stylings~~ earnest thoughts of two of Australia's most ~~laughed at~~ loved analysts of politics, Gerard Henderson and Bob Ellis.

They've responded by asking me to do something a bit broader, which in any case should be available at the Catalyst website each week.

The following is what I would have posted. Admire my PVO-like centrism! Laugh at my witty in-jokes!

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Welcome, inner-city sandalista comrades, to the first (and hopefully not the last) post of “Hellisian Fields”, a suppository of the wisdom that Gerard Henderson and Bob Ellis post each week, respectively, on “Media Watch Dog” (which, as the author Henderson reminds us in each edition, was begun one year before the ABC’s “Media Watch” program) and “Table Talk: Bob Ellis on Film and Theatre”, in which the eponymous author more often than not strays from his brief and instead gives us his, ah, unique (and probably defamatory) insights on politics, with more than a touch of reductio ad Hitlerum.

The week got off to a bang., Mr Ellis was fervently putting word to screen, in a screed that continued from previously on the theme of Adam Goodes’ worthiness as Australian of the Year. Wrote Mr Ellis:

It would be good to know how many Indigenous notables were offered the prize of Australian of the Year and, not wanting to be so acclaimed on what their people now know as Invasion Day, turned it down.

Notwithstanding his attempt at divisiveness, and he even refers to the selection of Goodes as ‘divisive’ on what should be a harmonious day, three of the five Indigenous notables he names as examples in the next paragraph have already won Australian of the Year.

Is Adam Goodes the youngest recipient of the award, Mr Ellis asks? Nope, swimmer Shane Gould got the gong at 16 years of age, less than half the age Adam Goodes is now. Among sportspeople who won the award, of whom there are 14 awardees, Goodes is older than the average age of 31-and-a-bit-years-old.

Mr Henderson (for a mister he is!), meanwhile, was not as attentive towards Australia Day. His only concern was “The Lair of Liverpool” (Mark Latham) and an op-ed Latham apparently wrote for the Australian Financial Review titled “Why I back losers”. Mr Henderson (for a mister he is!) took this (I think) to be a subtle dig at what Mark Textor recently called “a fine publication”. Mr Henderson’s bon mot of choice was a sarcastic, “brilliant”.

The canning of SPC Ardmona was an issue (sorry, “problem” as the esteemed Dr Castillo, formerly of RMIT, would want me to say) that grabbed the attention of both subjects of this blog. Mr Henderson (for a mister he is!) highlighted its importance in relation to a critique of a critique by Erik Jensen, editor of the nascent Saturday Paper. Mr Henderson (for a mister he is!), as expert as he is on the antagonistic Democratic Labor Party of Bob Santamaria’s era, believed Jensen had made a mistake of how the DLP would have responded to the whole iss… sorry, problem. Wrote Mr Henderson:

Erik Jensen, following David Marr, uses the term “DLP” as a soft way of alleging improper and irrational Catholic influence and reminding an audience of Tony Abbott’s social conservatism which apparently so upsets him.

The whole Henderson-Marr argument is as messy as the canned produce that SPC will produce for not that much longer, but suffice to say Mr Henderson knows more about Catholic influence in Australian politics than anyone else will care to admit, or to admit caring about.

Mr Ellis devoted significantly more copy to the SPC problem. Using the same analogy he did when the vexed Holden affair came up late last year, Ellis suggested that for the price of a drink that Helen Razer believes is no longer an indicator of the middle class anyway (i.e. the latte, or the cappuccino, according to Mr Ellis), taxpayers could prevent both Shepparton from ‘going to the wall’ and Victorian Premier Denis Napthine losing power in November. The inability to take action and instead stick to ‘fundamentalist lunacy’ by ‘purblind fanatics’ is termed the ‘Abbott-Friedman-Hayek’ doctrine by Mr Ellis.

Mr Ellis proposes, then, that a ‘government of all the talents’–a reference either to William Grenville or Gordon Brown–be formed by Bill Shorten, Bob Katter, Ian Macfarlane, Malcolm Turnbull and Adam Bandt “and test its numbers on the floor of the House”. Given that the acronym for Mr Ellis’ formulation is GOAT, Internet slang for “greatest of all time”, then surely those names provide a clue to Mr Ellis’ faves in the House.

Asylum seekers were also at the forefront, or the coalface, or something, of the minds of both Mr Ellis and Mr Henderson (for a mister he is!). The scuttlebutt that Navy officers maltreated asylum seekers moved Mr Ellis to call last week the worst in Tony Abbott’s prime ministership. Abbott has a long way to go yet, indeed. Mr Ellis goes on to lambast the Foreign Minister and call the Immigration Minister’s intelligence and/or sanity into question. This leads into a discussion (a separate article, would you believe) of how Minister Morrison is a “Christian terrorist”, even though, by Mr Ellis’ own admission, the word “terrorist” has no meaning. In an Orwellian masterstroke, he then calls for ‘terrorist’ to be ‘expunged from the language’.

Mr Ellis’ inspiration for this think piece was, by the way, the films ‘Olympus Has Fallen’ and ‘White House Down’. Discuss.

Mr Ellis thought to come up with a neologism, ‘scottmobbledigook’, which came to his mind after listening to Tony Eastley interview Morrison (which Mr Ellis helpfully transcribes) on AM. Evidently ‘stonewalling’ is not sufficiently a new enough term to denote exactly what Morrison can apparently do pretty well: give as little specific information as possible so that none apart from the Government is kept in the loop.

Mr Henderson (for a mister he is!) was more, ah, direct with his take on the affair. Responding to Jenna Price in The Canberra Times, who threatened to send tampons to Scott Morrison, he asked whether she had sent tampons to the Rudd/Gillard/Rudd governments. Public disclosure, you know.

Most memorably, Mr Ellis launches on what is, apparently, his 79^th iteration of a defence of Craig Thomson. Even though Thomson and his legal team might have responded with “Thanks, but no thanks”, Mr Ellis gives us an informative insight into the record-keeping methods of brothels–following which is a non sequitur directed at Christopher Pyne.

“It isn’t Dreyfus”, Mr Ellis admits, but it sure beats ‘Leave Britney alone’. Either way, Craig Thomson will continue to provide plenty of copy, and not just for Mr Ellis.

And so it goes. Keep morale high, comrades.

WDCA Leader articles, 2013

2013-12-19T18:10:00.000+11:00

Here follows a collection of articles I wrote for local news publisher Leader Newspapers on the Williamstown and District Cricket Association, a local cricket league in the western suburbs of Melbourne, Australia. They are week-by-week updates on the match of the round and a summary of the round itself. Sometimes I was asked to provide both, and other times I wrote just a summary. I am providing my copy without changes made by subs.

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Colts canter to outright contention

20/10/13

WILLIAMSTOWN Colts have placed themselves in contention for an outright victory after the first day of their encounter with Bellbridge at Greenwich Reserve on Saturday.

The Colts declared at 8/223 with 14 overs to go in their innings. Avinash Mehla top-scored with 59 at about a run a ball.

Williamstown’s batsmen seemed to struggle in spite of the mild conditions, with the Colts limping to 3/117 at tea.

Bellbridge’s bowlers could have had at least one more wicket, with Mehla being dropped when he was on four and six.

The Colts picked up the pace after the break, with Mehla and Tarlok Sangha, who made 41, putting on a partnership of 97 runs.

Mehla brought up his half-century in style, moving back and across to send a ball to the cover boundary.

“I love my batting down there – it was an uneven bounce down there but I took my time and then I played my shots,” he said.

Andrew Wilks was the pick of the bowlers for Bellbridge, with the captain taking 4/37 for his side. He said his performance was due to hard work and discipline.

With only 11 overs’ play left at the end of the day, caution was Bellbridge’s watchword, scoring at just one run an over.

Perhaps it was too cautious, with Steve Keelart being trapped in front for not many, off the bowling of Sangha.

Play resumes next week.

IN other results, Williamstown Congs are on the chase after opponent Melton South was bowled out for 246.

Tristan Francis was dismissed one run short of a century, while Blake Ivory made a solid 52.

Gellibrand made 255 in 79.3 overs against Williamstown Imperials in an innings that included ten byes.

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Lower-order scarper saves Bellbridge from outright loss

27/10/13

TWO wickets and an unlikely lower-order partnership were all that stood between Williamstown Colts and an outright victory in their victory over Bellbridge.

On an afternoon where drizzle and sun interchanged more freely than an AFL side, the Colts bowled the guests for 106 in the first innings, chasing 224.

Tarlok Sangha grabbed the spoils for the Colts, taking 5/33. Nathanael Ward also joined in on the fun, taking 3/32.

Not a lot can be said for the Bellbridge innings, the highlights of which included 16 from Ben Powell and 15 from Steven Nolan.

Bellbridge’s second innings was no better, with the side slumping to 3/21 after 11 overs and then 5/46 before the inevitable fightback occurred.

Scott Walker and Adam Crosswell, who made the third-highest score in the first innings with 12, formed an undefeated partnership of 37 runs, helping to deny the Colts four extra points.

Crosswell top-scored with 27 – Ward and Sangha were the destroyers yet again with 4/22 and 4/26 respectively – while Lee Blake made 16.

Bellbridge ended up on 8/86, still 32 runs short of the Colts’ total. Bellbridge captain Andrew Wilks blamed undisciplined shots on a sticky wicket.

“Probably a few loose shots in the first innings made things a little difficult. The guys stuck at it pretty well when we six down for not many,” he said.

Colts coach John Callus heaped praise on his side’s performance, saying they’re looking forward to next week’s away clash with Gellibrand.

IN other results, Melton South defeated Williamstown Congs and Gellibrand beat Williamstown Imperials.

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GU steams to one-day victory

3/11/13

GRAND United has entrenched its lead at the top of the WDCA ladder after a strong win over cellar-dwellers Williamstown Congs on Saturday.

The hosts defeated the Congs by six wickets in the first of two consecutive one-day rounds at Parsons Reserve.

GU took 27 overs to reach the target of 113 set by the Congs, with wicket-keeper Dillon Hinge top-scoring in the chase with 42.

GU captain Glenn Sullivan said everything went right for his side. He also played down his bowling performance, taking 4-30.

“The boys are batting well, bowling well, everybody’s doing their job. It’s very pleasing.

“It’s always nice to come and get the cheap ones at the end to get the tail out, but the boys set it up well.”

The Congs started off well, making 1-59 at drinks. Opener Darren Murcott made the most of being dropped three times, top-scoring with 50.

Left-hand spinner Luke Johnson ended his run, dismissing Murcott after dropping him earlier in the over. Murcott scored a match-high 64-run partnership with Ben Cusick.

The juice seemed to run out after drinks, with the Congs progressing at a rate of around two runs an over to finish with 9-113.

Congs captain Matthew Leach said he knew he total wasn’t enough.

“I’m a little bit disappointed. We knew we needed another 30 or 40 to have a crack at it.”

GU takes on Melton Centrals in Melton next week, and the Congs face frontrunners Williamstown Colts at home.

In other results, Gellibrand blitzed Williamstown Colts at Digman Reserve. The home side won by 82 runs, with under-17 player Callum Caiger taking five wickets for Gellibrand.

St Johns remain winless after being defeated by West Newport at Loft Reserve. The home side reached the target of 113 in 24 overs.

In the Melton derby, Melton Centrals won by six wickets over Melton South, with Matthew Murphy (3-10) instrumental in restricting the visitors to 95 all out.

Bellbridge continued its unlucky run, losing to Williamstown Imperials by 47 runs despite Martin Ritchie making 71 for the visitors.

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Colts clamber into top four in cross-town victory

9/11/13

FOR the second time in two weeks, Williamstown Congs have set a target score that has been easily reached by their opponents.

In the final WDCA A-Turf one-day round until January next year, Williamstown Colts defeated the Congs by four wickets after winning the toss and bowling.

On an afternoon when blustery southerlies ruined otherwise good conditions, the Congs were determined to post a big total, progressing to 1-77 by drinks.

Vice-captain Matthew Leach worked with Darren Murcott in a 44-run partnership. Murcott looked in dangerous form before being trapped in front by Robert Harb.

Pitching the ball up on a consistent basis helped to create the best bowling analysis of the game, said Harb, who returned figures of 4-13.

“All I did was pretty much pitch the ball up. Bowling short on this wicket was what the other guys did – that’s what I changed up.”

A middle-order collapse, this time brought about by Harb and Abhilash Shauma, is to be addressed at training again, Congs captain Troy Stanchinotti said after the match.

“It’s just disappointing. Taking nothing away from the Colts, they bowled in the right areas and we just played stupid shots.”

Given that the Colts chased down 145 in 35 overs against flag favourites West Newport in round two, 127 never really looked enough.

The Colts fell to 3-22, but Shauma and Sandeep Mahendru accumulated a 52-run partnership to put the match beyond doubt. The visitors reached the target in 34 overs.

Elsewhere, Bellbridge (9-172) pulled off a shock victory against West Newport (9-171cc) with two spare overs. Gellibrand (9-197cc) recorded a 100-run victory over Melton South (97) in Melton.

Grand United (9-156cc) looks in dangerous form, routing Melton Centrals (51) by 105 runs. The game between St Johns and Williamstown Imperials was abandoned.

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WDCA juniors miss out on win

10/11/13

The WDCA has made a disappointing start to the Neil Wright U21 Shield, losing to the North Metro Cricket Association in a thriller at Melbourne University.

Winning the toss and batting first in the first of three ‘home-and-away’ matches, comprising 40 overs a side, the boys in yellow and blue scored 5-168.

The total was not enough, with the visitors hitting the target with two balls to go.

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Saturday’s WDCA A-Turf matches were abandoned due to pitches not being prepared in time, according to WDCA senior administrator Bill Taylor.

The matches in A-Turf, B-Turf and Composite that were to be played as two-day games will be played as one-day fixtures next week.

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Centrals see red as Gellibrand grasps win

IN conditions that encapsulated Melbourne in Spring, Gellibrand (9-135) pulled off a wondrous one-wicket victory over WDCA A-Turf contenders Melton Centrals (132) at Digman Reserve on Saturday.

Gellibrand captain Ash Fine was exuberant after his side’s win, saying his young bowlers stood up when they needed to be counted.

“We lost five really quick wickets and we had two 16-year-olds batting at the end who put on about 20 for the ninth wicket.

“I just think it was a good game of cricket. I reckon there’s not much between the sides – we were lucky enough to win.”

Gellibrand sent in Centrals, bowling Melton to 1-0 after the first over and then 3-58 in 18 overs, before a downpour delayed play.

The visitors composed themselves, scoring more than double their total at the break to be bowled out for 132 in the revised maximum of 35 overs.

Gellibrand’s response looked measured, with the Williamstown-based club 3-61 and in control at drinks – before playing coach Matthew Murphy (4-18) had other ideas, reducing Gellibrand to 8-116.

Callum Caiger (11 not out) hung in with the tail, but it was appropriate that captain and number 11 Fine (seven not out) hit the winning runs.

Murphy seemed despondent after the match, saying his side’s poor batting performance overshadowed his own bowling figures. He refused to allow that bad luck determined the result.

“I think we lost the match on the batting side of it – too many cheap wickets. A lot of work at training (will be done).”

Elsewhere, the matches between Grand United and West Newport, Melton South and Williamstown Colts and Bellbridge and St Johns were abandoned because of the inclement conditions.

Intermittent rain also pulled the plug on the match between Williamstown Congs (4-184cc) and Williamstown Imperials (3-111) at Fearon Reserve. The sides receive three points each.

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Colts set up cracker day two

THREE wickets from Nathaniel Ward (3-35) have helped Williamstown Colts to stop West Newport (238) from making a big total in round seven of the WDCA A-Turf competition.

Bellbridge will look for economical bowling and tight bowling on day two of its match against Williamstown Congs at KC White Reserve. Ben Powell’s 50 (56) was a highlight.

The WDCA (50) suffered an embarrassing 10-wicket loss to the Box Hill Reporter District Cricket Association (0-52) last weekend in the second round of the Neil Wright U21 Shield.

After winning the toss and batting first at Harry Trott Oval in St Kilda, the WDCA capitulated to be all out for 50 in 21.1 overs.

Box Hill reached the target with more than 30 overs to spare.

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Colts’ Phillips gallops to high score

7/12/13

WILLIAMSTOWN Colts opener Will Phillips made a WDCA A-Turf season high score of 177 to help his side (5-243) win by five wickets over West Newport (238) on Saturday.

Over at Fearon Reserve, Michael Pisani’s knock of 78 for Melton South PSCC (162) was not enough for the guests, which lost by 57 runs to Williamstown Imperials (219).

Gellibrand (88 and 8-123cc) came perilously close to a defeat in the second innings against Grand United (204) at Parsons Reserve.

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Murcott makes magic, again

DARREN Murcott (48) again came to the rescue of Williamstown Congs (140) on day one of round eight WDCA A-Turf action against West Newport (6-81) on Saturday.

Gellibrand (9-251cc) was the only team to complete their allotted 80 overs, against St Johns – including a 95-run partnership between Shaun Buttigieg-Clarke (50) and Nicholas Keating (40).

Grand United (1-63) looks set on outright victory against Melton South PSCC (98). Luke Fox (4-20) and Glenn Sullivan (4-23) were the destroyers for the Gorillas.

European sabbatical

2013-12-08T19:23:00.000+11:00

I went to Europe for five weeks earlier this year, and so I thought I would follow in the footsteps of a legion of uncreative writers and document my experiences. Read it or don't, the choice is yours.

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"How was Europe"

"Pretty good; full of wogs though"

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Europe seems an austere place, in more than one sense: apart from the obvious, fiscal meaning, it is not for nothing that antipodean continents such as America and Australia are labelled young countries compared to the home of Julius Caesar, Napoleon, Beethoven and Churchill, inter alia.

So it seems the obvious destination for a second-year journalism student, at one of the leading J-schools in the country, to take five weeks off from everything (albeit during a semester break) and in the words of his dear, beloved grandmother, "Have a look around".

I could write this piece in a fashion similar to my primary-school recounts of how I spent the preceding two-week school holiday: a list detailing how I spent each day, replete with photographs proving, if the reader for some reason decided to be particularly pedantic, that, yes, I actually did see the Arc of Triomphe and they do in actual fact make gelatos in Rome just like anywhere else - i.e. quickly, on the cheap and with very little patience.

But there is no need to bore the hypothetical reader or even myself.

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The airport, as the start and end point of a journey, allows for so many experiences: the carting around of insanely heavy and uncomfortable pieces of luggage; the acquisition of cheap cologne and liquor (au contraire, George Costanza, the duty-free store is not "the biggest sucker deal in retail"); the ability to put your own objects on the dangerous goods conveyor belt and explain hastily what that obscure cord is - one wonders why more of us don't do the Edward Snowden Travel Package and just stay in an airport for a month.

Look, airports suck (except for the whole duty-free thing). You arrive there three hours early, get paranoid about the weight limit and then meander around before coming to a halt at your gate where you sit on lumbago-inducing chairs next to Loud iPod Man and Extremely Lax Parents and Their Children. Those who know me and are, for whatever reason, reading this know I'm not a sweary person but I seem to have come back cursing "Rort!" constantly, which I blame on airports and their associated asinine qualities.

Writer Alain de Botton spent a week at an airport, documented in a book called A Week at the Airport. Full of effusiveness and endearment, which can be explained only through the fact that he himself was not flying, de Botton wrote:

Had one been asked to take a Martian to visit a single place that neatly captures the gamut of themes running through our civilisation – from our faith in technology to our destruction of nature, from our interconnectedness to our romanticising of travel - then it would have to be to the departures and arrivals halls that one would head.

Sure, the work is full of projection, but we shall forgive Monsieur de Botton because he managed to articulate just how damn necessary the place is.

The fact of the matter is that Melbourne International Airport, whence this writer departed, is a shambles that really ought to be improved on. Why? The simple reason that there is no train line there is a joke, and one that indubitably pleases the operators of the rort-worthy car park to no end. Even Athens, a city that doesn't even have safe drinking water from the tap and a place that badly needs to lrn2finance, has a train line direct.

The simple answer as far as Melbourne is concerned (Tullamarine, really, and the only people happy about where the airport is located are my good friends in Sunbury and Broadmeadows, and not even they are happy about having to live in Sunbury and Broadmeadows) is to just buy out the taxi lobby so they can stop whingeing about actually doing their job (you can't actually make people take longer journeys than they need to) and spend more time picking drunkards off King Street.

So I don't like airports that much, except for the duty-free shops, obviously.

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[It may be helpful to you, dear reader, and me if I hereunder reminisce about the countries I visited in the order that I visited them]

Malta: Landing at Luqa Airport just outside the capital, Valletta, I was ready to start the trip of a lifetime after 20 hours spent listening to David Bowie and a Flight of the Conchords mockumentary and watching, among other titles, Fourth Estate, a jernalism movie that seemed to drink the Kool-Aid a bit much.

I don't know how many airport scenes from '70s films that you can remember off the top of your head, but imagine an airport where you can park basically outside the departures before waiting for your guests to arrive - an impossibility at Melbourne, Heathrow, Charles de Gaulle and JFK, right? Not at Luqa, albeit it was Sunday afternoon and it seemed the majority of Maltese people were at the beach.

[A funny story about Luqa: when checking in at Melbourne, I was questioned as to which airport in Malta I wanted my bags sent to. Naturally curious as my itinerary, which I presented, clearly stated Luqa as my final destination, I was informed that there was a heliport in Gozo, a half-second of enthusiasm passed through me (a closer final destination, not bad) before I was again informed that this heliport had closed down, who knows when. Good stuff, peeps at unnamed airline. Oh, and also my bags nearly got sent to Maitland airport in the US, in whichever state, because of the similarity of airport codes. A fun start to the trip.]

I stayed in Malta for two weeks with my family (which makes sense given that I'm half-Maltese) in Gozo, a hop, skip and a jump away from the Maltese mainland and about 4km from Sicily, according to my uncle, who says "on the line" à la Vince Vaughn from The Interns.

Gozo is... interesting. If you've expected fun and gay abandon, you've come to the wrong place. If you've expected sites of historical significance, you've come to the wrong place. (Although in an unexpected instance of Euroirony, you can loiter at a place called Ġgantija (meaning "gigantic" although the thing-in-itself is actually quite small; yes I know the G with the dot above it looks weird – Maltese is a weird language, get used to it), a stone dwelling thing apparently predating Stonehenge or something.)

What can one do there? Maybe go to the beach; not sure really. There was one beach down the road from where I was staying, and when I mean down the road I mean walking down (and back up) an almost vertical slope (I don't know the grade, get a surveyor for that) to San Blas beach, and it's arguably not worth the effort. Small and without proper hygienic facilities, the authorities haven't done themselves any favours by cordoning off the sea after about 100m to make more room for the rich bastards on boats. Sure, you can just slip under the rope, and it's not like any lifeguards will be there to stop you from doing so, but it's the thought that counts and in this case annoys me.

As far as nightlife goes, my time in Gozo wasn't the highlight. Usually it consisted of going for ice-cream and a beer (Cisk Lager, which is very much worth your while if you're in the vicinity) with my aunty, as my cousin was flustered from work during the day and my uncle was watching TV (?) or napping (?). I don't mean to sound ungrateful as I was fed, sheltered and had my clothes washed for two weeks for the price of being a family member who comes to visit who hasn't been seen for a long time. So, basically, nothing.

[I know bars are meant to have stupid and unthinking names and I know Malta has a major England fetish but one venue I remember passing by was the Glory of England bar. Plenty of Kool-Aid served in there, I imagine.]

Touristy thing in the morning, lunch at home, San Blas beach, then out visiting somewhere at night: that was my routine in Malta. Routine on holiday is interesting: it can help to guard against anxiety, but it can stifle spontaneity and the freedom that comes with being somewhere you've never been before.

I spent two days in Valletta, both of which with my Mum, who spent a week with me in Malta, which I enjoyed so much. Two days is about as long as you need to see Valletta, but the irritating thing was the length of time it took to get there. To understand the problem, consider the following: my aunty was perfectly happy to drive about Gozo, but didn't want to drive on the mainland. (Her dislike of, or uninterest in, the mainland and Valletta in particular was so apparent that, on arriving in the capital she handed me a touristy map (you know the ones) and told me to tell her and Mum where to go, in a nice way of course.) So after the ferry (which took half an hour and had an unnecessarily loud safety message) we caught the bus, which took an hour and a half to arrive in Valletta.

(Notwithstanding the fact that public transport is a virtual monopoly in Malta: the (very) necessary ferry between Gozo and Malta and the (not quite as) necessary bus network is run by the same company. There are no trains, which were apparently decommissioned in the '70s for reasons that I am unaware, but probably had something to do with, y'know, lack of space. Plans to build a bridge or a tunnel or something between Gozo and Malta have apparently been in fruition since the '70s, which makes me reflect that not only were the '70s a highly creative period due to the fungi that was flavour of the month at the time but also that were one constructing a history on Maltese public transport in the twentieth century – a highly absorbing prospect, indeed – one would concentrate on the '70s as a central point of the narrative. It also makes me reflect that the (fantastic) idea to build a bridge (a literal one, obviously) between Melbourne and Tasmania, as raised on one particular episode of Q&A and praised effusively by panellist David Marr, will literally never happen.)

So Valletta was all right. A few particular moments stick in the brain: one was getting the fantastic concept dish of "pizza pie" (a pizza, but in a pie!) for lunch (it shows how noteworthy the place was) and, during a demonstration of ancient cannon at the Upper Barrakka Gardens, how many times the demonstrator kept plugging Tour Advisor. Publicity is one thing, but really, this guy kept going at it. A few museums, a few tours, a few churches: that's about it for Valletta.

One night in Malta itself with more extended family, most of it spent losing money at a casino that requires to sign up to a seven-year membership card on entry, before literally getting up before dawn the next day to head thence to London.

****

London (yes, I know it's not a country but it's not like I went anywhere else in the UK): Two weeks with family while on holiday is enough for anyone to long for the company of reasonably like-minded and like-aged people. The best I got in this regard was my brother, Douglas, and his girlfriend, Jade.

The plan was to meet up at the hotel in Lancaster Gate (opposite Hyde Park, but more on that next paragraph) because of our different flights to Heathrow (I was flying from Malta, obviously, while D and J flew from miserable Melbourne because of D's exams, which I, fortunately, did/do not have. God save RMIT, for once). While I waited in my room watching crappy Sunday arvo telly (so many channels, including one dedicated to showing old game shows, but most of the content seemed ripped off from the Beeb), I had the Bejesus scared out of me by the "hotel", with a sign in the room saying a series of thefts had occurred in the last few months and guests were advised to store all valuables with reception. I would have stored my whole suitcase, but the receptionist (arguably from somewhere on the Continent) bargained me down to passport and non-GBP cash.

Hyde Park, as previously mentioned, was in the vicinity and I took partially-full advantage by strolling in the summer sun. Families lounging, couples bird watching, an amateur soccer match being played and a random archer practising: all seen in one of the biggest parks in the world. I visited the Kensington Palace museum, then holding an exhibition on Queen Victoria; a place that would be known the world over a few weeks after that as the home of new parents the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (the palace itself and not the museum, obviously).

A few thoughts about the little I got to see of Britain: authorities tend to spell out public service messages, although, even though I don't see it myself, a British friend informs me we do the same thing at home.

On a different note, it seems Australians, inasmuch as they still look up to the "mother country", are aspiring to a false image. London, and maybe not the whole of Britain, seems more European than British, if that makes any sense. What I mean is that far from being in "splendid isolation", London looks to Brussels and farther east (a sore point for many) instead of itself for inspiration. I tender that how Australians relate to London is different, and vastly so, than do Londoners. Then again, when one is half a world away (a notion surprisingly quaint in this world of near-instantaneous communication) from something, one tends to have false perceptions of that thing.

Other London quirks: Trafalgar Square was holding a Canada Day (which had round-robin matches of grass ice hockey) on the day we visited; if you can find Greek Street (near the West End and next to Bankruptcy Street), check out the abysmally small cheesecake shop that reputedly has the world's best cheescake shop that, in reality, was all right; and, I got hay fever from travelling around all day. Poor me.

****

For the next 17 days, I went on a tour of a decent amount of Western Europe with Contiki and D and J in tow. This tour, shared with 50 others, while ostensibly starting in London really kicked off in Paris and ended, for us, in Athens. Yes, there was alcohol and a spread of (airborne) communicable diseases (which was a sticking point in my post-tour evaluation - the communicable diseases, that is, not the alcohol, obviously), but, eh, a good time was had by all, including yours truly, which is a rare occurrence to the point of being almost extinct. Oh, and Dover, lift your game next time so people can actually see your White Cliffs instead of being all foggy. (As if to prove my point, heavy fog was blamed for a recent Kent pile-up involving 120 cars.) Anyway, gay Paree is where it really started.

****

We were caught up and lost in all of our vice

In your pose as the dust settled around us - Bastille, "Pompeii"

The theme song to my 17 days on a coach with people at least as equally crazy as I, as hard as that may be to believe, "Pompeii" serves adequately (damn pop music etc.) as a memento of my time with many Aussies (most from Sydney, some from Perth, a few banana benders plus several from Radelaide and several Melburnians, including one who, while a few years older than me, lives in the same suburb and went to the same primary school as I), some Canadians (who obviously are more awesome than Americans), two Saffas (both of whom smoked about a million darts a day) and a pair of Brazilians. So, my cosmopolitan credentials have been proven, obviously.

Not to sound ungracious (again; it may be easier if I drop the pretence altogether), but part of the attraction that this tour had in my mind in the days and weeks before departure was the possibility of leaving Australiana. It's not like I could anyway: downtime at aunty's house in Gozo, when admittedly it was too hot to do anything productive outside, was usually spent on her laptop checking out the news from Oz (especially when #Ruddmentum Mark II hit the fan), so it was not like I was isolating myself from my home country, however much my ego wanted me to.

In any case, I was reminded of Manolis, a Greek migrant, from Christos Tsiolkas' The Slap. The reader is informed that, to his inestimable frustration, the elderly Manolis "had left his damn village a lifetime ago, sailed across the globe to escape it, but the village had come with him". This doesn't make Manolis a wannabe hipster - his frustration has more to do with a completely justifiable wish to escape the parochialism and provincialism that comes with staying in one place for an extended period of time. Further, when he has the chance to "escape" his hometown - in the suburbs of Athens, perhaps, or near the Corfu waterfront – when he becomes one of so many to undertake one of the most significant mass migration schemes in recent history, he discovers to his abject horror that the lottery of life has thrown him in Melbourne's outer suburbs, not with austere and aloof Britons or frisky Frenchmen, but instead with cousins of cousins from Igoumenitsa and friends of acquaintances and acquaintances of friends from Sparta and Lesbos, respectively.

Oh well. At least I had some people to talk about the AFL with. And I do remember a somewhat inebriated critique of Channel 7's footy commentators, of which even a brief summary posted online could see me slapped with a defamation suit.

One thing I will say is that Contiki managed to keep up the good cheer on the coach throughout the trip, due primarily due to a game that the tour manager came up with called Coach Karaoke. The mechanics of the game were simple enough (anyone who arrived on the coach late had to sing a song off their MP3 on the coach mic but with earphones on) and one which I was fortunate enough to avoid (except for a lousy rendition of "Come On Eileen" during a slightly anarchic game of Coach Olympics that included, among other things, a bra, the 1980 Olympics and the TV show, "Frasier").

****

Paris: Interesting place, not my most enjoyed. One reason I feel this way is everyone seemed a little tense – Paris seemed to be the calm before the storm permanently. This probably had something to do with the Francophone’s frustratingly frumpy attitude to the English language – no native there speaks English [obviously, if I knew how to write "speaks English" in French – and I'm not trusting Google Translate for a second – I would have done so] and I recall that even in Malta, as dear mother and I were touring the island of Comino, which was my To the Lighthouse moment, Mum encountered a French woman and started speaking to her (my mum would probably make small talk with Jack the Ripper) before the interlocutor hastily replied, "Français, Français." The conversation would have been comically incomprehensible had I not been there to translate the comments. I guess half a millennium or however long it is of mutual loathing tends to put a stopper to learning of the other culture. But, Anglo people learning French is not uncommon at all, so I don't know.

The other reason I didn't totally enjoy Paris is that ATMs (or Bankomats, as they are known throughout Europe, yet again showing Europe's legendary and formidable anti-Anglo bias) are highly scarce, which kind of sucks when gypsy credit card-scanning criminals are everywhere, or maybe I was being a little paranoid. But the point still stands.

I did all the touristy things, simply because I didn't have time to do anything else. One memorable moment was a boozy afternoon tea on the Champs-Élysées with D and J to celebrate D's birthday and another was seeing a cabaret show at Le Novelle Eve, a cheapo version of the Moulin Rouge, which basically was similar to the end sequence in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life, with the after party at an Irish bar, funnily enough.

One other thing to note is the amount of hawkers in Paris and other touristy spots. Being a particularly equanimous soul, I was not disturbed by them, but I thought their concentration to be somewhat distracting. The fact of the matter is they were to be found only in Paris, Venice (especially St Mark's Square), Florence and Rome. Part of the problem is that in these places, there is no need for regulation of these bastards. How many millions visit the "City of Light" or "La Cittá Eternale" in spite of these "criminals"? (That's a self-quote, by the way.) Therefore, the governments of these respective cities have no need to lock up these people when the tourism dollar is assured anyway, because of the Eiffel Tower and the Colosseum etc.

After two days and two nights of suchlike fun, it was off to Lucerne.

****

Lucerne: Easily the most scenic of all the places I visited. Lush mountains surround hospitable towns, and Lucerne is definitely hospitable. Even one night there has more serenity than Bonnie Doon or a stress-relieving saying.

Also on the itinerary was a climb up Mount Stanserhorn, located in the town of Stanserhorn. For me, this meant a walk around the town of Stanserhorn given that I was perhaps too spontaneous in packing for tour, which led to my forgetting to read all the guides about clothing from Contiki that got sent in the mail and are probably online as well. Oh well. Stanserhorn has a nice, um, clock tower and the waiter in the café spoke Italian, which was a nice surprise to a rudimentary parlante d'italiano such as myself, given that I was in a German-speaking canton. And I bought some nice letter openers: for myself and as a belated birthday present for D.

****

Thence we made our way towards Munich via Liechtenstein. Lunchtime in Vadur, the capital of Liechtenstein, made no promises of enjoyment and so the highlights there for me were, in the space of half an hour, chicken schnitzel, abstract sculptures of horses and hearing from the tour manager that the prince of Liechtenstein holds a party for all 33,000 of his citizens at his castle. Great.

****

Munich gave us way more value than the one night we stayed there for. Most of the night was spent at a beer hall, so it's good I still remember it. Because I rushed out of the hotel to avoid Coach Karaoke, I forgot to bring my map, so I also remember dashing madly through the streets of Munich, because I'd lost everybody at this massive hall, trying to find the coach back to the hotel. I seemingly found a Contiki bus, but, alas, it was not to be the right one. Our tour manager had advised us to look for the coach with a stuffed koala on the dash (apparently named after a previous tourist for possibly defamatory reasons), but when in a panic and more than a little inebriated, it didn't help.

It also was, for me at least, the most dynamic city of the tour. Why? A trip to Dachau concentration camp brought firmly to mind a few men's unfeasible hatred of and inhumanity towards other men, women and children, simply on the basis of religion. This was in the afternoon on the road to Austria, while the morning saw an amiable bike tour of the streets of Munich and the English Gardens - during the latter of which our North American hosts prompted us spontaneously to strip off and "swim" (more like hold on for dear life to the nearest bank) in the fast-flowing river therein. Not to complain, but this was possibly the cause of a nascent cough that turned into fever later in the trip.

****

Austria and The Netherlands: the twisted sisters compared to the maidenly Germany. It was only the former that I visited (much to the annoyance of a recent interlocutor, who chided me for not going to see the latter barely five minutes after I met him) but there is something derivative in visiting non-Germany Teutonic countries, in the same way, I guess, derivatives exist in visiting non-Britain English countries.

Anywho, we were staying in a place called Niederau in southern Austria, very much the European equivalent of whoop-whoop.

It wouldn't totally surprise if a support group for people inconvenienced by my actions has formed. Entry would be open to people who have had the misfortune to be in the same peak-hour train carriage as me, students sharing my tutes, and other poor souls who have had to periodically associate with me for an extended amount of time. And after my recent adventures, there would be cause for an Austrian chapter of the support group to form.

The cause of all this stems from a bike tour up some random mountain. Within the first five minutes my bike broke, arguably because my gear-changing wasn't top-notch. I got away with it in Munich, mainly because the ride was short and more or less flat, but when the chain snaps off the bike on a ride up a mountain, you had better hope you do it pretty much near a storage shed full of bikes with unsnapped chains. Which is what I did.

In so doing, I pissed off to no end one of the hosts, apparently named Niels but who to my mind looked more like a Klaus, which other people agreed with (they could have been serious). I don't know what it was, but this Niels/Klaus character had that kid-who's-left-too-long-in-the-basement look about him (the same as a few teachers at my secondary school). I made it to the top, not exactly King of the Mountain but thereabouts. Another guy in the group was struggling with his bike as well, so at least my schadenfreude was well-placed for once. I came out of the ride confirming my relative fitness as well as a new-found confidence in changing gears manually that extended to doing so in cars. Given the only time I've ever controlled a manual car in my four-year driving history is during an extremely controlled environment (with a driving instructor in a dual-controlled car in suburban streets during the middle of a weekday), it was a good thing I didn't come home with that rather irrational belief. It must have been the thin mountain air, or something.

The afternoon was spent at Salvenaland, a theme park of sorts that happened to be near us. The main attraction was the freshwater lake, replete with, um, fresh water and inflatable stuff.

Let's be honest, beaches are over-rated. Sand is so annoying and pebbles are even worse. And then you have to deal with salt water? And that's considered leisurely? What, for masochists? How extraordinary!

It is noteworthy that the final evening in Austria delivered some Melbourne-like weather. I, and most others in the group, planned to chill after the previous night's festivities. Doing so meant the splendid task of sink-washing clothes and drying them on the balcony. The plan seemed foolproof, except no one (at least not me) had counted on a short downpour drenching said clothes while we were all at dinner. In my defence, it was sunny and since I was away from Melbourne, it should have been logical to expect non-Melbourne – i.e. non-variable – weather. Well, I was wrong and the price I paid was the grand sum of three euros and waiting about a million hours for my clothes to dry from the one hotel dryer.

Oh well. At least I got to hear a funny story from one of my fellow travellers about the extremely dodgy hotel owner.

It would be amiss of me to not mention the Swarovski museum in Wattens, roughly 45 minutes away from where we were staying. Described by the tour manager as an LSD trip, the exhibits seemed only tangentially related to anything to do with crystals. Let me quote the abstract for the exhibit designed by Brian Eno:

One day Painting met Music and they fell in Love.

They had 55 million crystal children, all different from each other.

This work grows out of a place halfway between painting, which stands still in space, and music, which changes in time: it is an experience of change in four dimensions.

Always slowly changing: never quite still.

This is reminiscent of de Botton's rendering of a menu item, at his airport hotel, into haiku form:

Delicate field greens with sun-dried cranberries,

Poached pears, Gorgonzola cheese

And candied walnuts in a Zinfandel vinaigrette.

The Swarovski museum was fun overall, and even better still I just made it back in time to avoid Coach Karaoke.

It was thenceforth to Italy.

****

I have spent 12 years learning the Italian language. All right, some years were more important than others, but what I'm trying to do is build up the message that I've spent a fair amount of time communicating, or trying to communicate in the Italian language. As intimated previously, I tried to milk my knowledge, or more accurately what I remembered after one and a half years of not learning Italian, for all it was worth. This included when I was almost delirious with a cold in Rome (c/o that English Gardens cough) and at a bar outside Venice. Alcohol and a predilection for showing off never works out.

I spent six days in "Il Bel Paese": two near Venice, two in Florence and two in Rome.

****

Venice: Not the Californian locale, I found this place moderately enjoyable. We stayed just outside Venice in a place called Mestre, which apparently is a bit seedy – not that I experienced anything.

Of course I went on a gondola trip, and with five others we shared three bottles of prosecco during the ride. The person with whom I was sharing "our" bottle hardly took a sip and so I, brave soldier that I am, finished most of it. They say Venice is one of the most pick-pocketed cities in the world and I was more than a bit fortunate to retain all of my stuff, including my faculties.

I was a bit enthusiastic during the walkabout tour (again, to show off my Italian to the diminutive French tour guide) and the glass-blowing demonstration but it's not like I had a swim in the Rialto or anything.

Time-wasters included the Carlo Goldoni museum and making a mess at a gelato store. Dinner that evening was slightly special, due to the tour manager's instruction to buy genuine mass-manufactured Venetian masks and the tour manager herself giving an a cappella performance of some Italian song or other.

Also memorable was the inter-Contiki mini-confrontation that was had on the ferry between Venice and Mestre, like between the hero and the villain of a video game. Most of it is shadow-boxing and saber-rattling, and rarely does it become serious. I wasn't at the epicentre, but from reports apparently a few people on either side got a little testy – God knows what about. There were a few more sequels later on.

****

Florence: Definitely my most-enjoyed city, and definitely the place where I would choose to have a working holiday, if I were lucky enough to do so.

The only slightly dodgy thing about it was these weird afternoon showers that happened on both days of the tour. The sample size is of course far too small to make anything of it, but I do blame the inclement weather for damaging my camera, somehow.

The culture vulture in me lapped up the art and the history: hearing about the cradle of the Renaissance from a guy named Niccolò was almost too much to bear. I spent the best part of the afternoon wandering a decently-sized museum (not the Uffizi because I'm a cheapo) after some veal for luncheon.

Florence was definitely my shopping town: leather belts and boots (the latter with a 10% discount, after possibly pleasing the sales assistant with my half-decent Italian instead of being an lazy monolingual English speaker) along with souvenirs for friends back home made my credit card work out. The boots came after confusing a salesperson - whom I was asking for directions - when I confused the words for boots and scarves: "scarpe" and "sciarpe" respectively. I would be confuzzled too if someone asked me, during summer, for directions for the place where they sell men's scarves. If you happen to visit Florence as part of a Contiki tour, do see the Old Florence Leather Factory near the Santa Croce Church for that discount. The Santa Croce Church again stepped into the limelight when I told a beggar there (an old woman, but nonetheless to be regarded with suspicion) the Italian equivalent of "Bugger off". She probably put a curse on me or something, but whatevs.

On both nights in Florence most of the Contiki group went out. The first night was to a pseudo-karaoke bar. I use "pseudo" because the place had this absurd set-up where the karaoke happened on a platform where the DJ was, next to the dance floor.

Sure, I'm bitter and jaded because I didn't get the chance to expel my lungs, but only because what I hazily recall was a policy of no guys being allowed to sing.

Again, there was an inter-Contiki rendezvous, which my brother informed me was the best chance of accruing romantic dalliances. Obviously, nothing happened, which I blame for somewhat inebriated emotional breakdown later that night that also had to do with my burgeoning quarter-life crisis. Anyway.

The next night was more emotionally stable, with a group photo that, for me at least, is strangely symbolic of Salinger-esque alienation, dinner at some rural restaurant and then "dancing" back in town at a disco. The fact that Europeans use "disco" in a non-ironic sense was not lost on anyone in the group, and it certainly wasn't lost on American comedian Nick Kroll in his sketch show, Kroll Show.

There, I happened to encounter two lovely girls, originally of Radelaide, apparently, who in my mind were named Judith and Lucy. I say "in my mind" because the main ingredient in fostering connections in clubs, alcohol, or more specifically, vodkas with Red Bull, caused me to make the connection with their names and the comedian, namely Judith Lucy. They giggled when I stated this connection to them, so I could have been completely right or completely wrong. After a brief prelude where I introduced them to the members of the Contiki group – cue awkward nods – we went upstairs, to the second dance floor, where they disappeared into the ladies' bathroom.

I remember waiting what felt like half an hour for them to return. They didn't.

This was all to the good, however, with this event providing material for a joke next morning, viz., said girls were from, not Radelaide or even Adelaide but Badelaide instead. The joke didn't create the cacophony of laughter I expected, probably because everyone was too hungover.
It seems germane at this juncture to clarify some points. Given all the drinking I've mentioned – this is Contiki, after all – you, dear reader, have probably marked me down as an alcoholic and you probably will endeavour to get my name on the lists of recruitment agencies blacklisted. You will probably start a social media flame war designed to trash my good name on account of the fact that I had more bevvies than you in a 17-day period in July this year. Read the following paragraph so you don't have to waste valuable time and energy in doing so.

Let me be clear about the extent of my drinking: a) not once did I myself wake up with a hangover (and thus never considered "Hangover" by Taio Cruz ft. Flo Rida ft. not a lot of sense as an appropriate theme song for life (why is it that "Hangover" is so loud? Surely it would make sense for a song about a condition opposed to loud noises to not conceptually contradict itself. But that's pop music for you)) and b) not once did I wake up in some foreign place that I wasn't to be in, i.e. Romania instead of the booked hotel in Florence.

Stuff that up your windpipe, puritans.

It was thence to Rome, either "the eternal city" or "the open city" depending on your choice of referent.

****

It is literally impossible to avoid doing all the touristy things, or it is if you are in reasonably good health. I was not, due to a cold that I think came from a mixture of the swim in the English Gardens and the fact I was traveling in the same coach with the same 50 other people and breathing in the same air as them for an extended period of time.

The first day was not too bad, mainly because it consisted of short tours. I did feel messed up on the coach back to the hotel, and rounding up dirty clothes for the hotel service wash was more strenuous than it should have been.

I had signed up to two tours the next morning, and our starts were fairly demanding, if only for the fact that a lot of money had been paid for a chockers tour - I can't recall anyone making a major deal of a lack sleep besides the usual grumbling.

I had planned to get up around 7am to avoid rushing, but my illness, which included a bit of moaning, according to my brother, meant I slept in 'till 10 and so didn't get out 'till 12. This is without any sort of meal, by the way.

The cool thing about Rome is that it is, I would tender, one of the few, if not the only, city in the world where you can take a trip by bus to the city of another country in around half an hour. I did, anyway, and I still remember it was the number 49 bus that took me to the Vatican City. There are no checkpoints or border guards along this trip, and so it feels a little bit devious and transgressive to travel between two countries with such ease.

For such a religious place - it is the home of Roman Catholicism, by definition - it is unsurprising enough that the Vatican City definitely puts one in mind of a higher being. Sure, the Sistine Chapel, the tour of which I missed out on due to aforementioned illness, and St Mark's Square are holy enough, if one is inspired by those things, but one needs the patience of a monk to deal with hawkers in the Vatican. They are surprisingly prevalent there, notwithstanding religion's dictums on the intersection between faith and commerce.

The clash between the needs of the now and the needs of the hereafter have been made manifest ever since Christ lambasted, chastised and castigated the money-keepers at the Temple, and were He to return today, his main point of criticism would be churches that charge people to get in and admire what they perceive to be its beauty. Moreover, churches exhibiting this practice exude a lack of confidence in what they profess to be a virtue: charity.

Christ would also curse the hawkers, like what he did to the barren fig tree.

But back to the here and now, or the there and then at least, and eager tourists with objectophilia lined up at the post office of the Vatican – more of a caravan – to rub their worldliness in the faces of family and friends. I can't say anything, I guess, as I'm doing the same thing with this memoir.

The reason I'm snarky is I had no palpable plan to spend the afternoon. I mean, sure, being able to update my uni timetable was good – even though it opened at midnight the night before in my time zone, I was still able to get a better schedule than those stuck in Melbourne – but my holiday wasn't meant to be productive. Caeteris paribus, all things being equal and in this case, all things being shit, I decided to spend half an hour in an internet café run by a guy with a look that said he's seen it all before. What that "it" is is unclear even to me, but intuitions shouldn't be ignored because of a fixation on rationality.

I had planned an early night, but a glass of grappa after dinner persuaded me otherwise and so it was off to the courtyard of the hotel to farewell some early leavers from the group. From my point of view it was fairly low key – someone from the hotel was hosing down the surface the next morning, but the night was hardly Bacchanalian – but one certain person did his best to change that, providing a couple of memorable lines – the subject of one of which was to do with a subset of women on welfare benefits either fellating or being ordered to fellate this person. It's not like alcohol turned him from introvert to extrovert, but he said he was an arts student, so he should have been able to handle his liquor better.

****

Pompeii was next on the agenda. Its main attraction is its status of a living museum, which is due to the neighbouring Mt Etna's smothering of the town in ash way back when. We were guided by a humourous tour guide, who was suitably deadpan when we came (nudge, nudge) to the brothels of yore; the beds seemed rock hard (wink, wink) just by sight.

It is worth mentioning that there pervades, especially in the touristy sections of Italy, a quiet adulation of the penis. Postcards (not just in Venice) parade the member with a mask on.

I don't find the penis disgusting and I don't think the graphic graphics have anything to do with Europe's more liberal attitude towards the body. From an aesthetic point of view, and remember, we're dealing with something Kryten, the cyborg from Red Dwarf, criticised as having a look that resembles "the last chicken in the shop", it doesn't actually look that great.

I also recall the guide informing the group about how the ancient people of Pompeii and elsewhere in the Roman Empire paid a tax on urine, because of the ammonia within which that could be used as a cleaning agent. He quipped it was the only tax that Italians today don't pay. I found it funny and half-laughed, at least out of sympathy.

In one of his many television series, Jamie Oliver visited Italy to discover the national cuisine, called La Cucina Povera – the Poor Kitchen – because of its emphasis on simple ingredients and traditional ways of cooking and eating. Indeed, the Slow Food movement, designed to achieve these ends in a world of fast food, was created by an Italian.

Anywho, the crux of the show was to point out that, in contrast to the soulless school kitchens of England, Italian kids got proper food on a consistent basis. The knowledge that i bambini possessed of obscure vegetables was enough to demonstrate the Italians' love of food.

This famous love of food was not on display at a cafe the group haunted after the Pompeii tour. It was food, but not as I had known in the previous few days. Sure, it wasn't a restaurant, but even the service stations on the sides of motorways had better stuff. The chicken schnitzel I chose (or maybe it chose me) was your standard Anglo microwaved affair. Worst of all, the guy behind the counter insisted on correcting me on a minor error in Italian. Take that, ego.

The best part of the Italian trip, however, was yet to come.

Due to the vagaries of European driving law, the coach driver had make it from Brindisi – the port from which we were to embark a ferry to Igoumenitsa, in Athens – to Barcelona in 36 hours. Google Maps informs me the journey is exactly 1,917km (it also informs that the trip passes through tolls, which is fair enough, but also that it passes through France, which is self-evident enough if one has spent more than five seconds studying geography, so one feels a little disconcerted as to why this needs to be mentioned at all). Google says the trip can be done in 17 hours, which I’m not sure includes breaks, but if we assume the journey is to be done in 36 hours, then that’s 53.25km/h. If we apply a similar ratio to a trip from Melbourne to Badelaide, which can be done in eight hours (but European driving law would stipulate that it be done in 17 hours) then the 727km of that trip would be done at an average of 42.76km/h. It’s not a trip down the lane, but it’s hardly a horror story.

This is a long-winded way of pointing out that we got to Brindisi at a rather unsavoury hour – midnight – where we would wait three, no make that five hours due to the ferry not knowing what a clock is.

Europeans, I had always felt, were practical creatures divorced from a stuffy Anglo bureaucracy. This sentiment has proven erroneous, for a number of reasons: a) the word “bureaucracy” is derived from the French word for “desk” b) Europeans apparently have this weird work-to-rule fetish going on.

It was in this vein that we discovered the terminal to have its air-conditioner on, even though it wasn’t stuffy or warm or anything. It led to the absurd situation where it was warmer outside than it was inside at 2am. A few clever dicks brought blankets so they could sleep in comfort while whiling away the hours, but excuse me if I wasn’t prepared for this situation.

So, on the cusp of being ready to kill each other, we boarded the ferry to Greece. Being an inanimate object, the ferry could not evince any sort of regret for its tardiness, and were it to do so, it would still not make up for the trip.

Given that the ferry is one with cabins, it would have been designed to make it convenient for people to stow luggage in said cabins. Installing one, and only one, elevator does not go any way at all to accomplish this end. In lieu of the elevator, we carried luggage up six levels – twelve flights of stairs – before I sank in my bed.

With a hatred of humanity – or at least a hatred of poorly-designed and tardy Greek liners – rivalling that of Mick Malthouse’s family, I thus slept, forgoing the slightly discounted breakfast offer we had received. I broke my fast instead with a tin of Fonzies – the Italian equivalent to Twisties.

Disembarking was a Greek tragedy, with all the requisite pushing and shoving that is the cause of 50 people with luggage and pensioners taking their sweet time. Again, there was the walking down the flights of stairs, which was more madcap than it needed to be due to very tight scheduling with the ferry from Igoumenitsa to Corfu, our next destination.

Next time a ferry is built, all I ask is that more than one elevator is used, especially if it is a ferry hopping between countries. I understand the Greek economy is in a bit of bother at the moment, but it could be the Keynesian stimulus the country needs.

****

Corfu was heavenly, from the ocean to the hotel to the ferry with the cheap drinks and toasties that did wonders for my stuffed nose.

It's worth mentioning the story of George, the owner of a leisure boat who was, as the girls would say, a bit of a creeper.

The majority of the group spent the majority of the day swimming in the waters off Corfu c/o George's boat. He was versed well in the art of making innuendo – giving us a doodle to play with, he invited us to play with his "long thing" etc. Of course he endeared himself to the group, not only because he was manoeuvring the boat, but also he had on board Vergina beer, which didn't taste at all how I thought it might have.

George's boat was also the occasion where Icarus syndrome hit me. After a spot of parasailing, where I did fly reasonably close to the sun (as well as reasonably close to chafing), I took it upon myself to try wakeboarding for the first time. Given I handed over a fair amount of cash in the process, it would have been expected that I wakeboard for a measurable amount of time, especially as a girl from the group had been drafted in to take photos. She ended up relaying messages from the captain that became increasingly frustrated, as I unnecessarily flouted my lack of co-ordination. Like someone looking to be euthanased, I eventually swallowed the pill, making my way back to the boat minus a fair amount of good PR.

There were two dinners in Corfu, one of which stands out. Not only was it one of those places where the house wine, labelled "home wine", got better as the night wore on, but also the post-dinner celebrations included this fascinating little Greek game I'd never heard of. Basically, the gist of this game is to insert a potato between two people's foreheads so that the people face each other. The aim of the game is to keep the potato aloft while performing various manoeuvres. Suffice to say, I was never going to win, but since I was with a woman who knew what she was doing, we finished a respectable third.

****

Finally, then, on to Athens. 16 days of touring, partying, making acquaintances and adding to the list of people to avoid in the near future were done, with one day to go.

In vino veritas was proven true at farewell drinks that night, with my self proving to be rather gentlemanly for a change, notwithstanding my acquisition of ouzo as a drink of choice.

(An ouzo- and media-related joke, thanks to one wag in the group: what is a journalist's favourite drink? An ouzo! Hint: say it quickly.)

The next morning saw a quick tour of Athens' historical centre. Of course, the Acropolis et al was great, but the Greeks seem to have a historical sore spot.

On the descriptives around the Acropolis, they list the history of what is a damaged building. The two main highlights are a Venetian army bombing the Acropolis as part of some obscure war and Lord Elgin taking some bits around the edges back to Britain.

The Greeks find Elgin's theft more offensive for some reason. Were it not for a lack of funds, which of course has nothing whatsoever to do with the Greek government, the Elgin Marbles would be back in its native country in a flash.

The train ride to Athens International Airport was a chance for reflection. I had seen a lot in a short period of time and yet more was to come. D, J and I were to advance to Croatia, staying in Zagreb for one night and then three nights in Osijek with family.

****

I thought entering my ancestral homelands would have had some sort of spiritual effect on me. Maybe the fact that my ancestral homelands are Malta and Croatia, out of all places, has something to do with my lack of spiritual enlightenment.

So Zagreb happened. Most similar to Lucerne, it's one of those places that can be best described as "modern". Its ATM facilities are not modern, with a travellers’ credit card of mine being chewed up by one of those pesty Bankomats. Sure, I have no idea why I chose that particular machine when the bank was across the road, but I was still sick and probably more than a little fatigued. Cue more ranting about criminals

D and I went to the bank the next day, and I tried to explain what happened, through a stuffed nose and a borrowed Lonely Planet phrase guide, to the poor manager. I was promised an email as soon as they destroyed the card once they took it out of the ATM. To this day, three months later, I haven't received anything. I have remaining money from the trip, but I wonder if I should have had more.

We tripped through the Croatian capital. My personal favourite experience with bureaucracy was when we went to the central railway station to book seats to Osijek. The attendant told us of the next departure of the relevant train. Not being satisfactory, we requested the train after that. The attendant released this profound sigh, which to my mind had more to do with a general unease and discontent with life.

The human life is hardly pleasurable at all stages, but for a person to be so heavily displeased by being asked to glance to her left and look at something that surely has been her mainstay throughout all her years of experience on the job indicates a disenchantment with life that the modern philosopher would be hard pressed to reverse.

We made it to Osijek all right in the end.

****

The concept of extended family is extraordinary. These people, because they had the same surname as D and I, felt obligated to feed us, shelter us, wash our clothes and provide us with amusement. They did all this without knowing our particular vanities, our (my) neuroses, our flaws and our indiscretions. Will I do the same?

The relationship was tested somewhat by the lack of Croatian or English fluency on both sides. We got by fine.

Incidentally, we were staying in a place called Brodançi, just outside Osijek, so we really were staying in Bro'town.

To be fair, the highlights were more provincial than other places, but I will admit that Vukovar held a fair amount. That place still feels the scars the War of Independence in the '90s, especially given Serbia is just across its river. We visited a few memorials, including a pig farm where the invaders performed a mass execution of the local residents. It's pretty surreal considering the farm still functions today, a hundred metres or so down from the audiovisual memorial.

Also noteworthy is the afternoon we spent at Copacabana water resort. I wrote above about the unthinking nature of bar names – the same applies to water parks, it seems.

The opportunity cost of attending said water park was a chance to swim in Osijek’s river, the Drava. Notwithstanding my encounter in the English Gardens, I was a little bit disappointed about not being able to swim in another natural body of water. Given that everybody else – including my young cousins or cousins of cousins or something – wanted to do otherwise left me with little choice.

The end was nigh. I received a few gifts to take home – the most intriguing of which, apart from the food and drink products that Europeans are renowned for providing in excess (my great-aunts or something presented us with a salami measuring probably a foot long and a similar width, which had not a chance in hell of making through Australian customs), was a sting on my elbow by a bee. Cue yelping and dancing akin to a Saturday night on the tiles, which must have done wonders for perceptions of my sanity, or lack thereof.

Arriving at Zagreb International Airport, I fell into a deep malaise, which grew as the minutes pointed to my inevitable departure from this fascinating continent. The duty-free store, weeks earlier a wonderland, seemed shallow; the Twitter stream on my wi-fi enabled phone was comprised of Tweets about Q & A, the live “town hall” meeting consisting of public notables. The show had lately been considered a bit of a joke and so it was hardly lifting my spirits.

****

I’m hardly known for my sociability, so it was as much a surprise to me as it could have been to anybody when I got chatting to a young Brit on the flight home.

It all started at the departure gate of Doha airport, which is cordoned off for Anglo departures, on the shuttle between the gate and the plane itself.

(Unlike Malta’s airport, the situation at Doha is only temporary.)

Given that the flight was Doha to Melbourne, I thought it safe to assume most people were Melburnians, which, again, was a little bit depressing.

It was in that vein that I made a joke to my neighbour on the flight that the intervening shuttle trip was as crowded as a peak time trip on the Melbourne metro.

He seemed bemused, and when I at last picked his British accent, the penny dropped.

Fortunately, he had visited the land of Oz before – he was staying in Heatherton, of all places, this time, for a funeral – and so at least he could say he’d accomplished all the touristy things already.

We talked, we chatted, we nattered. And then we parted ways, this fine anonymous gentleman becoming one of many who left my life as quickly – as faultlessly – and as unceremoniously as Richard Parker left Pi Patel in Life of Pi.

The epilogue to my travels came in the form of a minor medical emergency whereby the plane made an unscheduled stop in Badelaide due to what sounded like a horrendous illness that a poor kid was suffering from. I don’t know his or her name, or what the condition was, but I do wonder if everything turned out fine.

****

So I returned to miserable Melbourne, with Mum choosing to have a go at me seemingly because I was going back to the car too slowly, notwithstanding the fact that I hadn’t slept properly for more than 24 hours. In actuality I think it had more to do with the fact that she couldn’t locate the parking paystation at Melbourne International Airport. Bizarre, isn’t it?

Welcome to the wonderful, wacko world of my life.

****

I immediately returned to university. One of my first classes was for my feature writing course; in it, the very cosmopolitan lecturer centred his discussions on the importance of memory.

I had missed out on the first week of semester, and the exercise in that feature-writing tutorial was to pick out three objects from a wallet, bag etc. and write on the story behind those seemingly inane objects.

Had I been present for that class, I would have written about mementos of my time in Europe: the Roman bus ticket; the Maltese casino card (valid for seven years) and perhaps my one remaining travellers’ credit card.

But, here’s the thing: I was elsewhere. I was in a place so contradictory to Melbourne – culture-wise, behaviour-wise and of course weather-wise – that it would have been folly to regret missing out. Because, for once, I wasn’t missing out.

Europe beckoned me away from the harsh mistress that is Melbourne, for five weeks, before Melbourne stole me back.

I’ll spend the rest of my life making my way back to Europe’s welcoming arms.

Now Look

2013-10-18T12:57:00.002+11:00

The following is a piece rejected by the team at Catalyst. It relates to the swearing-in of the Abbott government, so don't lynch me for posting something slightly out of date. It's quietly poetic.

****

Boy oh boy.

If our new government's swearing-in picture is anything to go by, Australians are in for a world of hurt for the next ~~three~~ ~~six~~ nine years.

Source: @redneckninja

Look, now, at Kevin Andrews and Christopher Pyne cackling away like a couple of suburban wives at Australians' dismay of a Coalition government.

Look, now, at Warren Truss and Julie Bishop crossing each other's lines of sight, and wonder how these people are Tony Abbott's fail safes. Look at them, and despair.

Look, now, at Eric Abetz, staring defiantly at the camera as if he is a rebelliously errant schoolboy, seemingly determined to be photographed in the wrong tie.

Look, now, at Joe Hockey looking at Barnaby Joyce with a dangerous gleam in his eye. Look at Hockey try to contain his wrath upon the people of Australia for their conceited mocking last week of the sweat upon his brow, due to a nasty case of catching cold. Look at the swagger in that man. Look at him, and despair.

Look, now, at Barnaby Joyce trying to fit in with the boys' club at the other end of the photo. Look at a man who is still settling in after moving Houses, a man who enters the strange new hostile world of the more-than-notional House of Representatives, from the unrepresentative Senate. Look at Joyce espouse all the outsiderness and alienation of a Salinger archetype.

Look, now, at Malcolm Turnbull look for something, maybe not a piece of his brain but a piece of his free-thinking soul perhaps, crushed under the boot of party discipline. Look at him show his shame of his success in his political party of refuge by not showing his face - like an insufferable child determined to spoil the family photograph. Look at him consider where the republicanism movement is at the moment. Look at him, and despair.

Look, now, at Greg Hunt look on grimly. Look at him ponder quietly whether his climate change bluster will wash, rinse and dry with the Australian people now that he is in office.

Look, now, at Peter Dutton, a brave grimace masking his despondency marked by the realisation he answers to the public in one of the most vital domestic ministries. Look at him considering his options. Look at him, and despair.

Look, now, at Scott Morrison, who dareth smile in public even though he knows, and we know, his culpability in his acts of barbarism, committed for our barbaric polity. Look at him smile as he reflects in his own mind that someday, somehow, the people smugglers owe him big time.

Look, now, at Ian Macfarlane, a man with a chainsaw for a voice box - a man, with his steely centering gaze, who would surely be considered by foreigners or people in the outer western suburbs of Melbourne to be the true PM. Look at him, and despair.

Look, now, at the many men, and despair.

Look. now, at the few women, and despair.

Look, now, at this Coalition government. It is yours and mine and ours. Look, and despair.

Look not at any of them without looking at our supposedly prime ministerial Tony Abbott. Look at this man gazing to the right with a wry smile, as if somebody has informed him half-jokingly that he is now PM. Look, and despair.

Look - nay, gaze, gaze upon thus, and despair!

Book review: "A Premier State" by Steve Bracks

2013-08-11T21:11:00.002+10:00

The good folk at RMIT's student publication, Catalyst, had the good grace to publish my review of Steve Bracks' memoir, A Premier State. However, you can now also read the full, unvarnsished version - replete with gratuitous Jerry Seinfeld reference.

****

As Jerry Seinfeld might put it, what’s the deal with secondary school assemblies? They’re ritualistic to the point of mundanity, with a side order of militaristic discipline to boot. Or maybe it’s just a Catholic thing. One particular assembly at my secondary school – in a land far, far away, obviously (it’s actually in Melbourne’s western suburbs, which is the same thing, really) – sticks in my mind. The principal – rumoured to be eccentric – strode to the lectern and pulled out a note. The date was Friday, 27 July 2007; the principal declared (in the same tone that John Cleese’s character in The Meaning of Life used to tell a student his mother had died) that Steve Bracks had just resigned as Victorian premier. The snotty minds of teenage boys tried to figure if the announcement carried any significance or if it was just pre-empting the inevitable and inexorable cataloguing of all those who had done Something Good for the school in the previous term, while cardigan-wearing English teachers (there was at least one) ruminated on how this would affect their next Labor branch meeting, attended mainly by stackees and disillusioned Whitlamites.

Thankfully, we get a much more appreciable account of what happened leading up to that important day in the life of Steve Bracks by way of his memoir, A Premier’s State. More of a history than a commentary, the book – arguably on the shorter side – is very much Bracks’ way of setting the record straight. Not that much needs to be straightened, mind you – eight years as premier, a continuation of privatisation that started under Jeff Kennett, historic reform of the upper house – so Steve Bracks is hardly a problematic leader in the vein of, say, Mark Latham, who to my mind always raises more questions than answers with his appearances and his articles. The Latham Diaries is a beguiling account of his time as federal Labor leader, which is always a tough gig (jusk ask Simon Crean, his predecessor, and Kevin Rudd, his successor) and Latham’s memoir should be read mainly as some sort of Dostoyevskian horror story about a man with a Munchian scream on his face who tried to fly too close to the sun in a Kafkaesque nightmare. OK, that metaphor is complex, belaboured and probably incorrect, but that’s also a good way to describe the federal ALP as it stands. But of course, I’m not studying politics as part of my course, so I don’t know anything.

If you have paid at least half-hearted attention to the news in the last month and a half, you will realise that Bracks is very much back. His recent appointment as consul-general to New York (seeing it as a game of political football would indicate the Coalition was the Melbourne Football Club in that scenario) – a plum and uncontroversial gig usually given to great mates or great enemies (Kim Beazley’s appointment as ambassador to America and Tim Fischer’s appointment as ambassador to the Vatican is an example of each (see if you can work out which is which)) –– was almost overshadowed by his son’s involvement in Celebrity Splash (if I could proffer my thoughts on the show, it would be the following: why bother investing so much if the program lasts only a few weeks, and Adam Richard’s moustache sucks). He was also at the Williamstown Literary Festival recently, where he and former journo James Button (who was without notes and extemporised brilliantly) summed up the political landscape with much despondency.

One reason you should at least try and bum a copy from the library is to see how Bracks sees his political adversaries. Premier Denis Napthine, who was state Leader of the Opposition between 1999 and 2002, is described by Bracks as finding the leadership as “burdensome” and being “introspective”.

On Latham:

I really had very little to do with Mark Latham over the years I was involved in politics, but the little I knew about him led me to believe that he would be a high-risk leader of the federal ALP. He seemed to have a permanent chip on his shoulder, which resulted in him constantly belittling groups of people from all walks of life. He also regularly overestimated his own ability. I remember being shown a draft education policy that he had written when he was the shadow education minister – it was almost incomprehensible and as a result was never used. (268)

On Ted Baillieu when he became Leader of the Opposition:

It seemed to me that he lacked determination. People used to say to me: “Oh no, that’s just one of his characteristics. That’s just his style.” But I still thought he looked a bit half-hearted and gave off this air that he was only doing the job because he had to, because he felt obliged to, not because he was hungry for it. (204)

This passage seemingly proves my hitherto-unrevealed hypothesis that Ted Baillieu was only doing it for the same reason Mitt “R-Money” Romney ran for president last year and “Dubya” Bush ran for a second term (surely even he realised he changed America – and by the definition, the rest of the world – for the worse in his first term): daddy issues. Sure, Wikipedia tells us that it was not Baillieu’s father but his great-grandfather instead who was in state parliament back in the day, but still the same principle of familial obligation applies.

Also of interest is his critique of the Greens, which he chooses to identify as the “Green Party” so as to remind readers of their political allegiances. Says Bracks:

The Green Party purports to be disdainful of party politics, actively discouraging the perception that they’re participating in a political process. But the fact is that they are a registered political party that seeks to gain and then wield political power. Their failure to admit this and instead attempt to disguise their true nature by cloaking themselves in “The Greens” is tantamount to dishonesty… Their untruthfulness is just one reason why I believe the Green Party is not fit to govern. I also think they lack universal policies that would clearly advance Australia. They are essentially a single-issue party that has tacked on other strategies for the sake of political convenience. (252)

Given that he co-authored a review into the ALP after 2010 with fellow party elders John Faulkner and Bob Carr, his warning against shacking up with the Greens for political convenience – repeated at his Williamstown Literary Festival appearance – should be read seriously, especially by Melbourne MHR Adam Bandt, who is predicted to be looking for a new job come September 15 8:

Labor simply cannot continue to accept the capture of just over 30 per cent of the primary vote, rather than the 40 per cent it has traditionally gained, which necessitates a reliance on preferences from another party to form government. (256)

It would seem that Labor’s malaise and the rise of the Greens are connected; how to untangle this veritable Gordian knot is the million-vote question. Bracks, by the way, identifies the rot as being caused not only by poor communication but unwanted leadership change, real and speculated (something that Bracks never had to deal with), has to be named as well.

Sure there are photos and stories of Bracks’ coming of age, but the point is that Steve Bracks’ memoir is one to read for the two people reading this who want to have a successful career in social democratic politics. For everybody else, A Premier’s State is a good history of a certain period by a person who is well placed to write about it, but should have had more reflections. Maybe he’s not done yet.

TWATOW podcast sports correspondent

2013-06-12T20:02:00.000+10:00

Hey you,

If you can spare five to ten minutes on a Sunday afternoon and are at least moderately interested in sports, and possess the ability to articulate that interest, then why not consider applying for the role of TWATOW podcast sports correspondent?

You'll be replacing the very capable Elias as he goes to a better place for the next few months.

This is what you'll have to do:

Be knowledgeable about the different codes of sport, and be prepared to put your opinion on the line
Liaise with me (Cameron) and/or Adam while preparing the runsheet the previous day
Spend five to ten minutes being recorded talking about sports

This is what you should have:

A love of sports!
An ability to talk confidently and be articulate

Keep in mind I'm not looking for an extensive career in sports media - this is a podcast purely done for love (because it's definitely not for money) - and at the very least it's a notch on your CV

If you could address the above criteria with a short biography (CVs are fine, but not necessary) plus listing which teams you follow in the various codes that interest you in an email to c.magusic_93@hotmail.com, that would be great.

You can listen to a sample of what is expected here

Chances are you'll get an auto-reply, as I'll be on holiday, so I'll read them when I get back and start auditions, which will basically be a mock "Sporting Weekend" segment.

Preference will be given to those in Melbourne, simply because it will be done over the phone; this does not exclude people willing/able to talk over Skype.

Applications close July 23. Ladies and gentlement, start your keyboards!!!1

The World According to Oscar Wilde: Episode 7

2013-04-22T23:07:00.000+10:00

This is it.

This is the best episode of The World According to Oscar Wilde so far. Why?

We got off to a great start with a discussion on the same-sex marriage being legislated in New Zealand last week.

We then had our debate-style segment Now Listen Now Look. Adam tried to convince me that the Labor Party can still win the federal election on September 14. You can let us know who you think won at our Facebook page.

Once again, SEN producer Elias Clure joined us over the phone to talk about the weekend's sporting affairs. We digressed - qu'elle surprise - to talk about the events that had taken place in Elias' country of birth: New Zealand.

In his Big Tip, Adam predicted something momentous would happen regarding the AFL drugs scandal. I say with all honesty I have not a clue as to what may happen there.

****

Our special guest this week was co-winner of the Neighbours Remixed competition, Stephanie Angelini.

Stephanie, 21, says she heard about the competition over lunch with a friend.

"It was something that I was really keen and interested in. I mean, who doesn’t want to sing the Neighbours theme song?

"So I entered it, and it’s also a great inspiration for any performer or any artist who wants to get well known and get there music out there."

At Lassiters bar. (Stephanie Angelini)

She says she was initially quite shy about spruiking herself on social media, before realising how much she wanted to win.

"I remember when I first began, and I was I think in fourth place the night that voting began, and it was almost like a bomb went off in me and I thought, 'No, I want to potentially win this and do us Aussies proud,' Stephanie says.

Daniel Boys (top middle) and Stephanie with some of the cast from Neighbours: Ryan Maloney (top left); Eve Morey (top right) and Calen Mackenzie (bottom right). Stephanie says the people she met on set were "amazing". (Stephanie Angelini)

"So that whole week of voting, I was literally on my computer every single day and night just campaigning, on Facebook, on Twitter, sending messages to people, just trying to get the word out there."

Stephanie admitted she might have turned some people off her cause with such an aggressive campaign, an apposite point for any nascent media producer.

It was revealed after the voting round concluded - Stephanie finished with 40 per cent of the vote - that the intro would be a duet between her and British singer, a move that Stephanie says was not disappointing at all.

"I was actually even more excited, only because I knew how my voice and how Daniel’s voice, how our voices blended, because we sang the sing off together," she says.

"So when they announced the duet, yeah, I could not be more happier and I’m still very very happy that they decided to go that way."

"I think it was the best thing for the show as well and what the show represents and what it’s all about."

Daniel and Stephanie celebrating the win on set. She says Daniel was ecstatic to visit the show he has watched from childhood. (Stephanie Angelini)

The excitement of the announcement was emphasised with Stephanie's 21st birthday falling on the same day.

She says she didn't celebrate that much because of the busy day she had.

Her friends kept her real, and Stephanie prefers it that way, saying she is not a different person because of it.

She says, "I’m the new voice of Neighbours but it’s not like I’m a celebrity or a star, and I think some people view me as that now and I sort of want to say to them 'No no no, it’s okay guys, I’m not like that, it’s okay.'"

Stephanie with Ryan Maloney. (Stephanie Angelini)

You can listen to the full interview here and a shortened version here.

You can like Stephanie Angelini on Facebook, follow her on Twitter (@steph_angelini) and visit her web site

Don't forget to visit the TWATOW Facebook page here for links to all the big stories of the week.

Songs about People: Vaughan

2013-04-21T21:46:00.000+10:00

The next song about a person is dedicated to former English cricket captain Michael Vaughan, who led the English side to victory in the disastrous 2005 Ashes series. Good on ya, buddy

****

(With apologies to Bruce Springsteen)

Vaughan down in a dead man town

The first kick I took was when I hit the ground
You end up like a dog that's been beat too much
Till you spend half your life just covering up

Vaughan in the USA,
I was Vaughan in the USA
I was Vaughan in the USA,
Vaughan in the USA

Got in a little hometown jam
So they put a rifle in my hand
Sent me off to a foreign land
To go and kill the yellow man

Vaughan in the USA
I was Vaughan in the USA
I was Vaughan in the USA
I was Vaughan in the USA
Vaughan in the USA

Come back home to the refinery
Hiring man said son if it was up to me
Went down to see my VA man
He said son, don't you understand

I had a brother at Khe Sahn
Fighting off the Viet Cong
They're still there, he's all gone

He had a woman he loved in Saigon
I got a picture of him in her arms now

Down in the shadow of the penitentiary
Out by the gas fires of the refinery
I'm ten years burning down the road
Nowhere to run ain't got nowhere to go

Vaughan in the USA,
I was Vaughan in the USA
Vaughan in the USA,
I'm a long gone daddy in the USA
Vaughan in the USA,
Vaughan in the USA
Vaughan in the USA,
I'm a cool rocking daddy in the USA

Vainglory

2013-04-14T21:31:00.000+10:00

I'd thought I'd continue the self-indulgent tradition of linking people to wherever my name newly pops up on the internet.

First, there's a recently-submitted uni assignment piece for The City Journal, with an article detailing what has been a fairly busy period for the Australian arts scene.

****

Also to be promoted is episode six of "The World According to Oscar Wilde", featuring an interview with Australian Secondary Teacher of the Year Daniel Buttacavoli. Daniel had some interesting things to say, including on Gonski, his own surprise at winning the award, and how he became a teacher in the first place.

Go on. Don't make me beg.

Songs About People: Mahler

2013-04-06T15:38:00.003+11:00

You may recall my suggestion of what a song about Melbourne radio presenter Jon Faine would sound like. In that spirit, the following is a song dedicated to Austrian/Australian composer Gustav Mahler. Mahler was admired by none other than Australian/Austrian Prime Minister Paul Keating.

****

(With apologies to Paul and Linda McCartney)

And when I go away

I know my heart can stay with Mahler

It's understood

It's in the hands of Mahler

And Mahler does it good

Wo wo wo, wo wo wo

Mahler does it good

And when the cupboard's bare

I'll still find something there with Mahler

It's understood

It's everywhere with Mahler

And Mahler does it good

Wo wo wo wo, wo wo wo wo

Mahler does it good

I love, oh wo, Mahler

Only Mahler holds the other key to me

Oh Mahler, oh Mahler

Only Mahler does it good to me

Wo wo wo wo, wo wo wo wo

Mahler does it good

Don't ever ask me why

I never say goodbye to Mahler

It's understood

It's everywhere with Mahler

And Mahler does it good

Wo wo wo wo, wo wo wo wo

Mahler does it good

Oh Mahler, oh Mahler

Only Mahler does it good to me, wo

Austrian/Australian composer Gustav Mahler

Paintbrushes

2013-03-26T00:08:00.001+11:00

Paintbrushes, a photo by Drew Makepeace on Flickr.

Faine

2013-03-23T16:08:00.000+11:00

Ever wondered what a song about Jon Faine - or "Faine-o" as one of my journalism lecturers refers to him - would sound like? Well, now you can know!

[With apologies to David Bowie, Carlos Alomar and John Lennon)

****

Faine, (Faine) makes a man take things over

Faine, (Faine) lets him loose, hard to swallow
Faine, (Faine) puts you there where things are hollow
Faine (Faine)

Faine, it's not your brain, it's just the flame
That burns your change to keep you insane (sane)
Faine (Faine)

Faine, (Faine) what you like is in the limo
Faine, (Faine) what you get is no tomorrow
Faine, (Faine) what you need you have to borrow
Faine (Faine)

Faine, nien! it's mine! is just his line
To bind your time, it drives you to, crime
Faine (Faine)

Could it be the best, could it be?
Really be, really, babe?
Could it be, my babe, could it, babe?
Could it, babe? , could it, babe?

Is it any wonder I reject you first?
Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine
Is it any wonder you are too cool to fool
Faine (Faine)

Faine, bully for you, chilly for me
Got to get a rain check on pain (pain)
(Faine)

Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine, Faine Faine
What's your name?

[Image from http://www.abc.net.au/melbourne/programs/melbourne_mornings/ ]

Late mail

2013-03-19T20:24:00.000+11:00

So yeah, Episode 5 of our rip-roaring podcast, "The World According to Oscar Wilde" was recorded last week but I haven't got around to plugging it here because of, well, mainly the heat but I've had to deal with a few other things as well.

Anyway, Adam and I dealt with a busy week in state parliaments, with the (apparent) resignation of Victorian Premier Ted Baillieu and maneuvering for the leadership in the Northern Territory, which, a week later, eventuated in the demise of Chief Minister Terry Mills - who was dumped while overseas on government business.

We also looked at 3D printers, which were in the news that week because they were reported to be used to a) replace 75 per cent of a man's skull and b) construct a dress modeled by Dita von Teese at a fashion show. Objectively speaking, of course, it would have been nice to represent Ms von Teese in a visual form, but, alas, what can one do? The main crux of that conversation was that our economy was about to collapse in on itself because of this example of "creative destruction", so stock up your cabin, people!

Adam and I also talked turkey with SEN producer Elias Clure about the weekend in sport.

You can listen to the podcast here. Don't forget to like the Facebook page, with links to the big stories of the week. You can give us feedback, propose topic discussions, or tell me to do things to myself that aren't physically possible, if you're that way inclined.

****

The other big segment of the podcast includes the inaugural edition of our interview spot, called "Chitchat".

For the first edition of "Chitchat" I spoke to Thanh Trinh, a 19-year-old who is an absolute legend with the piano. I caught up with him to ask him about his love affair with the instrument, and he was very forthcoming in his answers.

Thanh showing off his magic machine - and his forearms

He is also very humble. Talking about his Grade 8 qualification, he says, “I’d say everybody’s talented in their own right, but with me, I practise and practise, so practice makes perfect – does it not?"

Thanh started at five years of age, thanks to his Mum, and played publicly for the first time at a recital while he was in Grade Five.

He reveals which composer inspires him, and describes a piece by that composer as "majestic". What is it? Only by listening to the interview, or by asking him yourself, I guess, can you find out the answer.

Poemics

2013-02-11T19:34:00.000+11:00

Decided to write a poem. This is it.

****

Tells you anything past truly inside and I have also

Colleges cats

The way Kandi and Lance Yousef’s room

We wrote

Mister Rogers has just been

You know Mister Assistant

And he said

Analysts of the world

And you’ve got it

Developments

Understood

Got one

****

Podcatting

2013-02-11T16:50:00.003+11:00

So here lies episode 4 of the The World According to Oscar Wilde podcast. In it, me old china plate Adam and myself yak on about the crises in sport in Australia, talk about the potential legislation of same-sex marriage in Britain, hear a beautiful reading of James Fenton's "What would the dead want from us" (read by Adam) and critique the Australian cricket team's summer. Enjoy, and don't forget to like our Facebook page, which has links to the big stories of the week and questions for debate and discussion.

Enjoy.

On the Study of Literature

2013-01-28T16:01:00.003+11:00

So, another year, another dollar. I'm back for another year of prognostication and procrastination. Below, I look at why studying literature is a Good Thing. Hope you can make it to the end.

Yes, why is literature so important? What is literature? What is "is"? Why am I rehashing old jokes?

****

Beyond the usual argument that literature helps see our better and worse angels and demons (yes, I am referencing Dan Brown; no, I am not subtly or otherwise endorsing his works) in a conveniently fictive form, literary studies encompasses all that one should know, ~~should the Coalition win government~~ should one choose to work in the field of the liberal arts in whatever capacity. For me, (hopefully) my future career as a journo will be helped immensely by my past, present and future study of lit.

There are a few accepted disciplines that one should be aware of if one is to work in a field requiring predominant use of the left side of the brain: history, philosophy, language and linguistics, and even the pseudosciences (yes, I am being provocative) of psychology and sociology.

The important to understand about literature, besides its being a key proof of Derridean intertextuality, which is of course kindling for another fire, is that, more often than not, it is an attempt by the author to assert their view of the world on the world. Hence, Orwell's 1984, set within the quotidian activities of the worn-out Winston Smith, is a dystopian tale of allowing the government too much power. In another example, various right-wing ideologues cite Ayn Rand as a favourite for her Nietzschean message (set within a book about architecture, or something) of individualistic struggle against the collective; the (moral) victory of the kulak over all the other Bolshie peasants. Of course one prominent Rand fan was last year's American vice-presidential candidate Paul Ryan, who apparently made his staffers read Rand's magna opera The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. I would have gone for The Consolations of Philosophy myself, but each to their own I guess. The key point, again, is that authors construct and drown us, the reader, out with their world view.

(One advantage the author has over the film director in this regard is that in no case does the director ever have complete control about what happens in their film; indeed, it has been suggested through the so-called Schreiber theory that screenwriters are, to use a plain phrase, the big cheese when it comes to making movies. This complements the work of François Truffaut who, alongside bringing up auteur theory (whereas directors not only have complete control over the film production process, but also include their life experiences in it) in the first place, came up with the idea of the metteur en scène, or setter of the scene (think Michael Bay as "director" of Transformers) as the auteur-director's polar opposite. I will acknowledge the following: while some big names loom large over the century-or-so of film directing (Griffith, Welles, Rossellini, Truffaut himself, Bergman &c), I just feel films are too ephemeral to leave a lasting impression of the tangential experiences of a director. We can sense this impression in a book, especially in a memoir or "confession". Indeed, Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, which is one of the more strange books I've read, gives us a sense of what the author has and hasn't read through his allusions, name-checks and referents, which Penguin has kindly and conveniently detailed in its edition's endnotes. Even novels will have these allusions, name-checks and referents, which we can read - in more than one sense - as the author speaking to us, breaking the fourth wall if you will. Even my own allusions, name-checks and referents in this post and others speak volumes about my literary interests. How could I reveal that information through film? Of course writers have to deal with pesky editors (as well as peskier sub-editors if the publication is some sort of journal of record) and peskiest proprietors if business interests are at stake, which is rare-ish, but still unfortunate. On this blog, there is only my good self (which is like dealing with different people sometimes) to deal with, but the trade-off is that no one actually reads my stuff. Still, the independence and power of the author is much more than the independence and power of the auteur.)

Before we go further, let me add, if you didn't read the parenthetical paragraph above, I discount films in the study of literature. Why? I feel films are too ephemeral and fleeting to be analysed and reflected on, whereas I prefer the materiality of a good tome. Two more points: I recall attending a seminar on how to be a movie reviewer (yes, I was evidently very bored), and the main tip seemed to be to write the review in the hours after the film is seen, so as to not forget the, y'know, details. Why rely on something as incredibly unreliable as memory (it's the basis of Modernist literature, after all)? Wouldn't it be better to write the review while the movie's being seen? Except for the, y'know, darkness of the theater, that would actually be a good idea. The other thing is, were I running pedagogy in any capacity, I would immediately take off films off the text studying list for English and Literature. Besides the unreliability of memory, information is transmitted differently between film and the written word. This would lead into a discussion of Ong and McCluhan, but suffice to say different senses are being tickled when consuming film and book. (On an increasingly tangential note, on the chest-beating and brow-furrowing that occurs whenever anyone considers the demise of print, think of this: the context is just as important as the text. Who has ever tried reading a book online? My experience (reading Aristophanes' The Clouds; don't ask) was my concentration diminished tenfold because of other distractions (music, cat videos on YouTube, social media &c). Print needs to be kept alive as a medium, unless we want to become a bunch of distracted rats, looking for the next dopamine hit (well, more than we are already). Call me a tweed-wearing geezer, but you wanted my opinion so there you are).

We shall stick to good books, then.

A student of the literary will encounter all facets of knowledge - and epistemology itself - (even the pseudosciences) in an exemplar of literature.

Take, for example, the study of Dostoyevsky's Notes from Underground. The story of a neurotic man (and I should know!) who journalises his life, I was fortunate (?) enough to be prescribed it for my literature course last semester.

Reading the novella (instead of only its synopsis on Wikipedia), one becomes immersed in a range of ideas and concepts that one can store for later so that one can confuse friends and strangers alike at parties.

What does Notes from Underground, as an arbitrary example, teach us? (Besides the lesson that getting emotionally involved with prostitutes is never really a good idea?)

We can approach the text from an philosophical stance, looking at the case for and against Rational Egoism, the viewpoint critiqued by Dostoyevsky
We can study, psychologically, what motivates a person to abandon all forms of social contact and become a misanthrope
We can explore the aesthetics of the novella, and its links to Modernism
We can explore translations of the novel from Russian into English - various translations have titled the work Notes from the Underground, and key ideas are changed slightly, or significantly, due to differing ideas on how a word or phrase should be rendered comprehensible to the monolingual English reader
We can study the role of censorship in 19th century Russia, amid autocracy.

****

I mentioned my aspiration to work as a journalist in the opening section. There is, in fact, an intersection between journalism and literature. No, I don't mean journos making it up as they go along. At the heart of journalism and the wider media industry is the desire to tell, and be told, stories. Why is it that news bulletins refer to reports as "stories"? It seems to me to be the most receptive way a particular message can be reached. What I mean is, by labeling these packages as "stories", there's an element of artifice about the content, and therefore an element of unreality, and therefore an element of irrelevance, and paradoxically, an element of believabilty. Who cares, and who's going to not accept, about what those clowns in Canberra do if it's all meaningless and without practical implications? The press gallery can prattle on all they like about Kevin Rudd's leadership chances, but what does it mean to the people on the streets and in the suburbs? The other side of the coin is that the more serious bulletins actually do refer to their packages as "reports", because the people running these bulletins understand consumers want to stay informed.

All media involves some element of story-telling. From the most bland documentary to the hippest advertisement, the creators of these productions have thought about narrative, and the sequence of items to be presented. Is it no small wonder that the elements of hard news - who, what, when, where, why and how - are the same things schoolchildren learn about in primary school when learning how to write a story?

There have been attempts to formalise this story-telling in the heady world of journalism. The most notable of these is New Journalism, a term coined by Tom Wolfe in 1972. (He was, and still is, a satirist, so we should be careful about how much this term may or may not reflect badly on journalists.) The whole point is to subvert the hard news style of reporting (25-word paragraphs, ordered by most newsworthy information, written in language comprehensible by a 12-year-old) and instill a style of writing that is more languid (think Saturday feature as opposed to Monday headline). More than ordinary breaking news, New Journalism moves closer to the omniscience and omnipotence of the pre-Modernist novelists (as if journos need another reason to give themselves a big head) and this way lies that link between literature and journalism.

****

The points being the following: we can study and learn from well-written books in a way we can't do so from well-directed films; well-written books should contain a range of disciplines and history and philosophy should be the foremost of these; Notes from Underground, as an arbitrary exemplar of literature, teaches us both about ourselves and the temporal and physical surroundings of the author; literature, because of the above points, is essential consumption for anyone wanting to make a living in the liberal arts; and journalism, my chosen field of work, has strong connections with literature and story-telling, made stronger by the advent of Tom Wolfe's New Journalism.

Happy ~~Australia Day~~ Citizens' Day weekend, folks.

Podcasting

2013-01-22T16:45:00.003+11:00

Happy New Year, folks. Here appeareth the new episodes of the podcasts I'm doing with my china plate Adam. Episode 3 is here. It also strikes me that I forgot to add episode 2 at the appropriate time, so here it is. If it please you to leave some feedback, that would be mightily appreciated. You can also like the Facebook page, where we post the stories from Australia and around the world each day.

Enjoy

Why 12-Hour Time is Flawed

2012-12-05T16:40:00.000+11:00

I today write to propose that the system that we use to keep time is flawed. Stay calm, for it is only a minor adjustment that needs to be made.

For people of a certain disposition that's not necessarily sweet, (and of course I'm referring to people like me) 24-hour time seems to be the only one worth following. Indeed, it would be fairly hazardous and confusing trying to follow both 12-hour and 24-hour time - not to mention a complete waste of time !¹
It's fortunate, then, that I've stepped into the vast breach that is this flawed system.

For those interested/bored, you may or may not be questioning why I use 24-hour time. Simply, it's simple, and unambiguous.

The opposite goes for 12-hour time. The problem is it seems to be doubling up on information. Let me expound on what I mean.

If we start at midnight - which is problematic in itself - or 0.00, then 12-hour time works fine until we get, funnily enough, to noon. Some scallywag, in trying to come up with a solution, just confused everybody bar themselves by decreeing that there would be an arbitrary line known as the meridiem, assumably referring to noon, the point of which is to signify the time at which the sun is highest in the day. Hence, morning is ante meridiem, or before this point and afternoon, evening and night are post meridiem, or after this point.

There are many problems with this setup.

Wikipedia, as is often the case, has much to say on this matter. The article delineates one part of the issue, viz., assuming am is midnight and pm noon, one runs the risk of the thing occurring to them when one assumes. And, contrary to popular belief, I don't like being made an ass of. (Just for the record of adding to the compendium of what style guides (or is that "styleguides") have to say on the issue, everybody's favourite fair and balanced news media company News Limited says to "use noon and midnight, not 12pm and 12am which do not exist".)

But there is another problem.

I hope we are all on the same page when I declare 11am is a later point in the day than 1am. But what is really being signified here? I pointed out above that am is "before the point of afternoon". So what's happening here is 11am, which we all (hopefully) agreed is a later point in the day than 1am is actually eleven hours before noon, while 1am is one hour before noon. How silly is that?

(Afternoon, evening and night is not a problem, again presupposing noon as the fixed point around which all other times are based, because the measurement of time (1pm, 3pm &c) concords with what is actually happening (one hour after, or post, noon; three hours after, &c).)

What should happen is we should modify the morning hours to concord with what is happening. So while 6am would remain constant, we should change the current measurement to its complementary number. Eg 11am would become 1am, 4am would become 8am &c.

Change is diificult, I appreciate, and I also appreciate that there other issues the thinking person could spend crucial hours on: climate change, not resting until Prime Minister Gillard is guillotined then hanged, drawn and quartered &c.

But the clock is ticking.

^{1. This joke was, in fact, not written by Jerry Seinfeld. Not that there's anything wrong with that↩}

Spam email #4

2012-11-20T20:23:00.000+11:00

The next spam e-mail on the list is a little, well, dated. Not only is it dated in the sense that I received this email some months ago, it is written, as I'm sure you can see, by "one of the daughters of the embattled president of Libya", viz., the daughter of Muammar Gaddafi, who at the moment is probably the opposite of "embattled" - one of the easiest things to do - and hardest, I guess - is to be in a state of non-being. Anyway, I provide the following for your ~~entertainment~~ procrastination.

****

I NEED YOUR URGENT ASSISTANCE!

I am Miss.Ayesha Gaddafi, one of the daughters of the embattled president of Libya, I am currently residing in one of the African Countries¹, unfortunately as a refugee. At the meantime,my family is the target of Western nations led by Nato² who wants to destroy my father at all costs. Our investments and bank accounts in several countries are their targets to freeze.

I have been commissioned to contact an interested foreign investor/partner³ who will be able to take absolute control of part of the vast cash available to private account with my late brother who was killed by NATO air strike, for a possible investment in your country.

If this transaction interest you⁴, you don’t have to disclose it to any body because of what is going with my entire family, if the united nation happens to know this account, they will freezing it as they freeze others so keep this transaction for yourself only until we finalize it.I want to transfer this money into your account immediately for onward⁵ investment in your country because I don’t want the united nation to know about this account.⁶

Therefore if you are capable of running an establishment and can maintain the high level of secrecy required in this project⁷, kindly respond with the following information for details of

the project.

1. Your full names and address

2. Your private telephone and fax numbers⁸

3. Your private email address

4. Age and profession

Best Regard⁹,

Miss.Ayesha Gaddafi.

1 When capitalisation is done erratically, as it is done here and is also a phenomenon of 17th and 18th century English (one only needs to read the Preamble of the American Declaration of Independence to see what I'm talking about), it annnoys me to no end.^↩
2 Why "she" changes from the correct writing of Nato to NATO later on is unclear. Standard journalistic practice - and therefore good English - in News Limited - although the Guardian is one prominent non-Murdoch publication to follow suit - is to use lower case in the appropriate places if the acronym is said as a word. "Nato" - the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation - is one example and Opec - the Organisation of Petroleum Exporting Countries - is another.^↩
3 If "she" wants me to invest a large sum of money - which presumes "she" wants it back at some stage - wouldn't "she" bother to check if I have experience in the whole investing thing (which I don't)? Far out, every company expects experience in an applicant (reminding me of the old chestnut that to have experience to sell, one must gain experience first). Poor business acumen and practice.^↩
4 Fascinating use of the subjunctive. The subjunctive is rarely used in English - although more popular in the Romance languages, especially Italian. The subjunctive is used to express hypotheticals, and works well in "if" formulations, as here. Or it could just be a typo. ^↩
5 Intriguing debate on whether it should read as "onward" or "onwards". The starting point for this debate would be to look at the Americanisation (or should that be "Americanization"?) of words, starting after the War of Independence was won in 1783. Anglo words tend to have the "s" at the end, while Americanised ones drop it off. The classic case is of "maths" (Anglo) against "math" (Americanised) as an abbreviation of "mathematics". Or, again, it could just be a typo.^↩
6 This paragraph doesn't have the lucid feel of previous ones. The mind boggles at the drop in standard.^↩
7 Well, that ship has sailed.^↩
8 Is fax still a thing?^↩
9 So "she" purports to be able to give me "vast cash" and yet she is so stingy she gives me only one "regard"? Obviously fake^↩

Podcast promotion time

2012-11-17T22:34:00.000+11:00

G'day folks,

Great to be here, and it's great you could join me as I announce my exclusive podcast with good friend Adam Morris*. It's been said I have a good face for radio (or audio, whatever) - probably by me - and listening to it is the way to prove this theory. So now, not only can you read my inane thoughts, you can hear them as well. At least they're countered by the sagacious views of my friend Adam.

Episode 1, which you can listen to by following this link, covers the Arab-Israeli conflict as it occurred in the week, as well as the announced Royal Commission into alleged abuses of children by priests. Hefty matter, indubitably.

We hope you not only tune in, but also leave comments/feedback/criticisms/assassination attempts and also what you had for breakfast this morning.

Enjoy.

*Were it not for the technological savviness of Jason Pace, it is doubtful there would be a podcast at all (obviously, some may view this as a good thing). So here's cheers Jason, and thanks for all your help.

Races that Stop Two Nations

2012-11-03T17:08:00.000+11:00

Ah, is it November already?

The termination of pedagogy for another year (God, I love uni), the promise (frequently broken by the Melbourne weather-gods) of warmth and the expectation (nominal, at least) that the upcoming summer will provide a lifetime's worth of memories (this expectation of course clashes with the fact that the predictable over-indulgence will prevent any meaningful memories from being remembered).

But enough with the horizon-gazing. Events in the very near future demand attention.

Two particular events have been fixed by my attention, of which both provide punters with a spectacle and of which both happen to fall on the same day.

I refer of course to the Tuesday, November 6, 2012 runnings of the Melbourne Cup and the US presidential election (in order of priority, naturellement).

The following is a guide to how to survive/embrace fully one or both events.

The Melbourne Cup (a public holiday, at least in Melbourne and some parts of rural Victoria, and apparently also in Canberra for federal bureaucrats (under the title of "Family and Community Day", which seems meaningless enough)):

The 2012 running of the Melbourne Cup will be the 151st occasion in which the good ladies and gentlemen of the community will turn up to a track in Flemington, in Melbourne's inner-west, to watch a few horses go by for just over three minutes (the fastest was - trivia buffs take note - Kingston Rule in 1990, at a time of 3min 16.3s) before getting completely sozzled on cheap champagne, before taking an overpriced taxi or an overfilled train carriage back to home base.

If you decide instead to watch from home instead, then you too can still get completely sozzled, with the help of some fun games, because, really, no one watches the horse racing for the horses, and, besides, the coverage is sure to be so tedious that forgoing even a little liquor seems inhumane, even if it is only one o'clock in the afternoon.

Most of the fun is based on the following principle: consider that Channel 7's purported coverage of Cup Day goes for seven and a half hours. Given an average race time of three minutes - there are those that will go for fewer - and given there will be about six or seven races (producing 18 to 21 minutes of racing time), it leaves Bruce McAvaney and his crew (wouldn't Dennis Cometti make a marvelous race caller?) somewhere between seven hours and nine minutes and seven hours and 12 minutes of coverage to fill. Let's not be mean, but when you have to provide material for that amount of time, well, some of it will be less entertaining, informative and instructive than what would be expected. It is these moments that we can exploit for our own amusement and inebriation.

The Cross: Bruce McAvaney can't talk for all of the broadcast, of course, so he has to recruit some friends to assist him in the process. Be on the lookout for crosses with various "personalities", each one more dubious than the last. Some of the categories of crosses, for which you can reward yourself for staying the course by having a tipple, include:

The Fashion Cross: I'm not the biggest fashionista in Melbourne, or even in the western suburbs, or even on my street, or even in my house, but at the same time I'm not the worst-dressed either - I mean, I know how to appreciate, for example, a decent pair of button-fly jeans when I see one. You tend to see two types of interviewees in this cross: one is the preening model, so self-conscious by her three minutes of fame, she - or he - hurriedly namechecks the manufacturer of her wears, perhaps anticipating the real or imagined cheque coming her way for her role as advertiser. The other type is the outlandishly-costumed punter, perhaps cross-dressing, and usually with sunglasses on to add to the absurdity of the outfit. This type can typically be seen - and heard - yelling boorishly - in their own minds, excitedly - to camera or to various others. Forensic studies have concluded alcohol is a predominating factor in the latter example.
The Betting Cross: Forget about horse racing, betting is the sport of kings in this country. Apparently by the time the Cup is run and won (a phrase you'll hear a lot more of between the winning of the race and the sports update on the 6pm news), we'll have spent "more than $60 million" on various wagers. Point men, at the risk of being accused an advertorial agent myself, would be Adam Hamilton and racing scion Tom Waterhouse. Have yourself a double tipple if you manage to spot that token woman of the industry, ~~Julia Gillard~~ ~~Kelli Underwood~~ ~~Chelsea Roffey~~ Jaimee Rogers. Another game can be to see which titles have, in the smallest point, the words "Gamble responsibly". Also raise your elbow whenever the coverage cuts to the betting guy who's next to the totalisator, which is also known as the Machnine with the Funny Knobs and the Horses' Names on It (that's not the scientific name, obviously). In this age of digital display, it makes no sense to utilise what is a pre-digital solution. I guess it all has to do with eating up time (see above).
The Cross-Promotion Cross: Various folks are getting prepared for Season 2013, and for once I'm not talking about football. No, Channel 7's 2013 season launch was held a few weeks back (what do you know, reading the society pages of the various papers is informative) and so be prepared for the lather of cross-promotion that will be unleashed. Forget about the advertisements, what you should be fearing are the interviews - oh my God, how many? - of Channel 7 "stars". "Dancing with the Stars", the "X-Factor", "Australia's Got Talent" - the list goes on and on. Do try and be out of the room whenever a cross of this type fills your screen.

The On-the-Ground Interviewer: Will probably be a woman (for the "softer" and more human touch) and somehow connected to the racing industry, no matter how tenuous the link (the wife's sister's daughter of the trainer, maybe?). Hopefully, the interviewer doesn't follow the path of the BBC woman in charge at Royal Ascot, who to my eyes seemed well on the way to tipsiness (it wouldn't have been because she was enjoying herself, of course not). If the Channel 7 woman in the same role says or does indiscreet on camera, reward yourself by joining her on the road to over-indulgence.

The Blatant Product Placement: During presentations, comperes (on Nine last Saturday it was Tony Jones) make reference to the name of the cup before officially declaring the winning jockey. This is fine. What irritates me is the inane speech that some representative (probably - God forbid - a flack, or some PR spokesperson) of the sponsor of the race makes, as if to prove his or her self-importance to the uncaring crowd. I'd like to think the compere, too, reserves a corner of their heart for what must be the unadulterated hatred that they must surely feel for a world which makes its money by engaging in deceit and fraud. I'd like to think that, but then I'm probably just being edgy.

So yeah, that's my take on Cup Day. So what if I've blown my bridges to the racing media industry? It's not like I want to make as many connections as possible as I make my way into the industry, or anything.

Enjoy your drink(s) while watching the horses go by, because you won't be the only Melburnian to do so.

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The US presidential election will be held on the same day (the result will be known around 11am Wednesday in Melbourne).

In a two-horse race (geddit?), it seems no one has any real idea, and can just make up their own facts on the issue.

No, to be fair, we can draw some conclusions about what has been occurring in the land of the free. If we were to take the FOX news view, anyway, about the campaign, it would be something like this: every other notable news organisation is liberal, biased, subjective and hopelessly partisan (read: Democratic). Its own take is strictly "fair and balanced", and it's not like Messrs Murdoch and Ailes haven't force-fed viewers with their own ideology. Of course.

In any case, let's try and understand what will happen on Tuesday, November 6, 2012 in the United States of America (except of course in the political capital of the world, Washington, DC - more on that in a moment).

The channel through which the President and Vice-President are decided is known as the Electoral College. There are therefore two elements of voting that takes place: the electoral vote and the popular vote. the direct and indirect means, respectively.

The electoral vote is decided by electors, who, strangely enough, form, through those 50 United States, except the territories and DC, the Electoral College. The Electoral College has a member for each senator of a state (so 2) plus a member for every representative.

Confuzzled? The point is that the popular vote leads to the electoral vote. If enough people vote for Democratic electors, then the state will pass its votes to the Democratic candidate - in this case, of course, President Barack Obama.

Technically, the Electoral College meet on a state-by-state basis on the Monday after the second Wednesday in December - this year, the 17th - but the reason why I say a result will be known almost straightaway is because there shouldn't be any surprises, like an elector using the old bait-and-switch and flip-flopping on their vote.

My tip, because I know you're all dying for it: Both candidates are not inspiring at all, because Barack Obama has nowhere to go on the "Hope" and "Change" platform from 2008 and Mitt Romney is hardly an inspiring alternative. There is nothing wrong with being successful in business, but economic rationalism is hardly a good set of principles to govern by ("Rappin' Ronnie Reagan" would of course disagree). As I said (from the relatively calmer waters of Australia, I guess) to a friend, and I'm rather fond of this quote: "Obama is the President that America needs, but Romney is the President that America deserves."

I'm also keen on the results of the congressional elections, because it determines what the President will have to work with. My other plug is to look for how third parties, like the Libertarian Party or Green Party, fare.

Final guess: Obama will just pip the post because a) of a prevailing "better-the-devil-you-know" attitude that probably got Bush re-elected in '04 and b) natural disasters like the "Frankenstorm" Sandy tend to favour incumbents, and because Obama didn't stuff up rescue efforts (one imagines a man, short not only in stature, but also in dignity and humanity, drinking whiskey somewhere in Texas, cursing a fellow President for getting natural disaster rescue right). Another contributing factor is that a sitting Republican Governor in Chris Christie endorsed Obama's efforts. Traitor or not, Christie is looking towards the big picture, and you should expect to hear and see a lot more about him in the run up to 2016.

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While arguably more important, it's probably the case that proportionally fewer people care about the presidential election. And while a political horse race affects the public more than a literal one, that's fine. What's also fine is that the horse racing enthusiasts get a day off, while voters in the most significant democratic state in the world, in exercising their right, do not. Yep, we certainly have our priorities right.

3000 gather in Melbourne to demand equal marriage

2012-08-12T20:03:00.002+10:00

3000 people gathered in the Melbourne CBD yesterday to demand equal marriage rights for the LGBTIQ community.

The demonstration came on the eighth anniversary of the Howard government legislating marriage as between a man and a woman only.

Many speakers addressed a colourful crowd at the State Library, including the federal member for Melbourne Adam Bandt.

Mr Bandt told listeners it was time for parliamentarians to catch up with the views of their electorates.

"The mood in the population has changed," the Greens deputy leader said to the crowd.

"People are very relaxed about two people who love each other getting married, regardless of their gender or their sexuality."

Addressing the faithful: Adam Bandt gives his oration

Flying the flag: Just as many first-timers came as "repeat offenders" did

It's true: Some signs were jocular ("Bisexuality doubles your chances of a date on a Saturday night"), but others had a more serious tone

Mr Bandt, among others, cited a statistic that showed 64% of those surveyed were in favour of gay marriage - an increase from the 34% of respondents at the time of the effective ban eight years ago.

Another speaker, Doug Pollard - a broadcaster for Joy FM - said marriage is a "profound right" but must be fought for long and hard.

"The fight for gay rights is one of those, unfortunately, that will never be over because we are a minority", Mr Pollard said.

"Marriage however is not just about finding a partner, it's a lot more."

"It's about binding ourselves into the whole of society in one fabric."

The people's voice: Gay rights champion Doug Pollard delivers his speech

Equal Love Convenor Ali Hogg said while change in attitudes towards gay marriage since 2004 were a positive, people still needed to be committed to the cause.

"We want this discrimination [towards the LGBTIQ community] to be gotten rid of out of Australian law, once and for all," she told cheering supporters.

"And once we get this, it's going to be because of people like you and me, coming out time and time again, taking a stand against these discriminatory laws."

The speeches were followed by a march - which a police officer later told me had no problems - from the State Library to the Old Treasury Building, where a mock mass wedding was to be celebrated by "dissident" priest, Father Greg Reynolds.

On being given a rock star reception, Fr Reynolds said while it was a "joyful event", it was a "solemn act" that he was to perform.

To conclude the event, Anthony Wallace - also from Equal Love - said another protest would be held on November 24, to which he wanted 10,000 people to turn up.

"Dissident": Father Greg Reynolds

Road to equality: Protestors on the march

Fair point: As compelling as any an argument to legalise gay marriage

Radical: The haughty and inscrutable Sir Redmond Barry was left behind at the State Library and missed out on the fun part of the afternoon

Dirty about Harry: A Poem

2012-07-26T20:05:00.000+10:00

Harry Jenkins, former Federal Speaker and Member for Scullin, today announced his resignation from Parliament, effective at the next federal election.

I find this significant because he was the voice of the Parliament when I started to become interested in these matters. He had the good grace, humour and, ultimately, authority that any good umpire needs - being Speaker of Federal Parliament is probably one of the toughest umpiring gigs in the land. Anywho, a little poem is below, a poor tribute to his contribution to Australian politics.

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Mister

Vision

His innocence

For the house of cards all that

Or not

For that

Data steering

Denied wasteful

Statement specimen for that one largest loosening up one

For them

Wanna

Format but without water

Then

Financed

Cast all

Five years' time

Half the rate is sixty feet to the story reason usage of the time to learn

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