Australia's great forgotten artist

When we, in awesome wonder, consider the works human hands have made, we mentally list Michelangelo’s “Statue of David”, the bison of the ancient, anonymous genius of Lascaux, Picasso’s “Guernica”, and, surely, the work of Gavin “Gaz” Baker.

Baker’s seminal work is known to all through its endless editions and reproductions and the original can still be seen in the third stall on the left in Sydney’s Centennial Park Toilets (Male). There, carved with only a penknife, are the immortal words “Gaz was ‘ere March 1903.”

Little is known of the life of Gaz and critics have long debated the deep, existential crisis that Gaz may have been going through in this early period of his work to utter this cry of “I am” into the dark, cold night of the universe.

Later work, generally but not universally attributed to Gaz, seems to suggest that he may have found the comfort of a soulmate that so many artists fail to find for their tortured genius. Placed just up and right of his early plea is the simple statement “G.B 4 V.S” surrounded by a heart. Is the placement significant of his progress through the temporal universe and personal maturation? Or is it just that he was sitting up a little straighter that day?

Searches of official records for this part of the world reveal that “V.S” may be “Veronica Smith”, a seamstress who lived three blocks away from Centennial Park with her husband, Theodore, and their five children. Early writers on Gaz suggested that he may have been enjoying an illicit affair with Veronica, thus explaining the lavatorial nature of their declaration of love.

More recent commentators have suggested that Gaz was, in fact, homosexual. At a time when such things were criminal offences, Gaz may have met “V.S” for sexual liaisons in that immortal third stall. “Vincent Stephenson” was, according to parish records, a lifetime bachelor who lived directly opposite Centennial Park and may well have been Gaz’s lover. Stephenson’s relatives, descended from his brother Meecham, vigorously deny the claims and argue that Vincent’s unmarried status was due to him being pug ugly with breath like a grease trap and had nothing to do with any "deviant tendencies". The commentators tut-tut and shake their heads at such a naïve view of the past.

Regardless of the debate, the LGBT community has adopted Gaz as a trail-breaking hero of their movement and “third stall along” or “TSA” has become a rallying cry for LGBT rights.

A lone voice of dissent is that of Professor Geraldine Parkinson, former police officer and professor of Australian history at Macquarie University. Parkinson argues that Gaz was “Just a feral little vandal with a penknife and a bad case of boredom. He needed a swift kick in the seat of the pants.” Parkinson is not surprised, however, that Gaz has been made the poster child of a civil rights movement: “Ned Kelly was a violent criminal who today would be the subject of vocal public insistence that he be locked away for life, but the passage of time has turned him into a folk hero and the Britannia of Australian anti-authoritarian sentiment. Perhaps in twenty years’ time, Chopper Read will have the same fame.”

Australia has been the richer, however, for the kick in the seat of the pants that Gaz didn’t get because his impact on our artistic and cultural life has been universal. Copies of his artworks abound in every public place, the third stall along has been heritage listed and next year’s Sydney Harbour fireworks will feature a 200 metre wide reproduction of his first masterpiece.

It can fairly be said that every vandal in the country, seeking relevance and fame without the need to have artistic ability, originality, respect for other people’s property, the ability to spell or be in any way literate or intelligent are disciples of the Great Gaz, keeping his memory alive for generations to come.

 Cultural note: Mark "Chopper" Read was a violent criminal and gang leader from Melbourne whose crimes are enough to make you bring up your breakfast. He has, however, gained fame through the film "Chopper" and his books. Ned Kelly lived a similar life in the 19th century.

What is Christmas all about?

“Dad, what is Christmas really all about?”

Now there’s a question that’s difficult to answer.

From the purely religious point of view, it could be that God keeps his promises to send himself to his own people to redeem his own world from his own wrath by dying for a particular period which seems to suggest that the true meaning of Christmas is that God prefers to do things in a highly circuitous (not to say highly bizarre) way. It also raises the question of who was running the show for the three days in question.

Religious scholars, however, tell us that the birth of Christ in a stable with shepherds abiding the fields probably occurred in April, not December when both parties were significantly less likely to die of hypothermia. So it may be that we can’t associate any religious significance at all to Christmas Day.

The true meaning of Christmas may be that presents feel good; that we get a warm feeling and moral brownie points from giving things to other people. It also feels good to receive but self-gratification is not something that sounds high minded so we don’t mention that too much. The reality of it is that, while there’s certainly a great deal of self-sacrifice that goes into gift giving, there’s very little pleasure in it. When we receive a gift we know that the meaning behind it is that the person has sweated blood to get it owing to the fact that they left it until three days before Christmas to go to the shops to buy it because they hadn’t thought of us at all until that point. Going to a shopping centre three days before Christmas is tantamount to self-immolation.

Receiving presents often doesn’t feel good either, but you have to pretend that it does. Often the present bought three days before Christmas, while not being three French hens, might as well be for all the good it is to you. They were obliged to buy you a present (thereby pretending that you’re someone that they think of constantly) and you are obliged to play along with the pretense and “like it” (despite the fact that a Christmas themed novelty corkscrew is not something that you’d ever buy for yourself on the grounds that you’re still at least partially sane). That may well be what Christmas is all about; artificial expressions of unfelt emotions.

For many people, the last time they really felt the thrill of gifts received was when they got them from Santa. The heart quickening thrill of Christmas Eve and the mental fireworks show of Christmas Morning last from about age three, when you start to have some interest in where things come from and age eight when you develop an understanding that things tend not to happen just because you wish for them (unless, of course, it’s the lottery in which case the belief that good fortune or the universals laws of fairness guarantee you a win eventually last well into middle age). Santa is real to you for about five years but remembrance of things past is the source of Christmas joy for the rest of your life. This is why Santa can sell you anything from pizza to floor tiles at Christmas time and why parents are so desperate that their offspring should smile while terrified to the point of incontinence sitting on Santa’s knee; they need to get those memories made to set them up for future happiness.

Nostalgia for things that never were is a strong feature of Christmas. The ideal Christmas for many people appears to be film versions of the Cratchett’s dinner from A Christmas Carol. Hot baked dinners, Christmas crackers, smiles on the rosy faces of children and unbridled joy in the company of kith and kin. No-one alive has ever had a Christmas like that and it’s a good bet that most Victorians didn’t either – drunk Uncle James was no more welcome then than now and just as many top hat wearing gentlemen as board short wearing blokes thought that turkey tasted quite a bit like cranberry flavoured cardboard.

Without laboring a cliché, strained extended family gatherings are also a feature of most people’s Christmas. If the family live far afield and see each other infrequently it may well be that they don’t actually like each other. For the festive season, however, they have to pretend that they do – for nan’s sake. So tongues are bitten, fights are suppressed and spouses are steered to a diplomatic afternoon nap when the Christmas cheer has been overindulged.

So what is Christmas all about, son? On the evidence it appears to be delusion, deception, pretense and nostalgia, well decorated with tinsel and lights; much anticipated and gratefully dismissed for another year once over.

Busking for idiots

Music: A combination of notes and rhythm that is pleasing to the ear.

Rehearsal: Repetition of a piece of music (q.v.) until it sounds something like what you heard on the radio. It could well be worth getting a friend to listen to you to check your judgment on this point.

Ensemble: A number of musicians (q.v.) that perform together. It is important that you have met and, ideally, had a rehearsal (q.v.) prior to the performance. Ideally, two of you will have some skill (q.v)

Harmony: Some notes above or below the main melody that complement that melody. It is achieved through deliberate choices made during rehearsal (q.v.) and not accidentally, by strafing the scale to find the note. Start with parallel thirds or horn fifths for beginners. The tri-tone should be avoided for all but the most experienced performers.

Skill: An ability to use the instruments you have, including your voice, to make music (q.v.). More than mere enthusiasm and three lessons are required.

Melody: A series of notes that, when sung in the right sequence, is recognizable to an audience and defines the song you’re singing. The sequence of notes is important.

Improvisation: A short piece of invented virtuosity that adds flourish and brilliance to the melody (q.v.). It is not a substitution for rehearsal (q.v.) or skill (q.v.)

Costume: A piece of colourful advertising that attracts the public to your performance. Not to be confused with a smokescreen which is a way to distract the public from the lack of music (q.v.) in your performance.

Soundtrack: A pre-recorded accompaniment to your performance that substitutes for an ensemble that you would need to share your money with. When you’re using one, remember that you need to be able to hear it and that you should sing the same song as the one playing on the equipment, in the same key and to the same tempo.

Tuning: The process by which an ensemble (q.v.) ensures that their instruments all have the same pitch. This is ideally completed prior to the performance.

Musician: A person who understands and can put into practice the points above.

Brick: A heavy, pointed object that connects firmly with your head when you fail to demonstrate an understanding of the definitions above.

Crisis in the Night Garden

The interests of the authorities were first excited by the violent eruption at high speed of a large, inflatable starfish from the green canopy of the woods of southern England. After tracking the erratic path of the object for some time, NORAD was able to direct the armed forces to a small field in Sussex. On determining that there was no strategic threat to national security, the matter was turned over to British authorities.

The badly deflated object was discovered by police to be a rare, naturally inflatable species called a Ha-Hoo which had suffered a large puncture wound in its upper right body. Using the data provided by NORAD, the source of the Ha-Hoo was tracked to a commune known locally as the Night Garden.

Initial investigations were hampered by a lack of available translators for the local inhabitants who apparently spoke a range of mutually incomprehensible dialects. Not unlike Eskimos who famously have thirty words for snow, one group had only one word for everything: “Tombliboo”. Even with some of Oxford University’s best linguists attempting to differentiate the subtle changes in emphasis, very little sense could be made of the repetitions of the word “Tombliboo” which appeared to function as everything from a name for each individual creature, to expressions for excitement, disappointment and a need to go to the lavatory. Translators commented that they hadn’t had this much difficulty with a sentient species since those little blue guys who only had one verb (and one female) between them.

It became apparent that difficulties in communicating with the Tomblinoos were exacerbated by excessive consumption of something called “Pinky Ponk Juice”. The Tombliboos themselves were often seen to fall down and giggle, and they had repeated difficulties keeping their trousers on.

“Pinky Ponk Juice”, a narcotic previously unknown to authorities, appears to have been named for a locally built flying machine also called a Pinky Ponk. Aviation safety authorities, called in to investigate the strange craft, quickly linked the Pinky Ponk with the injuries to the Ha-Hoo; the injuries to the creature matched exactly the multiple propellers on the aircraft.  Up to that point, investigators had suggested that the puncture wounds to the Ha-Hoo were a result of an accidental encounter with a bird. However staff ornithologists rapidly determined that that all the local birdlife, despite its beautiful plumage, was in fact nailed to the branches of the trees and were therefore unlikely to be culprits.

Engineers, at first amazed that the Pinky Ponk ever got off the ground, inspected the contraption and found a large pink nose but no black box so were unable to provide much data about the accident. It was also unclear who was piloting the craft at the time of the accident because it appeared to be too small for any of the local inhabitants to fit into.

While aviation safety inspectors continue their investigation, responsible authorities are looking into other concerns about life in the commune.

Charges for damage to the environment are being preferred against one Macca-Pacca whose apparent need to rub everything with a sponge has ring-barked a significant number of local trees and led to erosion of creek beds. Psychologists are currently assessing the extent of Macca-Pacca’s mental illness and there are suggestions he won’t stand trial following a diagnosis of chronic OCD. They are also trying to solve the mystery of why his arse looks exactly the same as his ears.

Witnesses are also being sought into a savage, Yakuza-style assault on Mr I Piggle. “Iggle”, as he is known locally, appears to have had a red blanket sewn to one hand and to have been hit in the side of the head with a shovel – leaving him with a lopsided appearance and chronic insomnia. When interviewed, Mr Piggle refused to provide evidence and other witnesses were sought. Detectives were pointed in the direction of a race of people called Ponti-Pines but were unable to find any trace of their existence. The senior detective has dismissed their existence as “just another result of too much of this Pinky Ponk juice.”

Child welfare authorities are also concerned about a girl living in the commune and known only as Upsy-Daisy. She appears to have no place of abode, is sleeping in the middle of a field and is in an age-inappropriate relationship with Iggle Piggle who, as previously noted, is thought to have an organized crime connection.

Meanwhile colleagues of the translators from Oxford University’s Psychology school have descended on the commune with teams of researchers. The senior researcher was overheard to say “There are enough nut-cases here to make all our academic careers.”

Results of the investigation are expected at an early date.

A Christmas Story

[1] And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.
[2](And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
[3] And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
[4] And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
[5] To be taxed with his sixteen year old girlfriend, Mary, who was great with child.

[6] And, desiring to avoid his father’s wroth and mother’s moral censure, Joseph hid them in a stable.

[7] And there Mary brought forth her firstborn son.

[8] Joseph, being but eighteen years of age, was sorely traumatised by the birth

[9] And vowed never to know Mary again or at least to get a midwife next time.

[10] And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

[11] And lo storm clouds came over them and rain fell upon them and they were cold even unto the bone.

[12] And they said to one another “Bugger this for a game of soldiers, I know a dry stable where we can hide out for the night”

[13] So they took themselves unto Bethlehem and found there in the stable Joseph, Mary and the babe lying in a manger.

[14] And Joseph said unto them, “What do you fellas think you’re doing?”

[15] And the shepherds, after a moment’s rapid thought, said unto him, “We were abiding in the fields and the angel of the Lord appeared to us and the glory of the Lord shone round about us and we were sore afraid.”
[16] And Joseph said, “Like bloody hell! It’s chuckin’ down out there and you just didn’t want to get wet.”
[17] And the shepherds pleaded with Joseph, saying “Fair go. It’s Israel in the middle of winter. It’s about 3 degrees out there, even without the rain.”
[18] And Joseph, who was too tired to argue, said, “Abide over there in the corner and don’t make noise, right?”
[19] Then, behold there came unto the stable three Zoroastrian priests from the east on a tax-payer funded fact-finding mission to explore other religions of that part of the world.
[20] And entered they the stable and, beholding Mary, Joseph and the baby said unto Joseph
[21] “Where is our stuff?”
[22] But Joseph protested his innocence saying, “I know not of what you speak”
[23] But the priests were wise men and said, “Don’t come the King James poetry with us, mate. We had gold, frankincense and myrrh in our hotel room an hour ago and now it’s gone.”
[24] And Joseph said, “What’s that got to do with me?”
[25] And the wise men said, “You were seen climbing out the window.”
[26] But Joseph continued to protest his innocence, “What do you reckon? It’s bucketing down out there. I’ve got a mother here who’s just given birth – you think I’ve got time to climb through windows? Don’t believe me? There’s a baby over there, in that manger. And keep those bloody camels out of it!”
[27] And the wise men looked and beheld the baby, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in the manger.
[28] And one of the wise men spake saying, “But your clothes are wet.”
[29] And Joseph, angered, responded, “Yeah. I had to clean them up after delivering the baby. You want to see?”
[30] And Joseph, much in wroth, continued, “And if that kid hiding in the back so much as picks up those drumsticks, he’ll be wearing them as mandibles when I shove them up his nostrils!”
[31] Much disturbed in their minds, the wise men left and sought out Herod who was the king of Judea.
[32] And came there to the stable Judith, the on-call social worker from the King Herod Infant Protection Service. And she brought with her a clipboard.
[33] And Joseph said unto her, “What do you want?”
[34] But Judith, much accustomed to such scenes, was calm and said, “We have reports of an at-risk child being born here and some suggestion that there are stolen goods on the premises.”
[35] And Joseph said, “The kid’s fine and there’s nothin’ here that shouldn’t be.”
[36] Judith went to the manger and beheld the child, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying on the straw. And gently did Judith pull back the straw and revealed unto Joseph the gold, frankincense and myrrh which lay there.
[37] And Joseph was sore afraid.
[38] Then Judith spake, saying unto Joseph, “I’m coming back with the police and we’ll find a foster home for that child, somewhere warm.”
[39] Then Judith left.
[40] Then Joseph, Mary and the child, using a hastily acquired camel, fled into Egypt to escape the wroth of Herod.
[41] And Joseph said unto Mary, “We are going to need a good cover story for all this.”
[42] And Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.

 

 

Enquiry into the charity sector

The Royal Commission into the collapse of Australia’s charity sector has just released its draft report after weeks of deliberations and months of public hearings.

Mr Justice Meeks, the Commissioner, summarised the Commission’s findings at a press conference this morning:

“When all’s said and done, it came down to the fact that there were just too many charities. From what we can see, it had gotten to the point, in the cancer sector for instance, where there were three cancer charities for every cancer sufferer in the country.”

Analysis that accompanies the reports suggests that the only way the sector could have remained viable was for there to be four dollars donated to charities for every dollar of GDP created.

Some of the submissions to the commission also make fascinating reading. Mr James Pennywhistle from the Australian Trademark Office:

“We were at the stage of refusing any more trademark applications that involved ribbons. Unimaginative charities kept trying to register ribbons for their cause but the field was so crowded that there was very little room to move. We had covered all colour combinations. We had ribbons in two colours, ribbons in three colours, ribbons with piping, ribbons with chequerboards and ribbons that had been tie-died. Then there was the shape. We had folded, bent, twisted, straight and going round and round in decreasing circles finally disappearing up the hole in the middle – which was a fair symbol of the state of the sector at that time.”

Dr Penny Harntnett from the Consumer Complaints Commission outlined some of the issues regulators were having with charity events:

“It was a bloody circus out there. Every weekend there was a ride, a run, a walk, a jump, a dance, a snog , a pub crawl or a shag-a-thon associated with some charity or another. There was nothing so stupid that people wouldn’t do it if they felt they were supporting a good cause. Was the cause even real? No-one knew. Bluge Di Tillios Syndrome, which raised half a million dollars, was revealed to be an anagram of “Gullible Idiots” – which was an embarrassment to many. We had one group running a ‘Ride for Cholera’. We only realised after the first ten deaths that the ride was in fact promoting cholera, not promoting eradication of it or treatment for sufferers. It turned out that the water bottles handed to riders at the half-way mark were a primordial soup of disease. Enquiries are still continuing into that one. We think there might be an Al Qaeda connection.”

Charities themselves were also finding the going tough. Ms X – whose identity has been protected by a court order:

“The pink thing wound up being a disaster for us. We got the pink ribbons, the pink cupcakes and the pink aeroplanes all being ways to raise money. Then people got the idea that buying pink stuff equalled making a charitable contribution. We had little girls colouring Santa in pink while listening to songs that just weren’t appropriate for their age, thinking they were helping, and every other shop owner was flogging pink stuff with no charitable connection to gullible do-gooders. We had no control; we couldn’t get a trademark over the colour pink.”

The report notes that the early warning signs that the sector was in trouble were ignored. The first such sign was the emergence of PECC, or the “Protect the Environment from Charities Collective”. This group realised that charities had surpassed the fast food and motor industries as being the worst polluters in the country. Bill Broomsdale from PECC explained to the commission:

“A few of us having a chat over a beer thought of it first. We had just been asked to buy pins to support some war veterans mob and one of us, I can’t remember who, asked ‘What happens to all the pins after you wear them?’ We realised that no-one keeps or, sometimes, even wears their charity pins – it’s not like military honours. If they ever get out of the cellophane, they last about a half-day on the lapel and then get binned. Doing some back-of-the-beer-mat calculations, we figured that charity pins alone were adding something like 1 million tonnes to local landfills every year – to say nothing of the environmental cost of production. Add to that the pens, pencils, noses, flowers, ribbons, fluffy toys and vibrators and the total was becoming frightening. None of it was recycled, none of the production was carbon-neutral or subject to any kind of environmental controls - it was all imported cheapo garbage. In the end we had to create a charity to help the country get over the damage done by all the charities.”

This concept of a meta-charity (a charity for charities) gained further momentum and culminated in the now infamous “Charity-a-thon” weekend which aimed to raise money to support starving charities. No-one noticed that the Australian Charity Support Agency, a registered charity and the promoter of the event, was, itself, the principal beneficiary of the money. Many Australians blew their entire charity budget for the year supporting a charity that was allegedly supporting other charities which were supporting needy people but instead just lined the pockets of the promoters.

The final report is yet to be delivered but it is clear that it will take a long, long time for the charity industry to bounce back from the disaster of the last few years.

Getting their own back

I’m a parent. I know that feeling of wanting revenge. Sometimes on your children. Sometimes on the world for the hell it’s putting you through. But parenting is a gift, a blessing and a joy. You’re not supposed to need revenge for that so, whatever form your vengeance takes, it has to be subtle and within the guidelines. If you can’t take it out on your kids by “helping out” at the school disco or uploading baby bath time photos to social media, you could get perverse satisfaction by making sure other parents suffer as you have done by designing diabolical toys. It started with those plastic lawnmowers with the clicking noise and the little bouncing plastic balls but, my, how technology has changed:

Minecraft. It started so well. It was like Lego without the puncture marks in the soles of your feet. The kids could imagine, build, destroy and build again. It had everything – without the mess. Then they introduced multi-player – the miserable bastards. Now I don’t have a problem with cyber bullying at my house, just cyber bickering. “He put lava in my house!” “He knocked down my walls!” “He stole my iron! Dad! He won’t give it back!” If it was Lego, I would just confiscate the disputed piece. Now I can’t even see them, nor is there any evidence of the crime. I’m a twenty-first century parent; I’m entitled to use electronic devices as baby-sitters. I don’t need them turned into yet another field on which I have to referee.

Baby aquarium. It’s a little toy that straps on to the end of the cot. It has an amount of water in it, between two plates of Perspex, some bubbles, and some fish that move up and down in time to the music. It features a large and attractive button on the front to allow my son to develop his motor skills by turning it on and off - and an effective battery life of just over 17 minutes.  After that, the fish bob happily, the little bubbles percolate merrily away while the music dies a long and lingering death. The default setting is Pachelbel’s Canon in D. The bride walks happily down the aisle for the first 17 minutes, after which the effects of the free drinks start to take their toll on the string quartet and the phrases start to slur a little. Another half hour later and the only the cellist is left upright, with the first violin making heroic attempts from her prone position while the other two have given up entirely and are dribbling on their tuxedos.  And he can turn it back on any time he likes.

And, on that subject, I condemn to eternal reinfection by Snapdo, the person that decided to include a little screw on battery covers. As if finding C-size batteries at 6pm on a rainy public holiday wasn’t hard enough!

Fast food toys.  Someone, somewhere is taking a sadistic glee in the eternal cycle of anticipation and disappointment that is fast food and the free toys you get with kids meals. You crave it. The kids crave it. “Can we have … and make sure I get a toy!” Because I’m stupid and human and condemned to eternal hopefulness, I buy the stuff and make sure I get the boy toy, not the girly one. “What does it do dad?” I examine the thing and study the three picture instruction manual and my response to his enthusiastic anticipation has to be “The arm moves if you press this button.” Well, cancel Santa, we don’t need anything else this year, we’ve got a Smurf whose arm moves when you press the button. So it follows everything else into the bin. I sure hope the person whose job it is to design and make these things is getting their job satisfaction from sadism because if they went into toy design to make kids happy, they are living an empty and meaningless existence.

That's not a Christmas present

I know retail is tough these days and you need to jump onto every opportunity to get your product in front of the spending public when they’re in the mood to bankrupt themselves. Some things, however, are just not Christmas presents, no matter how much tinsel you put on them.

A gift voucher for an enema. No. Just no. It sends one of two messages; either it tells me what I’m full of or the giver would like to see someone ram a hose up … well you get the idea. Neither conveys the joy and spirit of Christmas although, given the state of some people’s extended family relationships, it might be an expression of honest sentiment.

Ten litres of engine oil. No matter what the auto-shop ad says, this is not an ideal Christmas gift for dad. Any woman given a gift basket of cleaning products for Christmas would be excused homicide in a court of law. Just because I’m male and have procreated, does not mean that I love cars. I pay a guy to sort them out for me because they are slimy, smelly, incomprehensible, diabolical machines. Even if I did love cars, giving a car lover engine oil would be like buying a cook a 20kg gift bag of plain flour.

Executive toys. For the real-deal executive, executive toys are called interns. For the rest of us that don’t have the money, power or moral turpitude to treat junior staff as sexual playthings, giving us that weird pin thing that holds an impression of your hand for as long as you hold your hand in it is just as likely to get us fired as promoted. Think this through. I’m sitting at my desk with my hand jammed in a black box full of pins. The boss comes along and says, “You’re my man. You have the executive toys, you must have the wherewithal for the top job.” In which reality is that going to happen? It’s more likely to turn into a time-management issue at my next performance review or a question asked when I’m sent for a compulsory psych evaluation.

Anything made from marzipan. Marzipan is wrong, at all times and in all places. Shaping it into fruit and painting it does not help.

Christmas biscuit assortments. Used as the standby present – in case someone turns up with an unexpected gift – they are truly awful; characterised by over-baked shortbread coated with more sugar than my son puts on his Weet-Bix. I wouldn’t buy them for myself on special at two for $3 in normal time. In the special pocket reality inhabited by the festive season, they come in piles of three, lovingly encased in cup-cake wrappers and tastefully arranged in a tin featuring a Dickensian Christmas scene painted by someone whose imagination has been informed by old Disney films and a $2.50 an hour pay cheque.

Motor vehicles. The self-talk that allows us to gain weight and interest bearing debt because “hey, it’s Christmas” is not going to provide enough justification to pop into the dealer and purchase a $35,000 automobile just in time for the big day. If it is that strong for you, then I will organise a personal visit from David Koch who can patronise you rigid about how to manage your money until the urge goes away. For the rest of us, it takes but thirty seconds of rational thought to remember that, if we are truly in need of a new car, there will be a New Year car sale with runout deals across the entire range (not unlike the end of financial year sale with runout deals across the entire range or the Mad May sale with …). I don’t buy for one minute the idea that a new sedan is going to give me time over Christmas to drive mysteriously empty and well paved mountain roads, cornering like James Bond just before the first sex scene, nor do I believe that a new SUV for the hols will make my kids preternaturally quiet and happy to be sitting in the back of the car for 8 hours at a time in the middle of the Australian summer. Try again.

Cultural notes: The financial year in Australia ends in June, not in December as in some other countries. David Koch is a morning TV presenter and syndicated columnist who writes on personal finance management offering such gems as “don’t buy lunch every day” and “too much takeaway coffee will bankrupt you”. Weet-Bix is a breakfast cereal made from flakes of wheat cereal pressed into bars about 10cm long, 4cm wide and 2cm thick. They are the staple of many families’ breakfast but are very dull to eat without sugar.

What would real honesty look like?

“Don’t tell lies!” we admonish our children, in an attempt to make our job as detective parents easier. Always better to get the suspect to confess than to have to piece together the evidence – less trouble in court and less chance of us feeling guilty for meting out groundings and Luddings to an innocent party.*

I wonder what the world would be like if our kids really learned that lesson and grew up not telling lies?

“Honey, we’re breaking up. And it’s not me, it’s you. Actually, in truth, it’s Lorna. There’s not that much wrong with you but you’re just a bit “entry level model”. Lorna’s more deluxe. Kids I have with her are less likely to be ugly and her father isn’t some drunken freaknoid. I could stay with you but it would just be settling for second best.”

“Jason got a C for maths this year. He’s been putting effort in during class, which is nice, but he just hasn’t got it. Despite your apparent belief that he’s the next John Nash, he’s a better footballer than a mathematician and not really all that good a footballer either. I’d pull him out of school at sixteen and get him a job digging holes.”

“I know you hope I enjoyed my meal, but I didn’t. You can’t cook. You never have been able to. What you did to that broccoli should have been physically impossible. We enjoy your company but let’s eat at a restaurant next time.”

“The ornament you gave me? I gave it to the kids to take to the mother’s day stall at school. It was awful. I hope you didn’t spend too much money on it. I appreciate the sentiment but the object itself looked like it had been put together from nose excreta. Just a gift voucher next time would be fine. Thanks.”

“Don’t glare at me like that, I’m just sitting here perving on you. Fantasising about what you looked like in the shower this morning is putting sixty seconds of pleasure into what is turning out to be a very dull day. You have a fantastic bum and legs that I’d love to have wrapped around me. I’m not going to attack you or anything – it’s a purely personal moment.”

“No, ma’am, I’m not going to go out the back and see if we have it in another colour. You and I both know you have no intention of buying anything. This is just your way of getting out of the house for a bit and having someone fetch and carry for you, rather than doing the fetching and carrying for your lazy husband and kids. If I go and get six more colours, you’ll still sit there making strange noises for half an hour and then tell me that you’ll have to think about it. Look, here’s a fiver from the till. Go and buy yourself a coffee and I’ll get on with serving customers that are likely to make a purchase.”

“Firstly, I don’t believe for a minute that your name is James. Someone called James doesn’t have an accent that like. Secondly, you can’t speak English. People who can speak a language can be understood by others. Thirdly, I truly hope your life improves from this point. The futility of what you do, trying to sell snow to Eskimos, must be horribly depressing.”

“Relabelling your personal delusions as ‘beliefs’ doesn’t oblige me to respect them. I think there’s very little chance that there are lines of energy emanating from some guru’s backside, parallel to which you should align your furniture in order to enjoy the blessings of life. I’d much rather take my chances with bad karma and not keep walking into the corner of the coffee table every time I come into the lounge room.”

“Ludding” – similar to a grounding -  the removal of access to technology such as wi-fi, iPod or laptops as a punishment.

An immodest proposal

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On wholesome food

“Made with 100% Australian breast chicken”. This claim, from a leading fast foot company about some new wrap they’ve come up with, is very strange. To what does the “100%” refer? Putting in a number, “100%”, suggests that it could be less than that, say 50% or 75%. The first possibility is that we are being patriotic by buying chicken that is 100% Australian. No dual citizenship chickens, no permanent-resident-but-not-real-citizen fowls or birds that don’t like Vegemite have been used. Perhaps the “100%” qualifies “breast”. Only chickens with real breasts have been used; no silicone implants allowed. Finally could the product be anything other than 100% chicken? There have been some strange experiments in genetics of late – you’re getting 100% chicken here, no dogken or turkiken or chickmouse or anything like that.

An immediately adjacent ad, strategically placed during morning TV to help me lose weight by making me nauseous at the very thought and unwilling to eat anything at all, suggests that the benefit of the omelette on offer is that it was “made with real ingredients, such as eggs.” If  ‘real’ ingredients are a feature of the product, perhaps there are alternatives on offer from inferior competitors. Perhaps some ingredients are mere memories of ingredients; inferior in every way to the writhing, shining, oozing, real ingredients currently available. Perhaps they are ingredients that are yet to be – eggs bought on the futures market that have yet to be laid but are, nonetheless, included in today’s breakfast by accountants with a grounding in accruals and a bad drug habit. The mathematician in me also considers the possibility of imaginary ingredients – ingredients that exist only as theoretical constructs with very little relationship to reality. Eating them would have negligible impact on your waistline but could suck you through a vortex into a universe of fractal dimension if you had too many.

I’m also dubious that a “freshly cracked egg” is a guarantee of quality. Some jokes, especially the ones you get on email circulation at work, are freshly cracked but they are certainly not new … or wholesome.

“Hormone free chicken.” How that, I doubt. Chickens have hormones. I have a rooster about three doors down as evidence. Or had – maybe the fox I bought has finally done his job; I’ve been able to sleep in the last few days (for the record, I have no idea what he says but a very good idea of what he eats). Anyway, I think they mean

 “Chickens to which we have not added any unnatural hormones (a.k.a. body building supplements, protein shakes, strengthening agents or cough medications).”

In short – chickens that have never been part of a Tour de France team. I’m glad they’re not trying to sell me chickens on roids because that’s illegal. Any kind of hormone additives fed to chickens are illegal. If this is a recommendation for a product, then I think we could go further with such slogans as:

“Second hand cars – guaranteed not stolen”

“Arsenic free apples – safe to take from strange old ladies”

“Lead pencils – no, not really”

“Wedding rings – won’t turn you into an untrustworthy, photophobic little greeby guy”

“Refrigerators – 100% CFC free”

I’ve seen that last one around a bit. CFCs have been illegal in the developed world for nigh on twenty years. It’s like promoting your product by telling you it’s not made with asbestos or doesn’t include DDT.

Finally, I’m not convinced that “organic” is a noteworthy or distinguishing quality when it comes to fruit. Is it possible to come up with an inorganic banana?

Pensioners are revolting

The pensioners of Australia are in revolt following announcements from the federal government that the pension age will be raised to 70 and that the family home will be considered an asset when calculating pension entitlement.

“I hope dentures get better”, commented one man, “we'll be eating our houses one bedroom at a time in the future.”

A spokeswoman for the Australian College of Codgers, Geezers and Biddies (ACCGB) said in a statement:

“Well you can take the nice little old lady routine and stuff it! From now on, it's fee-for-service. You want the grandkids looked after? It's $30 an hour and I want my scheduled breaks. Lions Club building some new picnic tables? I'm available Thursday week and the invoice will include GST. Biscuits at Nan's? Fifty cents each, 75 if you want chocolate. And the problems you're having with your husband and kids? I'm not talking to you without a mental health plan from your GP and private health insurance; I'm a registered provider now.”

Meanwhile, concern has been raised about the suitability of many childcare facilities to accommodate the chronically ill dependents of many pensioners. Wheelchair access is often not provided and the childproof gates don't allow enough turning room for hospital gurneys for the bedridden. "I mean, what choice do we have?" asked one woman, "If I have to go out to work, I can't leave him on his own." Carers are also concerned that their wards have long since forgotten how to use crayons, how best to optimally combine glue and crepe paper to stain the largest amount of skin, and never did learn the words to "Rock a bye your bear". “We’re just not sure they’ll fit in”, said the woman.

A government spokesman responded by saying that the department was addressing the shortage of care places by lowering the working age to four and a half. "Education is a waste anyway," he said, "most kids don't want to be at school and what’s being taught not staying with them as they get older; most adults think 6 + 7 x 4 is 52. And, as for critical thinking, just ask any ten adults if they think the contestants on reality TV are just average people like them, not has been or wanna be models and actresses. Bugger it, get them out and working."

Responding to criticisms that this policy represented a return to Victorian Britain,  the spokesman said, "Well it's the last time they had an economy and an empire over there."

Meanwhile, a parliamentary committee is continuing its probe into the Productivity Commission* and the cost of employing a four person consultancy from Yorkshire to advise on cost-of-labour improvements in the economy.  Minutes of their most recent meeting, apparently held in a pub, are at this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAtSw3daGoo

 *For non-Australians: In a dry country famous for deserts, the Productivity Commission stands out -  a pseudo-government agency full of the driest economists on the planet. The job of the Commission is, apparently, to make sure that we all work harder and longer so that the rich keep getting more so.

Humiliation by design

Schadenfreude is a word that doesn’t get used often enough. It’s a German word meaning “taking pleasure in other people’s discomfort or pain”. Note, it’s not “sadism” which is the pleasure you get from inflicting pain on others. You can easily tell the difference. Schadenfreude is what you feel when you watch “The Biggest Loser”; the sensation of “rather you than me”. Sadism is why the people that created “The Bachelor” are inflicting it on you.

In our daily lives, we suffer little humiliations that bring pleasure to others. Are they schadenfreude or sadism? Your call.

Toilets with walls just over a metre high. You know the ones? The wall starts about 50cm from the ground and ends at 150cm – about right for a normal 12 year old to be able to see over the top of. Convenient if you want to chat amiably to other ease-takers but uncomfortable if pooing in public is not something you enjoy.  Someone designed those. Was is just a cost-saving to use less material or was the humiliation deliberate? My call is schadenfreude: the pleasure you feel watching sh*t happening to other people.

Security windows. You go to Emergency and you’re feeling well below standard – or you wouldn’t be there. You go to see the nurse, so that they can assess how urgent you’re not, and you have to speak through the perspex window. They used to put holes in them about mouth height to allow the ingress and egress of sound but not anymore; there’s a letter box sized opening at the bottom and that’s it. And everyone, other than people with a live-in contract at a chocolate factory and chronic liver disease, has to bend to get their mouths near the window. If you don’t the nurse, who can lip read but won’t, will ask you the same questions three times – which, of course, you’ve got the patience to put up with, feeling as hale as you do. So, strike a pose! Bent over sideways to talk, doubled over front-ways in pain, leaking blood from under the bandages and showing your backside to the world - clad in the house-cleaning tracksuit pants that were the only thing you could grab as you walked out. My call? Sadism. I think the nurses hate their jobs and want to take it out on the patients. It’s the same reason that waiting room chairs are as comfortable as they aren’t.

Airplane toilets. For men over 5’2”, this one’s for you. At risk of being crude, men pee standing up. That’s our divine right and it’s not negotiable. To make that work you need a good firm footing a reasonable distance from the porcelain. Then you go on a plane. It would be fine if the loo was up against an internal wall but it’s not, it’s shoved into the corner against the sloping fuselage. The curvature  of the wallroof means that you have to plant your feet well back and lean it at the hips to have any hope of hitting the target. So there you are, with your best parts forward, your feet well back, unable to see what you’re aiming at, with weapon in one hand and the other trying to find something to brace yourself against. At this point, a little light in the cockpit alerts the pilot to fake some turbulence and you sign your name across the wall in your best cursive writing. The worry that follows is that the amount of paper you’ve had to use cleaning it up won’t flush away. Despite the humiliation, I’m calling schadenfreude on this one. If it was sadism, the door wouldn’t lock as well as it does.

Waste transfer stations. The old tip (landfill site) was great; big pile of garbage and plenty of room to get your trailer in to unload. Now the general public can’t be trusted with access to putrefying detritus and we have to use the waste transfer station. All very hygienic with concrete driveway and large bin into which you can dump your refuse. Fine - provided you can back a trailer up a cobbled laneway, in an Italian hilltop town, in the rain, on the day of the annual harvest festival. And no-one can back a trailer. They’re designed that way.  Deep in the heart of the engineering is a little random movement generator which will thwart you every time. But you try. You remind yourself of the rules:

 “OK, think about this before we start:  steering wheel down left to get the thing to go left, steering wheel down right to make it go right. Unless it’s already too far left in which case it will keep going left. Unless you’re on a slope in which case it will go right if the angle subtended by a line orthogonal to the axle with an imaginary line drawn through the Pole Star is less than 45 degrees, otherwise it will go left. Or unless you’re tired in which case it’s just as likely to refuse to go anywhere other than straight up.”

 This is all complicated by the magnet built in just behind the left brake light which drags the trailer inexorably towards neighbouring vehicles.

The humiliation is completed by a “helpful” passer-by or council worker standing behind you giving hand signals for left rudder, right rudder, come closer, slower, faster and that weird one they do with a clenched fist held over a raised finger moving in a circular motion which I can never really fathom but I think is a reflection on my masculinity.

Waste transfer stations are engineered sadism, pure and simple. I’ll accept debate on the other ones but I’m not entertaining any other views on this last point.

We are outsourcing the wrong things

Recent news articles and press releases – how often they are the same thing – have bemoaned the continuing loss of jobs offshore. First it was manufacturing, then call centres  (staffed by everybody they could find in Mumbai called Joan), then computer programming and now engineering. So many things that we have done in the past are being outsourced or offshored. By the way, when I find the petri dish in which that last word was cultivated, I’ll force its creator to eat it, tweezers and all.

Why are we outsourcing this stuff? Some people even enjoy being engineers and computer programmers. There are hundreds of other things I’d like to get someone else to do:

Attend meetings for me.  I used to think to myself, “Can’t we stop having meetings so that I can get on with my work?” Then it dawned on me that for most people, this is work. This is what we do now. We attend meetings and respond to emails, often at the same time. No-one’s got the money to employ us to actually design or build anything, that kind of thing is done in Bangladesh because the board has a responsibility to the shareholders to maximize the profits; a sense of personal satisfaction at work is something we can’t afford any more. So we go to meetings and discuss the framework, the strategies and the quality assurance mechanisms around, through and in spite of which things will be done by someone else. Can’t I take back the job and outsource the meetings?

Keep my electronic devices up to date. I bought a new blu-ray player the other day. Before I could even watch one movie, it had to update its software. Almost everything in my house needs constant updating of the software, the firmware or the “this has never happened to me before, I’ve been under a lot of stress lately” -ware. I was a geek at school and knew everything there was to know about the computers. Now, I’m a geek without a clue. I don’t know what’s going on, I just follow along like a sheep and don’t turn my computer off while Windows fails to complete an important update for the third time this week.  This process takes up hours of my time, hundreds of my dollars in purchased bandwidth and years off my life in stress and hassle. And when I’ve got devices that really need an immediate software update – my kids – I can’t get one. Couldn’t I outsource this?

Talk to boring people for me. I call my bank and my call is re-routed to India. I call my ISP and my call is re-routed to Pakistan. I call my telco and my call is re-routed to … well I’m not sure because it’s never actually connected to anything yet. At least nothing I can make any sense out of. I’m starting to think there’s a deep-sea octopus about halfway across the Pacific hanging onto the other end of the line, bubbling at me and then hanging up in bewilderment that there’s no-one there, yet again.  Clearly these people don’t want to talk to me. There are a great many people that I don’t want to talk to. Couldn’t I organise a set up whereby, if they called me or bailed me up outside the supermarket, I could put them on hold for a minute and then let them talk to Joan about it?

Cutting school lunches. My wife and I flatter ourselves that we’re good parents. We provide a good education for our children, make them do chores and be polite, and turn up for the ritual torture of the “end of unit” displays in the classroom. We feed our kids well and only use McDonalds when it’s a real emergency such as when we’re tired or hung-over. But we hate packing school lunches. Every bloody morning. Sandwiches, piece of cake, yoghurt, fruit, carrot sticks, little box of fruit juice. Half of it comes home uneaten but I dare not pack less the next day in case it’s the one day they’ve got double PE and keel over in a dead faint at the end of fourth period for want of carbs. We hate it but we do it, we pack it and it’s healthy. I can’t send my kids to school with chips and lollies because then I’d have nothing to feel superior about. Is there a company somewhere that can cut my kids’ lunches without them being seen going to the tuckshop every day?

Feeling guilty. Douglas Adams, in Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency, created the character of an Electric Monk whose job it was to believe things for you. In a similar vein, can I please outsource feeling guilty about the seemingly endless list of things I’m at fault for? Warming the planet by driving a car, bloating the landfill by drinking take-away coffee with the little toddler-proof lid on, demeaning women everywhere by finding models in bikinis attractive, embarrassing my children by listening to classical music in public places, not staying young forever, not having an appropriate BMI and generally enjoying the benefits of ancestry – being, as I am,  a first-world, Anglo-Saxon, middle-class, well-educated male blessed with a stable family and a life-time’s supply of hyphens. I come from a Catholic background.  I’m more than happy to accept that it’s all my fault, but is there anyone out there I can get to feel guilty for me?

Conversations with my one year old

Scene 1 – shopping

[Enter me, walking, and one year old in pram]

Hey, that toy looks interesting and colourful. Give it to me!

No, you’re not getting the toy, we have places to go.

But I want it, it looks easy to break or at least smear something on.

Come on you, straining against the seat belt is not going to help.

I … can … just … about …reach … it …

Oh no you don’t, I’m going to move you away.

Don’t do that.

Over here for you.

I’m warning you, this will not end well. We’ve had this conversation before.

Just wait there while daddy pays for this.

If you want me to embarrass you in public, I will. Don’t think I’ll hold back just because there are people here.

[Dignified silence on my part]

Right. I warned you.

BOOM!

Scene 2 – the change table

[Enter me carrying one year old]

Come on dude, we’ll change those pants of yours. Here, you hold this while I change that nappy.

You’ve tried this before.

Go on. Grab it!

You try this every time. My goal here is to spread powder, cream and excrement as widely as possible. I’m going to scream and roll around and, no, some ditzy fluffy toy is not going to distract me from my task.

It’s so cute!

No it’s not! The factory worker that made that face was having an unfortunate reaction to flu medication and was hallucinating badly at the end of a 16 hour shift. It’s terrifying.

It’s a bear!

I can see that, dopey. Bears eat people. This one also appears to have eaten a small porcupine which is struggling to get back out again.

Well I’ll raspberry your tummy!

Don’t!

I’ll raspberry your tummy. You love that!

I’m full of milk and baby food.

Raspberry!

Don’t bend me in the middle like that. You’re down the business end. Don’t …

BOOM!

Scene three – the park

[Enter me with coffee and one year old.]

Now you go and play while dad has his coffee.

[sotto voce] Like that’s going to happen!

Hmmm?

Nothing dad. Enjoy your coffee.

What are you up to?

Climbing the slippery dip. It’s all wet too, so it’s really dangerous.

Come back down from there.

Not until you put your coffee down to get cold and lift me off.

There. Down. No, don’t go back up there.

Why not, your coffee still looks like it’s warm enough to be drinkable.

Dad is trying to drink his coffee here. You go down and run around.

I know what you’re trying to do. You’ve got Buckley’s.*

Now where are you off to

These rocks over here. I’m developed enough to climb them but my balance isn’t so good. I’m planning to climb just high enough that you can’t one-arm-from-behind lift me down.

You’re a cheeky man! Run around over that way.

Which way? The one near all the other children, where you can sit on the little wall for a bit, chat to that cute mum and drink your coffee? No. I’m thinking over that way towards the large dog with the uncertain temperament.

You come back here. You’re too cheeky!

You’ve got nothing. I’m going to run and laugh at the same time and there’s nothing you can do to me. I’m one. I’m cute. I’m laughing. You can’t smack me – especially not in front of all these people.

I’m going to put you back into the pram.

You know, it seems like a good idea but it’s just not. We came here for me to play.

In we go. Straps on.

You get me out of here! I’ll count to three!

There’s a good boy.

One. Two. Three. Right …

BOOM!

*Cultural reference: Australian slang "You've got Buckley's" is a short form of "You've got two chances, Buckley's and none" - meaning you've got no chance. The etymology is disputed but the one I like is that it's a pun on the name of an old Melbourne department store "Buckley's and Nunn"

Scene 4 – the cot

[Enter me carrying one year old with bottle of milk and dummy.]

Ok mate, time for sleep.

Gee, I wonder what you’re up to; putting me to bed early like this. Trying to get to mum before she’s tired are we?

Onto the pillow. Here’s the bottle. Here’s your little blankie.

Parents are so cute. You love your little routines, and your belief that milk and a blanket are organic tranquilisers is endearing.

I’ll put your little music thing on. It’s been a big day. Off to sleep.

Yeah, you think! Saying “it’s been a big day” won’t psych me into being tired. Look into my eyes. I am not getting sleepy!

Time to lie down dude.

No. I’m going to bounce up and down in the cot. At this age, I can still use the “I don’t understand words yet” defence. Look, I’ll even paint some pictures on the floor with the dregs of my milk.

Right. Here’s the pillow. Here’s the blanket and here’s your dummy. Lie down.

And here’s me saying “no”.

[Time passes]

I know you’ve been ignoring me hoping I’ll get bored and go to sleep and you think you’ve nearly won but you’re so wrong! Outsmarted by a toddler again! That’s got to hurt.  I’m just lying here on this pillow with my eyes open. I’ll give it thirty more seconds for you to get your hopes up and then I’ll stand up and laugh.

Come on dude. Sleep time now. You’ve had your bottle.

Ah, sweet. In about sixty seconds, he’s going to think that a second bottle of milk is a good idea. He falls for it every time.

OK mate. Here’s the other bottle but you have to sleep now.

And the things that will do to my tummy …

BOOM!

Scene 5 – my house with one year old and a visitor of a similar age whose father has come over for a beer.

[Enter both one year olds, who give one another the secret dribble exchange handshake]

I see you too are a Junior Mason.

I am. Are you prepared?

Of course.

Where are the dangerous chemicals kept?

In the cupboard under the sink.

Ah, so original these adults are. (Jedi, I am becoming). Child lock?

Not since they got sick of taking it off every time they needed the dish cloth.

Excellent. How about power points without the plastic protectors?

Master bedroom, behind the bedside table on dad’s side.

Furniture?

The dining room chairs are low enough to get a leg up on, then onto the table with the candles and the matches they think I can’t reach. There’s also a step on the side of the bath from which we can fall headfirst into the tub.

You truly are an expert.

But, wait there’s more!

Steak knives?

Nothing so predictable. My old brothers have left Lego pieces down the back of the couch – fit beautifully in the mouth. Then there’s the toilet door that doesn’t lock properly unless you really slam it: perfect for walking in mid-stream. Finally, I can get the fridge open. The beers are in the door, second shelf from the bottom and they fizz over everywhere then you drop them.

You are truly an artiste.

Why, thank you. How long should we give them?

Oh, let them get 2/3rds of the way down their first drink; just enough to be relaxed and under the illusion that they’re getting an uninterrupted hour. In the meanwhile, can I tempt you to a little suspicious silence?

[Exeunt omnes – laughing]

BOOM to follow.