“Love is … feigning interest in your partner’s stories.” Time and time again my beloved will sit and listen to my bi-weekly eight-minute discourse on Kantong’s hokkein noodles and how it says “serves four” on the packet but it really only serves three—she’ll nod and sigh sympathetically all the way through, even though she’s really thinking about Cherry Ripes and the buff black crumper on So You Think You Can Dance Australia, and how they could maybe be combined.
“Love is … having conversations that could be a Pinter play.” Here’s ours from the other day: “Did you say something?/ When I was what?/ When you were talking to her/ What did I say?/ Something you said/ I thought I told you/ Haloumi cheese?” It made total sense when we were saying it.
“Love is … having a laugh at the expense of others.” You can’t be stuffed any more with Oscar-Wildean-quippery or topical political-humour. Now, when we need a laugh, we just do cruel impressions of our children after they’ve gone to bed, or sing Vanessa Amorosi’s “Absolutely Everybody” with a white South African accent.
And finally, love is … always having to say you’re sorry.
CATHERINE DEVENY
Listen up, you selfish and ignorant people. Stop driving 4WDs
I would like to sincerely apologise for the comments I made about 4WDs in last week’s column.
Due to a limitation on the number of words, I was unable to say everything I wanted about these dangerous and obnoxious monster trucks being driven by people selfish at best and ignorant at worst.
And not just shame on you for driving these anti-social, arrogant four-wheeled bullies. Shame on the car companies for appealing to your insecurity by sucking you in with slogans like “Give way—not” (Jeep), “Get in or get out of the way” (Toyota HiLux) or the “class-kicking” HiLux 4WD utility with its “intimidating styling”, “aggressive bonnet scoop” and “dominating moulded front bumpers”. YEAH! What next? “Kill everyone and destroy the planet NOW WITH FREE AIR!” Suck up that free air, baby, because soon we’ll be paying for it.
When I discovered that the word Pajero really is Spanish for wanker, I thought to myself: “It must be my birthday!”
And just so we are clear, bush folk, people towing horse floats and the like, you’re off the hook. I’m talking about the people driving tanks to do the shopping and drop their kids off at school.
I can’t be fagged unpacking the arrogance of the space they take up on the road, which is the equivalent of taking up eight seats at the cinema and wearing a refrigerator as a hat. And I’m not going to get into their environmental impact, as there must be at least one 4WD that is greener than the lowered Commodores with mags that fang down my street blowing blue smoke. But you’d have to be an idiot not to put together the basic larger-vehicle-equals-more-fuel-necessary-particularly-on-city-roads equation.
Need the space? Try a station wagon, roof racks or a little inconvenience. So your kids have long legs? Where are these kids with the two-metre legs? The only place I’ve ever seen them is in the Moomba parade and I thought they were actually normal-sized people on stilts.
So let’s get this party started and crack open an icy-cold can of facts, shall we? Let’s slip into something a little more uncomfortable with the 4WD safety myth.
Research conducted by the Monash University Accident Research Centre has concluded that 4WDs are almost twice as likely to roll than a car, resulting in their drivers being 3.4 times more likely to be killed due to crushed cabin space.
The centre has pointed out that 4WDs “are not subject to the full range of design rules applicable to passenger cars and their derivatives”.
A team from Imperial College London and University of Queensland found, after a study of more than 40,000 vehicles, that “4WD drivers were almost four times more likely than car drivers to be using a mobile phone and 26 per cent more likely not to wear a seatbelt”. The researchers concluded that 4WD owners take more risks because they feel safer.
The Australian Transport Safety Bureau found that half the 36 children killed in driveway deaths between 1996 and 1998 were struck by large 4WDs. They have also found: “The proportion of alcohol intoxication amongst 4WD drivers involved in fatal crashes (29 per cent) was higher than for all other types of vehicle.” And: “In 4WD crashes involving multiple vehicles, passenger car occupants accounted for the largest proportion of fatalities (64 per cent). 4WD occupants accounted for 18 per cent.”
Children are at risk because they are little and these vehicles are high. As far as proximity sensors are concerned, they do bugger all to protect children. According to NRMA Insurance’s Robert McDonald: “They only work about a metre from the car, unless you are travelling extremely slowly. Your reaction time is not going to be quick enough to at least not knock someone over before even realising they are there.”
In 2005, NSW’s senior deputy state coroner, Jacqueline Milledge, recommended that 4WDs weighing two tonnes or more be banned from school grounds and within 200 metres of schools. She also recommended that the drivers be required to hold special licences after five-year-old Bethany Holder was run over by the driver of a Nissan Patrol with a bullbar.
Due to their weight and the bullbars being positioned at perfect head and chest height, drivers of vehicles hit side-on by 4WDs are 26 times more likely to be killed or suffer serious injury than if they had been hit by a standard-sized passenger vehicle, according to ABC’s Catalyst program.
But apparently they’re fashionable. If pick-up at your school is a procession of kids being collected from school in a car the size of a three-bedroom house, you may want to consider the values of that school.
Will it take a 4WD to back over the child of another 4WD owner for these status-obsessed fashion slaves to realise that these vehicles are potential killers?
Here’s a cheaper alternative to buying a 4WD. Just buy a normal-sized car and put a sticker on the back that reads: “I DON’T GIVE A STUFF ABOUT YOU AND I VOTE.”
SUZANNE EDGAR
Song of the crestfallen pigeon
The pigeon on my window-sill
adores a bird of wood
that gazes from this other side
as if she understood.
Brought here from America,
she wears a perky crest
feathers brown with a hint of pink
adorn her lovely breast.
The pigeon on the outer ledge
believes he woos a dove
and cannot comprehend the glass
that keeps him from his love.
If only I could speak with him
of love’s elusive flame
I’d cure his sad obsession with
the bird he cannot claim.
All day he paces up and down
and pecks upon the pane
his doting morse-code plea for sex
like any featherbrain.
PHILLIP ADAMS
My 2UE producer noticed a tendency for me to nod off during interviews. In my own defence, they lined up some boring farts
The world was agog when Ralph Fiennes was sprung having sex on a Qantas flight with an accommodating member of the cabin crew. Fornicating in the flying loo of a flying roo. My response? Not so much prudish as astonishment. Qantastonishment. For how the hell did they do it? Those jet-propelled toilets can barely accommodate a Mickey Rooney, let alone a full-sized thespian and a hefty, heartily hospitable hostie. The mind biggles.
(Oops! Boggles. For some reason I suddenly thought of the books of Captain W. E. Johns. Biggles and Archie squeezed into their cockpit. Sharing a joystick.) This sort of thing seems an occupational hazard on Qantas. Consider the fact that on another QF flight I slept with Janette Howard. And we don’t even like each other. Here’s how it happened. When Mrs H flies on official business with Mr H they enjoy the convenience of Australia’s version of Air Force One. It’s nothing like as comfortable as the Bushes’ Boeing, though not too bad. But when the PM’s busy schedule means he has to stick around, Mrs
H must return with the lower orders on a scheduled flight. And on two occasions, both on the Brisbane/Sydney run, some wag at Qantas has plonked us side by side.
The first time we looked at each other aghast. And, being chivalrous, I suggested that we seek reallocation. Which was, with some difficulty on a full flight, organised. But last time I was too tired for the rigmarole and said, “Don’t worry, Mrs H, I’m going to pass out anyway.” And putting on my little eyemask, I did.
With a shameful lack of discretion or gallantry, I went on air two hours later and announced that we’d slept together. Yes, I’m a bounder and a cad.
I’ve also slept with the Greek Minister for Culture. That splendid actor Melina Mercouri (Never on Sunday, He Who Must Die, Topkapi) had been given that high office when democracy returned to Athens after the overthrow of the colonels. She was on an official visit to the many Greeks of Melbourne at a time when I had the preposterous title of president of the Victorian Council of the Arts—and I was required to take her to the opening night of a Wagner opera. She was suffering jetlag from another Qantas flight and began lightly snoring as soon as the curtain went up. So I joined her until the interval, when we roused from our slumbers for drinky-poos with the dignitaries.
Despite my training as a theatre and film critic I often sleep through screenings and performances. But it’s Qantas’s fault. Arriving in London I had to go straight to the West End for Evita, and slept through the whole thing. Don’t Snore For Me, Argentina.
Ditto through the opening screening of a sequel or prequel of George Lucas’s Star Wars in New York. Having queued for hours to get in, everyone around me clapped and cheered from the first chord of the familiar theme, but I instantly lapsed into unconsciousness. For which I was extremely grateful, as I needed the sleep and detest Lucas movies. The only reason I went was to write a column on the “Star Wars phenomenon”. Star Wars, star bores. From Skywalker to sleepwalker. The only phenomenon is how anybody manages to stay awake during these ponderous, soporific epics.
To be fair to Lucas, my own humble presentations also put me to sleep. At 2UE, my producer noticed a tendency for me to nod off during interviews. In my own defence, they lined up some boring farts as interviewees. And at the ABC I sometimes fall asleep during our opening theme. Well, it is a latenight program, so the listeners are asleep, too—and many of my international guests are groggy because it’s 5am for them. Or after midnight.
Though a lifelong insomniac who can’t get to sleep in beds, I go to sleep in cars, whether driving or being driven. Dr Karl’s stern TV admonishments about micro-sleeps while motoring are wasted on me. I have macro-sleeps in taxis and, behind the wheel, like to drift off on long trips. Three cheers for cruise control.
But the worst place for narcoleptic behaviour is, for me, the meeting. Who needs sleeping pills when you’ve got an agenda? I’m out to it during “the minutes of the last meeting”. And, having chaired many a board, it’s been a bit of an issue. Meetings go better when the chairman’s awake, banging his gavel and shouting “Order!” Or at least asking if someone wants to move a motion. Whereas I’ve invariably drifted off.
I had various tricks. Like leaning forward and putting my head in my hands so as to look a) heavily burdened by my responsibilities; or b) deep in concentration. But those light snores betrayed me. And the noggin slipping from my hands and hitting the boardroom table was a dead giveaway.
S’cuse me. Need a nap.
SHAUN MICALLEF
My father sat on Winston Churchill
It was 1943. My father had just been voted the prettiest boy in Gozo.
He was 4 years old and, judging from the crumbling photographs he still insists on showing everyone, looked rather like Shirley Temple.
His duties were to act as a mascot during the Gamm ta’ L-isfargel Quince Festival. This mainly involved climbing a step-ladder and pinning St John the Apostle badges onto members of the Civil Service while dressed as Little Lord Fauntleroy. But on Saturday he also got to receive any VIP guests arriving at the Port of Marsaxlokk.
During the previous year Malta had earned the highly dubious honour of becoming the most heavily bombed place on earth.
So said a plaque fixed to a giant monument of Valettian limestone which, for at least 12 months, enjoyed the irony of being the only piece of construction in Malta not reassembled from rubble. Both Hitler and Mussolini had dive-bombed, torpedoed and strafed the small clutch of Mediterranean islands with everything they had. I appreciate they didn’t do it personally, but my guess is they were responsible for it somewhere along the line. For the Axis powers, the country was a stepping-stone to the oil fields of Persia. For the Allies, Malta was the keystone to victory in North Africa.
By the year’s end though there was no food, no fuel, no ammunition, no roads and nowhere to live. My father and his family were actually sleeping in a cave. For their troubles the Maltese were awarded the St George Cross. Just the one though.
Presumably they all got to wear it on some sort of roster basis.
By the next Christmas things would be very different. Italy had surrendered, rebuilding had begun, the quinces were bountiful, rabbits could be heard singing (although only according to Crazy Joe Muscat, the town lunatic) and arriving at the Port of Marsaxlokk on the evening of the 24th were Winston Churchill, Franklin D. Roosevelt and King George VI. They disgorged from their launch armed with gifts for the populace (toys for the children, cigars for the menfolk and lingerie for the ladies), waving and smiling and getting covered in what they took to be confetti but was in fact desiccated coconut stolen from the stores of the USS Ohio before it was scuttled. There to greet them was an impressive concord of local dignitaries headed by my 4-year-old father. He got to shake hands with the King of England and was given a pair of silk stockings by President Roosevelt. The stockings later found their way into my great-grandmother’s Christmas stocking, which must have been confusing for her.
A lavish civic reception was held at the most magnificent mansion in all of Malta, the Torre Dei Cavalieri. The King was a big fan of bel canto opera and it had been arranged for Maria Callas to sail over from Greece and sing selections from Donizetti, his favourite.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t come for some reason and so my father, a precocious child even then, took her place. The fact that he couldn’t speak Italian, let alone sing it, did not, on his telling, detract from the fun of the evening.
“I just la-la-la-ed,” he says proudly today. Apparently His Majesty very much enjoyed my father’s scat version of Lucia di Lammermoor and did not at any stage of the evening ring up Hitler and ask him to resume bombing. I can only assume that the sound of Donizetti spinning in his grave like a turbine carried sufficiently from Lombardy to drown the whole travesty out.
It had been a wonderful night; wine had flowed, legs had danced and the travails of ’42 had been, if not forgotten, then politely not mentioned. But the evening was not over yet. Roosevelt stood up and tapped his glass for attention. An aide leaned into him and reminded him he was in a wheelchair. Roosevelt quickly sat down again. He announced:
My friends, for many months we have wanted to pay some little tribute to you who have contributed so much to democracy, not just here but all over the civilised world. In the name of the people of the United States of America, I salute the Island of Malta, its people and defenders, who, in the cause of freedom and justice and decency throughout the world, have rendered valorous service far above and beyond the call of duty.
Under repeated fire from the skies, Malta stood alone, but unafraid in the centre of the sea, one tiny bright flame in the darkness—a beacon of hope for the clearer days which have come. What was done in this island maintains the highest traditions of gallant men and women who from the beginning of time have lived and died to preserve civilisation for all mankind.
Rapturous applause filled the room and then, just as it started to leave, the President turned to King George VI and nodded that it was his turn. His Maje
sty removed the blow-tweeter from his mouth.
“Ditto,” he exclaimed. The petering applause continued on its way out with barely a look over its shoulder. “But tonight,” continued the King in an effort to salvage the moment, “Christmas comes to Malta!” With a majestic sweep of his hand he gestured to the door and who should stagger in but Santa Claus himself.
Churchill, dressed in a long red fireman’s coat and straw beard, was distributing candy canes to the clamouring children.
A photographer from It-Torca’s social column wanted a picture and Churchill was happy to oblige.
He pulled up a gherkin barrel, plucked my father from the crowd, sat him on his knee and beamed at the camera. The flash bulb burst, startling my father a little and his head shot back into Churchill’s chin with a crack. Ash from Churchill’s half-smoked Romeo y Julieta brushed against the ostrich feather in my father’s Fauntleroy cap, igniting it. The alarm was consistent with that which would greet the sight of a votive candle, but Churchill was nothing if not a man of over-reaction.
Like a rapidly uncoiled jaguar he sprang, seeking to extinguish the flickering plume with the nearest available liquid, which regrettably was in the brandy balloon he was holding.
Fortunately, velveteen is naturally flame retardant and so my father’s head was spared any major damage, although he never did manage to regrow his full crop of golden curls and was thus never again to feel within his grasp the prize of being Gozo’s prettiest boy.
In fact, 63 years later he’s now as bald as a doorknob. Not due to Churchill so much as male pattern baldness. Still, he’ll continue entering. Hope springs eternal.
And God bless us one and all.
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