Don’t penalise penalties, Mr Abbott

This is, for now, as close as I’ll probably ever come to writing from my heart, or at least the spot where I have a lumpen-shaped chunk of stone where one’s “heart” usually is.

Tomorrow, we will all be voting in the 2013 federal election, or at least those who turn up will, even if they just cock and ball the ballot paper. Thinking of that makes me want to spill the beans on the only excuse I know of that works if you’re pulled up for not voting, but tomorrow’s election is so important that everyone needs to vote, so ask me later.

It is important to vote tomorrow not just because we live in a democracy and can vote for whomever we wish without fear of rigging – or much fear, it shames me to admit that my beloved Labor did once rig the result in a by-election for the Victorian state seat of Nunawading in the 80s but ho hum, it kept Jeff Kennett away from the top job for a few more years.

It is important to vote tomorrow not just because it’s something to get done and then the rest of your Saturday is free to use watching the football.

It is important to vote tomorrow and equally if not more so who you vote for.

I know that on this blog and on Twitter, and especially in my Facebook page if you know me from there, that I regularly, if not prolifically, go the thump on the Liberal Party and conservatives of all political parties in a way that really only makes me look like a 13 year-old in the body of a 23 year-old (I know, I’m like mental jailbait) but this time I’m imploring you to vote Labor and not Liberal for what is to many people I know arguably the most important topic of this election campaign, and you’re excused (this time) for not picking up on it, thanks to the mainstream media’s pathetic admiration and enabling exploitation of Tony Abbott”s daughters, who have been seen every day on the campaign trail being used by their father to get attention, patriarchal pimp that he is.

It is important to not vote Liberal or to preference them last on your ballot paper not just because of their policy of “rewarding” mothers who already earn over $100,000 a year up to $75,000 in paid-parental leave (just what we need, more North Shore brats with a sense of entitlement). Not just because of their policy to stop people-smuggling from Indonesia by buying, yes, spending our taxpaying dollars on buying the rickety and unsafe boats of the smugglers – and then what? Forget Great Western Auto City, Barloworld and Cool Banana Motorama, give Honest Tony’s Used Boats a try. Not just because of their policy on repealing anti-discrimination laws.

What we should all be worried about more than Mr Abbott’s repeated insensitive, discriminatory and offensive “gaffes” and “daggy dad moments” is what he and his party will do to workers, specifically people who rely on their penalty rates in order to live.

It could be argued that would delivered victory to Labor and allowed them to form a government after 11 years of Liberal rule was the Libs’ policy known as “Work Choices”, which was vehemently protested against by all due to it’s unfairness and bullying of workers that would be legalised and we’d have nothing to do about it. Work Choices was basically a way to undo collective and enterprise bargaining in the workplace and to get workers on individual contracts whereby the public was told that their employment contracts would be “tailor-made” to suit them – yes, if that suit was being worn on the proverbial clerk in the old saying, “Done up like a pox doctor’s clerk”.

In 2011, Mr Abbott was interviewed by Neil Mitchell on Melbourne’s 3AW (bring back Hinch!) and declared that if elected to government, Work Choices would be “dead and buried” and “cremated” under his leadership, nor would the policy be returning under any other name.

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However, just last week, the Liberal candidate for the seat of Gilmore, Ann Sudmalis, was quoted as saying in a candidate’s forum that “Any workplace relations legislation is on the table after the election, not before.” Yes, AFTER and NOT BEFORE.

If you think I’m exaggerating here, cast your mind back to the “Watefront dispute” in 1998 when Patrick Stevedores, assisted by then Minister for Industrial Relations, Peter Reith to lock all of it’s workers out of their jobs at ports nationwide via bullying, assault and intimidation – security guards who were nothing more than glorified thugs patrolling the wharves wearing balaclavas and with the hounds ready to be released at a moment’s notice. For more on that dark episode in our nation’s employment history, see the docu-drama Bastard Boys.

And now Mr Abbott has refused to say outright whether or not he is supportive of some big businesses idea of ridding us of penalty rates. Instead, Mr Abbott shiftily refers to a Productivity Commission into Industrial Relations that he is promising will (doubtful I’m guessing) either cut penalty rates and thus jobs in the strange belief that the more penalty rates are gone, the more jobs can be created from this.

As ACTU President Ged Kearney has said:

“We need Tony Abbott to commit to making no changes to penalty rates if he is elected, rather than hiding behind his mysterious Productivity Commission inquiry into IR.”

“Penalty rates have been part of the Australian workplace for decades and provide much-needed income for low-paid workers who are required to work week-ends and public holidays.”

“Cutting penalty rates will hurt workers without creating jobs.”
“Money paid as penalty rates does not disappear it is returned to the economy when workers use it to buy goods and services from businesses. Reducing penalty rates will hurt these businesses.”

If you or anyone you know has a job whereby they are paid an award rate, or receive penalty pay or even providing frontline services in the community especially, then do not let them vote Liberal.

A vote for the Liberal party tomorrow will fuck this country up, and that’s putting it politely.

I’m writing this because with all the possible outcomes of a possible Abbott government, and that’s including the rich getting richer, the poor getting poorer, people being paid by the government to push out sprogs they can already afford to keep themselves, bullying and bigotry instead of debate on policy, not to mention all the other disasters that will happen from those in his “cabinet” (for all their intelligence it’s more like a broom-cupboard), what he will do to workers is the worst.

As somebody who has worked in a job that requires penalty rates to make the wage worthwhile, and most people I know also requiring their penalties to survive, a vote for anyone but Labor will make us all worse off and, without exaggerating, have to go begging for alms.Please don’t vote for Tony Abbott. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.yo

Could this end up a blogging Pygmalion effect?

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For the nth time since the age of 15 I’ve been told I speak with an “English” accent which gives me no end of pleasure, Anglophile that I am – but how did I get it? I know when I speak I sound more “refined” or “cultivated” (as linguists would put it) in contrast to the stereotypical “broad Australian” accent i.e. sounding like your nose is congested and unable to free the blockage. Those who tend to do pronounce Australia as AWSTRAYLEEA or STRAYA (thank you, John Clarke!). This is known as speaking “Strine”, for in a broad Aussie accent “Australian” becomes “strine”.

Apart from the broad strain of Australian English, the only other regional variation I know of is from Melbourne. Not only is the Melbourne speech-pattern to flatten and shorten every ‘a’ – castle is cassel, mall is mal, Reservoir is Resev-war, Malvern is Molvern and Beaumaris is Beaumorris; even Balcombe Road where I lived in Melbourne is said more like “Baulkham” – but with females especially I’ve picked up on a nice little throaty thing happening with their voices too, and I’ve only found it in women from Melbourne: Marieke Hardy, Catherine Deveny and sometimes you can still pick up a few traces from Germaine Greer. I don’t know how it happens though, whether from smoking, laryngitis or something else – not that I’m complaining. I love it – it’s “well lush”. Sadly there’s not a lot to be found online that isn’t academic (read: boring) for an irreverent source here, but this is interesting – at least it mentions the most known mismatch of an accent to be found in public, the Prime Minister’s. Born in Wales, grew up in Adelaide and is pretty much a Melbourne type of person; I’ve heard Julia Gillard’s accent to be described as either (from that Age piece) “strine with a cavalier defiance” to “Wendy Harmer on Mogadon”. Better to sound like Julia Gillard than the pantomime schoolboy blubbering of former PM John Howard (the only person to start speaking like his impersonators).

So how did I get my accent? I was born in Gosford, (an hour north of Sydney) and the only thing speech-wise I notice there is how we all say New South Wales as if we’re from South London (“New Sarf Wales”). I then spent my adolescence in Queensland (which I dig as having a broader accent anyway, so parochial and backwards the place is) where I started getting all the nods to my supposed phantom accent. It’s not a conscious thing either. Despite a somewhat passable skill of putting on an English accent (I can do RP, Mockney (thank you, EastEnders) and two strains of Northern: Manchester and Yorkshire), I’ve only ever used it for mucking about in drama classes. And some things sound better English anyway, especially swearing or witty asides (I’m no Dorothy Parker). Have I gone up my own arse with my pretentious tendencies and try to sound “posh”? No! Do I spend my days swanning around as if I’m Noel Coward? I can’t think of anything worse.

Nobody else in my family speaks like this. I’m the only one who’s got it and I still can’t work out from where. Maybe it was from acting or the years of teenage misery where I hardly spoke anyway so that when I did my words would be forced and thus “cultivated” – the only way my speech is cultivated is from not coming from the nose but the back of my throat. I sound pretty normal amongst my friends apart from a lack of Strine and slang, but it’s not a put-on, I just happen to speak “properly” with what I say not how I say it.

A few afternoons ago, a friend and I had to make statements to the police after two “blaggers” (there’s some non-local lingo for you) tried to break in over the weekend. Prior to making our statements, my friend and I were discussing the many time I’ve been told I sound “English”, only for one of the cops to actually be English and even ask me where in Britain I was from. Of course it thrilled me to be actually told this by an Englishman, but I didn’t ask from where my accent sounds like it comes from. He was probably from the Home Counties if not somewhere in the South of England, and after his disbelief of me being Australian asked where I was from.

COP: So where were you born?

ME: Gosford.

COP: Down south isn’t it?

ME: Yeah, Sydney basically.

COP: Nobody talks like that in Gosford, do they?

ME: Nope.

So where in England is my accent from and how the freak did I get it? I’m not knocking it – no doubt when I do eventually go to the UK I’ll fit right in and nobody will believe I’m not native – despite having a “natural” (if that’s the word for being constantly exposed to the Queensland sun) tan. Even my local cop from Blighty remarked that I’ll never be able to get into a Walkabout bar (why would I?).

If time permits I may add a clip here of me reading this post out and you can decide if I sound English or not. If I really do sound English then I’d at least like to know what dialect I’m speaking. The Henry Higgins of blogging, here I come!

My brush with the loony left

People can talk of “skeletons in the closet”, whether they are personal or familial indiscretions. My shameful act was to join the Socialist Alliance a few years ago. Wanting to join a political party (lefty that I am) I naturally plumped for the ALP, but being skint (unemployed) I chose to join the S.A. because membership was cheaper for the jobless. I wasn’t sure I’d last long anyway, being a pro-Israel and Philosemite. It’s obligatory to barrack for Palestine in all matters as a lefty, no matter the circumstances.

Proof of my shame.

Proof of my shame.

Invited to the first meeting of the Melbourne branch for 2011, I went into town one Saturday afternoon, pushed out of home by a friend who encouraged me to go out and meet people instead of sitting on my arse watching box-sets of Weeds. The most memorable part of the day wasn’t meeting all my new upper-case-s Socialist friends, but the train into town – as I sat in my seat with sunglasses on and headphones pumping out a playlist of Deborah Conway’s “Consider This” and the Huxton Creepers’ “My Cherie Amour” (my “Melbourne music”), watching the suburbs along the Frankston line fly by, a girl a few seats away kept staring at me and as soon as I noticed would instantly look away, as if caught doing something untoward; which by all accounts it is untoward and unusual if someone casts an eye in my direction – I’ve no delusions. Before I disembarked the girl made a call and asked, “Have you ever had that weird thing happen when someone keeps staring at you on a train?” WELL, YOU STARTED IT! (“I have no issues. Really, I’m fine … I’m fine … don’t touch me!”)

Anyway, I made my way to the so-called “Resistance Centre” at the top end of Swanston Street opposite RMIT. A few floors up the branch meeting had just finished and, wallflower that I am, pretended to browse over books about Unionism in Eastern Europe in the 18th Century, Communist tomes and of course, the essential Marx and Engels, etc. Finally introducing myself, we all walked up to Carlton to a pub – this brightened my mood no end, friends and beer! Well, I was hoping I would make some friends after already committing a political faux-pas when asked what my thoughts were on socialism, “I’m a bit green at all this.” Cue lefties recoiling in horror at the name of another (and a damn-sight more organised and popular) political party. Thankfully the beer flowed and I did end up enjoying myself despite a few O.P. (other people’s) smokers – I aimed to please with my mercy dash to the nearest corner shop on a Saturday evening.

A week later I was asked to participate in a march to support Wikileaks, this being the summer of diplomatic discontent, and rocked up outside the State Library to find hundreds of people there of all different lefty backgrounds. There was a guy in a grey wig – to symbolise Julian Assange although he looked like Mrs Doubtfire – making speeches and was probably the organiser. Whilst milling at the edge of the crowd, lo and behold – another attractive girl came right up to me in her lovely purple ‘I SUPPORT GAY MARRIAGE’ t-shirt and tried to sign me up to another group, the Socialist Alternative. (I bet you all just said “alternative to what?”)  So we got talking and as the march set off down tourist-filled Swanston Street on a warm Sunday afternoon, I quickly got into the screaming of
FREE BRADLEY MANNING!” and endless rhymes starting with “2-4-6-8!” Equality Girl and I talked of my reasons for coming, my support of lefty things (“I just do it because I hate Tony Abbott”) and becoming political through reading the works of Frank Hardy – strangely, she hadn’t heard of him – how can you call yourself “political”, much less a “socialist” and live in Melbourne without knowing of Frank Hardy? Odd, I thought as we marched on complete with police escorts and blocking tram access to Flinders Street. I even ended up in the very front row too, but of course sod’s law came into play and I didn’t get my mug in any papers at all. So embarrassing.

We suddenly turned off Swanston into Collins Street and came to a stop outside the British Consulate. Why? I don’t know – surely it would have made much more sense to picket the Yanks instead? And that’s when the lefties tried to cram every single one of their causes into the afternoon by having an Aboriginal smoke-ceremony, the (only way to say it) “token Indigenous” person, everyone’s favourite lefty fool, Stephen Jolly from Yarra City Council and other larks that had nothing to do with Wikileaks at all. One of the marchers had grabbed a megaphone and started singing “Burn, baby burn!” Yes, hell is a socialist disco.

I bunked off with Equality Girl after an invitation to attend Trades Hall, where the Alternative’s set-up. I managed to stay for an hour despite not getting a single lefty joke – something about Condoleezza Rice or Donald Rumsfeld or some Bushite that was neither topical nor funny – and praise heaped on the beginning of the Arab Spring – I think Tunisia had just come through it and Egypt was about to kick off. When I got to Trades Hall I was met someone and said I’d just been on my first march, only to be asked, “Do you feel like a radical now?” Um no, I lived in Parkdale. Come on, like one bullshit march makes you a revolutionary leader. If true then a cake walk would be called a show of solidarity and consciousness-raising exercise. And why are the words “consciousness” and “collective” bandied about by hardcore lefties so much? They’re a worse cult than the Brethren! At least that time my mention of Frank Hardy was understood, before the motion was passed that to celebrate the Arab Spring they’d spit-roast a goat. Yeah, to celebrate the oppressed getting rid of their oppressors, they were going to cook a goat in a backyard in Fawkner. It’s like when they want to show solidarity with refugees locked up in detention centres – I don’t see the protesters sewing their lips and self-harming in protest.

A week later I returned to the Trades Hall mob for a free six-week course on learning all about socialism. Needing (and still) to know a lot more, I enthusiastically went along, only to be given a lecture on communism (which I can differentiate) and more “consciousness” and “collectives” being said. Me being me I started to take the piss but my barbs went unnoticed. So what more was there to do then just stop going? I’m glad I did – I’d have happily broken rank to condemn the BDS groupies and shame them for the anti-Semitic thugs they are. And so many middle-class members too – take this any way you want, but why try to change things on the other side of the world when there’s tonnes to do here – but of course, they’d be NIMBYs wouldn’t they? NOT IN MY BACKYARD! And I “love” NIMBYs. They’re the people who hate to see a block of housing-commission flats in their own street (“don’t want any riff-raff to come in”) but will happily snap up “investment” properties left, right and centre, charge exorbitant rents and thus create homelessness in the first place.

Like the Occupy movement, especially in Melbourne – what did the participants do for a living? They wouldn’t get the dole because they’d refuse to leave their pile of tents and squalor to attend appointments at Centrelink. I believe any hardcore and brainwashed member of a two-bit political group will always have a trust-fund or ready cash from Mummy and Daddy, especially if Pater works in the mines. How great to protest about minerals and natural resources being sent overseas when you’re living off the money your father gets for raping and pillaging the land and exporting said resources. It’s got to be true – when was the last time you saw a member of a political group other than the big four (Labor, Liberal, National and Greens) work from nine-to-five?

As much as I identify as a “lefty” (I believe in equality, free healthcare, education and public transport and less privatisation), I’m not a real one because I support Israel – and if I choose to support people who are holistically attractive instead of the other side with their tea-towels, hankies and policies of torture and abuse – then all the more fun for me!

Why I hate the BDS movement

Since the age of sixteen, I’ve had a deep love, interest and respect for Jewish people, whether they be practicing or just of the blood pure. It all started from reading the columns of Julie Burchill, the British journalist who is known as one of the fiercest defenders of Israel in the British media. Where are the defenders of Israel in Australia?

Why do I have such a thing for Jews? I can’t explain but I hope the following list will. How many of the people listed are either clever, talented, intelligent, funny, switched-on, interesting or even downright sexy, and all because they’re Jewish, regardless of whether by birth, religious observance or descent:

And that’s just a selection from Australia alone. I could go on with a list of people from overseas but we’d never hear the end of it, such is my passion.

I consider myself a philosemite (a Judeophile if you will, but small-minded people hear the suffix of “phile” and their minds go instantly to child abuse – I can’t fathom it either) and am very slowly learning all about Judaism, Israel and Zionism. Thanks to Burchill’s and others’ writings and the dozens of books I’ve read, I’m gradually becoming more passionate and learned.

I overcame the slight dislike of my name once I learnt it was of Hebrew origin, (Yeshua, translated to God is Salvation) and that even the alias I tooled about with, Levi, was again by coincidence Hebrew, meaning “joined in harmony”.

But the real turning point for me was when I decided to join a political party. Being of a lefty persuasion (despite favouring Israel over Palestine, a slap in the face to any left-leaning cause) I decided to join the Socialist Alliance, cheap at only $15 a pop for yearly membership. I only attended meetings and such for a fortnight before realising what a crock it was, of people brainwashed by words like “solidarity” and “cause” and “consciousness” bandied about like stones, the same stones that Israelis are pelted with by Palestinians. Also I got out before the question over the Middle East arose and would surely have been kicked out anyway. I can just picture myself being chased out of Trades Hall for refusing to kow-tow to the demands of a group of people whose chosen fashion accessory is one of Mum’s tea towels, straight out of the third drawer down.

Months later and the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions campaign kicked into full swing in Australia, spearheaded by Senator Lee Rhiannon of the NSW branch of The Greens, and a few mimsy words from then party leader Bob Brown, who didn’t anywhere near calling it out on the anti-Semitic bullying it is (And doesn’t Lee Rhiannon always remind you of that weird teacher from primary school that nobody liked and always smelled like they’d pissed themselves and rolled round in chicken-salt before leaving home?).

I’m glad I cut all ties with the lefty loonies by then, because at that time they all decided to do the only thing a BDS campaign can do, to picket a chocolate shop because it was started by two guys who happened (by fortune) to have been born in Israel. I was livid and had a near panic-attack when I read in the papers that 19 protestors (some of whom were from the S.A., just one letter away from S.S.) were arrested for protesting outside a Max Brenner store in Melbourne’s CBD, on charges including riotous behaviour, trespass and besetting premises. In my upset state I seriously thought that the next thing the S.A. would do was goose-step down Glen Huntly Road to Caulfield, Elsternwick and Balaclava (the home of most of Melbourne’s Jewish population) and attack any newsagent that dared to sell the Australian Jewish News. Thankfully, this has not happened, but if anything so resembles that sickening thought I’ll be on the first plane down there to abuse them in turn whilst proudly wearing my Israeli flag-patterned bandana (sorry,  it was cheaper than buying an actual flag-sized flag, of which I hope to buy a few to put up in my front windows).

Picketing Max Brenner stores and other businesses with links, however tenuous, to Israel is not just confined to Melbourne, or even Australia, but has happened throughout the world too – from London to Los Angeles. It also happened at around the same time to another Max Brenner store in Brisbane, and delightfully the BDS mob were met by a counter-protest, with bigger numbers and louder voices. Happily there was as a pro-Israel protest and show of support for the beleaguered chocolate shop in Melbourne, although sadly (to me personally) was sponsored and organised by the Liberal Party (don’t let the name fool you, international readers – the Liberal Party of Australia are conservative and currently there’s a right-wing Catholic at the helm), but at last Josh Frydenberg, Liberal MP for Kooyong, finally endeared himself to me, by asking BDS protestors to their smug faces: “Where is your Boycott, Divestment, Sanction about the butchers in Syria, about Ahmadinejad in Iran and the perils of Hezbollah?” If I should ever move to Anglican, leafy, upper middle class Kooyong – he’s got my vote.

So why do we hear nothing from a pro-Israel point-of-view in the Australian media? Granted we hear precious little about the Middle East anyway, usually only a few seconds on the evening news of rockets being launched over borders. And even that’s only on World News Australia on SBS! Australia needs a shake-up to scrape off the anti-Semitic crust that somehow most people I’ve met have inherently got. Even last week a 17 year-old (now former) friend of mine heard me mention that I was reading about Israel. His response to this was “bomb the shit out of them.” Considering that the political history of the Middle East isn’t taught in high school history (for shame), how could he say this without knowing a thing? How come in February 2012 on a block of toilets in near-redneck Wantirna of all places, some yobs chose as graffiti “The best Jew is a dead Jew” and a picture of a stick-figure in a noose, in a place with no Jewish people at all?

As Peter Finch cried in Network, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna’ take it anymore!” Why is there no history of out-and-proud philosemitism in Australia, particularly in the most Jewish-populated cities of Sydney and Melbourne? Why do studies say that anti-Semitism in Australia is on the rise since 9/11? Correct me if I’m wrong but was Israel in anyway involved in an attack that was orchestrated by the suicidal shareholders of Al Qaeda PLC? I know Muslims, whether fundamental or not, have taken stick (if not a branch), since then but blaming Jews for a cowardly offence committed by people? Have you not heard of Nick Griffin? Isn’t this just fringe-dwelling conspiracy nuts blaming Jewish people for everything wrong in their lives becoming mainstream?

It’s not on.

NOTE: Next I’ll be writing about what it’s really like attending a Socialist Alliance meeting and joining them on a protest – in other words, “My Brush with the Loony Left”.

From pleb to sleb.

“A celebrity is a nothing but a nonentity who got lucky,” wrote Kathy Lette (don’t ask – there was nothing else to read and I was desperate). Although looking at most “celebrities” you’d expect the luck to be long gone, drained and not even a few dregs caked on to the bottom of the barrel.

Ten years ago the whole “famous for being famous” thing hit the big-time with Paris Hilton, what with her sex-tape and describing anything she liked with a drawled “That’s hot”. Now we’ve got the Kardashians, and although I could, like everybody else, bag them, most of what I hate about them has been said before by people much smarter than me, so I’ll make it short:  They seem to promote illiteracy – last time one of them came here (I don’t know which, the one that doesn’t look like a bloke) Channel Ten had a news item on this visiting Kardashian that was titled, in the spirit of the Kardashians taking the letter K to levels not seen since the Ku Klux Klan, “KARDASHIAN KAOHS” – see, try to do a Kardashian and they can’t even spell the word “chaos” properly. The only positive thing I get from them is that at least the famous-for-being-famous crew has become a bit more ethnically diverse.

I think the best nonentity though was Kim Duthie, otherwise known as the “St. Kilda Schoolgirl”. What a fun January that was! In 2011, stories appeared of an underage girl attending a training camp in the US with the St Kilda Football Club. And that this girl (who had so far remained unnamed due to her age) had leaked photos of naked footballers arseing about in all their chest-waxed and pube-shaved glory (ugh!). Sure enough, pics were seen of Nick Riewoldt grinning and baring all and Nick Del Santo playing with himself – which prompted the joke about doing a nude calendar of the club, and having Del Santo as “Mr February – because it’s the shortest month.” It then transpired that she was sleeping with a player-manager, Ricky Nixon, and that she was going to have his baby (subsequently debunked when she was hooked up to a lie-detector). And didn’t we all taste a bit of sick in our mouths when we read that over breakfast? That a young girl was banging some fat old walking, talking beer-gut? Best of all was that Duthie was on Twitter and tweeting away without a care in the world, especially for legalities. One night a middle-aged female friend and I, high on Cab Merlot and dope, tweeted Duthie but sadly got no response: “Hey, when you banged Nixon how many times did you orgasm? NONE!” And then we got onto the maestro and puppet-master of slebs for no reason everywhere, Max Markson. “Hey Max Markson, when are you gonna’ get Duthie to kiss ‘n’ tell for a few bob?” Again, no response and after we sobered up and realised how stupid we were, we thought we’d sensibly leave the poor girl alone.

A week later my friend had one of her “cunning plans”, which usually involve something that would cause outrage to simpletons and be hilarious if all goes to plan. “I was driving from Richmond today and I drove past Carey Baptist Grammar”, the biggest private-school in Melbourne, “and Nixon used to teach P.E. there, so I thought why not go there at night and graffiti along the front wall HOUSE OF NIXON and a Pisces symbol? It’s right in the bible-belt and everyone’ll think it’s the sign of the devil!” How could I disagree with this? I took the next tram up to Kew and walked round the entire length of the school, sadly realising that even at night the road was too well-lit and virtually impossible to spray-paint one letter let alone HOUSE OF NIXON and a Pisces symbol before being caught. Oh well, better a cunning stunt then a … Yeah.

Nixon and Duthie as meme.

And yet after all this, Ricky Nixon still gets in the papers. Abandoning sports management for stand-up comedy (which of course bombed) and proposing marriage to his next pretty young thing in a McDonalds in Moe, of all places (you just know his honeymoon was going to be at the Best Western in Dandenong) – does anyone really give a shit?

As much as a celebrity may only be a nonentity who got lucky, I blame lazy journalists and lazy editors too. If you have the “power”, for want of a better word, to give the luck that can make or break, surely you have a duty of care to use it wisely.