Come and say bula to the junta!

Ah, Fiji. The world's premier coup tourism destination. Thailand tried to wrest our northern neighbour's crown a few months ago, but Fiji's marketing department's been working overtime, and the former stomping-ground of Colonel Rabuka is now back in the headlines where it belongs. And so it should be. In no other country could 1000 troops mass on the streets amid worsening tensions between the Prime Minister and the army, and one of the military commanders suggest we "come to Fiji for a holiday".

I could go to Fiji for a relaxing week of lying on beaches, worrying whether the country was going to be turned into a military dictatorship. Or, I could go to Yemen, which is the world's new terror training hotspot, apparently. Really, it's a toss-up.

I can imagine the new tourism campaign now:

Fiji, it's coup d'tastic!

Get tanked in Fiji!

Beautiful one day, armed insurrection the next!

Fiji, where you can feel like a king! (BYO weapons and anti-Indian rhetoric)

and my favourite

Say bula to the junta!

(Yeah, I used that in the title as well, but if the Fijians can recycle their political instability endlessly, I can certainly reuse my cheesy gags about it.)

No wonder Fiji's own Air Pacific, "your island in the sky", says "Book online today! Great specials available for a limited time only." I'm not sure about their claim that Fijians are one of the friendliest peoples in the world, though. Certainly not to each other.

And hey, on Pacific Blue, you can get a return flight leaving tomorrow for just $368 (excluding taxes.) Go on, I dare you.

Former Radar editor (in other words, the best of the best) Joel Gibson is on the ground in Suva, interrupting a leisurely life of sunning himself and swilling kava to bring us the latest. His most recent update says that the President's in hospital – an excellent place to be if you are caught in the midst of a storm of controversy. Ask Sheik al-Hilaly.

But then he reports that "Life on Suva's streets appeared to be normal today." Well, it's a relaxed place, even on the verge of a revolution.

And the Fijian army's done its best to calm things down. (Well, other than that whole 1000-troop parade thing, of course.) As Captain Esala Teleni said, "Let me reassure you and everyone that, contrary to rumours, we are not here to conduct a coup. Forget it. We are not here for that."

So when his boss, Commodore Bainimarama, says it's him or the Prime Minister, I guess he's just referring to who gets to be first in line to stand at the airport saying "Bula!" to all the tourists who'll be arriving over the weekend.

And hey, as Joel says, DFAT has "stopped short of urging people to reconsider their need to travel." So it's not nearly as dangerous as, say, Baghdad.

What's more, there are two Australian warships off the coast in case evacuations are needed. In fact, I'd only buy a one-way ticket if I were you. You'll probably get a free harbour cruise home!

Dominic Knight

A column about greyhound racing

Since starting university, I’ve spent a lot of time in the suburb that gave this paper its name. I love it for its cafes, its bookshops, its pubs and its diverse, frequently bizarrely-dressed inhabitants. Just ducking my head in the door of Badde Manors to catch a whiff of freshly-ground coffee and noxious armpits takes me back to a better time. A time when the only things that mattered were essays, girls, the latest insignificant student political crisis and whether you had enough money in your pocket to pay for your cappucino.

But in all the years I’ve been hanging around in Glebe like the sad parody of soft-left university graduate I am, I had never visited its most nationally renowned attraction: the home of the NSW National Coursing Association, at Wentworth Park racetrack.

Even though it’s just a stone’s throw from the dilapidated student terrace where I spent my fifth year of university, somehow I’d always done things on Saturday night other than watching incredibly skinny dogs run at breathtaking speeds for a very short period of time. That was until last weekend, when my friend Dave nominated a night at the dogs as his preferred farewell venue to the life of a single man. A night with the boys, the beers and the bookies – it’s what the ANZACs were fighting for.

Greyhound racing is a predominantly male pursuit, and in fact I’d say the majority of the females at the track that night had four legs. But we soon realised, with disappointment, that this was largely because most of the other punters at the track that night were also on bucks’ nights. And worse still, of all the soon-to-be grooms who were boozing away their bachelorhood, our posse was clearly the softest.

One set of rivals, the redoubtable Ezza’s Bucks boys, had printed up a special t-shirt with all their names on it. Another group had forced the buck to don a dress – making him just about the only person there wearing one. Whereas we had just kind of turned up. We hadn’t even shackled our buddy to a novelty ball and chain as a witty comment on his approaching matrimony. It was a disappointingly un-blokey effort.

Then there was the betting. My friends made a valiant attempt to interpret the form guide, and one of them had even worked out what all the letters stood for by the last race. But apart from one bloke who made a motza on Tuscan Sun because he had Italian heritage, we all got absolutely clobbered.

I tried everything – backing the favourite, choosing by name even going up to the marshalling area and trying to guess which dog most looked like it wanted to tear a fast-moving piece of fluff to pieces. But I only won on one race all night, the “Everythinggreyhounds.Com Gr4/5 Stk”, whatever that means. I backed Powerful Lee on the strength of its witty adverbial pun, and was stoked when it romped home. But its comedic stablemates Outrageous Lee and Curious Lee were no good at all, costing me more than their Powerful sibling earned me.

All in all, I bet extremely Bad Lee, as a certain greyhound owner would have put it. The experience left with my finances and manhood in tatters. Why had I forsaken my poncey cafes for this den of gambling and canine anorexia?

At one point, after a particularly narrow loss, I was bitterly criticising the dogs’ intelligence, arguing they should realise that they could never catch the fake bunny, and they should just lie languidly down when the race starts and refuse to move. Then I realised I’d spent the night continuing to bet in every race even though it was blatantly clear I’d only lose more money every time. So by comparison, the dogs were much more intelligent than me – at least their repetitive pastime didn’t lose them money. And it kept them in shape.

Wentworth Park’s a great place for a night out, though – especially if, like me, you’re too much of a tosser to have been before. The racing’s exciting, and each event takes less than a minute out of your drinking schedule. What’s more, I’ve got a surefire way you can win. Just ask me for some hot tips – and then back another dog.

Axle Whitehead, Aussie Legend

I have a principled objection to watching Australian Idol and Video Hits, so I haven't previously been familiar with the work of Axle Whitehead. But I now know two things. Firstly, he exposed himself and got intimate with the ARIA trophy. And secondly, I wish I'd been at the ARIAs to see it. I've been to the odd awards night in my time as someone who works with B-grade celebrities, but I've never seen anything that good at a Logies or AFIs. And it's high time we did. Because like another man with an identical-sounding first name, Axle is rock. And we should be thankful for his antics: if it wasn't for his antics, the big story of the ARIAs would have been Bernard Fanning.

It hasn't yet been explained why he did it. I don't know what particular combination of chemicals was swirling around in his cerebellum, telling him that what the crowd were really hanging out for was a bit of hanging out. It may have just been 100% pure, unadulterated Axle. But whatever it was, his unzipping and flopping will go down in ARIAs history. Personally I reckon they should get him to host the ceremony next year. Nude. You can't tell me it wouldn't be more entertaining than Rove.

I particularly loved his statement. He reckons he's taking a short break from television? The guy's not going to be allowed near a camera in a decade. He's going to "put all the experience of the past three years to positive use going forward?" How are his video-introducing skills going to be of any use In the Centrelink dole queue?

And as for "focussing on his music", Idol's viewers obviously didn't want him to stick around until the end, and it was clear that Ten figured the closest he was going to get to singing was introducing other people who do it.

No, the career direction for him is clear: penis puppeteer. That show has gone the world over – it's been playing in Argentina, and Norway, Belgium and Holland are on the way. And although those guys have been flogging their dead horses for over a decade now, imagine how they could reinvent the format by adding a puppeteer who likes to get it on with respected industry awards.

There are other self-exposing opportunities in the entertainment besides that, of course. If Snoop Dogg can release his own adult video, why can't Axle? And given his surname, the pun name opportunities are endless.

But the real question arising from the incident is exactly what Channel 10 does to their Video Hits stars on award nights. Kelly Cavuoto got sacked after just a few months for swearing at the Nickelodeon Kids' Choice Awards, which might have seemed like the bottom of the barrel for bad behavior, given the involvement of children, until Axle got going.

Axle is probably feeling a bit down about all this in, shall we say, the sober light of day. He's lost a plum television gig that he could have had for ages, based entirely on being someone teenage girls find moderately pretty. But he should cheer up and bounce back. Dropping his daks didn't spoil Malcolm Fraser's career, and Alan Jones – actually, sorry, let me clarify for the lawyers that there's no analogy to be drawn with him whatsoever. This might look like it's broken Axle's career, but if he plays his cards right, this could be the making of it. Look at Tommy Lee. Actually, don't, it's a bit sad.

But if nothing else, Tommy proves that you can be a rock star after flopping it out. Well, on Rock Star: Supernova, anyway.

Dominic Knight

It's chaplainin' time!

Well, thank goodness someone's finally doing something about the disturbing trend towards humanism in our schools. Since the whole inconvenient division between church and state became popular in political theory, it's been viewed as inappropriate for the government to back any particular religion. Heaven forbid the decision about a child's religion be left up to the discretion of parents. Goodness knows, some of them might even opt for their children to have no religion!

There will be a few teething problems, like determining which denominations should supply the chaplains. But I'm sure they'll figure it out. I mean, different religious denominations always work so well together. Protestants and Catholics have a long tradition of harmony to draw on, particularly in places like Glasgow and Northern Ireland. So you can imagine that members of one Christian group will be just fine with their kids coming into school-hours contact with members of another denomination. And what's more, in recent years, both denominations have been drawn closely together by how much they hate another Christian sect, the Charismatics. And Sunni and Shi'ite Muslims just love working together – hey, in some parts of the world, the two major branches of Islam aren't even in armed conflict.

Based on the Government's tight links with the organisation, though, I am assuming that most of the chaplains will be from Hillsong. They're young, funky and hip, like a religious version of Johnny Depp in 21 Jump Street. And because there's money from the Government on offer, you can assume Hillsong will be right in there – no other church is better at making a buck.

Fortunately the government has reserved the right to veto chaplains, to ensure that no-one untoward is appointed – you know, like a socialists. Some Christian groups are downright leftist, and those aren't the sort of values we want in our schools. Sure, religious freedom is important, but we're talking about public funding here. So it would be improper for these chaplains to impose their own agenda. It'll be their job to impose the government's.

But as the ALP said in approving the motion, values are good. Let's not worry particularly about which ones, or whether they're sexist or racist or whatever – kids just need them, okay?

You do have to be careful, though. I mean, what if Shiek al-Hilaly was a chaplain? That'd be a disaster! Much better to have Christians in the schools, teaching more accepted forms of sexism, such as that women aren't permitted to teach men (of course, if the Catholics and Jensenites have any say, none of the chaplains would be female) and that wives have to obey their husbands.

And of course the current batch of experienced, dedicated teachers isn't capable of providing them. Because, as is widely known, most teachers are left-wing.

But there's one great thing about this plan that most commentators don't seem to have identified. We can assume that many schools simply won't be able to agree on which particular religion to back. With most Sydney public schools hotbeds of cultural diversity, parents will doubtless agree that it's better to have no chaplain. But that won't be a problem at religious schools, of course, where only one particular denomination gets a guernsey. So what this policy ultimately equates to is even more federal funding for private schools. And that's one value that John Howard definitely supports.

Dominic Knight

Photo of Hillsong: Ben Rushton

The Attack of Kingar-two

The other website all nice and fixed, I was going to join every other commentator in their stomp-on-Sheik-Hillaly party. But really, there are only so many times those reprehensible words can be condemned, and everyone else has had a good crack already. I was limbering my finger up for a good waggling session at Australia's least favourite mufti, but then I noticed a story on the SMH homepage that stopped me in my tracks. Terror, sheer terror, penetrated through to the very marrow of my bones. Because Princess Mary is having another baby.

I've expressed reservations about the interest value of Princess Mary before. But only a mere year after she popped out the right royal whippersnapper that the Danish press dubbed the "Kingaroo", she's putting herself through childbirth again. And it won't be that much less painful for us. I mean, come on – only one day in, and the News website has already dubbed it "Kingar-two". We're going to have to put ip with this until May?

(By the way, let me be the first to tip Platyprince or Platyprincess this time around. Clearly no pun is too lame for the tabloid media.)

What's more, the announcement has come just as we ready ourselves for the prince's first visit to Australia. I'm sure the Danish royal family doesn't care much about the local press, but really, could there be worth timing for media hype? We're just getting used to Nicole Kidman on the cover of our women's magazines again, and then Princess Mary serves up an official visit/second baby double whammy.

Mark my words, the months from now until May are going to be more excruciating than the Brangelina birth was. And you can bet Mary certainly won't have the good grace to hide out in Namibia, away from the world's press.

The Princess Mary story was a fairytale come true, I can admit that. Mary really was just an ordinary Sydney woman, and you'd have to say that when Juan Antonio Samaranch announced that "the winner is Sidonee", you could argue that he could also have clarified that one Australian real estate agent would win a great deal more than just a boring old gold medal.

The charm of Mary's story was her very ordinariness – the fact that it really could have been any Sydney woman in the Slip Inn that night. But, six years on, that ordinariness is really coming home to roost. Check out this fascinating story in Hello magazine. Wow, she had a chat with her mother-in-law. Hold the presses.

Yes, I know she does charity work. (How bored would she be otherwise?) And she's certainly doing a brilliant job of producing heirs. But what else is there to justify such intense interest? According to her website, she's given a whopping two speeches all year.

(OK, to be fair, I looked at the Danish site and there are six. Still, not exactly onerous.)

But I shouldn't be getting annoyed with Mary. It's not her fault that Denmark's still a monarchy, or that she was asked to join it. And really, who wouldn't? Hey, I'd hate for any royals reading this blog to think I'd automatically be unavailable if ordinary Australians are still fashionable at the moment. I'm a republican – but any squillionaire royal babes should feel free to convince me otherwise.

The pomp and majesty of the monarchy just end up disgusting me, really. If you visit places like Versailles, they're certainly incredibly beautiful, but the waste ultimately makes you feel ill. There is no longer any real justification for private individuals owning vast swathes of a nation, or its fine buildings or heritage. These things should belong to everyone, in the same way that our Government House is now a genuinely public building. Whereas Queen Elizabeth, for example, has palaces to burn in the UK. (And does so regularly.)

We should stop being fascinated by royalty, and become gloriously indifferent to the likes of Princess Mary. I'd rather read about people who have achieved prominence through their own talent. People like Alexandra Adornetto, for example. Princess Mary has handled herself graciously, sure; but she's ultimately just someone who got lucky. So if we must endure her the blanket media let's see her turn out a publishable novel. In Danish.

Dominic Knight

Photo: AFP

Radar celebrates National E-Security Awareness Week!

I got a helpful email from my good friends at eBay this morning informing me of a wonderful piece of news. I'm probably the last to know, as usual, but let me wish everyone a very happy National E-Security Awareness Week! I was a bit upset that I only got the email today, meaning I've missed out on an entire day of celebrations. So starting now, I'm making up for lost time. Fire up your web browsers, folks, it's time to get safe and secure! And I don't just mean secure, I mean E-Secure!

Unfortunately this laudable event may have been slightly overshadowed by some of the other initiatives Senator Coonan's been involved with lately. But some people are having a great time! still, in the interests of public information, you should go to this website and learn how to "Stay Smart Online'", if you don't know how to do that. Hint: banks don't send emails asking you to 'check' your internet banking password.

eBay can be a dodgy place, though. A few years ago I bid on a laptop, but soon got deluged by other 'sellers' who wanted to do off-eBay transactions. One guy wanted me to come and meet him in a park to buy it at an unbelievably low price, but it had to be that day. (Gee, I wonder whether it was stolen?) It did all seem a bit too good to be true, but I won't pretend I wasn't sucked in a little, at least initially. But certainly not as badly as this poor schmo.

So, trade safe, folks. But what about all the other helpful precautions that aren't to be found on the Government's website? In the spirit of National E-Security Awareness Week, here are ten other things you shouldn't do online.

1. Put personal details like your real age into MySpace, lest you be contacted by people like this.
2. Enter your confidential financial details into this site, because they will post you crap like this.
3. Listen to any of the dangerous audio to be found here or here, as it may create fits of uncontrollable rage and/or vomiting.
4. Visit the "first Star Trek fan site to have its own domain name". (Wow, what an achievement.) I think this is so risky I'm not even going to post the link.
5. Please, on no account order this DVD from amazon.com. (But do read the New Yorker review at the bottom of the page.)
6. Book your next holiday here. Fortunately, you can no longer book these.
7. Comment on this site, because then you will probably be a sometime hardcore reader of the Radar blog – very dangerous indeed.
8. Watch what I believe may be the lamest YouTube video ever. And then reflect that it's been viewed 940,000 times. And that she then redid it, and it's even worse.
9. Buy an ad here, or anywhere like it. Seriously, how will anyone ever see it?
10. Read any of the articles here, especially when they make you click on a million darn links for no reason whatsoever.

Dominic Knight

Out on the Jonestown

I never thought I'd say this, but I feel a little sorry for Alan Jones. He's spent his entire life rigorously avoiding the question of his sexuality, and now everyone's talking about it. And his friends like Professor David Flint are right to make the point that a public figure's sexuality should not necessarily be up for discussion. The debate between David Marr and Andrew Bolt on The Insiders yesterday left me more torn than I would ordinarily expect to be where those two individuals are involved, because it occurred to me that for once, Bolt might have a point.

And that point was as follows:

Listen, it's the linking of the constant "nudge, nudge, wink, wink that he was with boys" with Masters actually admitting he has no proof at all of anything improper. If this happened to anyone else - this linking of being gay with being a pedophile, you would be the first, like I was when (Liberal senator Bill) Heffernan attacked Michael Kirby I was there saying this is disgraceful. You should be here attacking this kind of stuff.



It's certainly true that many people make a strong association between homosexuals and pedophilia. I once heard Fred Nile argue at Sydney University that the age of consent should be higher for homosexual sex, as it was at the time in NSW, to protect young boys – his clear implication being that there are more problems with pedophilia amongst homosexual men. It was a disgraceful exercise in "nudge nudge, wink wink" of the kind Bolt describes, where Nile never actually came out and said, but constantly implied, that gays were inherently deviant, so can't be trusted around young men. (That law, fortunately, has now been changed – for which we can largely thank John Brogden.)

The initial excerpt about Alan Jones' sexuality, and his relationship with young boys while a master at the Kings School was certainly a little, shall we say, racy. So, were Masters' tales of showers and love letters an exercise in "nudge nudge, wink wink", or a legitimate piece of journalism?

Firstly Masters cannot really be accused of sensationalism. The excerpt as a whole read as extremely balanced, and makes the point repeatedly that there was no evidence of sexual contact.

But Bolt does Masters' work a disservice by arguing that this is an attempt to destroy Jones via mere innuendo. The examples Masters has identified go well beyond that. They're presented calmly and with balance, but they are, in places, concerning. No parent would want their children, of either sex, showering with teachers, or receiving love letters from them. Our education system now goes to enormous lengths to prevent such behavior.

Given what Masters found – and the speculation that has always surrounded Jones anyway – his behavior is a fair question for the writer to investigate. If he had committed criminal actions, then surely his audience would have a right to know, wouldn't it? That Masters ultimately finds no smoking gun is a point that should actually exonerate Jones, not implicate him.

But a far more convincing argument in favour of making these revelations is given by Masters and Marr, who link Jones' sexuality to the way in which he exerts influence. The Age reported that "Masters says Jones, 65, hides his homosexuality in order to retain his much-feared audience power base, which he uses in secrecy to influence ministers, including the Prime Minister." Marr said "It is is an explanation for his strange character, his love of secretness."

And the exercise of that influence is certainly worthy of some hard questions, especially to those who indulge him. Tony Abbott and Morris Iemma seem like eager puppies in the humiliating excerpt published today. (How on earth is Tony Abbott simultaneously at the beck and call of Alan Jones and George Pell, incidentally?) Exposing the remarkable extent of Jones' influence-peddling can only be good for our democracy.

Sure, Bolt is probably right to suggest that some may read "teacher, gay, boys", as he puts it, and assume Jones is a pedophile. But if they do, that is not the fault of Masters or his carefully written (and excerpted) work. That assumption ultimately reflects the individual's own prejudice.

And this ever-present risk that his conservative audience would assume the worst if it was aware of his sexual proclivities is at the heart of the tortured existence that Masters describes, and explains why the excerpts make me wonder if I shouldn't feel sorry for Jones. What a terribly unhappy existence it would be to constantly fear that if your allies and fans knew who you really were, or who you really loved, they would shun you.

There can be no better example of this than Jones' relationship with John Howard. Jones is the PM's close ally – the MC at his celebration dinner for 30 years in politics. But under Howard, gays are second-class citizens whose relationships are given a substantially lower status than heterosexual ones, as a recent article by Adele Horin illustrates. So why wouldn't Alan Jones fear, subconsciously at least, that the PM would shun him if he revealed his sexuality?

I am speculating here, of course, but a life of shame and secrecy is not something anyone would voluntarily choose, is it? It's a lonely existence. Jones has never been seen in public life with a male partner, and the conservative sphere in which he moves would probably not be comfortable if he did. And if his pals don't treat gay relationships as equal and normal, why would Jones give anyone evidence that would lead to them rejecting him?

The excerpts from Masters' book portray Alan Jones' life as tragic because he is helping to perpetrate a worldview that denies who he truly is. And while I don't care for his opinions, or the way he exercises his influence, I can't help but recognise the pathos of the predicament Masters describes.

Jonestown hasn't even been published yet, and it already might have shattered Jones' precarious "don't ask, don't tell" existence forever. It's too soon to say whether his audience will turn against him. I hope it doesn't – it wouldn't exactly reflect well on our society. But if it does, Jones will partly be responsible, because his approach of avoiding the issue means that he hasn't ever challenged or encouraged his audience to be more tolerant.

This exposure may ultimately have some upside, though, or perhaps even come to seem like something of a relief. From now on, Jones can be assured that his friends and listeners, and all those who come to pay him tribute, know most of his secrets, and are with him anyway.



Dominic Knight

Shut up for the Socceroos

Look, I haven't always been huge on the Socceroos. Mark Viduka, for instance, becomes worse than useless whenever he dons an Australian uniform. But none of us should stand by while our team, who performed so well in Germany, nearly beating the then world champs and fully deserving to beat the mob that went on to win the thing, is abused by Noel Gallagher, the man who is responsible for 'Whatever'.

I used to love Oasis. I bought Definitely Maybe on a trip to the UK right after doing the HSC, and it became an instant favourite. 'Supersonic' and 'Live Forever' are great songs. But then the band faded into cocaine-fuelled, self-indulgent Beatles pastiche with its second album, What's The Story (Morning Glory), and has then spent the following decade trying to recapture the 'magic' of that bygone era – which seems far from magic ten years later.

In short, they're a bunch of has-beens (and no, I don't care that their last album was hailed as a return to form – it was a return to the era when they were slightly less crap than they have been for the past decade), and Noel Gallagher, one of the most self-indulgent musical hacks on the planet, who's been in trouble countless times for plagiarising rock classics and saying moronically arrogant things about his joke of a band, has no place criticising anyone.

Let's look at Gallagher's specific allegations against our boys in green and gold, then, shall we?

"Football is the game of the intelligentsia and you are shit at it."

Intelligentsia? Not if Noel Gallagher's a big football fan, surely.

And we are objectively not "shit" at it, at least at the moment. At the World Cup, after performing creditably against Japan, Asia's top team; Brazil, the #1-ranked team in the world; and Croatia, we made the final 16. We were unlucky not to beat Italy, and based on their game would have smashed Ukraine, meaning we probably would have made the semis without that famous Italian dive.

Then there was that 3-1 victory over England in 2003. Perhaps we should send him the DVD?

"You will never win anything so give it up."



Excuse me, Mr Gallagher, but we've won 4 out of the 7 Oceania Nations Cups since 1973. Okay, so it's world football's weakest region by far, so that number is actually embarrassing because it should have been 7. But we do win "anything".

Besides, England haven't even reached the final of a major tournament since 1966. The Socceroos impressed far more commentators than the overpaid, disappointing England squad did in Germany. And we're a strong contender for next year's Asian Cup, having qualified first.

"I don't know, there is something about [Tim Cahill]. I would love to kick him right in the bollocks."



I'd love to kick Noel Gallagher in the head, but that doesn't make him a bad musician. (It's his songs that do that.) Cahill is one of the top 50 players in Europe, based on his recent Ballon d'Or nomination. Look at the amazing goal he scored on the weekend, if you want to know why.

"Don't you find [Cahill's] face really slapable? I can assure you, lots of people in England do."

Given his own altercations with brother Liam, I can only imagine that wanting to get into a fight with Cahill actually means that Gallagher wants to form a best-selling but ultimately rubbish band with him.

"Socceroos ... Do me a f---ing favour, you could come up with a better nickname than that"

OK, fair point.

And what of Oasis' own work? Not only are their songs generally turgid, dull and simplistic, but over the years, Oasis have produced some of the poorest lyrics in pop music history. I've always despised the lyrics of 'Wonderwall' – check the subtle variations here:

Verse 1

Today is gonna be the day

That they're gonna throw it back to you

By now you should've somehow

Realized what you gotta do

Verse 2

Today was gonna be the day

But they'll never throw it back to you

By now you should've somehow

Realized what you're not to do

Oh, how cleverly he turned that around! Then there's 'D'you Know What I Mean?', with its extremely inventive chorus:



All my people right here, right now

D'You Know What I Mean?

All my people right here, right now

D'You Know What I Mean?

All my people right here, right now

D'You Know What I Mean?

Yeah, yeah

But this is still better than when the band tries to get poetic, as in the verse lyrics:



I don't really care for what you believe

So open up your fist or you won't receive

The thoughts and the words of every man you'll need

Get up off the floor and believe in life

No-one's ever gonna ever ask you twice

Get on the bus and bring it on home to me

Finally, let's look at a single off their last album, 'Lyla' – one lazy syllable different from 'Layla', of course. (Listen here, it's awful):



She believes in everything

And everyone and you and yours and mine

I’ve waited for a thousand years

For you to come and blow me out my mind

Hey, Lyla

The stars are about to fall

So what d'you say, Lyla

The world around us makes me feel so small, Lyla

If you can't hear me call then I can say, Lyla

Heaven'll help you catch me if I fall

All I can say is that even if the Socceroos are "@#*!", as the SMH put it, Oasis are a great deal @#*!tter.



Dominic Knight

A column about global warming

I understand that global warming is a big environmental problem. I am not one of the few remaining oil industry-aligned skeptics who still insist nothing’s been proven. Sure, I haven’t seen An Inconvenient Truth yet – recent trips to the multiplex having been designed more around a desire to escape reality than receive a harsh jolt of it. But I really, really intended to, and that’s got to count for something, right?

I don’t want the polar ice caps to melt, or the snows of Kilimanjaro to disappear. In fact, I’ll have you know that I’m a fully paid-up member of Greenpeace. Or at least, I was once, but I’ve changed address and credit card details several times since then. Details, details – the point is that I am nevertheless committed to the environment. And, for the record, I think pollution is bad. I just think that warm weather’s not such a bad thing, and that it would be better if Sydney had a little more of it.

So if we can manage things so that Sydney gets a bit warmer in winter, in particular, but that the drought isn’t worse and no low-lying Pacific island nations are wiped out, I for one would be delighted. Because I’ve come to realise something at about this time every year, as the weather lures us into our t-shirts with the occasional hot day only to give us frostbite after the sun sets. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder.

SAD (oh, and it is) is most commonly experienced by people who live near the Arctic Circle, in countries like Iceland. They get depressed because of the weather, and presumably also because they live bang smack in the middle of nowhere. Most people say the disease is called by a lack of sunlight, and treat it with a lightbox, although I think the disease is more likely caused, in Iceland at least, by over-exposure to Björk.

Obviously the weather in Sydney, recently voted by the readers of Conde Nast Traveler as their preferred tourist destination, doesn’t cause depression. My condition is the reverse condition: warm weather makes me inexplicably happy. After going through the colder months in a fog of grumpy cynicism, I spend November through to March in a bizarrely blissful daze. My highly-developed frowning muscles take the summer months off, and on occasion, in spite of myself, I can even be seen smiling.

Maybe it’s the high frequency of social events, from Christmas parties to barbeques? Maybe it’s the annual influx of the expats, whose endless tales of how great their lives are in New York or London rally us to throw extra-lavish and debauched parties to pretend that we Sydneysiders have more fun than we really do for eleven months of the years. Or maybe my body just really likes being sunburnt and sweaty. But whatever causes it, it’s started already.

Over the next few months, I’ll find it almost impossible to care about things like politics or principles. Already I’m finding myself shrugging off things that I know I should be concerned about, like the recent media law changes and the sale of Telstra. I’m even indifferent about the long-overdue steps taken by our leaders towards finally recognising that Iraq has been a failure and that the Coalition of the Willing should become the Coalition of the Pulling Out Immediately Before Any More Of Our Troops Are Killed. Screw it, I tell myself. I’ll just go to the beach.

Perhaps this explains why people who live in Queensland put up with Joh for so long, or why the Thais didn’t seem to mind that whole coup thing so much?

So while everyone’s getting on the global warming bandwagon – something I’m theoretically committed to as well – I know I’ll be largely thinking to myself how much I’d like it to be summer all year round. And while I’m happy to help fight the good fight, at least through the medium of whiney opinion-writing, I’m afraid I’m going to take a raincheck until autumn. Because from now until April, I just know that the only thing I’m going to genuinely care about will be the Ashes.

This unsporting life

(This piece appeared in the most recent edition of SundayLife, and some of my friends who missed it suggested I post it here, so that they could have a whole new opportunity to laugh at me.)
When I was but a young lad of 16, I was visiting another school for a tennis match when some friends called to me from a cricket pitch. It was the mighty Fourth XI (out of four) and, given our school’s traditional indifference to sport, they were down a player who hadn’t bothered to turn up. Would I be willing to fill in as last drop?

Would I ever. As an Australian male, I’d like to think I know a thing or two about cricket. I’d even played competitively in year 7 or year 8 (well, if you count losing every single match as “competitive”). And I once scored 12, one of the highest scores all season. So I thought it would be child’s play to put on a quick-fire, Viv Richards-style half-century so my admiring teammates could carry me off the field, triumphantly brandishing a stump.

I donned (in the sense of “putting on”, not “reminiscent of Don Bradman”) some pads but opted – hygienically – not to use the “box”, which had already been down the undies of most of my sweaty teammates. I jauntily strolled out to the middle, bat propped rakishly over my shoulder, communicating to the bowler that I was made of better stuff than the amateurs he’d been facing earlier. I took guard. The bowler began his run-up. And propelled his first medium-slow delivery right into my crotch.

Honestly, the pain was excruciating … but even more agonising for an adolescent whose manhood had just been metaphorically (and literally) crushed were the taunts. “Balls before wicket!” said one wag. My pride also retired hurt that day. And I haven’t played cricket with a real ball since. Because, despite my enduring love of it, despite my fantasies whenever I take to the field that somehow things will be different this time, I am crap at sport.

I don’t “throw like a girl” or take wild air swings and miss completely. I’m not like a scene from Revenge Of The Nerds (well, not in that respect anyway). I just mean that every single time I play sport, whether it’s soccer, table tennis or tenpin bowling, I’m invariably the most mediocre. That’s not how Aussie blokes are supposed to be. My passport is meant to give me mystical powers of eye-to-hand co-ordination as well as bucket-loads of Aussie spirit. The Australian way is to fight above our weight and bring back the glory. It’s Steve Waugh scoring that century in an afternoon at the SCG. It’s Lleyton Hewitt chasing down every damned ball on his way to a Wimbledon title (as opposed to chasing Bec Cartwright). It’s our hero Socceroos, except in the years 1975 to 2005. But the only champion sportsman I have any chance of emulating is Steven Bradbury. And I’d need a much greater number of people to collapse in a heap ahead of me before I took home any medals.

We’re not a country where you get points for trying. When Ricky Ponting’s team surrendered the Ashes, we didn’t congratulate them on getting close. We were devastated. And that’s my problem. I play soccer with a bunch of mates in the park on weekends – unfit, lazy blokes who, for the most part, ought to be just as bad as me. But for some reason, they effortlessly outclass me. So I make fun of myself before others can, all the while sobbing on the inside like a baby. And even though all of us could pretty much serve as a second Nerds FC team, the whole thing’s become ultra-competitive. I’ve been shouted at for not tackling hard enough and the girls who used to play with us for fun are long gone, tired of balls being kicked in their faces … because Australian men don’t do “social” sport. Even for toddlers at kindy, it’s war.

It’s surprising we aren’t more tolerant of sporting failures when the most revered example of Australian manhood is the Gallipoli landing. (And believe me, I get hammered on the beach just playing Frisbee.) English football fans can obsess over tiny, unsuccessful regional teams but the Sydney Swans only get crowds when they’re winning. While in Melbourne, an Essendon v Carlton match takes on the seriousness of a blood feud – even when both are at the bottom of the ladder.

Where does that leave those like me, whose genes simply aren’t cut out for it? Jealous and resentful, frankly. Since we’re already confined to the shallow end of sport’s gene pool, the least you could do is not sledge us. We’re already painfully aware that we’re rubbish and your mum could do a better job. Believe me.

Jocks ought to be careful how much they pick on my kind, though. John Howard loves cricket more than he loves the Queen – and that’s saying something. However, he’s not only the bloke who hands out that all-important Australian Institute of Sport funding – he gets to open the Olympics and pick the Prime Minister’s XI. And that truly is the revenge of the nerds.



Dominic Knight

Nine's Sale of the Century?

The new media laws have arrived, so it's time for foreign companies to squabble over Australia's media assets like a pack of ravenous vultures. First to be sold is Channel Nine, if you believe the rumours. Apparently the most likely buyers are a San Francisco private equity firm. But given Nine's poor performance over the past year or so, I can't imagine that the home of Jessica Rowe is worth much these days. So how about we all kick in a couple of bucks and buy it?

Think of the benefits. You could attend a taping of Bert's Family Feud whenever you wanted, although that would be never. You could wine and dine Nine's panoply of stars, including... um, Kerri-Anne and, oh, I guess Toni Pearen, and Jules Lund if you had a gun pointed at your head. And you could host the Logies, if you could be bothered.

But there is one excellent benefit of owning Nine – tickets to the Ashes. I missed out thanks to Cricket Australia's monumentally hopeless allocation system. But if a few of us became one of Nine's major shareholders – which might mean putting a couple of hundred bucks worth of shares on our credit cards or something – we'd be able to watch every minute of every match from an executive box. Awesome.

Better still, as one of Nine's major owners, we could finally get rid of Tony Greig. Perhaps after getting a report on his condition using his trusty key.

Just think of the changes you could make:

• Give Bert a tonight show instead of Family Feud and 20 to 1
• Put some funny videos on Australia's Funniest Home Video Show – Daryl Somers getting attacked by a swarm of hornets, for example
• Axe The Today Show. It's clearly going to happen, but wouldn't it be fun to be the one to actually do it?
• Turn A Current Affair into a current affairs show.
• Get rid of the silly new logo that's just a worse version of the old one.
• Axe Frasier. Forever. And then torch the master tapes.
• Rationalise Hi-5. You can't tell me they couldn't do that show with two people, tops.
• Get Missing Persons Unit to figure out what happened to Tony Barber, then bring him back to host Temptation.
• Ask Jules Lund's Big Questions to figure out what the Scientologists are doing to James Packer.

As I write this, I see now that PBL shares have gone into a trading halt, so this idea may not be possible – others might have beaten us to the punch. But if a private equity group does buy Nine, they'll just make a few quick, obvious changes to increase the company's value – like getting Eddie McGuire to go back on screen, where he can actually help – and then sell it. I can't imagine you could possibly add so much value to Nine that it would go out of our price range. Because after a year under James Packer's management, that once-great network is no longer 'still the one'.

Dominic Knight

The ostentation of charity

The process of giving money to good causes is starting to bother me. Not because of those annoying people who approach you in the street and yabber at you until you give them your credit card details – I put them only one rung above those awful Amex sellers in shopping centres. I'm talking about recent trend of flaunting charity by accessorising with our generosity as if it were some kind of Gucci for rich Westerners with a social conscience. The Oxfam wristband promoted by Coldplay's Chris Martin said "Make Poverty History". It's time we made wristbands history as well.

Especially when, as another Radar site reports, they've been used for some truly horrifying purposes. Check out the pro-Michael Jackson wristbands.

But the whole accessorising-with-charity thing has just been taken to new heights by Bono – who else? He's come up with an uber-hip new concept called Product Red, or (PRODUCT)RED if we really must. The brackets thing is about taking a brand "to the power of red", which is that rare thing – both fashionable and mathematical.

The idea is an extremely clever one. He uses his star-power to convince trendy brands to produce trendy products, usually in red. Then trendy consumers buy them, and use them to demonstrate just how trendy, trendy, trendy they are. Funds are raised for AIDS drugs in Africa.

They have a "manifesto" which is hypertrendy as well:

IF THEY DON'T GET THE PILLS, THEY DIE. WE DON'T WANT THEM TO DIE. WE WANT TO GIVE THEM THE PILLS. AND WE CAN. AND YOU CAN. AND IT'S EASY.

Strange thing is that as irritatingly simplistic as this sounds, it actually is pretty straightforward, and it does raise a lot of money. The existing products included American Express cards, Converse All-Stars and Motorola RAZRs, but that wasn't trendy enough. So now Apple have just jumped aboard with a red version of their iPod nano – "Sounds good. Does good." When you buy one, Apple donates $10. You'd have to predict they'll sell an avalanche-load.

This could create a dilemma for consumers. The red iPod looks great, it's the best colour. And who doesn't want to donate $10 for AIDS drugs? But in buying one, doesn't that just make you look incredibly ostentatious? Like you think you're morally superior to those who have those oh-so-passé white or black iPods?

Then again, anyone hugely worried about appearing ostentatious probably won't buy an iPod anyway, let's face it.

But perhaps there's another way to look at this. Perhaps making charity fashionable is a stroke of cynical genius. Maybe Western consumers are just so shallow and materialistic that the best way to raise money from them is to go along with that, rather than convincing them otherwise? We tend to balk at charity, but think nothing of splurging on consumer goods. So if just pointing out that people are dying and it'd be nice if we incredibly rich people helped with it doesn't work, maybe appealing to our shallow side is the best approach after all?

It certainly seems to be yielding results with Project Red, if you believe their website. They've already distributed $10 million. And if people are going to buy this stuff anyway, and they do, it's surely better that some of that money goes to one of the best causes around.

But I'd like to see companies going further. Why doesn't Apple give $10 from every iPod to a different charity? Their margin on those things is huge anyway, if you believe the reports. It's not like they or the consumers will actually miss that money. So why not make themselves feel better?

Wouldn't it be great if every time you bought a vaguely luxurious item, 5% of the purchase price went to charity? Like a luxury tax, only for charity. So there'd be no choice, and also no ostentation associated with having that specific product that's the "charitable edition". I can't think of a better company to kick this off than Apple, whose stuff is already expensive, and whose addicted consumers are hugely price-insensitive anyway.

Above all, you'd retain the most important benefit: assuaging our guilt at having enough money to blow on such inessential items. Most people in the West have the nagging sense that the distribution of wealth around the world isn't quite right, and that something should be done. But that doesn't generally take them as far as really putting their hands in their pockets.

As much as I hate the idea of wearing your generosity to the gym – or literally on your sleeve, if you buy the red Emporio Armani watch – I've had to begrudgingly concede that Project Red is a good thing, because of its ultimate impact. It'd be so much better if we just gave money, but we don't give enough. So in short, it raises donations that almost certainly wouldn't be raised otherwise.

Perhaps we should embrace this? Perhaps all charity should take our shallowness and selfishness as a starting point? Maybe if we're honest about just how cravenly, disgustingly consumerist we are – and heaven knows I am – we might actually raise enough money to do something useful. Product Red caviar, anyone?

Dominic Knight

A siring song for aging blokes

Well, who knew? It seems men have a biological clock issue as well. To wit, if we don't start fathering sprogs by the age of 40, it gets harder for us (well, probably softer for us, in truth) with every passing year. And only 2% of men even realised it was a problem. But don't blame us. Blame Rupert Murdoch, Woody Allen and Jack Nicholson. They're the guys who've kept producing kids well beyond an age where it was at all dignified. And they've given the rest of us false confidence.

I always thought women had a rough deal compared to men. The fairer sex pretty much have to get cracking by their mid-30s to have the best chance of getting it right, while guys can just keep callously trading downwards until we're lying semi-comatose in a nursing home, hitting on 25-year-old carers. And of course, there's still some truth in that. Especially now that we have Rupert's good friend Viagra, right?

The problem is that, like putting out the rubbish or painting the wall of the spare room, men always figure they can have kids later.

This is not exactly surprising. Swapping free time and disposable income for sleepless nights and dirty nappies doesn't always seem like a great trade. Many men don't get into fatherhood until the sprog's born, and then they surprise themselves with their cluckiness. Maybe there need to be some more incentives? Perhaps for each new baby fathered, you should get a carton of beer. Maybe even one with a Talking Boony.

Or better yet, what about a Talking Warney? He's the cricketer most associated with sowing his wild oats. With Warney offering us regular lifestyle advice, who knows how many more babies would be conceived?

And that's what I found most interesting about Mark Metherell's article this morning – the first paragraph, where they say it might be time to bring back the idea of "siring a child" as a rite of passage. Literally proving your manhood, the old-fashioned way. That notion was fantastic for the propagation of the tribe, but no way is that going to work now. As the article later goes on to point out, men now define their masculinity in terms of how many women they can sleep with without conceiving before settling down. Getting a woman pregnant before you are ready to is perceived as a failure these days.

The only thing for it is for men to start settling down earlier, and the only way that's going to happen is if women collectivise. If women universally withhold sex from men who really are old enough to be settling down and raising children, suddenly you'd find the fellas becoming more willing to give parenthood a shot. Because while men can just keep on moving on elsewhere, or kidding themselves that they can, they have to really, really want to settle down before they take the plunge. And many men just aren't built that way. Some guys have always had to be dragged kicking and screaming into taking responsibiliy for child-rearing. Often with the assistance of a shotgun.

But there is some good news for us blokes. According to the same article, excessive exercise can inhibit fertility as well. Sure, that probably only applies to women, but what if it's like this age thing, and turns out to affect us fellas as well? We can't be too careful, gentlemen. I wouldn't risk getting off the couch, personally. You can sire children perfectly well in front of the football.



Dominic Knight

Is Borat racist?

Like most of the other people who have been swept up in the avalanche of hype surrounding it, I am really looking forward to Sasha Baron Cohen's Borat movie. Or, to give it its magnificent full title, Borat: Cultural Learnings Of America For Make Benefit Glorious Nation Of Kazakhstan. But one thing has troubled me as I've visited his hilarious website and read the enormous number of news stories with no real point other than to Make Benefit Glorious Box Office Of Borat Film. I'm starting to suspect that Borat's appeal is more than a little bit racist.

Oh, I know, what a brow-wringingly politically correct objection to make. Where's my sense of humour? It's a joke. It's satire. And so on.

But I think it's problematic. It's just that Baron Cohen is mocking an ethnic group whose feelings we don't particularly care about. We're used to the perception of Eastern Europe as being dour and backwards – we were fed it throughout the Cold War. Very few people have travelled there – I certainly haven't. The Working Dog team's excellent Molvania book also spun comedy gold out of the same vodka-soaked stereotypes.

The Kazakh government hasn't exactly helped the country's image with its bumbling overreaction. Rather than laughing along and then saying "that's funny, but of course, Kazakhstan is actually nothing like that", their actions in banning Borat from their internet space and criticising him have only made themselves look bad and given him free publicity. And the plan to release an alternative film based on Kazakh national hero Mansur, an 18th century warrior, isn't exactly going to make the country look all 21st century and groovy.

Let's just imagine we weren't talking about Kazakhstan here. Let's say someone instead had invented a comedic character called Reuben, who went around in Orthodox dress trying to screw people out of their money, drinking the blood of Christian babies (a particularly insidious myth, that one) and trying to take over the world through some kind of vast global finance conspiracy. He'd speak in a hilarious parody Yiddish accent, say "Oy vey" a lot, and otherwise make himself the fool in a way that gave non-Jews a sense of smug superiority. You can imagine the outrage a comedy character like that would create. And I certainly can't i imagine anyone eagerly awaiting the film. But isn't that exactly what Borat is, for Eastern Europe?

While still all too common, anti-semitism is a taboo in our society these days – as is only reasonable in light of that whole "centuries of persecution" thing. So of course Baron Cohen cleverly integrates that into Borat's character as well. His famous "Throw the Jew down the well" song gives us just another reason to look down on him, as well as the rednecks who sing along.

So we laugh at Borat with his "harmless fun" stereotype of Kazakhstan as a bleak, violent, sexist, homophobic backwater, and condemn him for his "unacceptable" stereotype of Jews as having crooked noses and horns.

This sort of humour is, in general, on the way out, despite the staunch attempts by Mahatma Coat to keep the dream alive. As a genre, blackface is dead, and the unflattering Indian goofball played by Peter Sellers in The Party and Mickey Rooney's appalling portrayal of Holly's Japanese neighbour in Breakfast at Tiffany's would never be permitted now, for instance.
The main difference with Borat, though, is not the kind of humour, but the quality of the writing. His response to the criticisms of the Kazakh government, for example, still make me laugh:

"In response to Mr. Ashykbayev's comments, I'd like to state I have no connection with Mr. Cohen and fully support my Government's decision to sue this Jew. Since the 2003 Tuleyakiv reforms, Kazakhstan is as civilized as any other country in the world. Women can now travel on inside of bus, homosexuals no longer have to wear blue hats, and age of consent has been raised to eight years old. Please, captain of industry; I invite you to come to Kazakhstan where we have incredible natural resources, hardworking labour, and some of the cleanest prostitutes in whole of central Asia. Goodbye! "

Homophobia isn't all that funny, but the idea of gays being made to wear blue hats is more inventive than your common-or-garden prejudice, and that makes it much easier to laugh at it without so much of a guilty conscience.

I'm going to see Borat, and I'm confident the positive reviews will be proven correct. But I suspect that in a few decades, Borat himself will seem as much an anachronism as the character's anti-semitism.

Dominic Knight

YouTube, me jealous

$1.65 billion. In US dollars. That number again: $1,650,000,000. Or with even more offensive, obscene zeroes, $1,650,000,000.00. That's how much two twenty-something dorks, not unlike myself, made out of selling YouTube.com to Google. I hate those guys. They haven't even been in business for a whole a year, and they're multi-millionaires. And it's not just jealousy. Okay, so it's mostly jealousy. But I still hate them.

Why do I hate them? Let me count the ways.

1) They infringe copyright. Okay, so my own personal record in this area isn't 100% clean. Like every other nerd back in the day, I used Napster. I downloaded a few episodes of The Daily Show via BitTorrent before it arrived on cable here. And so on. Our generation doesn't particularly care about crossing the 't' and dotting the 'i' in copyright. But here's the thing. I never made $1.6 billion out of infringing copyright. For instance, this clip from The Chaser's War On Everything has been viewed 220,000 times – with YouTube making money out of the advertising every single time. Sure, we gave it away, but it still seems wrong for someone else to make money out of it – both through the advertising, but now primarily through the site's purchase.

2) And they get away with it. This irritates me even more. I've always argued that disseminating copyright material is actually often in the interests of its owner, especially when it's in clip form, because it creates demand. The recording and film industries have never bought that argument, though. But now, by signing deals with YouTube, a number of record labels have. Which is why their company's suddenly worth all that money, instead of a deadly liability as some have argued (and some still do.) YouTube has announced plans to post every music video ever, which would be superb. And make me hate them all the more.

3) They're massive nerds. Seriously, even I would kick sand in the faces of these guys. Look at their darn geeky, goofy faces. Hear their nerdy, now-billionaire laughs. Listen to their dorky "two kings" analogy. These guys may be, in some respects, IP pirates. But Captain Jack Sparrow would eat them for breakfast. Hell, Orlando Bloom would eat them for breakfast.

4) Google are good to work for. The 'Googleplex' has foosball, air hockey, ping pong tables, roller hockey, barbeques, free food, even "Bring your dog to work" day. I don't even get to work at Fairfax's offices, being but a lowly blogger, but I've been in there occasionally, and let me tell you, there's no roller hockey.

5) Sorry, I still can't get over the $1.65 billion thing. That's 2,217,157,780.97 Australian dollars. Or 196,675,020,891.79 Japanese yen. Or 44,356,950,000.17 Russian roubles. Or 26,480,849,999,831.04 Vietnamese dong. I hate them even more in dong.

6) It's the American Dream. You know, that whole propaganda thing that if you can come up with the right idea, you can make it big. So those who are slaving away on minimum wage just aren't working hard enough, or somehow otherwise have themselves to blame. This somehow makes it all of the rest of our fault that we didn't think of the idea, and make ourselves multi-millionaires. Like it's my fault that Google didn't just buy this blog for a cool billion. (By the way, if anyone from Google's interested, let's talk. I'm very cheap. Can't you tell?)

So – if anyone has an excellent dotcom startup idea, and wants someone onboard whose only real skill is complaining, get in touch. We could be Google-share millionaires.

Dominic Knight

Everybody else is nuking it, so why can't we?

The Korean Central News Agency may have announced a nuclear test that "brought happiness to our military and people" (interesting to see the order of priorities) but it's made the rest of the world highly uneasy. It's too early to say whether they're telling the truth, or the detected blast was conventional, but Kim Jong Il has certainly upset lots of people – including some South Korean protesters who were so incensed that they made a doll of him that looked exactly like the puppet from Team America. So if even the world's most terrifyingly wacky regime is now a nuclear power, why shouldn't Australia cobble together a few nuclear weapons as well? All the cool kids are doing it.

Iran's thought to be very close to developing nuclear weapons as well, so this could mean that both the remaining rogue states that comprise the Axis of Evil will have the bomb. (The third, Iraq, seems to be doing perfectly well at killing US troops and civilians with good old fashioned conventional bombs.) Combine that with Pakistan, which everyone seems to have conveniently forgotten is a military dictatorship since General Musharraf renamed himself President and started helping with Al Qaeda, and there are several countries who non-nuclear powers like ourselves would really rather didn't have the bomb.

Why have these countries rushed to develop the bomb? Like so many dumb things in recent years, it comes back to Iraq. With President Bush devoting enormous resources to a fairly foolish exercise in regime change, and backing it up with a "Bush Doctrine", if you can credit anything he the man says with such a high-falutin' title, based around spreading democracy/chaos everywhere, no self-respecting dictator can afford to rest on their self-awarded laurels. North Korea is using the idea of a potential US attack to justify its bomb, but really, it has good reason to believe it might be targeted. After all, although Kim Jong Il loves rattling his sabre, Bush is the one who's actually launched a nutty invasion.

The great thing about nuclear weapons, of course, is they pretty much guarantee you won't be invaded. Only the loopiest leader – or perhaps one who perceived himself as the instrument of the Apocalypse, shall we say? – would countenance invading a nuclear power. So their recent acquisition by India and Pakistan has probably quietened things down in Kashmir, bizarrely enough, because both parties know they can't risk a full-scale war.

In Korea, though, the equation isn't changed too much by Kim having nukes at his disposal. His border with South Korea is already the world's most heavily fortified. Seoul is very close by, and has always had dozens of conventional rockets pointed at it. This has prevented an invasion of North Korea for decades. So for the South, the nukes are basically just yet another reason to be freaked out.

But what this will do is escalate the regional arms race. Japan is North Korea's other major enemy, and they may well want their own nuclear battery. Other nearby countries, like the Philippines and Thailand, might well decide that they too need the capacity to obliterate an opponent. So the "Pax Americana" that has prevailed for decades, where the region's stability has been guaranteed by American strength, could be at an end.

Will every tinpot dictator have nuclear weapons soon? And if so, how long until they start holding the rest of us to ransom? It might mean some North Koreans got to eat for once, admittedly.

So, if this is the logic of security in Asia, if this is the only way we can stay secure, shouldn't we get some nukes of our very own? You know, just in case Indonesia, PNG or New Zealand gets frisky. Can we really trust America, with its twin tendencies towards isolationism and improper interference?

But we shouldn't stop there. Sure, there isn't open war between Australia's states at the moment, but can we really trust those sneaky Victorians? They're already at boiling point because they haven't had a team in the AFL Grand Final for years – would a third consecutive Swans appearance next September spark off a military reprisal? And Western Australia's always wanted to secede – they even voted in 1933 to leave the rest of us. If they got the bomb, we wouldn't be able to stop them.

Lots of gun nuts – sorry, special guest from America – have recently been arguing on this blog that personal firearms are essential security. By the same token, shouldn't we install a battery of missiles in all of our backyards? That'll make the neighbours think twice before they let their trees grow over our back fence.

North Korea is probably the most perversely awful country in the world, where citizens starve but the state develops high-priced weaponry. It really would be great to get rid of Kim Jong Il. But we can't. In fact, we've never been able to, really. So we'll simply have to go on waiting for the regime to implode. What a wonderful world.



Dominic Knight

A column about karaoke

Every month or so, my friends somewhat suspiciously gather in dimly-lit, underground rooms. The cigarette smoke is thick in the air. Empty bottles and beer-stained serviettes litter the low tables. It could be the headquarters of some nefarious criminal organization. But the only murder on the agenda in these dingy subterranean lairs is of songs.

Multiculturalism has brought us many wonderful benefits, but few rank next to the ability to croon Frank Sinatra standards while being accompanied by crappy 1980s-style synthesisers. So Australians have adopted Japan’s favourite hobby no less enthusiastically than we’ve taken up sushi and Astroboy. And where the right to perform an even rougher version of ‘Khe Sanh’ than Barnesy’s original was once restricted to dodgy pub covers bands, now thanks to the magic of karaoke, anyone can conjure up the long-term psychological damage of Chisel’s fictional Vietnam veteran – and in so doing, cause short-term psychological damage to anyone who’s forced to listen.

Karaoke prowess is so important in parts of Asia that not only will the machine mark the accuracy of your performance, but people tend to get training for it. Apparently in the business world, the ability to bash out a killer version of ‘Hey Jude’ counts as a big plus, rather than the huge minus I’d have thought it would be. It may well be that Alexander Downer’s whale-like performances at regional political meetings are doing Australia’s reputation irreparable damage. But if Labor gets up and makes Peter Garrett Foreign Minister, the world of karaoke diplomacy had better watch out.

I’ve been in the first-floor bar at the Mandarin Club, for example, and watched the most heartfelt public renditions of sugary Canto-pop love ballads, sung brilliantly and with utter conviction. To my cynical ears, these kinds of performances are both wonderful and highly amusing.

But Australians have developed their own unique approach to karaoke, though, and as with so much of our culture, it’s all about taking the piss. When Aussies take to the mike, they mock these genuine expressions of emotion. One perennial favourite is ‘Wind Of Change’ – a truly cheesy song from the end of the Cold War, with one of the worst whistling solos in the entire history of recorded music. I’ve heard it sung dozens of times, but never, shall we say, with the same respect for the momentousness of the end of communism that The Scorpions had originally intended. Bon Jovi’s ‘Blaze of Glory’ and the heartfelt works of Richard Marx and Michael Bolton are often given the same treatment.

The real beauty of karaoke is that it simply doesn’t matter how good you are at it. Even the most tuneless of renditions can have a charm of its own. And sure, a truly brilliant singer can shine, obviously – but thanks to imperfect equipment and the continent of Asia’s overfondness for the digital echo effect, no-one ever sounds all that good. Karaoke is a great leveller. The only thing you can seriously get wrong is taking yourself seriously.

Whether you prefer to croon ’50s classics in a poor imitation of Robbie Williams’ poor imitations of the originals, or belt out mid-1980s hair-metal schlock (and there isn’t much else on many venues’ playlists), it’s a brilliant way to relax with friends. And for all the cultural difference that divides Australia with much of Asia, there is one thing we truly have in common: beer. Japanese and Australians alike love nothing more than a nice cold inhibition-lowering lager. And if you’re going to embarrass yourself in front of your friends after a few too many, better to have a microphone in your hand than anything else. And that is ultimately, the real beauty of karaoke.

Hello, nasty: beware the exploding Kitty

I've always thought there was something suss about Hello Kitty. Sure, there are obvious feminist issues with a female cartoon character who has no mouth. If you actually were to say hello to this kitty, you'd get no response. (Although to be fair, I discovered today at the website of her theme park, Puroland, that her boyfriend has no mouth either. That must be rather inconvenient in the bedroom.) But Hello Kitty's evil extends far beyond spreading everywhere like a cute, ribbon-adorned cancerous tumour. Now, it turns out, she explodes.

The news has been dominated by stories of exploding Dell laptops, and massive battery recalls for Apple laptops (including my own, hooray) and ThinkPads. But Sanrio, the evil-genius company behind the mammoth Kitty Empire, has also had a problem with spontaneous explosions. They've been been forced to recall a certain model of Hello Kitty doll because it explodes. This particular toy contains a warmable heat-pad (the red thing in the illustration) that can be inserted within the doll so that it keeps the kiddies all warm and toasty. But in some instances that cuddly warmth can go a little too far when the liquid erupts from the container, scalding the unfortunate Kitty-lover.

On top of Hello Kitty corrupting young girls into an unhealthy obsession with pink, cuteness and silence, this is too much. (Maybe Badtz-Maru is to blame?) I vote we immediately remove Hello Kitty from our shores, perhaps by classifying her as a munition. No dolls, no cartoons, and certainly none of the incredibly kitsch Fender guitars they're about to produce (PDF link). Hello Kitty makes the idea of giving impressionable young girls Barbies seem downright responsible.

Incidentally, here's Sanrio's official line on the mouth thing: "Why doesn't Hello Kitty have a mouth? Hello Kitty speaks from her heart. She is Sanrio's ambassador to the world who isn't bound to one certain language."

Sure, the dolls may explode, but I reckon the major health danger from Hello Kitty is still nausea.

Dominic Knight

Guns don't kill people, American schools kill people

The NRA should update its slogan. Because it turns out they're right – people do kill people, specifically at schools right across America. By the SMH's count, the truly tragic execution of at least three Amish schoolgirls today is the third school shooting in the past week. So really, how many more people have to die before the US gets halfway sane on gun laws? Do we have to get to a half-dozen? Double figures? Come on, surely people in America aren't ignoring Michael Moore?

The alleged gunman Charles Carl Roberts had a cache with three guns – downright scary ones too, by the sounds of them. I don't really know my weapons, but "Ruger bolt-action" doesn't sound like something an "enthusiast" might need for a "hobby". (Check out this article on Bill Ruger, "America's gunmaker". What a guy.) Roberts also had a stun gun, hacksaw, pliers, tape, even a bucket for his waste... this guy was clearly not just your common-or-garden freak, but a hardcore nutjob who had planned his siege with psychotic foresight.

Last week, in Bailey, Colorado, a gunman shot a schoolgirl in quite similar circumstances, and the Roberts killing may have been a copycat incident. While on Friday, a school principal was shot dead in Wisconsin by a 15-year-old kid after being busted for having tobacco. Is this contagious, or something?

Is it too outrageous to suggest that if guns weren't readily available in most American homes, virtually none of these people would be dead? In American politics, it is, actually. But, just for argument's sake, let's look at the other arguments the gun lobby uses to defend their right to have devices that make it easy to kill people on hand.

It's a sport.

Okay, so let's just set aside the obvious point that anyone who feels that pumping bullets into living animals is a bit of fun on the weekend probably needs therapy, rather than indulgence. As someone who quite enjoys gun-based video games, and has executed many criminals in Virtua City over the years, I can understand how that's fun. But come on – play paintball, or shoot skeet or something. Go to a rifle range. And lock the guns up there, and don't have them in your house. I just can't see why even an Olympic-level shooter would need to keep guns in the home. At least out in the city.

It's for self-defence.

If people keep guns for self-defence, all that means is that burglars and so on carry guns as well. So someone who just wants to knock your house off for a heroin fix suddenly gets in a position where they might have to kill you, or be killed themselves. No-one who invades your home is going to want to add a murder rap unless they have to. I've been burgled, and really, it's not that big a deal. You just buy new stuff on insurance.

It's about liberty.

I just hate this argument, but okay. There's an idea that in America, the citizens should be able to rise up against the US Government if it were to become tyrannical. And that's why all those survivalist rednecks keep weapons handy. Where to start with this? Okay, well, let's just imagine that the US Government could actually became tyrannical. A loose collective of probably-inbred freakboys with pop-guns are hardly likely to stand up to the overwhelming military might of the US Army. (Well, except in Iraq.) The idea that lovers of liberty might band together and take back Washington for the people is just moronic. Ask anyone in Thailand whether they'd like to face down one of those tanks that's scattered across Bangkok. If America's serious about allowing its citizens to carry the means of genuinely overthrowing tyranny, you'd have to allow ole Jebus to store medium-range nuclear warheads out on that thar farm o' his.

But no. Governments regularly prevent us from keeping dangerous things for the common good. Most people are happy with that, and in a democracy, their opinion ought to count. Sure, it might be taken a little too far in some instances, such as the ban on fireworks in NSW. But does anyone genuinely think that the overwhelming good of not having schoolkids gunned down in their classrooms doesn't outweigh the right of free people to build up medium-sized arsenals in their closets?



Guns don't kill people, people kill people.

Yes, they do. Almost invariably with guns. Hey, if this argument worked, why don't the Republicans just give Iran and North Korea nuclear weapons? Because it's not the poor little innocent weapons themselves that are the problem, it's criminals who abuse them, isn't it? And sure, we only know that retrospectively. But it's worth it for our freedoms.

Look, we're just borderline psychos whose gun fetishes compensate for our general feelings of inadequacy, ok?



Alright, I'm convinced.

But if it's not guns that are the problem, let's look at the other common link here: schools. If American kids never attended school, there would be no way that they could possibly die in a school shooting, is there? Guns are the innocent, circumstantial victim in all this. The real villain is an educational system that brings children together in a convenient place where bad people can hurt them. Children should be home-schooled, and taught how to shoot and really, that's about it.

Ultimately, America is deeply, deeply ill. A culture of gun violence is deeply ingrained in the American psyche that extreme measures are necessary to cure it, but they'll never be taken. Today's tragedy shows that even the reclusive Amish, who do their level best to pretend it's the seventeeth century, can't escape it.



Dominic Knight

How To Pretend To Be A Swans Fan

I don't usually watch much AFL. I quite like it, but you know – if you're not raised on it, it's hard to care all that much, really. I certainly don't like it as much as football. (You know, soccer.) But now's not the time for the traditional Sydney indifference in the game they play to our south and west. Especially when Melbourne are in our rugby league grand final instead of us. So, for the first of many times over the next 24 hours, let me just say – SWAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNIIIIIIEEEEESSSSS!!!!!! Yep, the red and white bandwagon's back in town for a limited time only. Here's how you get on it.

In honour of last year's grand final, I published a beginners' guide to AFL terminology. This year, assuming we all know slightly more, here's a few things I, and probably you, didn't know about the Swans that you can master before tomorrow. Be the envy of everyone at your pub! (Who doesn't actually follow the Swans. Don't worry, you'll be safe.)

Key players

AFL teams have so many players , there's no way you'll learn them all. Just remember:

• Barry Hall: Big guy, no hair, tattoo, kicks goals
• Adam Goodes: just won his second Brownlow. That's a medal thingy. It means he's good.
• Michael O'Loughlin: Been around for ages. Doesn't look like James O'Loughlin
• Jude Bolton: Good midfielder, bad haircut
• Adam Schneider: Think cross between Adam Sandler and Rob Schneider, and you're there
• Tadgh Kennelly: Name looks like a typo, but he's just Irish

History

Constantly remind people that the team used to be called South Melbourne, and nicknamed the Bloods. You might want to point out that the "SMFC" on the back of the jerseys stands for South Melbourne Football Club. You might even like to say "Go South!" if you really want to show off. See Richard Hinds' article for more on this.

Trivia

Take the quiz here over and over again until you get it right. Then you can learn such gems as:

Before superstar Tony Lockett joined the Swans in 1995, he was full-forward for St. Kilda. What funny incident occurred at the Sydney Cricket Ground when the Saints and the Swans played there in 1993?

I don't know the answer. Anyone? I'm sure it's hilarious.

Ryan Fitzgerald

Did you know that minor celebrity and co-host of Big Brother Friday Night Live Ryan Fitzgerald played for the Sydney Swans in 2000, scoring 15 goals in his 10 games? I didn't either.

Paul Roos

Former Sydney star, now hero coach. Here's some Wikipedia trivia about him to throw offhandedly into a conversation.

• He played mainly for Fitzroy – now amalgamated with Brisbane.
• Roos has played more AFL/VFL games wearing the number 1 jumper than any other player - every one of his 356 games at Fitzroy and Sydney.
• He has now guided Sydney to four consecutive finals appearances.
• Was criticised by AFL Chief Executive Andrew Demetriou for his team's negative, choking style of play. Look at the scoreboard, Demetriou.
• He used to coach the little-known USA national AFL side. And despite this, he's actually a good coach, apparently.

Constitution

If you meet one of those rare Sydneysiders who actually knows quite a lot about the Swans, you can beat them by quoting random passages of the Club's Constitution.

For instance:

• It takes a vote of more than 75% of the Board to change the Swans' Home Ground.
• If the Swans go broke, the members must chip in for its debts. But not more than $2.
• 21 days' notice must be given for an Annual General Meeting
• Any Director may call a Board meeting.
• To the extent of any inconsistency between the constitution and the Licence Agreement between the Club and the AFL and any replacement agreement, the terms of the Licence Agreement prevail.

Note I didn't say the trivia was actually interesting. Find your own here.

Cheer Squad

Want to impress others with the extent of your bogus commitment? As the website says: "Want to show your passion for the Sydney Swans? If so, consider becoming a member of the Sydney Swans Cheer Squad - it’s a lot of fun and is the best way to show your support for your team."

Join up this afternoon by calling the Cheer Squad Manager on 0405 124 929.

Warwick Capper
Learn more about the Swans' funniest-ever player here! Including how he used to drive a pink Ferrari, take speed before games, posed for Playboy with his wife, and is now a male stripper. (Kind of like what he did for Kimberley Cooper for free.) Seriously, read that last link. Would you pay $1200 to see Wazza nude? He's doing a few Christmas parties, so watch out.

Stats
This is a really good way to show off, and also seem a bit like Rain Man. Just learn a few of the numbers here, or even just make them up, and everyone at your pub will be in awe of your knowledge. (And think you're a bit of a loser)

Did you know Sydney is:

• Ranked 5th in Points Scored Per Game
• Ranked 1st in Tackles Per Game
• Ranked 1st in Hitouts Per Game
• Ranked 1st in least Opponent Kicks Per Game
• Ranked 1st in least Opponent Handballs Per Game
• Ranked 1st in least Opponent Disposals Per Game
• Ranked 1st in least Opponent Marks Per Game
• Ranked 2nd in least Opponent Points Scored Per Game
• Ranked 2nd in Team to Opponent Kicks Per Game Diff.
• Ranked 2nd in Team to Opponent Disposals Per Game Diff.
• Ranked 2nd in Team to Opponent Marks Per Game Diff.
• Ranked 2nd in Team to Opponent Points Scored Per Game Diff.

But

• Ranked 14th in Kicks Per Game
• Ranked 16th in Handballs Per Game
• Ranked 16th in Disposals Per Game
• Ranked 16th in Marks Per Game

Incomprehensible. But don't worry, no-one will ask you to explain it. Their eyes will glaze over as soon as you say 'disposals'. Mine always do.

The Song

Every AFL team has a 'traditional', or 'lame', team song. The grand old Melbourne clubs' ones are hilarious, with kitsch arrangements involving horns and a banjo solo. It's played incessantly in the event of a victory. I was out at Telstra Stadium last week to feign interest in the Swans while they clobbered the Dockers (who have by far the worst song in the league, as we heard), and they helpfully put the lyrics up on the big screen. But nothing makes you look like a legitimate Swans fan more than actually knowing the lyrics.

Cheer, Cheer the Red and the White

Honour the name by day and by night

Lift that noble banner high

Shake down the thunder from the sky

Whether the odds be great or small

Swans will go in and win over all

While her loyal sons are marching

Onwards to victory

Check out the awkward rhyme on "over all", and how on earth do you shake down thunder from the sky? Oh, and you can listen here.

Dominic Knight

Photo: Tony Nolan