Take the Aussieness test

The Prime Minister's making everyone take a citizenship test to see if they're truly worthy to become part of this great nation. As yet, they haven't released the questions, but here's a sneak preview of the multiple-choice brainteasers that will be used to identify those worthy of our greatest honour. Have a go at the sample questions – would you qualify for Australia's least exclusive club?

1) Warney is:



a) A bad husband

b) Texting me right now

c) Eating all the pies

d) A legend

2) VB stands for:



a) Victoria Beckham

b) Visual Basic

c) Victoria Bitter

d) Dunno, I just drink it

3) Australian films are:



a) Awful

b) Too quirky

c) Australia makes films?

d) The best in the world, not that I actually watch them

4) The first Prime Minister of Australia was



a) Bob Hawke

b) Sir Edmund Barton

c) John Howard, even back then

d) Bugger off, as if I'd know the answer to that

5) The world's most popular sport is:



a) Soccer

b) Football

c) Wogball

d) Rugby League

6) One Nation is:



a) A political party

b) The reason I didn't migrate to Australia earlier

c) A Keating Government policy

d) Dunno, sounds vaguely familiar

7) Mel Gibson is:



a) Australian

b) American

c) A racist

d) Mad Max, and no-one can take that away from him

8) Germaine Greer is:



a) A feminist academic

b) Surely not still alive

c) Nuts

d) Still not forgiven for those comments about Steve Irwin

9) Refugees are:



a) Welcome

b) People too

c) Useful for winning elections

d) Kept in Nauru

10) This questionnaire is:



a) A breeze

b) Unfair

c) A cynical distraction from Labor's new leader

d) Too hard

ANSWERS



The Australian citizenship-attaining answer (if not the correct one) is always d). Yes, that's a bit silly, but not compared with this whole questionnaire idea in the first place. Please be aware that as per DIMIA policy, no correspondance will be entered into, no matter how justified your claim.



Dominic Knight

Is Peter Garrett selling his soul?

Rocktivist (a word I intend to use henceforth to refer to the likes of Bono and Chris Martin) Peter Garrett, the former ACF President and Greenpeace board member, is now Labor's environment spokesman. Never before has someone with such an impeccably green background been in a position to actually become the Environment Minister. But in the words of a song he co-wrote, has Labor's celeb politician decided to "Sell my soul to him"? Which sounds even worse, I fear, when "Him" is Kevin Rudd.

Even Garrett's new portfolio itself makes clear what he wants to do. "Environment and Climate Change" puts the most front-of-mind environmental issue right there in his title. Labor has, of course, long been the party of Kyoto, and despite John Howard's attempts to outflank them recently on this issue with his 'taskforce', the appointment of Garrett brands Labor as indisputably the more serious of the two major parties on this issues. It'll be very hard for the Liberals to out-green someone who's been identified with the cause for decades.

But Bob Brown, who expressed his disappointment when Garrett opted for the ALP over his party in 2004, has made the obvious attack on his one-time fellow-traveller, saying "Frankly, I doubt Peter Garrett will be let off the leash to take on the coal and uranium industries."

He won't be completely free to speak his mind, of course. That just doesn't happen in Labor, unless you're Mark Latham and/or nuts. And this, of course, leads to the key question faced by everyone involved in a minor party. Is it better to remain ideologically pure but never have a chance of actually running the show, or to make the necessary compromises in the hope that you can actually bring about change? Less change than you might have sought when you were an angry activist, of course, but far more than you ever achieved by playing the bongos at Glebe Markets each Saturday.

Garrett's seen how the other half live as a Nuclear Disarmament Party candidate in the 1980s. He put up a very credible electoral showing, but ultimately the only thing the NDP disarmed was itself. Whereas with ALP preselection in a safe seat, he waltzed in. But still, it's a long way from playing a protest gig at Jabiluka to being the guy that would have to cut deals with uranium producers to protect a hugely lucrative industry.

The criticism of his former colleagues is something Garrett's going to have to get used to now that he's become a politician and, inevitably, a pragmatist. Because while the kinds of people who get into inflatable dinghies and buzz the French navy have their place, that place is challenging the people who run the show, not being them. We need environmentalists in organisations like Greenpeace to maintain their rage, not make policy. They can ignore conundrums like the loss of jobs, whether nuclear power really is greener than coal (as the French government recently decided), or whether to use deodorant. And that's fine.

But now Garrett has to juggle all these things, because there's no point having superior policies if you're in Opposition. All you end up with is a Prime Minister that refuses to ratify Kyoto instead of one that would. When achieving that one change in policy would do more than being the keynote speaker at a thousand angry but ineffective rallies.

And that's why I admire Garrett all the more for getting in the ring and putting his reputation on the line. Because while he clearly wouldn't get everything he wants, I'd rather have him in the Environment Minister's chair than anyone else on offer in either party. Given his c.v., we can trust him to do as much as possible, and to agonise over everything he has to trade away. And in Canberra, that's the most we can expect.

It's all very well to sing angry, self-righteous songs about the planet. But no-one ever saved the world with a guitar strapped round their neck. (Could someone please tell Sting?) It's by hammering out the difficult compromises that the world is actually changed. The reality is that if Peter Garrett can even slightly alter our course on global warming, he'll have done more than he ever did in all those years as the president of the ACF.



Dominic Knight

Postcard from the AFIs

Every year the Australian Film Institute, in a somewhat inexplicable but very welcome decision, gives out AFI Awards not just to the year's finest Aussie films (or only Aussie films in the 2004 Awards, in fact) but the cream of Australian television as well. Meaning that in my other guise as Chaser hanger-on, I got to spend a most pleasant evening at the Melbourne Exhibition Centre last night. Oh, and when I say the AFI Awards, I should actually say the L'Oreal Paris AFI Awards Presented By Samsung, Mazda, L'Oreal Paris, Melbourne City, The Langham Hotel And L'Oreal Paris.

Yeah, there was quite a lot of commercial sponsorship. But because it seems the alternative is the show not only not being televised, but being held at Swanston St Hungry Jack's, everyone was more than happy to pay tribute to the sponsors. Particularly Samsung, who provided light blue-coloured martinis that had me drinking a heartfelt toast to their new BluRay technology, whatever it is.

There may arguably have been too much alcohol, in fact; at least in the case of one person sitting near me who loudly sniggered at the precise moment that the "In Memoriam" slide came up at the start of the montage of those who'd died over the past year. I'd like to hope that he died a little bit as well. But I fear not.

Paul Dainty and co have done an amazing job of reinvigorating the awards, as many pointed out, and they should get enormous credit for it. Key to their formula has been convincing Australia's many genuine Hollywood stars to come out for the big night, and they were there in considerable force. It was a hugely impressive effort. Cate Blanchett, Baz Luhrmann, Deborah Lee-Furness and Heath Ledger were there, among others, but best of all was that Geoffrey Rush stepped up to host, following Russell Crowe last year.

As you'd expect, Rush did a brilliant job. A few lines fell flat – leading to one brilliant recovery, "it's okay, titters are the new laughter", but his incredible gravitas and good humour made the night extremely enjoyable. Best of all was a sketch where he revoiced one of Walsingham's scenes with Cate Blanchett from Elizabeth – it's not on YouTube yet, but it will be. If our biggest stars keep doing the decent thing and giving a boost to the local industry, both by supporting the Awards and appearing in local films (where they exclusively seem to play junkies, strangely), the AFIs will only flourish. Which would be a great thing for everyone – especially the television industry, which gets an event that's the soapie-free opposite of the Logies.

They even got a genuine international star. Past awards ceremonies I've been to have included such luminaries as Malcolm In The Middle himself, and the President from 24. But this event featured Daniel Radcliffe. That is, Harry Potter. I mean, HARRY POTTER. I.e. HARRY POTTER!!!!!

We had the great luck to arrive shortly after him, meaning that we could briefly pretend that the frenzied cheering was for us. And, AND, I was two places behind him in the urinal queue. That's right, a mere metre away. Sorry to get all fanboi on you, but c'mon – Harry Potter. I didn't actually say hello, although I'm sure he's a huge fan of my work. Strangely, men say nothing whatsoever in urinal queues. I guess right before someone exposes themselves is probably not a good time to tell them you love their work.

The most remarkable thing about the night, though, was that there appeared to be an incredible slate of high-quality Australian films. I regret to admit that I haven't seen a single one. Not one. Terrible, huh? But I'm hardly alone. After last night, though, I've vowed to watch at least Kenny, Candy and Ten Canoes, and maybe even Suburban Mayhem and Jindabyne as well. The sad thing is that even when the local industry nails something, our years of being disappointed by Aussie films prevent us from coming along.

And please, let's not have Sharon from Kath & Kim at any more awards nights. Ever. After her 'turn' with Thorpey at the Logies a few years ago, she should not be allowed near any celebrities with a camera nearby. Least of all Heath Ledger and Dannii Minogue. I don't mean to be unkind, but there's a reason why Magda's Funny Bits got axed.

So long live the AFIs, and may the current revival continue. But most importantly, long live L'Oreal Paris. That name again, L'Oreal. Paris.

Dominic Knight

It's legal, so who are we cloning first?

The Parliament has now passed legislation which allows the cloning of embryos for medical research. The bill's opponents argue that it's unethical, and involves playing God. They say that the slippery slope will lead to cloning becoming commonplace – that once the cat's out of the bag, it'll lead to a Blade Runner-esque nightmare world where cloning is as commonplace as Xeroxing. It's a difficult ethical issue, certainly. And having wrestled carefully with it, all I have to say is – awesome, which celebrity are we cloning first?

Bear in mind, though, that it's only legal for research purposes, okay? So each of the following suggestions will presented very much from a scientific perspective.

Shane Warne. It was alleged in Paul Barry's biography earlier this year that Warney had slept with over 1000 women. The champion leggie denies it. Is this true? To find out, we will see if 1000 Warne clones can can rack up over 1 million conquests.

Kochie. To see if a terrible sense of humour is genetic, we will ask 20 clones of Kochie whether a single one of them finds his infamous joke about Janette Howard funny. We can fund it by selling the 19 clones to the Today Show, which is desperate to find even one.

Ian Thorpe. People say his body makes him the perfect swimmer. But he's given the sport away, hurting Australian swimming. No matter, we'll just slot in a spare and test the hypothesis that he will keep on bagging gold.

The Beatles. I don't know what you'd get if you reproduced them, but it certainly wouldn't be Oasis. I think that Gallaghers ought to know that.

Britney Spears. Is appalling taste in men hereditary? Exposing (something she's been doing a lot of lately) several clone Britneys to dodgy wannabe rappers will answer this important research question once and for all.

Julia Gillard. If there was more than one of her, would Kevin Rudd be willing to have more women on Labor's frontbench?

Kevin Federline.With an army of K-Fed clones, there would be an audience for his album. There would probably be a population explosion, though.

John Laws. Many have pondered whether being gay is hereditary. By cloning Lawsy, we could test whether gay-bashing is as well.

Paul Collingwood. With him batting 1-6, could England win a Test in Australia?

John Howard. To test just how mad Peter Costello would get if the leadership was handed over to a younger version of the PM. Note that this could just as easily be tested by giving it to Tony Abbott.

Any more suggestions? Feel free to just clone mine.



Dominic Knight

Stay where you are, New Zealand, we're taking over

A federal parliamentary committee has recommended a union with New Zealand. This was initially mooted in the leadup to Federation, as a look at our Constitution makes clear. But it's a fascinating idea to re-examine now. There really are so few differences between us, and so many advantages from a slightly larger scale, that both countries should look seriously at it.

The original proposal was for NZ to become one of the Australian states, and let's face it – that would be the most appropriate form of full union. They've only got 4.1 million residents – less than the population of Sydney! (In fact, heck, we should be our own state as well. Screw the bush.) And the constitutional provisions are already there at our end. So, whaddaya say, NZ? Huh?

Just quietly, though, something tells me they won't go for it. You know, proud national identity and all that. So the obvious model is a European Union-type model, with a single currency, foreign policy where possible (not with the US, obviously), free movement (which we have already, I think) and harmonisation of the laws.

But let's imagine that we had a unified country – Australianz, perhaps? Although reflecting the importance of each nation, we should really call it "Australia". Just look at the upside:

An awesome rugby team. Imagine the very best of the Wallabies and All Blacks combined! They'd be unbeatable. If you took the very best players in any position, it would look very much like – the All Blacks.

An awesome cricket team. Which we have already. But hey, the Black Caps could play in the Pura Cup. Although they wouldn't win it.

Formal ownership of their best artists. We already take Russell Crowe, Sam Neill and Crowded House as our own. Why not formalise the arrangement? Plus we'd get Peter Jackson and Bic Runga thrown into the deal. The former would make Aussie nerds happy, and the latter is the hottest woman on the planet named after a ballpoint pen.

A majority of Aussies on the beach in Bondi. At the moment, there are more Poms and Kiwis than Aussies. If we joined with the Kiwis, we'd finally have our beach back.

The Maori precedent. The Kiwis have treated their Maori people with far more decency, and preserved far more of their culture, than we have with the Aborigines. I won't go into huge detail on why this is – firstly, they were quite different societies, and secondly, the Kiwis were much nicer than us. Maybe some of their treatment of their indigenous people would rub off on us?

They're more politically progressive than us. It's not just the Maori issue. They've got a woman as Prime Minister, and a Governor-General of Indian origin. Their last G-G was a woman as well. Makes a nice change from the endless wall of white men that have always dominated Australian politics.

Antarctica would come as part of the bargain. Between our bit and their bit, we would pretty much have half of the place. And when global warming kicks in, we can live there. Or sell land to refugees from newly-underwater countries. This could make us very powerful.

More Kiwi accents. I ruckon Kiwis hev the bust eccents un the wehld. Seriously. Un fect, I want one.

A chance to call Footrot Flats our own. Well, it's better than Ginger Meggs, anyway.

Decent skiing. Come on. Let's stop kidding ourselves. Our ski resorts are rubbish. Let's just go to NZ to ski instead. They have actual mountains over there.

No more Peter FitzSimons Air New Zealand ads. This alone has got to make the change worthwhile, in my opinion. Actually, having Air New Zealand operating as flights out of Australia would be fantastic. They're part of the superior Star Alliance, and finally Qantas would get some proper long-haul competition.

As you can see, it makes sense. So come on, New Zealand, what are you waiting for? What a wonderful chance for our eastern neighbours to get a chance to experience John Howard as Prime Minister.

Dominic Knight

We need to talk about Kevin

I'm extremely glad he's no longer the leader of the ALP, but you have to feel sorry for Kim Beazley. He loses the leadership, effectively ending two-and-a-half decades in politics, and then walks out of the room to hear his brother has died. I just watched the press conference, where he was too overcome by emotion to say much. It couldn't have been more painful, unfortunately, but now his time is over, and it's time to talk about what's new.

John Howard has just given a press conference that was extremely generous, probably the warmest I've ever seen him. But then he moved onto what is clearly going to be the plank of the Liberals' attack on Rudd, saying that it was a new face for the same old backwards machine. And surprise, surprise – Crikey reports that the Liberals already have a cheeky web cartoon making this point. And John Howard's other point was that Rudd kept talking about style – but the substance was the same. What a fantastic attack machine they have.

So who is Kevin Rudd, other than a very intelligent, quite smug man? He'll face in many respects an opposite challenge from Mark Latham, a straight-talking natural communicator who could be incredibly erratic – but was very much an ordinary Australian, and presented himself as such. Rudd is ultra-controlled, but clearly a member of the intellectual elite that John Howard has done so much to harness the resentment of. It could be hard for him to win over the "relaxed and comfortable" majority he needs.

But just looking at Rudd's initial press conference showed why he's going to be a very serious contender in the next election. He is so much better a communicator than Kim Beazley ever was – he's very clear, calm and very confident. It's going to play very well on TV over the next year, far better than Beazley did. With Peter Garrett almost certainly stepping to the environment portfolio (or at least to the frontbench), it'll be a far more voter-friendly package.

It's worth also bidding farewell to Jenny Macklin, the great survivor in the recent ALP leadership contests, but not in much detail. She has served under three leaders – Crean, Latham and Beazley, and it's been a testament to her general ineffectiveness that she has never been mentioned in any of the endless speculation over the top job. Today, she didn't even nominate, in keeping with what has essentially been five years of flying under the radar – I can't remember a senior politician with a lower profile. Her departure is no loss, and we can expect to see far more of Julia Gillard in the public eye.

It's also interesting that this team has been emphatically presented as Rudd-Gillard, whereas we never saw much talk of Latham-Macklin or Beazley-Macklin. So Labor has a pair of new leaders, both of whom are smart, with a strong command of policy detail, and also excellent communicators. Finally Labor may be a team that might be able to match the strength of Howard-Costello.

But convincing the voters to trust you in just a year is hard, as Mark Latham found. The strong appeal to middle Australia of John Howard is unlikely to be diminished. One thing, though, is for certain. Rudd and Gillard will be a much tougher proposition for the Liberals than Beazley and Macklin. Then again, it wouldn't be difficult.

Dominic Knight



Photo: Andrew Taylor

A column about The Ashes

Is there any more pleasurable activity on this wide and bountiful earth of ours than watching an Australian sporting team beat England? If there is something that can put any more of a smile on your cheek and spring in your step, or any larger an overflowing cauldron of joy in your heart, then pray tell me. Because the sheer delight of watching our cricket team grind England into the dust in the First Ashes Test made it one of the sweetest things I’ve seen in a very long time.

Which is another way of saying that I’m lazily writing this column in front of the TV, and I don’t care who knows it.

(Quick score update: England 2/58, Bell 9 and Collingwood 8 at lunch. This may, however, change by the time this goes to print.)

Even Ricky Ponting’s inept captaincy couldn’t spoil the First Test, but only because it comes coupled with his extraordinary batting. I’ll never understand why he didn’t enforce the follow-on, a decision which ultimately let England get some valuable batting practice in the fourth innings. But it ultimately didn’t matter. We won in a landslide. The old favourites, Langer Warne, and McGrath, answered their critics in the best possible fashion, and delivered like the champions they are. And, if I may quote God when he finished making the Earth, “I saw it, and it was good.”

Even during the 1990s when their cricket team was, in short, a joke, every retention of the Ashes crown still felt better than any other series triumph. And that’s because, as everyone who’s ever had a sibling knows, the closer you are to someone, the more satisfying it is to beat them. That’s what makes State of Origin matches so passionate, that’s what gives the Kiwis such pleasure when the All Blacks flatten the Wallabies with such depressing regularity, and that’s what gives us so much pleasure when we beat England. Our two nations are about as culturally similar as you can get. (Well, except New Zealand, which is only really a ‘fun-sized’ Australia.) In an echo of convict transportation, both countries export their drunkest, most annoying youths to one another in huge quantities.

And that’s what has in recent years added an extra degree of enmity to the contest. The Barmy Army are possibly the world’s most infuriating sports fans. They only seem to have one song, and it’s the least witty thing I’ve ever heard. “Everywhere we go/People want to know/Who we are/Where we come from.” Yes, but only so they can have harsh words with the immigration authorities.

Australian incoming passenger cards have a box you have to tick if you have a criminal conviction. There should be another one next to it asking whether new arrivals are “barmy”, and answering yes should lead to the tourist being put on the next plane back to England. Then the rest of us might actually get Ashes tickets.

No, really, an Ashes series wouldn’t be the same without the Barmy Army turning up in huge numbers. It’d be much better.

This competitiveness between those who are closest reaches its most absurdly passionate heights in football, of course. By which I mean soccer. The ‘Old Firm’ derby between Glasgow’s Protestant and Catholic teams, Rangers and Celtic, is famous as the world’s most hotly contested. People have been killed in the aftermath of those matches.

I’m not suggesting we should kill members of the Barmy Army. Judging by the amount they seem to drink, they’re doing a wonderful job of that themselves. But if we win the series, as surely we will, we must ensure that the remainder of their time in Australia is as unpleasant as possible. So we should make them go to an Anthony Callea concert, or attend a sitting of Federal Parliament.

Victory will be sweet, especially in light of the last Ashes and how much England gloated about it. I sat behind one annoying Englishman at the last Sydney Test who would not stop reliving the exploits of “Freddie and the lads” for the entire day, even though Australia were playing South Africa right before his eyes.

So when we crush them, find a Pom (and we’ll drop that term when they stop calling us convicts, Cricket Australia), and rub it in. Hard. You know they would.

Bye bye, Beazley

It's on. Finally a political contest that's worth paying attention to: Beazley v Rudd. Is this the end for the old warhorse who was a minister in the Hawke Government more than 20 years ago. Yes. And I'm not saying that because I can see anyone being desperate to jump on board the Rudd Express, either. Beazley's challenger is highly competent, but also highly irritating. He doesn't even have Mark Latham's charisma or popular appeal, and that's saying something. But with their current leader simply unable to get the electorate onside, suddenly Rudd's looking like a good option. Yes, even with that haircut.

Now, I don't know whether Rudd has the numbers, of course. (Kevin, why won't you call?) But I can't imagine that someone who seems extremely cautious and ambitious would have asked to challenge Beazley unless he did. And that's the key bit of information here. Sometimes leaders declare a ballot to shore up their leadership, as Simon Crean did when Beazley was sniffing around. (It didn't work.) But of course Beazley wouldn't do anything as decisive as that. No, this has come about because Rudd asked this morning. So you can bet Rudd's pretty confident – a challenge like that is generally a bullet you only get to fire once.

But even if Rudd doesn't topple the big guy, does anyone other than Kim Beazley really think he can beat John Howard? He hasn't been able to land a punch on the PM since the 1998 campaign. Even with the groundswell of resentment towards WorkChoices, the war in Iraq and the government's inaction on global warming, which must have the PM more concerned than he's been since the Latham landslide, Beazley's nowhere to be seen. The only big headlines he's gotten in the past few months are for confusing Rove McManus and Karl Rove. And if – sorry, when – Beazley loses again, surely that will finally end his political career.

This is why I particularly liked Phillip Coorey's article on Wednesday about Beazley's parallel universe, where he has John Howard on the run. He is constantly referring to all this experience he has, and how he can use it to beat John Howard – but where is it? He couldn't even make hay out of AWB, a farcical scandal where Australia simultaneously funded Saddam Hussein's regime and invaded it. How much more of a free kick does the guy need?

In light of the Latham experiment, it would be madness to dump Beazley now. (I thought they should have gone with Gillard after the last election, but as ever, they didn't listen to my considerable wisdom.) Mark Latham never had a chance to establish himself. And if Kevin Rudd wins the leadership challenge, he'll probably have a rough time winning over the electorate. But I reckon they should do it anyway. If Rudd loses, he'll get another shot unless he goes as badly off the rails as Latham did. And at this point, I reckon just about everyone will recognise the one overwhelming thing that Rudd has in his favour – he's not Kim Beazley.

Sure, his haircut might be unelectable. But some new blood at this point is surely preferable to watching a limping Beazley fall short yet again.

Beazley was Deputy PM for a year before John Howard defeated Paul Keating. Based on his performance since the 1998 election (where he won the popular vote, but largely because of GST), he's lucky he ever got that close.

As the man himself would say, it's time we finally bid farewell to Labor's long-serving Opposition Leader, Ron Weazley.



Dominic Knight



Photo: Chris Lane

Saturday night's alright for fighting gay marriage

Which prominent English gay activist advocate once got married in Darling Point – to a woman? (Of course. This is Australia, and we don't go in for the radical being-nice-to-gays stuff.) Why, Elton John, who married German recording engineer Renate Blauel at the picturesque St Mark's Church on Valentine's Day, 1984. Which is why his message to John Howard on gay marriage this week was particularly poignant. Because hey, it's not like he hasn't tried the alternative.

But we must, of course, largely discount whatever difficulties Elton may have had in coming to terms with his sexuality. Sure, he went through depression, drugs, a painful marriage breakup and the rest. But these minor inconveniences resulting from his "lifestyle choice" are of no concern next to the clear and present danger he poses to the heterosexual way of life.

By joining long-term partner David Furnish in one of the first gay civil unions in the UK, and finally achieving recognition for what has been a long-term, successful relationship, there's a genuine risk he could ruin it for everyone else. And that, not "happiness" and "acceptance", is what this debate is about.

And please, Elton – if you want to gain converts to your point of view, you'll have to do better than saying "up yours" to our Prime Minister. He's been elected four times, thank you very much, on the basis of not paying attention to people in the arts like yourself, and he's not about to start now. What's more your words were very unkind – in particular, "up" is a particularly painful direction for John Howard at the moment. It's where the Reserve Bank keeps putting interest rates.

But beyond showing that celebrities are not always eloquent enough to fulfil the advocacy role they often adopt for themselves, Elton has hurt his cause. All he has done is strengthen our resolve to stand steadfast against the scourge of gay marriage. If we allow two people of the same sex to celebrate their love publicly and inherit each other's property rights, not only will the institution of marriage collapse, but our society itself will highly likely crumble.

You see, Elton (if that is your real name), it's about traditions. As John Howard has argued Australians have traditionally believed marriage should be for a man and woman. Just as we traditionally believed that women should not get the vote, people who aren't white should not be allowed to migrate to this country, and hunting Aborigines was a bit of good old-fashioned fun. We've already lost so many of these valuable traditions, and we must cling onto those that remain. White, heterosexual, property-owning men have already been forced to share most of their privileges with people who are different. Marriage is just about the only exclusive institution we have left. Well, apart from that whole patriarchy thing, which is holding up wonderfully well.

In denying the ACT's provocative, society-threatening gay marriage legislation earlier this year, Mr Howard said his government did not discriminate against "them", meaning homosexuals. And of course he was right. As he said, "It is a question of preserving as an institution in our society marriage as having a special character." See? It's not discrimination against homosexuals, it's discrimination in favour of heterosexuals. Crucial difference. Gays and lesbians aren't second-class citizens or anything. Of course not – our country is egalitarian. It's just that they don't get access to the "special character" of marriage. It's not that they are given fewer rights, it's that they aren't given extra rights.

And while we're talking about being special, we all recognise that gay people are special in other ways as well. We're very tolerant. It's just that we don't recognise that specialness legally, that's all.

And still the gay lobby complains! Please. If they were really second-class citizens, all celebrity homosexuals would surely all still be in the closet. As opposed to most of them.

Look, Elton – one of John Howard's best friends is Alan Jones, okay? As we all know, he's never said he's gay. He's never tried to marry anyone. His sexuality is not something we discuss. He might be gay, he might not – we just don't know. Don't ask, don't tell, certainly don't read Jonestown. And most importantly, don't listen to Elton John. Why should we allow people to have these "civil unions" when his seems to have made him less civil to our Prime Minister?



Dominic Knight

Photo: Reuters

Here Today, gone Tonight

All good things come to an end. And so has Naomi Robson's tenure at the helm of Today Tonight. After ten sterling years at the desk in Melbourne, and five in Sydney – and then, just like that, she's snatched away from us. So suddenly. So cruelly. As Naomi herself might read flatly off the autocue, it's "outrageous".

Even by her ankle-high journalistic standards, she has had a tough year. The Beaconsfield make-up truck incident was problematic. She was in Tasmania to cynically milk cheap pathos out of a life-threatening situation, not become the story herself. And although it's always been denied by Channel Seven, the damage was done – the mere fact that so many people thought she could have had one spoke volumes.

The fact that she flew up from Tasmania to attend the Logies in the middle of the drama showed just how magnificently oblivious she was. And allowed the Chaser team to make our grand entrance from a van marked "Naomi's Makeup Truck" – if she'd stayed in Beaconsfield like the ever-classier Kochie and Mel, the joke mightn't have worked.

The last straw, surely, was Wa-Wa. Naomi should never have been allowed to leave the desk, let alone travel to Indonesia on a misguided effort to save a boy from being eaten by faux cannibals. If only the Indonesian authorities who locked her up had planted some marijuana in her luggage and given her twenty years. Naomi's something of a style icon, and being locked up in an Indonesian jail is ever-so fashionable at the moment.

But she has left us with so many memories. My favourite is when she presented the show from Ground Zero on the first anniversary of 9/11. The atmosphere was electric. It was simply the centre of the world that night, and her being there was a real coup. And then, after a poignant intro that would have brought a tear to any other presenter's eye (Naomi's tear ducts, of course, dried up years ago), Naomi threw, as ever, to a diet story. Yes, from "sacred ground". It was true professionalism.

It was the precursor of the infamous Irwin lizard incident. Really, if she'd wanted to tackily cash in on the Crocodile Hunter's death – and she did, let's face it – she should have gone the whole hog and gotten into the ring to take on a full-sized saltie. Although unfortunately, you'd have to tip Naomi to win – not even Irwin's beloved "apex predator" could penetrate that smug, narcissistic bubble. She'd probably just use that top-rating self-righteous indignation of hers to just shame it into submission.

Perhaps Naomi's finest quality was her obliviousness. Where Ray Martin has always wrung every drop of poignance out of every situation, desperately trying to be Australia's Friend, as his brilliantly insulting nickname went, Naomi clearly doesn't care what anyone else thinks. I'm not sure she's even aware of it.

Amanda Meade's article on Robson in The Australian touches on this, in what was a prodigious exercise in character assassination:

A former Seven publicist tells Media Robson is "totally self-obsessed", even while she is working, and he couldn't send her out to talk to the media because she "talks about her Gucci sunglasses, her personal trainer and her BMW" without a thought for how she may be perceived. She will sit in the studio and tell people how many stomach crunches she did that morning. Unlike your Ray Martins or Jana Wendts, Robson has little interest in the stories she presents and isn't even professional enough to fake it.

As Meade and others have noted, Robson was more Frontline than Mike Moore himself. Today Tonight is like someone watched that series, missed the satire and used it as the template for successful current affairs. And it's consistently led the ratings as a result.

But given this, what I can't understand is why TT would want to dump Robson. Yes, she's horrible and awful. But doesn't that make her the perfect host for a horrible and awful show? Yes, she's gotten a lot of adverse publicity this year. But hasn't that just gotten TT more headlines?

Seven has evidently judged that Naomi's image was so bad that it brought the show into disrepute. And given how bad the show is, that's a far more damning indictment on her character than anything I can write.

Vale, Naomi. I would write "farewell", but I don't particularly want you to, and I have every confidence you won't.

Dominic Knight

Cultural Learnings of Australian Idol For Make Benefit Glorious Readers Of My Blog

In accordance with my usual practice, I've kept my brain a wonderfully Idol-free zone so far this year. But last night I endured what must be the world's longest five-second announcement for you, gentle readers. So now, in the interests of education, it's my dubious pleasure to share the ten things I learned watching the Australian Idol final. And guess what? In an Idol first, both of the final two could both sing, and weren't jerks. It truly was the best final ever. Despite the continuing involvement of Mark Holden.

James Mathison is the luckiest man on television. I can see why Andrew G, with his slick delivery and pretty-boy-poodle appearance, is on Idol. But how on earth did James get to make the transition from Channel V with him? I don't particularly mind him or anything, but surely he's never gotten a prepubescent girl's heart throbbing in his life. I'm amazed they didn't plump for a female Andrew G instead. The similarly badly-named Jackie O for example?

A huge number of people will attend the opening of an envelope. Because that's all the Idol final is – and for about four hours.



Everyone in the Northern Territory has ready access to a crocodile. At least that's what you'd think given Idol's cliched montage of local well-wishers. One baby croc was even named Jess in her honour. I'm sure that will lessen Jess' disappointment enormously.

Tim Bailey is a nob. I know we all knew this already. But I learned last night that the true extent of his nobbiness has hitherto been shackled by the usual requirement that he talk vaguely about the weather. His enthusiastic, patronising crosses from Darwin were the night's lowest of many low points. But he does get points for trying to bridge the divide between himself and the Territory's Aboriginal community through extensive visits to the solarium.

In Idol-land, "very soon" means "in such a long time that you'll be sticking forks into your eyebrows before we announce it". As in, "Don't go away, very soon we'll be announcing who your Australian Idol is." Really, the show had more filler than an Anthony Callea album.



Idol voters aren't that superficial. For yet another year, singing prowess as opposed to superficial hotness won the day. Both Damian and Jess were average-looking, but incredibly good singers – at least within that cheesy Idol style of ultra-saccharinated R&B styling. Which is how it's supposed to be. How can a show that's so vacuous in so many respects keep delivering such surprisingly solid results? And yet again Idol has genuinely showcased Australia's ethnic diversity. Which, unfortunately, still extends to an American judge.



Guy Sebastian's still a much better singer than Shannon Noll. Even four years later, the wisdom of the people was vindicated again. A rare victory for reality TV democracy. As opposed to, say, every single series of Big Brother.

Irish people like to drink. That much we can gather from Idol's stereotype-busting decision to house Damian's contingent amid a tsunami of Guinness in the Gaelic Club. The peculiarly-named "Labrat" told us about 800 times that the crowd had been drinking all afternoon, leading to the presentation of a limerick specially written for Leith that was even more incoherent than Mark Holden.

Kyle Sandilands is soft. Not a single negative word to say at the final. (Of course, the judges are completely redundant on the big night anyway.) Kyle wasted a perfect opportunity to really get stuck into an adolescent girl's weight in front of a nationlal audience of millions. Forget Jess' "jelly belly" – Kyle's got jelly where his backbone should be.

Irish migrants can find work outside of theme pubs. Those who've endured the 'authentic' Irish sticky floors at Scruffy Murphy's, Bridie O'Reilly's, Paddy Maguire's or Stereotype O'Cliche's will be astonished to read that an Irish person has found employment elsewhere, but Daniel Leith shows it can be done. If you can sing, and have a great deal of luck. As opposed to the much-vaunted "luck of the Irish", that has gifted them largely potato famines and civil wars.



Dominic Knight



Photo: Edwina Pickles

Lindsay Lohan's "adequite" eulogy

Robert Altman's death is a tragedy for all those who love cinema. And among them is Lindsay Lohan, who just appeared in his film The Prairie Home Companion. She has released a self-penned statement of condolences that shows not only how much she appreciated Altman, but also that stars should not pen their own statements of condolences. It seems only fitting to reproduce it in full from People magazine. This will go down alongside Bec Cartwright's wedding poem...

I would like to send my condolences out to Catherine Altman, Robert Altman's wife, as well as all of his immediate family, close friends, co-workers, and all of his inner circle.

I feel as if I've just had the wind knocked out of me and my heart aches. If not only my heart but the heart of Mr. Altman's wife and family and many fellow actors/artists that admire him for his work and love him for making people laugh whenever and however he could.

Robert Altman made dreams possible for many independent aspiring filmmakers, as well as creating roles for countless actors.

I am lucky enough to of been able to work with Robert Altman amongst the other greats on a film that I can genuinely say created a turning point in my career.

I learned so much from Altman and he was the closest thing to my father and grandfather that I really do believe I've had in several years.

The point is, he made a difference.

He left us with a legend that all of us have the ability to do.

So every day when you wake up.

Look in the mirror and thank god for every second you have and cherish all moments.

The fighting, the anger, the drama is tedious.

Please just take each moment day by day and consider yourself lucky to breathe and feel at all and smile. Be thankful.

Life comes once, doesn't 'keep coming back' and we all take such advantage of what we have.

When we shouldn't.....

Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of yourselves' (12st book)

– Everytime there's a triumph in the world a million souls hafta be trampled on. – Altman

Its true. But treasure each triumph as they come.

If I can do anything for those who are in a very hard time right now, as I'm one of them with hearing this news, please take advantage of the fact that I'm just a phone call away.

God Bless, peace and love always.

Thank You,

"BE ADEQUITE"

Lindsay Lohan

Thank god you're here, Ashes

Right, well, I've spent the last two hours watching the Ashes to use Tony Greig's favourite sentence construction, and it's just awesome. So I'm going to justify this lazy self-indulgence by blogging about it, even though it seems the entire rest of smh.com.au has been devoted to cricket coverage. I can't remember being this excited about cricket since, well, the last Ashes.

Three commentators. What do you do when you've got a legendary but clearly aging commentariat, some youngsters like Heals and Slats (the two best so far I reckon, besides the obvious Mark Nicholas) who demand to be included on merit, and a requirement to include irascible Englishmen like David Lloyd for 'balance'? tough decisions have to be made. And Nine's really nailed it by having three. Revolutionary thinking, Nine. Revolutionary. No-one's been kicked out, but they've augmented the team beautifully. It's a great improvement – but what a challenge for the Twelfth Man to add three parody voices into his hilarious commentary spoofs?

Infra-red cam. What would cricket be without an extra camera? Some boffin has figured out that infra-red footage shows where a ball has hit the bat - making a huge white cherry in the bat. Now cricketers won't be able to get away with pretending they didn't get edges, and some of them might actually display some sportsmanship and walk. If only they could do something like this for divers in soccer.

Boony and Botham. There's a talking Beefy alongside Boony for the Ashes, or Tashes, battle. Interesting addition but there's no contest. Botham was a great player and is a controversial commentator, but he isn't a legend of cricketing stoicism like our Boony.

Two beach cricket contests. Come on guys, surely you could have figured this out. Both Solo and XXXX are holding beach cricket competitions. Except XXXX's has Allan Border. Oh well, hopefully there'll be a Solo vs XXXX Beach SuperTest.

Stephanie Brantz. A woman? In the cricket coverage? Interesting innovation – except if she's sitting in the middle of the Barmy Army and they cross to her for about 5 seconds. Seeing her Nine microphone, the Poms immediately started chanting "Channel 4". Typical of their larrikin wit, which isn't actually funny. Imagine having to spend all that time sitting among boozy men for five seconds of a pointless cross?

And most importantly, an earlyish wicket. Just when Langer and Hayden were settling in, Flintoff reminded us why England holds the Ashes with a beautiful delivery that moved off the edge of Hayden's bat. I was starting to wonder whether this series would be as boringly one-sided as previous Australian summers – let's hope not.

The one thing that hasn't changed is that cricket's worst TV talent, Simon O'Donnell, is still hosting The Cricket Show. I don't understand how this could be possible. Most of the commentators were promised jobs for life after doing World Series back in the '70s, but I just cannot understand how he's kept the gig – did he save the young James Packer's life or something?

Dominic Knight



Photo: Craig Golding

Copyright out of their minds

The Man just isn't getting the whole new digital era thing, is he? Two separate articles on the SMH website today have catalogued how governments and copyright owners have failed to adapt to the inevitable, incontrovertible move towards digital content. Universal Music is suing MySpace for, essentially, promoting its artists. And the new laws that will finally allow personal use of digital content are already out of date.

The Attorney-General's Department has spent years trying to bring our copyright law up to date, but as Asher Moses' article today points out, it's already fatally flawed. You are allowed to make one copy for personal use. But nearly everyone who uses digital media automatically makes two.

Let's start from the proposition that iPods are legal, shall we? Virtually everyone has one, it seems, and if there was a referendum on changing the law, there'd be no shortage of white earphone-toting trendies to pass it overwhelmingly.

Hell, even Dick Cheney famously has one, having hogged the powerpoint on Air Force Two to recharge it. Since he has essentially determined our nation's approach to warfare since we signed up for that foolhardy War on Terror thing, we can assume it's legal, can't we?

Or what about our other, lesser Head of State, the Queen? She got one from her grandchildren. And the conspiracy goes even higher. The self-appointed President of the World, Bono, even has his own type of iPod – with his signature ostentatiously engraved on the back.

But no-one is above the law. Not even Bono. So next time he comes by to give our leaders the benefit of his wisdom, and maybe play a gig or two in the odd stadium into the bargain, he should be arrested and slapped with a $65,000 fine. Unless you think Bono's so arrogant he only has U2 tracks on his iPod. Heck, give him five years in jail as well. He can become the Nelson Mandela of intellectual property law, and we won't have to see those awful photos of his sunglasses for half a decade.

The issue is that the new law only allows you to make one "main copy" of a copyrighted work. You can make other, temporary copies, but only for a short time. And if you rip a CD you own onto an iPod – the most unambiguously legal way there is to use it, since you've already shelled out $30 for the disc – it makes two copies, one on the player and one on the computer.

But most of us go further than this. I've taken to using those iTunes copies to burn other copies of CDs in my car, for example, after it got broken into repeatedly and I had many originals swiped. But don't worry about the car thieves – I'm the criminal in that scenario, obviously.

It's baffling that the starting point of the new laws wasn't to legalise a device that everyone uses and agrees should be legal – at least insofar as ripping your own CDs is concerned. And the fact that these are strict liability offences – where you don't even have to know you're breaking the law – makes the new Copyright Act even dodgier. Although it may mean we can prosecute their author, Phillip Ruddock, for his theft of Count Dracula's skincare formulation.

(OK, that was a terrible joke. C'mon, I just got back from a week's holiday. And still, I challenge you to prove that Ruddock is not a card-carrying member of the undead. I for one have no trouble believing he sleeps in a coffin.)

Then there's Universal's prosecution of MySpace. This is, in short, incredibly dumb. Sure, okay, it's theoretically possible for copyrighted songs to be uploaded to it. But here's the thing – they can't be copied. You can put them in your profile, sure, but there's no way to get them off MySpace, and onto, say, an iPod. at least, not without losing plenty of quality.

And that's why virtually every band these days has a MySpace page where they post their music for the kids to put on their profiles. Because it means the kids are promoting their music for them. Even U2, a Universal artist, has its own MySpace page where the band posts its songs, videos and also their upcoming gigs, news, that kind of things. Their song 'Sometimes you can't make it on your own' has been listened to 1.6 million times – approximately 1.59 million times more than it deserved. No-one's going to log into MySpace every time they want to hear a U2 song, so this makes the job of selling U2's CDs easier. Thereby saving Universal millions in promotional dollars. Thereby, if it isn't clear enough, benefiting Universal's all-important shareholders.

But no. Universal would rather piss off the fans of its artists by preventing the fans from promoting the songs they love. Come on, guys. Sure, it's dodgy for people to download free U2 albums (although I tend to get the impression they've got enough money already). But when MySpace's technology is designed to prevent downloading of songs, who's the victim here?

Sadly, it certainly isn't Bono.



Dominic Knight

A column about Kevin Rudd

Here Labor goes again. It's about a year before the election, or maybe even less if John Howard's feeling malevolent. They should be riding high in the polls on a wave of dissatisfaction about WorkChoices, interest rates and Iraq, the latter of which disasters has just carried their American equivalent to a comprehensive victory in the midterm election. And yet they're stuck with a leader who simply cannot land a decent punch on a man who's had their measure for over a decade.

The solution being promoted by several malcontents in the Party? Kevin Rudd. Why don't they just save everyone a whole lot of money and effort and just concede the next election already?

They did this last time, of course. Simon Crean wasn't getting anywhere, so they dumped him for Mark Latham. Who didn't have much of a profile or senior shadow ministerial experience, and was primarily famous for breaking a taxi driver's arm. And guess what? The electorate was just as scared of him as any cabbie. So in 2004, the Liberals didn't have to create a bogeyman on board the Tampa, or throwing children overboard. They found one on Labor's frontbench.

Terrified, Labor retreated to Kim Beazley, a man whose only positive quality was that people knew who he was – but only because they’d opted not to elect him twice previously. A decision they evidently don’t have much interest in changing next time around. In a truly timid leadership decision, they essentially elected to hope the Coalition would self-destruct, or run Costello, or most likely both. And guess what? The man who beat Beazley twice decided he had a three-peat in him, and no-one seriously believes he won't do it.

So. Kevin Rudd. I hope I make the extent of my scepticism perfectly clear when I say that he's no Mark Latham. I'd always thought, possibly foolishly, that the electorate might have warmed to the flawed Fury from Werriwa, if he'd had substantially more time and better health. There was a period six months before the election when he was creaming Howard like Beazley never could. But now the ALP desperadoes want to try and beat John Howard, the battlers' friend, with a guy who comes over like the guy who was just a little bit too keen about being a school prefect.

We had guys like Kevin Rudd at my school. Sure, they did well in the HSC, but they never won a popularity contest. And I went to a school for nerds. Other educational institutions would have flushed Rudd's head repeatedly down a toilet.

Admittedly, Rudd has intellectual talent like no-one in the ALP since Gareth Evans. (And knows it.) If politics was a pure meritocracy, he'd have been Foreign Minister for years already. I’d probably back someone that smart to figure out how to make the electorate like him, given a few years to take the know-it-all edge off him. But not now. Not with only a year. No way.

Labor's made its bed, and now it must lie in it. That bed is Beazley. And it means that after the next election they'll have to dust themselves off after an incredible fifth straight loss to John Howard, and then make either Rudd or Gillard leader. I have enormous faith in the competence of either of them – though I'd prefer Gillard, for the relative lack of smugness if nothing else. But they need time to win over the electorate.

So all I want to hear at this point is Kevin Rudd saying he won't contest the leadership before the election. Heck, he can say it in Mandarin for all I care. But he needs to learn that his ability to do that isn't going to win him any votes. And until he does, they may as well stick with Kim Beazley. With his steady hand on the helm, they will highly likely go nowhere. But as the last election showed Labor, it's possible to do even worse than go nowhere.

End of the Federline

The divorce of Britney and Kevin is the least surprising celebrity breakup since that union of two serial shaggers, Warren Beatty and Madonna. The only real shock is that the Spears/K-Fed marriage lasted for a little over two years – or in other words, her two pregnancies. In hindsight, Britney pretty much used him for stud service, and then once she'd had the regulation two kiddies, it was splitsville. But spare a thought for Kevin. (Just the one, it's probably all he can cope with.) How would you like being thrown out the door just as soon as you'd finished fathering children? It's the precursor to every man's fear: a nightmare world where women no longer need us.

Imagine it. You're happily married, at least according your PR people. Your rap career – well, it exists, which is more than you deserve. And, if the gossip magazines are to be believed, you pretty much spend your whole time partying with your mates. Sounds like a sweet deal. And it's one many males would be happy to offer any multi-millionaire ladies who may happen to be reading, incidentally.

Then, right after the birth of your second son, you're out. It's over. Britney thinks she can do better. Well actually, everyone thinks she can do better. And worst of all, that irritatingly tight pre-nup means you won't get much money.

He could mount a custody battle, but come on. Would any court allow impressionable children regular contact with this guy? Imagine the bizarro hand gestures he'd teach them. They'd be ostracised, just like their old man. What an embarrassing clip that is – and really, despite how prolifically he spreads them, you can't tell me those are great genes.

Actually, in terms of embarrassing links to K-Fed rapping, it gets worse. I reckon this clip is the one that best explains the divorce. Who'd want to be associated with a performance like that in public, let alone introducing him? I'd have called my lawyers while he was still on-stage.

He's just an awful rapper, as that clip demonstrates – although his dancing's quite good, if you like ridiculous hip-hop moves. Britney's been through a lot of shame, but even she has limits. Who knew? I've commented on here before about how awful his first single 'PopoZão' is (the translation. "big ass". just about sums it up). And apparently his just-released record has been an unmitigated disaster. He only sold 6000 copies in the first week, according to Wikipedia, and the album's been panned.

Plus, he's having to cancel concerts everywhere. It makes his claims in the 'Lose control' single to be in "a whole new tax bracket" seem really laughable. Unless he means he's unemployed, that is – presumably he was paid something when he danced for Britney.

But as ridiculous as Kevin is, he's still a brother. A fellow-man. And in his dumping, there is a threat to us all. If Britney's so clearly better off without him, what's to stop all the other ladies in the world from kicking us out as soon as they've given birth? I mean, that whole social-conservative myth about how kids need two parents isn't going to last too much longer. I'm sure a child would be better off without a father if that father was responsible for 'PopoZão'.

How long, then, until women everywhere dump their bums of husbands just because they spend all their time drinking with their mates and releasing embarrassing rap albums? How long until they don't even bother to marry us, and just call in the stud service when it's time to have kids?

That said, ladies, if it's stud service you're wanting, Kev's your man. It's just about the only thing he's good at. The guy's now fathered four children in about as many years – his ex Shar was heavily pregnant with their second when the Fedster, then a mere backup dancer instead of the unjustifiably immodest rapper we see today, dumped her for his mega-wealthy, ultrafamous boss.

You heard it here first. Where K-Fed goes, the rest of us men may soon follow. Especially if we humiliate our wives at the Teen Choice Awards.



Dominic Knight

PS Two more funny Federline clips for the road. Here's renowned actor James Lipton reciting 'K-Fed Freestyle' on Conan (as an added bonus he then 'does' a beer bong), and Ashton Kutcher's SNL Federline underwear sketch, if you haven't seen it before.

Stay the course, America, there's a mission to accomplish all over again

Since the invasion of Iraq in 2003, George Bush, John Howard and Tony Blair have all been re-elected despite the increasing evidence that the justification they gave was a cynical lie – sorry, based on faulty intelligence that they had no control over. Now, finally, Americans' instinctive isolationism has finally kicked in, and many of them think they're stuck in a protracted, disastrous conflict that they never should have embarked on. And today, voters are set to dump the Republican s from at least one of the Houses of Congress. But we went to Iraq to find and neutralise its WMDs. And after only three-and-a-half years, it's definitely not time to give up the search yet. What if they're still hidden in another foxhole like the one where we found Saddam?

Sure, we've combed the country from top to bottom already. Sure, pretty much every piece of ordnance in the country has already been used to kill over 2800 US troops and an estimated 650,000 Iraqis. But can we be sure, really sure, there are no more WMDs?

Especially since we're – sorry, I mean they're – executing Saddam. The secret of where all those WMDs are, the ones that could have been given to Al Qaeda and used to attack America if bin Laden and Saddam hadn't been enemies and they'd actually existed, may well die with him.

And has it yet been proven that Saddam didn't plan 9/11 and pin it on Osama bin Laden? Has this been thoroughly investigated?

And are we sure that Saddam Hussein isn't actually Osama? Have they ever been seen in the same place at the same time? No. Whereas Donald Rumsfeld and Saddam have, they used to be friends. So we know they couldn't be the same person. But if you give Saddam a fake beard and a headscarf, couldn't he be Osama? Many Americans have long been unable to distinguish them, and everyone knows that the "wisdom of the American people" is the one constant in American politics. Perhaps the reason no-one's caught Osama that he's already been caught?

While these uncertainties remain, it's just too dangerous for US voters to dump the Republican Party. Because the US is much safer with the GOP in power. If by "safer" you mean "at war". The Democrats are always wanting namby-pamby options like sanctions, and involving the international community. Not the Republicans. They act. They don't worry about time-wasting luxuries like checking that Iraq actually has any WMDs, or involving the international community, or whether Saddam and Al Qaeda actually are linked. There was no time for that.

And fortunately, Bush had already drawn up the invasion plans before 9/11. It's called foresight, people.

We must stay the course, and must not cut and run. With the Republicans, I mean. Obviously the US is going to have to leave Iraq almost immediately. But it's not the Republicans' fault. They just had dodgy intelligence. Especially the President.

George Bush, John Howard and Tony Blair all survived elections after the Iraq War – the first two with increased majorities. It would be a tragedy if the Republicans were punished today simply because voters have had more time to think about it. Time to think isn't all it's cracked up to be. Just think – if George Bush had taken it, he might not even have gone into Iraq in the first place.



Dominic Knight

They shouldn't let people like me gamble

For most of us, the Melbourne Cup is the one day of the year when we pay any attention whatsoever to horseracing. It's a public holiday in Victoria, and a virtual public holiday in NSW. But while I'm sure Melbourne Cup lunches are delightful (I've never been to one), and womankind seems to universally enjoy donning ridiculous hats for reasons I can't fathom but dare not speculate over, for me the much-vaunted Race That Stops The Nation means only one thing. Going to the TAB, and losing money.

Sure, office sweeps are fun. But I usually have trouble finding 24 people to make up the rest of my sweep at my workplace. In fact, since I currently work from home, I came a whopping 23 people short of a proper sweep today.

It takes more than that to put me off an Aussie tradition, though, so I held a sweep anyway. And I still had fun drawing them out of the hat. And even better, my horse came in first. And second, and third, and last. Although when I did the maths, I didn't do any better than breaking even on the $48 I laid out.

Which is a whole lot better than I did at the TAB. What with not having much of a workplace celebration, I usually watch the race down at a pub with a friend or two. And every year I promise myself I'm not going to have a flutter because I invariably lose. And then every year, with about ten minutes to go, I go slightly crazy and start placing bets with about ten minutes to go.

And this is a truly terrible thing to do. Because I generally haven't read anything about it, what with not being the least bit interested and all, I'm relying entirely on guesswork. So I'll back the favourite, and then a few other ones for random reasons. I bet on Glen Boss to win four in a row. I bet on Damian Oliver's horse because, well, I've heard of him. But the stupid thing is that I back lots of horses for a small amount, meaning that I usually win something, but so little that I'm inevitably behind.

In fact, I went back and looked at the betting slips I had – a few different horses for $2 each way, and one of those $12 special bets that gives you a trifecta and then a bet each way. I realised, to my great dismay, that I'd chosen my horses so ridiculously badly that the only mathematical way I could come out ahead, given the horses I'd chosen, was if I'd fluked the trifecta.

For example, I actually had money for a place on both Pop Rock and Maybe Better, but won only $9 because they were too short-priced.

And who to tip? Well, Bono said Yeats would "bite the arse of any of the Australian horses that dare to run against it". The mega-wealthy are always good at making money, and he's into alleviating poverty, so I had a flutter on Yeats as well.

The annoying thing was that Bono was right, in a way. Yeats was ultimately in a position to bite several Australian horse's arses – because he was behind them. (What a self-contradictory metaphor.) Secondly, Yeats did beat most of the Australian horses – but not the Japanese horses. Well, serves me right for listening to Bono – I won't make that mistake again. World leaders politely ignore him when he comes to lecture them about his various causes, and now I know why.

Really, this whole day is peer pressure at its worst. I'm just trying to get on the winning bandwagon, like I did with Makybe Diva. Next year, I'm going to put some thought into my betting, so at least there's a small chance of my winning something. But with such a long race, and so many horses, it's pretty fair to conclude that no-one really knows anything.

Least of all me.



Dominic Knight

Cup tips, anyone?

Darn. The Melbourne Cup is in just a few hours, and I haven't the foggiest who to back. Oh, sure, this whole Aussie tradition of there being one day when everyone bets is well and good. But all I know is not to back Yeats, because Bono supports him. And really, when's anything Bono supported ever been good?

Okay, okay, I know he does good stuff. Better than I ever have by miles. He just irritates me, though. And sure, I know that he's into alleviating poverty, but somehow I doubt that will extend to my poverty.

Of course, I *could* read the form guide. But understanding it is a different question entirely. Or I could just back the SMH's recommendation, Maybe Better. But where's the fun in that? Where's the originality, the flair? Or alternatively, where's the Makybe Diva-esque bandwagon to jump on, like I did for the past two years?

I'll update this a bit later, after I lose my shirt as usual.

They say there are only two certainties in life: death and taxes. They're wrong. There is another certainty even more harrowing: the class clown.
It doesn't matter what scholastic environment you're in, be it economics at Eton or three-unit yak herding in some flyblown yurt on the Mongolian steppe, there will always be some clown up the back of the room making fart noises.
This is just as well. Like the teacher's pet (whom we all loved to hate) and the brainiac (who provided the answers so we didn't have to), the class clown performs a vital role in the delicately balanced ecosystem that is the school classroom.
With his propensity for self-abasement and reckless disregard for authority, the class clown is not only endlessly entertaining but a walking, talking, one-man rebellion; a circuit-breaker to the brain-bleeding tedium of Shakespeare and French conjugations.

The class clown is also a figure of self-sacrifice. He may make the jokes we all wish we could crack and pull the stunts we all wish we could pull, but he also gets punished after making us laugh.
"I get them all the time," says adolescent psychologist Dr Michael Carr-Gregg, author of The Princess Bitchface Syndrome (Penguin) and Surviving Year 12 (Finch).
Carr-Gregg says behind the happy-go-lucky facade, most class clowns are screaming out for help.
"These are kids whose self-esteem is defined almost entirely in terms of their relationship to other people," he says. "They're always evaluating themselves through other people's eyes, looking for positive feedback, and when they don't get it they overcompensate by appointing themselves class clowns."
Of course, most teachers insist the class clown is "heading nowhere fast"; that if they keep up "the amateur theatrics" they'll "never amount to anything". However, like a lot of things teachers tell us, this turns out to be far from the truth. There are some very successful former class clowns among us.
"I was the archetypal class clown," says comedian Vince Sorrenti, who was unleashed on Bankstown Boys High in the 1970s. "I was a total and utter pain in the arse, mainly, I think, because I was bored. I guess I also like grabbing people's attention."
Sorrenti's forte was to organise "strikes", inciting the entire class to collective inaction until the teacher met their demands: "I'd write 'We want to read comics' or 'We want to watch The Towering Inferno' on the blackboard. Then we'd all remain completely silent until the teacher relented."
Sorrenti's unfortunate music teacher came in for special attention.
"She was very prim and proper and when she came into the room she'd say, 'Hello, boys.' And we were meant to say, 'Hello, Miss so-and-so.'
"One day, I orchestrated the entire class to stand up and be totally silent and not respond when she said hello. And so she said, 'OK, have it your way! You can stay standing for the whole period' - which we did, but we all started breathing loudly and in unison. Have you ever heard a classroom of 16-year-old boys breathing in unison? It drove her completely mental."
Another time, Sorrenti and his mates spent a whole night filling one of the staff rooms with rubbish: "We all brought in newspapers and bags of crap and just packed it in there."

Remarkably, he was caned only once. "I put my hand up in class and said, 'Sir, I believe they've discovered rings around Uranus.' I was actually being serious - I really loved astronomy - but he thought I was being stupid and sent me to the headmaster."
Sorrenti focused on humour and mind games, but other clowns, like Matt Moran, trafficked mainly in anarchy.
"The school I went to wasn't great," says Moran who, despite being told by a teacher that he was a "loser", is now one of Australia's most successful chefs. "There was one English teacher who was German but couldn't really speak English. Usually we'd just all end up throwing oranges at the blackboard."
Not surprisingly, Moran was subject to frequent caning.
"I got caned for ripping a blind with a metal ruler and I got caned for kicking the PE teacher when I came off the trampoline," he says. "Another time, me and my best mate got the hoses from the Bunsen burners and siphoned all the water out of the fish tanks and into the drawers."
Moran's frustration with school led to him to do home science - "I did it just for the hell of it and also because girls were doing it" -although it was in those classes he came across cooking. (His siphoning mate was less lucky. "He's in jail now for murdering his mum," Moran says.)
According to Carr-Gregg, the Vince Sorrentis and Matt Morans of this world are virtually impossible to teach "because they don't stop until they get attention". Their motives, however, can be entirely understandable.
"Often they're trying to ward off bullying or sometimes they're covering up academic shortcomings or their own social insecurities or even a troubled home life," Carr-Gregg says.
Professional musician and teacher Tony Henry agrees that clowning around is a "coping mechanism". Now the head of student services at the International College of Management in Sydney, Henry is also
the recording drummer for the Wiggles - he was a founding member of the Cockroaches, the 1980s pub band that spawned the children's entertainers.
Henry's parents ran the Kirra Beach Hotel. "I was surfing every day and had heaps of freedom. But then suddenly I was sent to board at St Joseph's College [in Hunters Hill], where life was highly regimented and everything was run on bells."
Adjusting wasn't easy.
"I found the first year or two at Joey's very hard. I was really homesick and my way of handling it was to always muck around and make fun of things."
Schoolmate John Field says Henry's signature gag was the "machine-gun spit":
"It was quite impressive. He could deliver 30 globules of spit in 15 seconds - we timed him. If anyone [ticked] him off, Tony would give them the machine-gun spit."
Another time, Henry came into Field's room just before lights out.
"Tony asked me how I was, whether I was OK," Field says. "I said, 'Yeah, mate, I'm fine, thanks for asking, that's very kind.' Then he left. What I hadn't noticed was that he'd left three massive bungers in my cupboard, burning with slow fuses. About three minutes after he left the room, my cupboard was blown apart."
But the very acme of Henry's clown career came when he was minding the labrador guide dog that belonged to the school's blind band coach.
"It was my job to get the dog to take a leak before the coach got on the bus to go home," Henry says. "You had to say, 'Spend a penny, spend a penny,' and the dog would go, just like clockwork. So one day, me and a mate snuck the dog into the headmaster's office and got him to cock a leg on his desk."
Of course, some clowns never grow up, no matter how many detentions they get. Kristine Russell, aka Cheekie the Clown ("Cheekie by name, cheeky by nature"), was on detention every Wednesday, "usually for answering back and making fun of the teachers". She now runs her own clown school, Cheekie's Clownland, in Concord, and also performs at charity events and parties.
"I made my life on the lighter side because a lot of my growing up was hard and sad and dark," Russell says. "When I was young my mum walked all over me and mucking around at school was a reaction to that."
Russell, who is also a trained nurse, carried on her clowning from high school to nursing school.
"They would be catheterising a man [inserting a tube into his penis] and I could tell that some of the girls were feeling self-conscious, so I'd make a joke - anything, like 'He's definitely got one!'
"I even joked around in the operating theatre, so much so that I had a senior nurse tell me that 'there's a time and place for everything'. But I don't agree. Laughter is always the best medicine."
Russell began professional clowning at age 40 after 10 years of trying in vain to have kids.
"For years, I was sad about it," she says, "but now I have more kids around me than I can handle."
Even at school she loved walking into the classroom and making people laugh: "I made myself happy by making other people happy. I mean, it's important for everybody to do that."
Henry agrees. As a father of three, he says he'd "be worried if my kids didn't have some spunk".
Class clowns aren't stupid and, contrary to popular opinion, they aren't wasting their time.
"It's a crucial part of growing up," Henry says. "You've got to explore the boundaries and push the limits. It's how you learn what's appropriate."
Getting in on the joke
"There can be many reasons why class clowns behave as they do," says adolescent psychologist and author Michael Carr-Gregg, "but the four things that commonly motivate them are attention, power, revenge and
self-confidence."
Class clowns can be "very intelligent" or "very dumb", with many covering up for poor academic results by "holding their own comedy festival".
Clowning can also be a way of compensating for a shaky sense of self, with any insecurities being temporarily shored up when others are laughing at the jokes.
But the impact on teachers cannot be overlooked. According to Carr-Gregg, "The education department has a special department that deals with teachers who can't take any more."
Dealing with class clowns is made more difficult by the fact that some are genuinely funny.
"Once, a kid I saw had taken a photo with his camera phone of a teacher who had dozed off in class while the students were meant to be doing an assignment," Carr-Gregg says. "The kid then posted the picture on the web."
Another student put Super Glue on the blackboard duster so that it became all but welded to the teacher's palm. "That certainly got a response from the crowd," Carr-Gregg says. "The most important thing to realise," he adds, "is that most class clowns are actually crying out for help. Giving them that help is the first step in stopping the behaviour."
PHOTO: Junior anarchist ... Vince Sorrenti says boredom sparked his classroom antics.

Saddam Hussein must not die

I don't imagine anyone was deeply shocked that Saddam Hussein was found guilty of crimes against humanity yesterday. The massacre of 148 Shiiite villagers was an act of barbarism amid many others. And if you have a death penalty, which Iraq does (both officially and thanks to the nation's ever-worsening insurgency) it's hard to think of someone more deserving of it. But, for reasons both moral and pragmatic, it's a bad idea. Saddam should be left to moulder in jail, where he can keep on raving about being the rightful President of Iraq until he dies a humbled and broken man.

Here's why.

1) It'll make the security situation worse.

In its report of the judgment, this newspaper noted that threats are already being issued by Saddam's supporters:

Saddam's fellow Sunnis in his home town, Tikrit, paraded through the streets chanting: "We will avenge you, Saddam."

In Sadr City, the Shiite stronghold of north-east Baghdad, youths took to the streets dancing and singing, despite the curfew. 'Execute Saddam," they chanted. Many carried posters of the radical anti-American cleric Moqtada al-Sadr, whose Mahdi Army militia in effect runs the district.

And this really highlights the abject failure of the whole campaign in Iraq. It isn't yet time to be taking stock of the Saddam regime. You can't have a proper, fair trial when the country's so divided. Despite George Bush's "Mission Accomplished" sign, the war simply isn't over. All that executing Saddam will do is stir up more civil strife, and result in the deaths of even more innocent people. Saddam killed more than enough of them during his life without more dying to mark his death as well.

2) It'll make Saddam a martyr. Saddam still has supporters in Iraq's Sunni community, and that's not hugely surprising – when he was in power, their minority population ruled the roost. Now, they will presumably always be outvoted by the Shiites. And in that context, this death penalty will be seen by many as an act of Shiite vengeance, not justice on behalf of all the people of Iraq. And that's why moderation is important. It'd be less inflammatory for Saddam to die like Slobodan Milosevic – of natural causes, cowed and humiliated by a judicial process that ultimately ensured he never saw the light of day.

3) The court has also awarded a death sentence to itself. Numerous judges and lawyers involved in the process have already been slain, and so have their relatives. If Saddam's hanged, you can bet that Saddam's supporters will ensure that those involved pay a heavy penalty. Sure, you shouldn't let terrorism disrupt a judicial process, and the judges involved have been extraordinarily brave, given the disastrous security situation. But it will be truly tragic when every single judge and lawyer is inevitably assassinated for that bravery. Iraq's going to need a lot of talented jurists in the years to come.

4) The trial's fairness is dubious. It's problematic to try a political enemy – especially for using an unfair court to condemn people to death, ironically! – in a court that is itself perceived as unfair. Paul McGeogh notes that groups including Human Rights Watch, Amnesty and several UN bodies have challenged the tribunal's credibility, and there have been clear instances of political interference – the last judge was sacked by the government for claiming Saddam was not a dictator. This is why isn't a particularly sensible idea for dictators to be tried by their victims, who can be so determined to attain a conviction that they skimp on procedure.

The trial should have been conducted out of Iraq, with independent judges. But the Americans refused to involve legitimate international organisations at any point before this, so it's not hugely surprising they wouldn't send Saddam to the ICC. Even though doing so would have prevented many of the problems currently being faced – McGeogh gives numerous instances of the court descending into farce. And there is a precedent in the case of former Liberian dictator Charles Taylor, which is being heard in The Hague because of security concerns.

5) The new regime is squandering a chance to prove it's better than the old one. Saddam's infamy results primarily from his habit of putting people to death unjustifiably, of course. But there's an uncomfortable parallel between Saddam's courts handing out death sentences to these 148 Shiites and the Shiite judge of this trial handing out a death sentence to Saddam Hussein.
Sure, the 148 victims were innocent, and Saddam clearly isn't. But surely it would be good if the new Iraq was a place where courts primarily representing one ethnic group no longer put members of the other major ethnic group to death.

6) The death penalty is just wrong. This is one of those extreme hypotheticals that really tests your beliefs. Lots of people are against the death penalty, but would make an exception for, say, Osama bin Laden – John Howard's in that category – or Hitler. Saddam is in the same category of villains, making this an interesting moral question. But I would argue that putting Saddam to death, while less tragic, is just as barbaric as in the case of Van Nguyen. If you're against the death penalty – and most Australians are – then that should be an absolute. Drawing a line between legitimate and illegitimate judicial killings is so thorny and subjective that it's a highly dangerous exercise. Who gets to decide, and how the decision is made, will be highly inconsistent.

When it exercises justice, the state should do so in such a way that emphasises its moral superiority to the criminal. But by killing Saddam, we are doing the same thing to him that he has done to others – death sentences for murder are only situation in law where the punishment 'fits' the crime. Death sentences are a relic of more bloodthirsty times, where crowds of people gathered in squares to watch people being put to death. We should be better than that, more civilised than that; and there's no more important time to demonstrate it than when dealing with a man who has displayed no civilised instincts whatsoever. By killing him, we adopt his own favourite punishment, and undermine our own moral authority.

The Baghdad court is showing the flaws inherent when justice is administered by the victors. But penalising crimes against humanity is the time when courts, and victors, should show their own greatest humanity. And that is why South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission will go down as an admirable example of how to build a new society by engaging honestly and evenly with the past, and Saddam Hussein's tribunal will ultimately be seen, like so much else in "Free" Iraq, as a mistake.

Dominic Knight