Ten things I don’t miss about my twenties

It’s common for those approaching forty to mourn their lost youth. Being extremely common, I feel the same way. Oh, how I miss that time without responsibility, those days without much to do besides the uni work that I could comfortably neglect, and taking advantage of that effortless adolescent ability to sleep in until midday which has now deserted me.

But when I find myself reflecting on my twenties, my memory conveniently wallpapers over what I was actually like in my twenties. What I’d really like, I’ve realised, is to be 21, but pretty much as I am now.

What I want, then, is to be exactly like Zac Efron in 17 Again, but with Matthew Perry’s brain. I’d be happy to have Zac Efron’s level of attractiveness to the opposite sex as well, actually - or even Matthew Perry’s. What I want isn’t possible outside the realms of excessively contrived Hollywood comedies written by people like me who frittered away their youth and are now bitter and resentful about it and spend their writing careers in wish-fulfilment.

So, to try to cure myself of this, I’ve spent a bit of time remembering what my twenties were really like, instead of what I fantasise they could have been like if I had been a completely different person. Henceforth, I will bring out this list whenever I find myself remembering a crucial party from 1998 and wishing I’d been awesome instead of awkward. And if you’re struggling with the aging process, perhaps it’ll help you, too?

Self-consciousness

It’s oh-so easy to forget just how much of our twenties we spend worrying about how we don’t fit in, to the point where it absolutely guarantees that we won’t. I remember standing endlessly on the edge of parties, wondering whether people were judging me for being some loser who stood on the edge of parties. (Answer - no, they probably didn’t even notice, because nearly everyone in their twenties is absolutely oblivious to anyone else they don’t find attractive.) Awful, just awful.

Dancing

This was the peak of my self-consciousness to the point where it deserves a separate entry. It’s so thoroughly essential that a twentysomething be able to dance at parties, and so thoroughly impossible if you’re me, and so bad at it that during my Law Revue days, I had to do remedial classes. Now, I just move vaguely in time with the music, and if I look ridiculous, then I look ridiculous.

And yes, okay, I do still look ridiculous.

Lack of self-awareness

The flipside of the crippling self-consciousness that affects many twentysomethings in social contexts is our lack awareness that we say terrible things all the time. Boastful things, self-aggrandising things, insensitive things. It may be that many of us stop talking constantly about ourselves because we’ve come to realise that we aren’t really all that special or great after all, which is perhaps slightly sad on one level, but if it stops us being just downright terrible pretty much every time we open our mouths, then it’s worthwhile.

Fashion

When you’re in your twenties, you’re expected to be cool. When you’re in your thirties, if anything’s cool, it’s indifference. It’s exhausting having to keep up with the endless labels/haircuts/shoes/cosmetics/bands/shows of which we’re supposed to be partaking. In your thirties, you like what you like, and people who like other things are wrong.

Uncertainty about the future

We probably spend at least one full year of our twenties worrying about what we’re going to do with our lives, as our high view of ourselves and our prospects finally comes into conflict with the reality of the labour market. Our twenties are when we go into jobs we don’t want, quit them to follow our dreams, and then in most cases acknowledge defeat and go back into them. And every step in that process involves many hours of agonising and boring our nearest and dearest senseless, when all they want us to do is just make a decision, any decision, instead of speaking.

Whereas in your thirties, you may well be happy with what you’re doing, and if you aren’t you either change it or make do. You may well have kids or a mortgage and even though we didn’t realise it when we were younger, they tend not to pay for themselves.

Not being able to drive

I could drive by the age of twenty, but I certainly didn’t have my own car. Even when I finally got my own car, I didn’t tend to drive to parties because I wanted to be cool and drink to impress people.

Being broke

I’m keenly aware that brokeness can occur at any age, but one’s twenties are generally our most penniless decade as the parental tap gets turned off and we enter gingerly into the workforce, generally at a fairly lowly level. This applies especially if you live in an expensive city, and applies exponentially, I’ve found, if you have absolutely no self-control and an excessive fondness for gadgets and/or travel.

Sexual inexperience

Okay, so some people know what they’re doing by their twenties… but if you don’t… actually, I think I’m going to finish this one right here, very abruptly. Seems fitting.

Pimples

Perhaps the human body’s cruellest joke is to crater up our faces just when we want them to be as appealing as possible. Honestly, I don’t know why we waste so much time trying to extract oil from the depths of the ocean when our adolescents generate millions of barrels of the stuff every single day. (And they were single days, let me tell you.)

My skin’s transitioned straight to ‘dry’ nowadays without so much as stopping at ‘normal’, but in my twenties it was still a pustulent minefield despite me purchasing a frankly embarrassing volume of cosmetics to remediate it. When I imagine myself being heaps awesome in my twenties, it’s certainly not with the actual skin I had back then.

Knowing better

Ah, the misplaced overconfidence of our twenties, when we know so little about the world that we think we know everything. The one thing it has going for it is that to older people, it’s a little endearing how twentysomethings think the world works in black and white terms and that all they have to say is something like “why can’t we just let all the asylum seekers in” and magically solve complicated debates in a puff of righteousness.

Whereas now that I’m in my thirties, I pretty much do know everything… actually, watch this space for my forthcoming ‘Ten Things I Don’t Miss About My Thirties’ article.

What does your coffee order say about you?

Coffee is an important part of my day. In fact, given the caffeine addiction that delivers an intense headache by midday if I haven't had one, it's an indispensable part of my day.

Like many people, my most frequent order is the takeaway flat white. There's nothing pretentious about a flattie – it doesn't have one of those eye-talian names, for one thing. Solid and dependable, like an old Holden made before they abandon Australia.

But as I've branched into other orders over the years, I've discovered that some coffee preferences draw all sorts of implications about you. If you don't believe me, just try asking a colleague to order you a piccolo latte, and wait for the sniggers.

I've ordered just about all of the following over the years, and experienced various harsh judgements each time. So I've prepared this extensive guide that explains what else you're saying when you ask for a coffee.

MILK DRINKS

Flat white

A cup of steaming baristartery often topped with a little leaf or love heart which is completely pointless when immediately covered by a plastic takeaway lid. The flat white has begun conquering the UK and US, and I’m fully confident it’ll become the world’s favourite morning coffee – the balance between the flavour of the coffee and comfort factor of the milk is perfect to begin the day. I reckon ordering a flat white says nothing much about you except that you like coffee.

Caffe latte

In some parts of the world, a small latte gets you a flat white. But in Australia, a latte is milkier in its composition than a flat white, and often a lot larger in size, meaning that the coffee is diluted and less flavoursome. Most often, you get a glass of warm milk with a tiny it of coffee flavour. Also, after that one time I was in a park in the glitzy Sydney suburb of Double Bay and a woman ran past me in her heels calling after a dog called “Latte”, I find it a bit difficult to order them without wincing.

Piccolo latte

This is the most embarrassing to order of all the drinks, with a name combining the wankiness of a latte with a tiny flute. It’s ironic, seeing as the name is so silly, that the piccolo is one of the best coffee orders. Essentially it’s like a short black (espresso) cup filled to the brim with milk, giving it a strong flavour.

Macchiato

The perfect afternoon booster, a macchiato is just a short black with a dash of milk in it. You need to like strong coffee to enjoy this, so it either makes you seem kinda tough, or an unspeakable coffee snob who’s ordering something that’s meaningless to the majority of people.

Long macchiato

This is slightly different in just about single café – it’s something like a long black with a splash of milk. Quite strong and with an intense coffee flavour. Ordering this is unlikely to draw much of an implication except that you have obscure tastes in coffee.

Cappuccino

This was what I first started drinking in my late teens, and it’s a good entry point – you can eat the chocolate-sprinkled froth with a spoon before you have to tackle the coffee flavour. Drinking cappucinos (cappucini?) suggests either that you’re heaps 80s retro-cool, or still don’t quite like the actual flavour of actual coffee.

Mocha

Whereas ordering one of these says you don’t like coffee at all. I quite like mochas on a cold day, but don’t kid yourself – they’re basically a bitter, stronger hot chocolate.

Cortado

Essentially a three-quarter flat white. Good to order if you want to overtrump a snooty barista, as these aren’t generally ordered in Australia, as opposed to America where they have specially sized cups for them. I’m mainly including it here because I want to show off myself – and because they’re really flavoursome.

NON-MILK DRINKS

Espresso

Also known as the short black, this establishes you as a purist with no time for milk or excessive hot water. This is the kind of coffee people drink standing up at bars in Rome, and ordering it may well suggest that you know this and are a bit of a toss... well, let’s just say, the kind of person who would know that. But many say it’s the best way to appreciate the flavour of different blends of coffee, and I suspect they’re right.

Expresso

Don’t order this – people will laugh at you.

Ristretto

An even shorter black for those who really like it strong, this is another coffee with an Italian name that’ll be incomprehensible to most people. Still, thank you for saving water

Long black

Very flavoursome and generally much hotter than coffee with milk in it, cradling a long black suggests that you’ve got the time to linger while contemplating nihilism and/or Sartre. Or that you don’t like milk.

VARIATIONS

Decaf

One of my friends who drinks decaf is at pains to point out that there is still a bit of caffeine in decaf so it’s not completely pointless. But if you’re an addict like me, it’s a waste of time. (If you’re not addicted to caffeine – what’s your secret?) Sure, people may mock you and call your coffee a “why bother”, but I reckon it’s worth it to avoid that crushing need for coffee that kicks in when travelling and has forced me on more than a few occasions to drink Starbucks.

Soy

Those who drink soy, or "morally superior" milk are, in general, either lactose intolerant or carnivore intolerant. I always thought soy coffee was a disgraceful compromise and would taste disgusting and watery. As it happens, it's nutty-flavoured and rich – well worth trying it even if you like regular milk. But there's no denying that ordering soy says you're fussy - and rich, since you'll be paying at least four bucks for a takeaway.

Half double decaffeinated half-caf with a twist of lemon

LA Story is such a great film. I spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out what this would actually get you, but as yet, I’ve failed. Nevertheless, I’ll have a twist of lemon.

A fond farewell to my record collection

I can admit now that my CD collection was assembled to impress women.

In my teens, I imagined the unwilling recipient of my latest crush letting her eyes play across the neatly arranged discs in my trendy IKEA shelves, slowly becoming convinced of my exceptional taste.

“You have all of the Cure albums,” she’d say, clearly impressed.

“I’m a fan,” I’d say, hinting at the intense inner turmoil that I shared with Robert Smith. The torrent of powerful emotions churning beneath my cool exterior that, if she chose, she could unleash.

“Is there anything you want to me to put on,” I’d say, really asking if there was anything she wanted me to take off.

“So many excellent options,” she’d say, running her finger tantalisingly across my CD cases. “The Smashing Pumpkins, or maybe the Pixies… hmm, but I’m not quite in the mood for guitars, y’know?”

In the end, she’d opt for one of my highly credible mid-nineties trip hop slash electronica albums, like Morcheeba or Massive Attack or Thievery Corporation. Maybe even Portishead’s Dummy, because we weren’t afraid to confront the sadness of existence itself as our bodies…

Let me be very clear that this sort of thing never happened. I didn’t live an entirely monastic life in those days, although I wasn’t too far off. But whatever strange alchemy attracted the occasional woman to me had nothing to do with my CD collection, at any rate.

And yet I assembled my CDs with a devotion bordering on the fanatical. Even when I had practically no money, I’d buy, say, a rare Clouds mini-album just because I wanted my collection to be complete.

It’s not that I didn’t love the music - I did. I always had a CD on, no matter what I was doing. And I queued to get the self-titled Blur album on the day of release because it came with a free shirt which immediately became my favourite t-shirt. But I wanted my music to do more than just fill my ears with melodies - I wanted it to define who I was, at a time when I really didn’t know yet.

So it was with more than a little recognition that I read Nick Hornby’s brilliant novel High Fidelity at about this time. Hornby’s narrator loves music, but he and his record-shop employees use their arcade music knowledge as a proxy for taste, for coolness, and even in lieu of a personality. Whereas once their ancestors fought one another to demonstrate their strength, they duel to see who has the best knowledge of obscure Clash B-sides.

High Fidelity’s recurring motif is the compilation tape, which was a labour of love back in the era of C-90 cassettes. By this point, I burnt compilation CDs instead, which was slightly less time-consuming but equally agonising in terms of assembling the perfect playlist.

I digitised my CD collection long ago when I got my first MP3 player, and given my love of gadgets, I haven’t played a song off a disc in years. Now I use my phone or tablet to play a song off my hard drive and beam it to my stereo. Or, increasingly, I just play it with a streaming service.

But still I lug my CD collection from one house to another, carefully preserved in a sealed series of plastic tubs. It cost me so much money to put together at a time when I had precious little, and I devoted so many hours to flicking through the racks at now-departed megastores that I can’t quite bear to give them all away. CDs don’t even have the romance of vinyl, but still, even though I objectively have no need for them, I hold on.

A few weeks ago, a film critic friend of mine gave away all his DVDs. I can only assume it was pointed out to him that he’d never watch any of them again, and that in the small apartments we all have to live in nowadays, space was at a premium. He had thousands of discs, and he was giving them away for nothing to his friends, who excitedly promised to come around and scoop up a bunch of them.

As I looked at the photo of his shelf that he’d put on Facebook to publicise the event, I felt a brief flickering of jealously, but it quickly subsided. Once upon a time I would have viewed a man with a collection like that as lucky. Now, the shelves of DVD just seemed like clutter.

I didn’t go around to grab a share of his DVD bounty, because I have my own collection of unwatched DVDs sitting in another series of plastic tubs. More of them are still in their plastic shrink-wrapping than I’d like to admit. Because now, when I want to watch a movie at home, I tend to watch something I’ve stored on my cable box’s hard drive, or pay for a high-definition download. It’s just easier, and it absolves me from the responsibility of building up a collection, hoping it’s complete.

Sure, it’s far from a completely satisfying system. There’s no easy way of watching, for instance, the wonderful Wong Kar-Wai DVDs that I ordered from Hong Kong on eBay. But that’s okay. I don’t seem have that much spare time to watch movies nowadays anyway, and there must be at least fifty on my cable box, just waiting patiently for me to watch them.

Besides, pretty soon Netflix will launch in Australia, and a few similar services are already here or on their way which will let me stream movies to my heart’s content.

It makes me a little sad that the art of collection is dying. That instead of careful curation, we have lazy abundance. Friends sometimes confess that when they log into a streaming service, they’re so overwhelmed that they can’t even think what to search for. And I know those services don’t necessarily have all that much in the way of obscure indie music, or some of the lovely rarities that the High Fidelity characters prized so highly, but with literally millions of songs on offer, even they wouldn’t be stuck for choice.

And if they somehow were, they could just log into Pitchfork’s Spotify app to listen to the new albums that their fellow obsessive tunesnobs are raving over.

These days, I don’t have any groaning shelves of CDs or DVDs, These days, anyone inspecting my apartment will have to be impressed by other indicators of my excellent taste. I may have to impress visitors with my charm, or conversation, or, heaven forbid, perhaps even with who I actually am.

And if that fails - well, I’ve still got a fairly decent book collection.

What does Christmas mean in 2013?

Today is the day when billions of people across the world eat, drink, open presents and generally make merry in celebration of Jesus Christ's birthday.

At this time of year, it's common to observe that as with most major Christian festivals, the secularisation of society has made today just another occasion for indulgence rather than anything more profound. Which means that Christmas has largely returned to its roots in the winter solstice and the Roman Saturnalia.

It's ironic that the church's effective early marketing decision to co-opt existing festivals has been turned on its head, as the once-Christianised pagan festivals have been re-paganised by our own indulgent era. But part of me suspects it's a pity that Christmas isn't about anything more than spending lots of money on gifts few of us really need and food that most of our waistlines certainly don't.

Since comparatively few of us are religious, and the tradition has never had all that much to do with its supposed theological theme anyway, what is the point of Christmas in 2013? Given the fuss we make over it, surely it must mean something more than that there’s 24 hours until the Boxing Day Test?

At least when we had Jesus at the centre of Christmas, it was an occasion for gratitude at the benevolence of a deity who provided a get-out-of-jail card for a sentence that he himself had imposed. (I remember asking in Sunday School whether perhaps the death sentence couldn't simply be commuted to make things easier on everyone – apparently that was the wrong question.)

But Christmas, like Easter, has always been a strange hybrid of different festivals. Giving gifts dates back to Roman times – and hasn't got any link to Jesus unless you think he wanted everyone to exchange them as symbolic of his own gift of himself. But surely it belittles a human sacrifice by saying “Just as Jesus gave his live that we might live, I give you today a pair of socks.”

I don't imagine that even the most religious families would suggest that Jesus came into our world so that little Timmy could enjoy his new Transformer Construct-Bot Elite Class Buildable Action Figure. (And given the dark arts of modern marketing and cinema tie-ins, little Timmy perhaps could be forgiven, if the idea of Optimus Prime coming to earth to save us from the Decepticons might seem more plausible than the idea of some Galilean carpenter rocking up for the same purpose?)

The Christmas tree under which Timmy got his toy hasn't anything to do with that night in Bethlehem either, unless you count the token star on top. And don’t even get me started on Santa, whose only real redeeming feature in 2013 is that he’s carbon-neutral.

Jesus himself was no stranger to feasts, and was only too happy to transform a modicum of food into an abundance that could feed a multitude. In fact, Jesus' regular provision of all-you-can-eat buffets may be one reason for his enduring popularity in America.

In my family, Christmas means protracted lunches on both sides of the family, where there are cousins and aunts and uncles galore, and small overexcited children running around. (Now the cousins have started having children of their own, I can’t imagine how overwhelming this’ll be in ten years.)

I was driving back from the first instalment of this on Saturday, full of ham and nibbles and my aunt’s delicious summer pudding, suffering a mild case of sunstroke from having played the usual Christmas sport with my cousins, when it occurred to me that of course, the holiday is ultimately all about family.

That’s what links both pagan and religious tradition — during the winter solstice, relatives came together to eat the unusually abundant meat, and Saturnalia was also an occasion for family feasting, where the masters served the slaves for a change. The Christian Christmas is all about family, obviously, since Jesus is God’s son, and Mary’s, and sort-of Joseph’s, although there are certainly some questions about how that supernatural conception went down.

And let’s not forget that Joseph was only in Bethlehem because he had travelled back to his ancestral home from Galilee for the imperial census – which means that the original Christmas was, as so many of ours are today, a family reunion. (Why Joseph’s rellos couldn’t offer him a decent place to crash isn’t made clear in the Gospels.)

The baby was given presents by the wise men, and by the time you hit your mid-thirties, you soon learn that the presents that matter most on Christmas Day are the ones you give young children. (Which is not to say I’m not thankful for whatever my loved ones have just given me – cheers, loved ones!)

Some things have changed – we no longer follow stars in the sky, but on Twitter, and frankincense and myrrh really have fallen out of fashion as Christmas presents. And fortunately, the advent of the internet has made it easier to find last-minute accommodation than it was in Joseph’s day.

But Christmas, whether religious or pagan, has always been about children and families, and the way we celebrate it today certainly continues that tradition.

I’m always glad my family gets together for Christmas, because otherwise I mightn’t see relatives I’m fond of, but whose live out of Sydney, or have busy lives like mine. We come together and eat, and sing carols, and play sport, and pause to think about where we came from, and how connected we all are.

And we know, I think, that even if we don’t necessarily catch up all that often throughout the year, we’ll be there for one another when it matters. I know not everyone has a family, or gets on with the one they've got. But for those who do, Christmas is about getting together to celebrate that.

I wish the merriest of Christmases to you and yours, as they, say. Now, switch off your computer, or put down the tablet, and go and have some more pudding.

The Godfather

Twelve months ago today, a child was born in the little town of Sydney, Australia. It did not happen in a manger, he definitely had a crib for a bed, and although a bright light was seen in the sky, it was probably just a passing satellite.

There were wise men in attendance, though, and wise women too – neonatal care is wonderful nowadays.

Now this child, whose name was certainly not called wonderful counsellor, everlasting father or prince of peace, and on whose shoulders the government will highly likely not rest (I’m quoting Isaiah via Handel’s Messiah, for you heathens), is almost certainly not the Messiah. Then again, he’s not a very naughty boy.

The parents of said child are friends of mine, and in their wisdom, or more likely in a state of brain-addled exhaustion, they decided to ask me to be his godfather. Secular godfather, to be precise, which is a clear contradiction in terms but increasingly common in these irreligious days. The clarification was probably wise, because I’m not sure I’d be much help with providing thorough religious instruction.

Traditional godparents are supposed to ensure that their godchildren are brought up in the godfaith, and give them godbibles at their godchristening and that sort of godstuff. But even outside the context of traditional Christianity, it remains a rather lovely, life-affirming concept. As I understand it, my job is to take an interest, offer advice, administer pats on the head when required and be available around the clock to post bail, should that be necessary. It makes me kind of an unofficial demi-uncle.

Today was his first birthday party, so I got to show up with a present, eat some cake and be suitably impressed by how well he’s walking. Which is very well, I’ll have you know. I’d put it down to my outstanding godparenting if there was any credible basis for claiming it.

What I like about the idea of being a godparent, though, is the idea of what’s to come across the broad sweep of decades ahead. The prospect that when there are significant events in the life of the boy, or the man he’ll become, I’ll be there to offer a smile, or a kind word.

I imagine us sitting down to have a chat about which high school to go to, uni options, or whether he should marry his partner, or what he should call his firstborn child (Dominic, or Dominique, as applicable).

It’s a genuinely lovely prospect to have a connection purely based on my friendship with his parents in the first instance, and the relationship that started when he was born. I certainly hope it’s a lifelong one, and since I’ve known his father since the age of 11, the odds are fairly good.

Of course, criminals and godfathers have a long association, and although it wasn’t specified, I’m willing to provide those kinds of godfather services if required in future as well. He’s welcome to come into my house on the day my daughter is to be married, if I ever have a daughter, and ask me to do murder for money, for instance. I almost certainly won’t be able to help him, but he’s welcome to ask.

He probably won’t need much criminal mastermind-style help during his toddler years, at least, but if he needs me to organise, say, a hobby horse’s head to be left in somebody’s bed, then I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a theatrical propmaker who can make that happen.

Don Vito Corleone was all about peddling favours to get something in return – as he tells the hapless Bonasera “Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me.” But true godfathership is a one-way street. You’re repaying the kindnesses done unto you by the previous generation, and that’s all.

I don’t have any godparents myself, although I am extremely well furnished with fabulous aunts and uncles. And most friends who’ve had children haven’t nominated any. But while in today’s society, godparents are more of a nice-to-have than a must-have, they can certainly be useful. I have friends whose godparents have provided mentorship, emotional support, connections which have led to employment and even references in criminal matters on the odd occasion.

I’d be keen to nominate some for my own children someday, but I suspect whose of us who are not eager that our children follow us into organised religion might need to find a different name for the job. If there’s no intention that we teach our godchildren about the role of god, then the term is fairly meaningless.

Perhaps it would be better to come up with a term like ‘godlessfather’, or ‘nonfather’, or ‘sparefather’? And “father” is a little strange as well, now that I think about it, so the way “uncle” is used in an honorary fashion in Asia might be more apt.

Perhaps there’s a term from the corporate world, like associate uncle, consulting uncle or uncle-at-large? Or maybe one from academia, like emeritus uncle?

It’s too early to know what my role as a godfather, nonfather or emeritus uncle will involve over the course of my godson’s life. At this stage, the main thing I have to offer him is this article full of vague good intentions and promises of assistance with pending criminal conspiracies that I hope any future court will assume is a joke.

But I would hope that in the years to come, if he needs anything from me, I’ll be in a position to provide it. We all need support when we’re making our way in the world, whether it’s attendance at school concerts or a godfather who can use his political influence to protect our burgeoning drug trade. And that’s what I hope to do for my godson, until I sleep with the fishes.

The dos and don'ts of office Christmas parties

The silly season is upon us, and of course there are few sillier things you can do than getting together with all the people you work with and becoming so intoxicated that you lose your judgement, and potentially your job.

So how can you have a great time with your colleagues, impress the bosses on whose preference your advancement depends, and keep the underlings who'd just love to take your place the moment you slip nice and downtrodden like they're supposed to be? This guide has all the answers.

DO relax. I'm not saying “definitely have a few drinks” – the constant peer pressure to do that is one of the most pervasive and lame features of Australian society. But it’s supposed to be a party, not an extended whole-of-office meeting. In particular, don’t talk only about work stuff. Yawn.

DON'T drink too much. If you’ve been to a Christmas party before, either you’ve seen what it’s like to be that one person who writes themselves off and has to be put in a cab, or you are that person. Cab cleaning fees are extensive, and it’ll take a long time to wipe off the stain to your rep, too.

DO dance. Don't worry about whether you're good or bad – in fact, it doesn't pay to have extremely smooth moves on the office dancefloor. If you think you look a little ridiculous, just pass it off as a comedy move, and claim that you're Australia's least convincing John Travolta impersonator. Which you probably aren't, because I am.

DON'T dirty dance. You remember that old cliche, "dance like nobody's watching"? Well, it doesn't apply at office Christmas parties. There, you need to dance like everyone's watching, and potentially making a video recording. At best, your drunken antics will make it into an embarrassing videoclip montage; at worst they'll reappear in your disciplinary hearing.

DO dress up. If there's a theme, own it, and if you don't own it, rent it from a costume shop. If you don't, you'll spend the entire party feeling like an idiot and trotting up some unconvincing line you thought of to justify your boring outfit. For instance – if the theme is "Frolics in the snow!", don't think you can get away with wearing a boring suit because you're interpreting "snow" as "cocaine" and everyone knows drug dealers dress as nondescriptly as possible. It won't seem clever, it'll seem pathetic, and besides, how come you know so much about the wardrobes of narcotics traffickers, anyway?

DON’T undress. I really don't think this should need to be spelled out, but certain prominent media figures have run into difficulties in this department on more than one occasion. If you have a recurring issue with indecent exposure, maybe you should stay at home on Christmas party day, having a special Party For One?

DO Secret Santa. It's fun to buy thoughtful or amusing presents for co-workers. If you're going to buy an embarrassing or insulting present, though, remember that secret Santa is only as secret as the person who drew up the list and has probably had three champagnes too many.

DON'T do a Kris Kringle. Getting random presents and shuffling them around so everyone gets one virtually guarantees that almost nobody will be happy with what they're taking home. And shop thoughtfully – remember, if you don’t want the genitalia-shaped soap, nobody does.

DO try the punch. But just a tiny sip first to see how thoroughly laced with spirits and/or Drano it is.

DON’T try to punch someone. See “Don’t drink too much”.

DO have a laugh with your boss. This might take the form of a nice, normal conversation, or maybe even poking a bit of fun at them. They won't mind -–Christmas parties are the one time when they'll wish they were one of the gang and that people weren't forced to be nice to them even if they didn't especially want to.

DON'T laugh at your boss. They’ll remember, especially come performance review time. After all, they didn’t get to be the boss by not being ruthless or bearing grudges. Just laugh at them behind their back the way you usually do.

DO photocopy your arse. This is a Christmas party perennial, and therefore is always funny. If it at any point seems unfunny, convince yourself that you're not so much photocopying your arse as making an ironic comment about the cliche of photocopying your arse at the office Christmas party*.

DON'T upload your arse. The new generation of internet-connected photocopiers are a nightmare waiting to happen. Once your arse is online, being forwarded endlessly around your friends, it will never disappear, and may well end up setting up its own social media. Oh, and a related tip – DON'T accept a friend request from your own buttocks. They probably don't genuinely want to be friends.

DO karaoke. Because it’s the best, and if you follow these rules, it’ll be awesome.

DON’T not do karaoke. Oh, I know not everyone likes it, but in short, those people are wrong.

DO stay out late. Most workplaces don't socialise much, and it's a rare chance to get to know your colleagues. I always feel much more comfortable working alongside people when I've had the chance see them behaving like normal human beings outside of the office. So make sure you enjoy it to the full – it might be your last chance for 12 months.

DON'T be the last one standing when everyone else has had enough. You don't want to be that person who's trying to convince everyone to do just one more round of tequila shots when all they really want to do is go home and sleep. It makes you look like you don't have a home to go to.

* Don't actually photocopy your arse. But Australian Christmas party protocol demands that you pretend this is a hilarious idea, and make lots of jokes about it. Ha!

How is Adam Levine the sexiest man alive?

Adam Levine is the Sexiest Man Alive, according to no less a source than People magazine. I know, right? Adam Levine. Not only sexy, but sexiest. I haven’t been this surprised since I discovered Clive Palmer was actually going ahead with the Titanic II.

If you’ve ever listened to the music of the bizarrely-named Maroon 5 – as opposed to Maroon 8, which would be Queensland’s state of origin winning streak, which I don’t like to talk about – he’s the guy with the voice so high that playing his music to dogs makes them hump the nearest available leg. And who knows – judging by the vote, perhaps it has that effect on humans, too?

Some might consider the Sexiest Man Alive crown somewhat tainted by the fact that Channing Tatum was the last to hold it, but at least he is a lump of prime beefcake, even if his name sounds like some goopy bathroom sealant.

Is that really what it takes to win your affection, women of the world, or at least women who read People magazine? What are we men supposed to do with this information, then? Be more like Adam Levine? Sure, I’d happily duet with Kanye West, and I can sing almost as high, even though in the interests of public safety I generally choose not to.

I can see ‘attractive’, in a boy-crush sense. But sexy? Really? Are the women of America imagining him emerging towel-clad from their bathrooms, squeaking with ultrasonic lust as he caresses them? Do they want to trace the contours of his douchey sleeve tattoos with their tongues? Do they watch his acne treatment commercials (see, I’ve done my Levine research) and imagine his pristine zit-free posterior gleaming in the soft light of a bedside lamp?

If womankind is going to thus honour someone, couldn’t it be someone without sleeve tats, even on purely aesthetic grounds? Football players already have more than enough of them. At this rate every second man is going to face tattoo removal surgery when they hit fifty.

I’ve always found female tastes perplexing. I’m baffled by the collective sighing over Roger Federer, who looks for all the world like a ferret who’s had a tennis racquet surgically attached to his arm. Justin Bieber has always been someone who I imagine women grew out of as soon as they hit puberty, but it appears they’re not. And I know women in their twenties and thirties who sigh over One Direction.

This adoration of Adam Levine has given me flashbacks to Year Six Camp, when we arrived in Canberra for a week of parliamentary elucidation. When we emerged from the bus, the Popular Girls, the ones Everyone had crushes on, had all written "I ♥ BROS" on their pillowcases, betraying not only dreadful musical taste, but a concerning lack of respect for their parents’ manchester collection.

My heart sank as I considered my own thorough lack of resemblance to the blonde, buff Goss twins, and while I mocked their crappy synth-pop like the other boys in my class, inside I wished I was a member of the band so the girls would write my name on their pillowcases.

That was about the extent of my pre-adolescent desires, incidentally - having name my scribbled on an exercise book (not a pillowcase, I’ll have you know) in thick black texta. And maybe going to see a movie like Ghostbusters II together.

But as I’ve wrestled with my confusion and outrage over Levine today – seriously, listen to ‘She Will Be Loved’ and tell me I don’t have a point – it’s high enough to shatter perspex, let alone glass – I’ve found myself conceding that there’s a double standard here.

When the news came through that Scarlett Johansson was officially the Sexiest Woman Alive – and why this stuff even counts as news in the first place is another question, by the way – I have to confess that I just nodded and thought yep, that figures.

I didn’t for a moment ponder what message the Cult of Johansson sent to women. That their voices should be huskier, perhaps, or that they should film lingering shots of their own panty-clad buttocks like the first shot in Lost In Translation? (Which totally counts as arty rather than creepy, by the way, because it was made by a female director.) Does it further the stereotype, once again, all that men really care about is cup size, and thereby fuel the plastic surgery industry?

If blokes get to drool over Scarlett like the guy did in the accompanying interview (which was brilliantly dissected by Clem Ford on Daily Life, incidentally), it’s only fair that we should have to put up with the Adam Levines of this world getting objectified too. Even if that means more photos of Ryan Gosling.

A better option might be to declare a truce, and to agree never to name Sexiest Men Or Women Alive, and to apologise for our past misdeeds. I hereby regret contributing my adolescent saliva to the general fervour about Elle Macpherson. I even regret watching that four-hour-long French film where Emmanuelle Béart is naked because she’s playing an artist’s model and it’s oh such a terribly serious rumination on the nature of art which also just so happened to require the woman of my 16-year-old dreams to get her kit off for like a whole hour.

Mind you, it certainly helped me prepare for HSC French.

Since on all the available evidence, men will highly likely never stop their tacky, icky adoration of the Scarletts and Emmanuelles of this world, I guess I’d better get used to the idea of Adam Levine being upheld as a delicious piece of man-crumpet.

But honestly – couldn’t we at least have given the title to Ryan Gosling? At least he doesn’t sing at a pitch that makes Michael Jackson sound like a bass.

I was a good reader in kindergarten

I am a good reader. I know what lots of long words mean. Words that you wouldn't necessarily expect me to know, I do, in fact, know. And I can read pretty quickly, too. Because, as I mentioned, I am a good reader.

At one point in my life, it would have been extremely important to me that you knew what an excellent reader I was. I was reminded of this last week, when I attended the final of the NSW Premier's Spelling Bee and ran into Barbara Ryan, one of my old kindergarten teachers from North Sydney Demonstration School who now teaches at St Ives North.

After we figured out the connection, she recounted a story that has had me laughing and wincing ever since. Apparently when I arrived at kindy, she gave me a standard-issue reader, and asked me whether I read books.

My reply was "I don't read books, I read encyclopaedias."

Yes, apparently that really happened.

Now, there are several things wrong with this. Firstly, clearly, that was utter bollocks. If anything, I occasionally read encyclopaedias alongside books. Books undoubtedly made up by far the majority of my reading diet. I probably glanced at an encyclopaedia once and wanted to boast.

It's also possible I'd been reading Encyclopaedia Brown and thought, incorrectly, that he was a heaps cool role model. Being a guy who was such a know-it-all that he was nicknamed ‘encyclopaedia’.

The broader problem here, of course, is what an arrogant little brat I must have been. While five-year-olds generally get a lot of latitude for cuteness, that is a monstrous little ego on display right there. If I was like that, it's no surprise that the odd bully decided to try to take me down a peg in later primary school years. Frankly, I can see their point.

Of course, anyone who needs to constantly and abrasively assert how smart they are hasn't managed to learn much about how society works. Anyone who's a bona fide genius presumably learns how to dial it down so that the rest of us normal folk don't openly despise them.

Clearly, though, at five I wanted people to think I was precocious so badly that the more important question of whether they thought I was a massive pain in the neck mattered relatively little to me.

What would no doubt have shocked the five-year-old me, though, is that the "good reader" concept is one that really doesn't have much currency beyond primary school. When you're growing up, you're constantly being benchmarked against everyone else who's the same age in events like the MS Readathon. Which I totally crushed, by the way - and, I regret to say, not out of a desire to advance research into a debilitating condition.

But, as I wish I could go back and tell my infant self, after the HSC, that benchmarking thing never happens again. Once you achieve adulthood, you're competing for actual achievements.

That is, if you're competing at all - in itself a fairly pointless and self-defeating exercise, in many respects.

Here's the thing I didn't quite realise - nearly everybody learns to read. Some struggle to achieve literacy in adulthood, which is most unfortunate, but the reality is that the ability to read an encyclopaedia is nothing special in the long term.

What I didn't realise about being precocious, as I so desperately hoped I was, is that it means you have a lead in a race where the only thing that really matters is getting there in the end. It’s like those early leaders in the Melbourne Cup who often fade away - there’s no prize for being the first after 500 metres.

Perhaps I could write stories with long words in them at age eight, but when you're an adult, all that matters is whether the stories you write are any good. And that's a far more difficult, and far more important challenge.

I see some of my friends with young children falling into the same trap of valuing precociousness. Some toddlers can speak in complete sentences remarkably early, but only very few of us never gain the ability to do that. Some kids grow big quickly, some can walk before others. And I know other parents who worry because their own children are behind others in their childcare group with things like toilet training. Well, we have plenty of years of being able to use the toilet by ourselves, and then most of us end up in nappies again in the end anyway.

Being supposedly ahead of the curve can also create extreme, unhelpful pressure ahead of things like the HSC. And being good at school, doesn't necessarily mean you're good at dealing with stress. Some people I know who've been successful in adulthood were precocious at school, but many weren't. And many early, bright stars fade out. I wish I'd known in my own schooldays that 'success' has many definitions, and that achieving happiness on your own terms is a more worthwhile goal than ticking off things that society tells you are important.

For the record, I no longer read encyclopaedias. And of course, in 2013, encyclopaedias have been superseded, and I can tell you that five-year-old Dom never saw that coming in any of his fancy long-worded books.

I do, however, read for pleasure nowadays. And if I see a word I don't understand, I look it up in a dictionary, and draw no conclusions about my own cleverness from the size of my vocabulary.

And when I attend an event like the NSW Premier's Spelling Bee, and it occurs to me that I might have done well at it because I was a good speller back in primary school, I try to slap what remains of my five-year-old ego down, and tell myself that in an era where everybody types on machines with inbuilt spellchecking, one's spelling ability is of extremely limited use.

What ultimately matters in life is which words you choose, and what you try to accomplish with them, not how long they are, or whether they’re spelled correctly. And that’s something you won’t learn in an e-n-c-y-c-l-o-p-a-e-d-i-a.

Dating sucks. Just ask Stephen Merchant.

Dating is hell, and don't let anybody tell you otherwise. If you don't believe me, remember Sex & The City, a warts-and-all portrait of the relentless New York dating scene that seemed to me exactly like the deepest pit of Hades, only with better footwear. I assume Manolo also produces a cloven-hoof range for the afterlife.

I've never been able to understand those serial daters who flit from romance to romance like bumblebees buzzing from petal to petal, spreading STIs in lieu of pollen. It's hard enough trying to find someone who's single, tolerably nice and over their last failed relationship/s, let alone facing the near-impossible challenge of trying to convince them that their lives would be improved with you in it.

As someone who doesn't immediately assume that women I meet must have a me-shaped hole in their lives, I've always struggled with the challenge of hooking up, and have always resented those dudes who seem to be instinctively good with women.You know, those guys who, on arriving in any room, can simultaneously make every female heart flutter, and who collect phone numbers like I once collected episodes of The Late Show recorded onto VHS.

I know I'm not the only one who has struggled with dating, not least thanks to this article in the paper this week about George B. Green’s book offering dating advice for beta males. As one who's generally been only too happy to step aside for the alphas to get first dibs as per the natural order of things, resigning myself to offering a shoulder to cry on when alpha-guy had inevitably moved on - at least partly in the hope that the shoulder might prove more enticing than the lady might have been expecting - I would have enjoyed reading about others' experiences.

Or, more accurately, inexperiences.

The book does sound a little problematic. But that’s inevitable - after all, as we're painfully aware, we betas are flawed. In particular, Green’s suggestion that you memorise jokes seems lame even by beta standards. My approach has always been simply to make jokes at my own expense. That way everyone will laugh with you, instead of at you, even though they are technically also laughing at you.

That awkward divide between laughing with and at somebody is one that Stephen Merchant explores in his new HBO comedy series Hello Ladies, which is screening on Foxtel. As co-creator of The Office with Ricky Gervais, drawing humour from agonising social awkwardness is familiar ground for him, but I have to say that at least half of my laughs came from embarrassing recognition rather than the script.

Asking a mutual friend whether someone's been talking about you and refusing to take their gentle hints that you should give up, because they're out of your league? Yep, I’ve done that. Finding yourself buying drinks for everybody instead of just the person you're interested in? Check. And retaining impossibly high standards even when there was no chance of getting anywhere? Story of - well, a large part of my life, at least.

Assuming that riding in a stretch limo would lead to action? Been there, too. And driving a fancy convertible and mentioning it constantly to ladies in the hope that they'd be interested in the car, at least, even if not with me? Maybe if I could have afforded a convertible as nice as his. And driving home alone, feeling glum as yet another night of potential translated into nothingness - well, I've been there more times than I could count.

George B. Green should watch it too, I suspect - especially since there's one episode where Merchant tries to memorise jokes, with results that it would be charitable to describe as mixed. I'm sure that on watching episode four, he'd find himself revising his book.

Merchant's character is pathetically desperate and deluded, and uncomfortably so, but he's also got elements of David Brent-style obnoxiousness in the mix as well. He's appallingly cheap -a highly unattractive characteristic in anyone - and highly crass. I don't know that the character needs it, because it makes him a bit less endearing.

But Merchant pulls it off, because - well, he's Merchant, with his tall, thin figure, disconcertingly-parted hair and a goggly smile that veers between comical and terrifying. Some day, somebody will cast him as a serial killer, and he'll win an Oscar. But in the mean time, he's made a very funny comedy series, even though I can barely watch it because of the amount of shameful flashbacks I experience while watching.

As for beta males - as awful as we can be, Green makes a compelling case for dating us. Apparently we "make better long-term partners due to [our] caring nature and increased capacity for empathy". In other words, having been shat upon repeatedly by life, we're more able to relate to others when it happens to them. In still other words, the truth is that we're generally desperate, and consequently grateful when anyone takes a chance on us.

As for Stephen Merchant - well, he was dating Rose Byrne, at least at one point, and is now a TV star. So while he still plays a loser on-screen, he is nevertheless a hero to us betas everywhere. He shows that all you have to do to date a Hollywood actress is create several of the funniest comedy series of all time, and then star in your own show. Which is challenging, I've no doubt. But he probably found it considerably easier than asking girls out.

Here's what you'll find if you hack into my email

The American government knows absolutely everything about you. Let’s just all conclude this now, shall we, instead of letting that harrowing realisation dawn on us gradually, with every fresh document leaked by Edward Snowden? It’ll save us all time if we just imagine that everything which passes through our in and outboxes is BCCed barack@whitehouse.gov.

I assume this post is getting scooped up by some kind of NSA auto-web-searching drone, by the way, so – hello, spooks! I’m extremely harmless. But you’ve probably already concluded that.

(By the way, if you visit the National Security Agency’s website, you will discover that they are promoting Cybersecurity Awareness Month. Which doesn’t mention that the biggest threat of people breaking into your most personal material could well originate within their very own organisation.)

Today’s revelation is that the NSA can monitor pretty well everything you do with the likes of Google and Yahoo by scooping it up at the point between Google’s private cloud of servers and the public internet – the point where, in the diagram in that last link, there’s a little hand-drawn smiley face which struck fear into my heart, as though it were carved into a Halloween pumpkin.

So, since the spooks know all me already, I’ve decided that I may as well come clean and tell everyone. So, here are the five most embarrassing kinds of emails on my server.

1) Emails about work that resulted in no work

Is there anything more galling than a politely-worded form rejection email after a job application? Your hopes are dashed in sterile bureaucratic language, and they use phrases like “regrettably”, “at this time” and “due to an overwhelming amount of interest” in an effort to mask the underlying message: that you aren’t good enough.

Well yes, there is – an email where you’re told your services are no longer required. Most companies will have the decency to fire you in person, of course – but when you’re a freelancer, sometimes you just get an email. I’ve got a few of those sitting in my archive as well. Generally they mention the desire to come up with a “new direction”, but what they’re really saying is “we’re planning to go in any direction but you.”

2) The audit trail from ill-advised online purchases

That DVD of a movie by renowned auteur Wong Kar-wai that you bought off eBay for an amazingly cheap price that turned to be recorded on a camcorder in a cinema? That hilarious t-shirt you bought that never fit because you said you were an L when in fact you are clearly an XL, if not an XXL? And, especially in my case, the mobile phone attachment you ordered but never used before the phone became obsolete?

The electronic records of every single one of these purchases will sit in your inbox forever, long after you’ve consigned the item to the bin or given it to someone you don’t much like for Christmas. I should have gotten a refund at the time, but now there’s no taking back my shame.

3) Failed attempts at flirtation

If the NSA agents were to search my email or Facebook accounts using the term “catch up”, they would discover many emails exchanged with members of the opposite sex in which I, unsuccessfully, attempted to hang out with them by trying to take advantage of the fig-leaf of friendliness.

The particular tragedy of the “conversation” view that prevails in messaging services nowadays is that you can see the whole of the email exchange, from the initial hope to the moment where is sputters and dies, along with your dreams. Almost all of them end up with me saying something like “yeah, great, let me know when you’re free”, to which the person replies something like “Cool, will do”, and then never does.

In the moment, they’re letting you down kindly – but read together, they form a fairly dispiriting pattern.

On rare occasions, such emails actually resulted in physical meetings, which invariably ended in nothing more physical than that. But those embarrassing conversations, thankfully, are not to be found in my email account.

4) Emails from internet dating services

Surprising as it may seem, there’s a level below email rejection from actual people you know, and it is this. You never get an email from an internet dating website that actually has a message from another human being, of course. That wouldn’t get them as many clicks as if you logged in. So instead they’ll say something like “You have received a message from ridiculouspsedonym6969”, and you’ll have to log in to discover you don’t have anything remotely in common with whoever ridiculouspseudonym6969 is, and that they look like they have no sense of humour, terrible taste (often expressed via an overfondness for pink), or a major personality disorder – and sometimes two or even three of the items on this list.

After this happens fifteen or so times, you’ll learn not to get your hopes up. But until then, every fresh arrival in your inbox is another impossible dream.

5) Emails you forgot to reply to

As embarrassing as the electronic records of failed romances are, the emails that most embarrass me are the lovely ones I never replied to because I got distracted, or was busy, or just didn’t have my act together. Every single one of them is a reproach, an electronic proof that I’m a thoughtless, disorganised jerk.

Occasionally there’s a reply from me months later saying “Oh hi, so sorry, this somehow slipped through the cracks,” or worse still, I might blame the spam filter. The real reason is  – well, sometimes I’m a bad person who probably deserved all the rejection he received in point #3.

So there you have it, National Security Agency. These are the worst electronic records you could possibly uncover. So, do your worst, you can’t hurt me any more. Unless you release that one incriminating email I sent to an ex where I told her how I wanted to m /// THIS REST OF THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN DELETED BY THE UNITED STATES NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY. NOT BECAUSE IT POSES ANY THREAT TO NATIONAL SECURITY, JUST BECAUSE IT’S EXTREMELY SAD.

Scenes from a mall

You know that famous MC Escher engravings of staircases that wend up and up and then turn downwards and then winds around and then somehow, perplexingly, ends up exactly where they started?

Well, if you made those stairs ramps, surrounded them with a branch of every bland chain store you've bypassed while wandering through other malls (I’m looking at you, but not literally looking in you, kikki.K and Dust. And The Reject Shop, couldn’t you have at least tried?) and filled the hole in the middle with a strange sculpture of a wireframe globe atop a huge multi-tiered wedding cake, you would have the exact architectural plan for the Macquarie Centre.

I spent an hour there this morning, on a trip that I thought would take approximately ten minutes, and I’m still suffering flashbacks. I got lost, and then eventually found a direction board, and then couldn’t understand it, and thought I’d figured it out, and then got lost. And it reminded me of everything I hate about malls.

If you’ve never visited Macquarie Centre – and you probably haven’t, because it’s designed in such a way that if you have ever been there, you’re more than likely still wandering around, trying but not succeeding to find the exit – let me paint the picture for you.

It's a mall in the Sydney suburb of North Ryde, which is a place companies go to inhabit large corporate parks so that instead of being drones in CBD skyscrapers, their employees can experience a bit of grass when they walk from the carpark to their foyer, and glimpse trees out the window.

Technology companies and drug companies and biotech startups have spread out their generic two or three-storey glass boxes in what is fair to call Australia's version of Silicon Valley, at least architecturally.

The one respite from all of this corporate parkery is Macquarie Centre. It's where our tech sector goes to shop and frolic, alongside the students of Macquarie University who initially transformed the area into a centre of knowledge instead of generic quarter-acre blocks like the rest of Ryde.

I remember when I first visited Macquarie Centre as a child, in the 1980s. It seemed like paradise back when my group from the Macquarie Uni Vacation Play Centre used to go there on excursions. They had an ice rink, and above it, there was a McDonald’s which overlooked the ice rink. I couldn’t possibly imagine anything else my heart could possibly desire.

In my teenage years, they added in a cinema and a burger shop called Fuddrucker’s which was funny to say because it sounded almost like a swear word, but isn’t.

But when I went there today, I found myself wandering around in a state of confusion and frustration. If I ever knew my way around, I’ve certainly forgotten.

There are two kinds of mall: ones you know well, and ones you don’t. If you have an up-to-date mental map, you can park in the perfect place, enter right near the shop you need, grab the things you want with ninja-like speed and get out of there.

But if you don’t know your way around, it works like this: it takes ages to find a park, and then you park somewhere that, after a long walk, deposits you straight into the middle of a department store. You will wander around in a state of confusion, looking for the exit of the department store. Eventually, you will exhaust every other possible direction and emerge into the main mall.

There, you will see an atrium with a coffee shop in the centre that looks so depressing that the staff will highly likely make your latte using their own tears.

Looking up, you will see the sky – and it’s the only view you’ll get of that for some time, so store the memory away for when you’re lost later and can’t even find the atrium, let alone your car.

Around you, the mall will zig-zag off in random directions, none of which are clearly signposted. You will be able to see shops selling mobile phone accessories, cosmetics, mobile phone accessories, cheap knockoff sunglasses, mobile phone accessories, a nail salon, whatever weird colour-coded things Smiggle sells, mobile phone accessories and mobile phones.

While you will be able to see many things you do not want, you will not be able to see the thing you want, nor any means of locating it.

And what especially irks me about malls, of course, is the idea that this design is probably deliberate. The name of the TV show The Gruen Transfer comes from that moment when, on entering a mall, the combination of the intentionally-confusing layout, the muzak, and your general sense of frustration about the circumstances in which your life has deposited you in the middle of a shopping mall lead you to forget the reason you were there in the first place.

Which perhaps answers my question of why anyone ever shops at The Reject Shop.

There has to be a better way of doing retail than building these behemoths, surely? Can we not do a run to the shops without also needing 200 other shops alongside the shop we intended to go to in the first place?

Well, apparently we can’t. These are the “retail formats” that are destroying our main streets, where everything was located in straight lines, and you could actually find your way around.

Instead, it seems we’re condemned to wandering around endless malls, looking for exits and bathrooms, and failing that, bargains. I went there to buy a present for a friend’s new baby, and for the amount of time it took to find it, I could practically have knitted something myself.

But I did buy several things I didn’t need, and experience a wave of nostalgia looking out at that ice rink. Which still has a Mackers overlooking it, by the way.

A star is trying to kill me

Why do we never do the things we know we’re supposed to do?

We all know we shouldn’t eat food that’s high in fat and sugar, but we still regularly shovel deep fried rubbish down our gullets, and junk food is so popular that nowadays lots of trendy restaurants and pubs do an upmarket version where suckers pay upwards of fifteen bucks for a hot dog.

We all know we shouldn’t smoke, but clustered around the entrance of just about every office building in every Australian CBD you can see people puffing away, spending a fortune on contracting cancer.

And we all know we shouldn’t drink, but visit any pub on a Friday or Saturday night, and you’ll see that this message hasn’t exactly sunk in either.

No wonder doctors experience such high levels of stress when hardly any of us take their advice. The poor things, they should go and play even more relaxing rounds of golf than they already play.

But I’m in no position to criticise anyone for ignoring repeated, obvious health messages when I just went and got my skin checked this week for the first time in ten years.

Ten years! When I’m a pasty white person whose skin burns more predictably than the Australian bush in summertime.

I don’t tan, I freckle and/or burn. And so I spent my childhood dutifully applying 15+ (as it then was) sunblock to my body, and donning hats, and wearing long-sleeved shirts when everyone else had bare arms – and I still regularly got burnt enough to make my skin peel. I’m a person who definitely needs to get checked top to bottom for suspicious moles – I’ve received this warning repeatedly – and yet I haven’t been to get myself checked out for a decade.

This is stupid, reckless – and inconsistent with my general approach of being paranoid. Even low levels of risk freak me out – I’m unable to catch a plane without anticipating all manner of disaster scenarios. So why on earth have I not acted on one of the few things I genuinely ought to worry about?

This week, I grasped the nettle. My GP has a reassuring diploma on his wall suggesting that he has special training in the area, so we booked in half an hour for a thorough inspection. I stripped down to my undies, and he brandished a digital camera and a magnifying lens, which he used to snap anything that looked dodgy.

I’ve never done any modelling, you’ll be shocked to learn, so the idea of someone using a camera to take multiple photos of my semi-nude body was a little disconcerting. But he’s a trustworthy fellow, so I’m fairly confident he only took close-up photos of the brown, discoloured bits of skin, and not any unflattering shots of moi in underpants.

And given my general discomfort with the whole situation, I was grateful that he at no point advised me to pout or “make lurve to the camera”.

There were probably about a dozen things he photographed – the idea being that we’ll do it again soon so he can see if any have changed. It all seemed very sensible, and he was extremely professional about it, even when I was required to semi-drop my dacks so he could check my posterior for moleage. All in a day’s skin medicine, naturally.

It took about twenty minutes, after which he sat me down and cheerfully said he’d only found one thing he needed to cut out.

I was shocked. I thought that at worst, there’d be something or other that he needed to spray with his trusty can of liquid nitrogen, like a Ghostbuster dispatching an errant slimer with a laser beam. But apparently the particular thing he found wasn’t the kind of thing you can freeze off – it needs to be excised so it can be sent to a lab for testing, while I’ll get a few stitches in the skin. Unpleasant, but not major in the scheme of things.

Sure, I guess when you have skin like mine, have been sunburnt in the past and haven’t had a skin check in a decade, a mere one item needing surgical removal is arguably a fairly lucky result. But I wasn’t feeling overwhelmed by good fortune, I must say, as I contemplated my imminent session under the knife.

I booked in a date next week to get the strange little discoloured patch cut off my back. The chances of it being genuinely problematic are fairly slim, I’ve discovered via extensive Googling – but I’m still berating myself for being so stupid as to go ten years without a simple checkup that I know I need.

I mean, they’re even Medicare-subsidised.

I’ve watched a lot of action films. So I know that if something is trying to kill you, whether an evil Terminator from the future, a terrifying mandibled alien bent on trophy-hunting, or just some weird dude with an airpump, the best course is to take evasive action.

Well, the sun is trying to kill me. It’s been trying to for years by blasting my skin cells with toxic UV rays. And not only have I let it do that on all too many occasions, but I haven’t taken a simple test that would intercept any harm that it’s caused.

Especially if you’ve got vulnerable skin like mine, consider this a cautionary note and book in a skin test. Increasingly what’s killing us the affluent West is our own laziness, whether it’s through our excess consumption of things that are bad for us, or not taking advantage of the advanced, convenient, publicly-funded medical infrastructure that exists to detect skin cancer.

So please, don’t be as dumb and lazy as I was. Just convince yourself that your doctor is a paparazzo who likes working on an incredibly small scale, and get it done.

I am a wine ignoramus

Nothing makes me feel like more of an idiot than a conversation with a sommelier. In my work I sometimes get to chat with astronomers, and even when they talk about things like dark matter and the expanding universe, I feel more in my element than when someone is patronisingly guiding me through a wine list.

You’ve no doubt spoken to one if you’ve ever visited a restaurant that’s either genuinely fancy or has tickets on itself – sommeliers are those waiters who’ve done some kind of TAFE course in wine who turn up to your table and make you feel inadequate.

Their job has no English word – the wine-snob industry prefers just to use the French term, which I would argue speaks volumes about their profession.

Oh, look, I appreciate expert sommerlierage sometimes – when you get a good one, they sometimes recommend spectacular wines that prove a memorable addition to the meal. The problem is, in many respects, mine, because I know practically nothing about wine.

To prove it, here is the Official And Comprehensive Dom Knight Guide to Wine.

White: often tastes sour and a bit dodgy. Chardonnay’s a bit of a cliché and tastes dubious, especially when cheap. Don’t much like it. When I drink a few glasses on a hot day, I often feel a bit queasy.

Red: Usually prefer it, unless it’s one of those vinegary ones. Don’t really go for the overpowering ones, and I think that includes cabernet sauvignon. Merlot got a bad rap in Sideways. I quite like Côtes du Rhône , whatever that is.

Rosé: Nah.

Champagne: Broad yes, unless it’s too yeasty. It’s possible that what I mean by “too yeasty” is dry.

Regions: Generally prefer European reds to Australian because my palate isn’t that sophisticated, so I don’t like “bold” or “powerful” terribly much.

Palate, nose, fruit, breathing, decanting, cellaring: No idea.

The really sad thing is that I did once go to the Wine Society and take an introductory wine appreciation course, but I can’t remember anything about it except what corked wine tastes like – “yuk” is the easiest way to describe it. Frankly, if you can’t tell whether or not a wine is corked, your taste buds aren’t functioning correctly.

I had visions of being a bit of a wine connoisseur, of being the kind of guy that other people willingly hand the list to at restaurants, knowing they’ll be in expert hands. I’d pore through the menu, tut-tutting here and there and nodding appreciatively in other places, before ordering a bottle that was thoroughly excellent and yet surprisingly good value.

But I ultimately found myself conceding two things. Firstly, it was too much hard work. There are so many different varieties, and regions – it would take me years to get to a level of basic competence.

Plus, Australians are into wine. The chances of me being the most expert oenophile (a word that wine buffs use for wine buffs, because “buff” is kind of a silly word outside of the gym context) at any social gathering are fairly slim without considerable effort.

And here’s the second issue, the thing that feels difficult to admit – I don’t like wine that much.

I do like champagne, and certain reds (I’ve no idea which kind, I’m afraid), especially with a good meal. If there are glasses of wine sitting on a table, I’ll generally take one, usually the red. But if you told me I could never drink it again, I’d be absolutely fine with that.

After years of feeling inadequate whenever anyone hands me a wine list, I made the decision to move straight past wine and onto spirits. I started with gin and vodka, which are fairly straightforward and are often served with fizzy mixers, which I enjoy. And then I’ve recently cultivated a taste for whisky.

There are only about half a dozen different broad types of whisky/whiskey, as far as I can tell – I’m sure serious Scotch experts would take great umbrage at that suggestion, but honestly, it’s much less complicated than the whole of the wine universe.

In fact, I have come to genuinely enjoy the taste of whisky, which can be enjoyed in small, intense sips, and I have some Scottish heritage, so I can ramble vaguely on about my ancestors in the Highlands and the family tartan.

Most usefully, though, whisky demands respect. Whereas once people used to look down on e for being a wine ignoramus, now I simply say that I prefer spirits, and they immediately conclude that I’m the kind of guy who regularly sits on Chesterfields in hunting lodges, sipping single malts of distinction. I can work with that.

And whenever I’m confronted by a sommelier in future, I’ve figured out what to do. I shall fix them with my most intimidating gaze, and say “Everyone says you should just order the second cheapest bottle on the menu. But I’m a bit of a connoisseur in these matters, so why don’t you bring me the third-cheapest?”

Remember, it’s only a game

Everyone who plays or follows competitive sport, on any level, needs to take a step back. Take a deep breath. Every single one of you. Because you’ve taken things too far. In fact, you’re ruining it.

Sport has jumped the shark. And players have vaulted further over it than any human rightfully should, fuelled by peptides, human growth hormone and an approach that says that you’re a mug if you don’t do anything that’s not expressly prohibited by the rules, no matter how unethical it may be.

In an attempt to get an edge, clubs have been re-enacting the 1980s movie Weird Science, giving their players “supplements”, and if not breaking the rules, then certainly flirting with danger – much as the two geeks do in Weird Science.

In John Hughes’ movie, the nerds increase their computer-simulated lady’s boobies for the purposes of “humour” – but sports scientists are enlarging footballers’ biceps to similarly absurd proportions – for real.

And the unsavoury revelations keep coming. This week, a murky story surfaced about the Roosters, rugby league’s most consistent team this season, and human growth hormone. Essendon, my AFL team, have already been excluded from the finals and fined after various irregularities. Right now, the country’s two most popular codes seem dodgier than a late-night kebab.

Fans could be forgiven for wondering whether there’s any genuine joy to be had in winning a premiership in this year which contained the “blackest day in Australian sport”. Should it be the players who are feted with a ticker-tape parade, or the geeks in the backrooms who have devised concoctions of ever-increasing complexity? Alongside the coveted Dally M and Brownlow, should they hand out honours for the most devious sports scientists?

Worse still, we’ve seen this week that this absurd competitiveness has extended well beyond professional sport. There have been reports that a schoolboy basketball competition has been manipulated in ways that contravene the spirit of friendly competition.

In response, five of the seven other Sydney GPS private schools have refused to play The Scots’ College, a remarkable situation given the GPS’ gentlemanly pretensions.

It reminded me of when I was in Year 11 back in 1993. That was Scots’ centenary year, and their rugby team improved remarkably amid similar rumours of “music scholarships” going to likely Wallabies prospects. In the end, the school won its first premiership in six years – and that was its last rugby title until this year.

I never heard any official confirmation of whether or not Scots had done anything improper back then (although Paul Sheehan referred to it back in 2002). So let’s just say that to win their one premiership in 26 years in their Centenary year was a delightful piece of serendipity.

I also remember that when that Scots team played my school, the relatively nerdy Sydney Grammar, in round 2, something like half of our First Fifteen contracted season-ending injuries.

That situation made me angry at the time, and it still does when I read about the basketball competition today. A mismatched rugby game can be genuinely dangerous, and our bookish team were never any threat to Scots’ title hopes.

Nowadays, the school has a professional sports scientist on its books. I’m not suggesting there are any peptide-style shenanigans afoot at Scots. But it seems totally absurd that a school should employ a sports scientist to get an edge in something as trivial as high school sport – especially one who previously worked at a first-grade NRL club!

As you can see here, Scots even has an indoor altitude chamber. At a high school. An artificially high school, evidently.

How ridiculous. For one thing, Scots is already located high on a hill so the boys can enjoy water views.

(The school is evidently not enjoying the media attention – the webpages for its “high performance centre” have disappeared. Fortunately, Google’s cached version survives, and makes for an interesting read.)

I know that Scots is not the only offender, and the other schools’ objections a reminiscent of rich, spoiled kids squabbling.

But here’s the thing – when you take sport too seriously, you ruin it. Victory seems ugly, and losing becomes bitter. It rankles to lose to someone when it doesn’t feel fair and square.

Anyone who played sport at school will remember those terrible parents on the sideline, shouting at the referee and getting far too emotionally involved as they urged their offspring to triumph where they themselves had once failed. Those petulant parents should have been made to go and sit in their Lexuses. Instead it seems that their mentality is running the show.

Winning a premiership is nice. It’s a cause for celebration, sure. But it doesn’t actually mean anything. Even the NRL trophy is not that big a deal in the scheme of things. Scale the importance of that down by several hundredfold and you’ll get a sense of how much these schoolboy plaudits should matter.

It’s a quest for bragging rights, I suppose – but as Scots may well be finding, bragging is hollow if the people you beat think you flouted the rules.

I’m not saying they’re cheating, but I am saying they’ve lost proportion – just as professional sporting teams have.

I used to think the professionalisation of sport was a sign of progress – that players could earn a decent wage nowadays. Now I fear that too much money sloshing around ruins sport. Perhaps we should turn our attention to amateur competitions where fun and friendliness is a higher priority than victory.

And as for Scots, perhaps they should get rid of their sports scientist and instead employ someone whose only job is to remind everybody involved in the school’s sports programme that it’s only a game.

A rugby or basketball premiership ultimately doesn’t mean all that much in the scheme of things. And if it does, the person you should be adding to your staff is a counsellor.

We are all spoiled children

A confession: I’m one of those people who frowns when they see bad parenting. Or at least what I consider bad parenting, from my relatively ignorant perspective of not being a parent at all.

And I’ll go even further than frowning – at times, I’ve even been known to tsk.

Whenever I’m in a shop and I see a child throwing a tantrum in what seems a cynical strategy to get the latest toy, I will shake my head, with what I hope, but cannot guarantee, is sufficient subtlety that the exasperated parent won’t notice my self-righteous disapproval, and think to myself how much firmer I’d be in the same situation.

The child might cry, or beat the linoleum floor with its fists, or even say “I hate you, daddy,” but I would remain as unmoving as one of Clive Palmer’s imitation dinosaurs.

I’ll also gladly tell anyone that when I was a kid, we didn’t have anywhere near that many toys, and how we appreciated each and every item our parents purchased for us. Whereas kids these days are spoiled.

They’re so materialistic nowadays, so rapidly dissatisfied with what they already have, even though their personal collections are large enough to stock a neighbourhood toy store, to the point where finding something they don’t already have can be a genuine challenge. And yet they’ll still hassle their parents to add to their massive stockpile.

And it’s not just me who thinks so. A genuine, card-carrying mother, Sarah Macdonald, recently wrote about this for Daily Life – about her own children. As I read about their demands for teenage retreats and soft eggs, I felt vindicated in my disapproval. If I ever have children, I thought to myself, they’ll be different.

I should perhaps have been alerted by the title of Sarah’s piece, “Do all middle-class parents have spoiled kids?” The reality is that most families today can afford more possessions than my memory of childhood. As a nation, our average disposable income has increased at a consistent, and remarkable, rate. And I’m sure toys have gotten cheaper with the advent of mass-production in vast overseas factories.

Whenever I go shopping for kids’ toys, I’m genuinely shocked by how inexpensive they can be. I’ve previously admitted to buying my nephew a drum kit for his last birthday – what I didn’t mention is that it left me with change from thirty bucks. I don’t know how they even make money out of that, and given the conditions in many sweatshops, I probably don’t want to.

So if toys are cheaper and we are wealthier, it’s little wonder that presents have become a weekly thing instead of something saved for Christmas and birthdays.

The other factor is the sophistication of the modern marketing machine. When I was a kid, ads were generally limited to ad breaks in TV shows, and I was only allowed to watch the ABC, so my parents were only subject to nagging when my school friends had things I wanted.

Nowadays, the marketing is relentless. To give just one example, my nephew’s crazy about Angry Birds – but when you play those games now, every second thing you click on is a link to some form of ad for more of their games. He’s constantly being catapulted out of the game and into YouTube, where there’s an ad for another game in the series which then offers a bunch of links to toys. In particular, there’s a kid who reviews them for a series called EvanTube HD which has – no exaggeration – nearly 250 million views, delivering advertising revenue that no doubt keeps young Evan in all the figurines of porcine Darth Vader he wants.

Kids these days have been transformed into little sleeper agents who are activated whenever they go near the toy aisle, a fast-food outlet or those lollies that unscrupulous supermarkets display at the checkouts.

There’s no point blaming the kids for it, or indeed the parents, who generally have the best intentions. How many of them have attempted to stop their sons playing with toy guns, or keep their daughters away from Barbies? But such efforts are doomed to failure. It’s like trying to use an umbrella to resist a cyclone.

I thought about my nephew’s love of Angry Birds (for which I’m responsible) and the fancy tablet computer he uses to play it, and I suddenly realised that I’m no better, even though I’m 36 compared to his 3. The only difference is that instead of needing to chuck a tantrum in order to get the latest toys, I just pull out my credit card.

The disposable income figures I talked about earlier are especially advantageous if, like me, you’ve steered clear of parenting into your mid-thirties. The desire for instant gratification and lack of satisfaction with what we have is equally true of me, which is why I’m pondering a phone upgrade even though mine is only a year old.

Our society’s obsession with big houses and shiny cars and nifty gadgets shows that the kind of materialism that makes me shudder in the toy department continues on a grander scale once we transition to adulthood.

All of which leads me to conclude that the person I should in fact be tsking and shaking my head at is myself. And to the crime of materialism, I can also add a secondary charge of abject hypocrisy.

I hope I never become complacent about our transition into a generation of Veruca Salts, but if I’m planning to do something about it, I should probably start with my own behaviour. And go easier on parents. Sometimes the price of a toy is well worth it for a bit of peace.

Why I keep buying print books

Yesterday, I got home after a long day at work and read a book in the bath. It was Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse 5, which turned out to be fairly harrowing, dealing as it does with the harrowing impact of the bombing of Dresden in World War II. But then again, it has plunger-shaped aliens from the planet Tralfamadore in it, so that’s something.

It was a wonderful read, and kept me in the water long after my skin had turned wrinkly. And it occurred to me that there’s simply no way to enjoy the great pleasure of bath-reading with a tablet, unless you’re rich enough to have a few dozen of them on hand. It’s best done with a paperback, one that you don’t mind getting slightly damp just in case you can’t quite manage to keep one hand dry. (Keep a towel within reach is my tip.)

At a time when the publishing industry has been struggling with the sales of books that aren’t about angst-ridden vampires, problematic sado-masochistic relationships or celebrity chefs, and even those few who make time to read nowadays have been gravitating towards e-books, it’s worth remembering what’s great about reading printed books.

Our media consumption is becoming internet based, as we increasingly stream music and download television. It doesn’t really matter whether a programme is downloaded or watched off the air - you’re still viewing it on the same screen. And while there are subtle differences between playing vinyl and streaming from Spotify, you’re still listening to the same recording through the same speakers.

But a printed book (“p-book”, for the purposes of this article) and an e-book offer different experiences when you consume them. Both have their place, and I certainly love taking my e-reader when I travel, but I doubt I’ll ever stop buying and reading printed books, even out of the bath.

Every book on my shelf has a memory attached to it. I remember where I bought them, who I was with, what kind of a day it was. Which is another thing that’s wonderful about p-books – the experience of buying them from bookshops, a pleasure that no website “recommendations engine” can hope to replicate. When I’m browsing in a bookshop, I’ll discover titles that the bookshop’s staff recommend not because they’re bestsellers, not because they’ve profiled me, but because they love them. That’s an irreplaceable service, and while the days of mega-chain bookshops have already gone forever, and I miss the scale and range of those massive Borders that were only with us for a decade or so, I’m sure that smaller, local, independent bookshops will survive. I certainly plan to keep supporting them.

I love a brand new book, with that unique freshly-printed smell, but I also love second-hand books. Browsing through an emporium of musty tomes is a pleasure that an e-reader cannot hope to replicate – and second-hand is cheaper than buying e-books, too. You can’t resell e-books – in fact, you may not even be able to pass them on to your children, unless they’re going to juggle multiple Amazon accounts, for instance. And what happens if Amazon goes broke?

I loved reading books for school that my parents had once enjoyed, and if I ever have children, I hope they’ll go on to plunder my own collection someday. P-books also turn satisfyingly yellow as they age. I love the tactility of books, too – their covers, often with brilliant graphic design, the beautiful layout and fontography. E-books all look and feel the same, a one-font-size-fits-all approach.

One day I plan to have a study lined with bookshelves, containing the perfect easy chair and reading lamp, but I already have a few bookshelves in my living room that form an enticing wall of colour, bulging with pleasure and potential. While e-readers usefully save space for those who live in small apartments, as Anthony Powell observed, books do furnish a room. E-readers do not.

Even if we don’t always find time to read nowadays, exploring a bookshelf lets you imagine long, lazy days of reclining and becoming immersed in a book. Sometimes a friend will notice a title on my shelf and borrow it, a pleasure that e-books cannot afford. You can get a p-book signed by the author, or give it as a Christmas present, and while gifting e-books is wonderfully convenient for friends who live overseas, you can’t stash them under the tree on Christmas morning.

Of course, they have their place. I read A Song of Ice and Fire (the source for Game of Thrones) on one while travelling, and lugging the thousands of pages of sci-fi around would have been a huge hassle. Uni textbooks were an annoying burden back in the day as well. The ease and convenience of online purchasing is a huge plus, but whenever I buy an e-book, I feel like I don’t really own it, and can’t get the maximum enjoyment from it.

What I’d like to see happen is what happens with vinyl albums nowadays, whereby if you buy a physical book, you also get a code for a bundled e-book copy. I’d like to be able to read a book in print when at home, and keep reading on a tablet while away. And I’d feel more comfortable with the print copy sitting on my shelf in perpetuity.

So while I’m actively adding to my e-book library, I’d still rather read a book in print. It’s simply a more pleasurable experience, and I like being able to slot them into my bookshelf when I’m done, where I can simply glance at the spine and remember the enjoyment I got from reading it. So while e-books have their place, especially when travelling, I’m a p-book man for life. At least until they invent a submersible e-reader.

For the love of dogs...

My family and friends divide neatly into the dog-mad and the dog-skeptical. I have always been very much in the latter camp, considering hounds rather like permanently unruly children – they’re well-meaning and friendly, but they simply can’t control themselves.

They jump all over me, they run around indoors and frequently knock things over, and they drool everywhere. Especially, it seems, on my pants.

At mealtimes dogs try to scab food from the table, trying to catch your eye as if to say “brother, can you spare a rasher of bacon?”, and when I sit down in a comfy chair afterwards, they come and jump on me, and/or drool on my leg some more.

They do it from love, I realise, but their love sometimes seems indiscriminate and overbearing. Sometimes when you love someone, you need to give them a bit of space. Dogs don’t really do space.

I’ve always felt that the best place for exuberant dogs was outside, where you can play with them when you feel like it, and not the other way around.

Whereas cats, in my opinion, are magnificent just about all of the time. Sure, you have to work to win a cat over in the first place. Nothing truly worthwhile in this life comes easily.

But when you’re friendly with a cat, it’ll fit neatly on your lap, and purr endearingly. In the depths of winter, cats will snuggle up next to your feet, like a self-powered hot water bottle. Or, they might not. A cat is like a flatmate – although admittedly one you have to feed. Sometimes they want to hang out, and sometimes they do their own thing.

Sure, sometimes “their own thing” involves dragging dead birds and rodents into your living room, but we all receive presents we don’t like now and then – the best thing to do is just re-gift them.

And what’s more, unlike most flatmates, cats are fastidiously clean.

Receiving the affection of a cat is precious. Whereas dogs are always “on”, so to speak. When you get home, they’ll flip out every time – which is heartwarming on one level, but also seems a little undiscriminating.

While I am admittedly awesome, dogs constantly behave like 13-year-olds in the presence of One Direction. It’s a good thing they can’t operate cameras, because they’d constantly be letting off flashes in our faces and asking us for just one photo, like members of the pupperazzi.

(Sorry about that pun, but it’s the kind of wordplay dog fans love. Which is why every second pet shop is called something like Under One Woof or Paws For Thought.)

What’s more, it’s become clear in recent years that I’m allergic to the majority of dogs. They make my eyes itch, and sometimes trigger my asthma. Even my body’s involuntary responses, it seems, aren’t so big on canines.

All of these sensible reservations about dogs matter not a jot to some people I know, who are entirely happy to have dogs underfoot, and the more the merrier. They love taking them wherever they go, and they seem to view the obligation to walk them at least once a day as a delightful chance to spend quality time in the fresh air rather than an inconvenient burden.

But in recent weeks I've found myself softening. Having spent a bit of time in the company of a small cross-breed-but-mostly-Australian terrier, I've discovered that certain dogs come with considerable upside. Having somebody following you around and gazing adoringly at you isn't exactly the worst thing. Going for walks can be a good way to stretch your legs on a lovely sunny day. And if your dog is small enough, it can curl up on your lap too, just like a cat - only they're always up for it.

Best of all, it turns out that some dogs are hypoallergenic. Hound-elluia!

(Sorry, but we dog fans love our puns.)

The pooch in question is a rescue dog, and I've discovered recently that supply generally outstrips demand. So if you're thinking of adding a little drool factory to your household, do check out your local shelter.

Meeting a rescue dog has made me realise that while I haven't always been a huge dog fan, a lot of people are genuinely cruel to them, which seems especially horrible when dogs are so unquestioningly affectionate. Such people deserve to be reincarnated into chew toys.

I'm not an unqualified dog convert - given a free choice, I'd still go for a cat, as much because I doubt my own ability to offer sufficient time and energy. They're lower maintenance - never needing walks has its advantages, and if you're busy, you won't feel as guilty.

But I have begun to understand how the other half live. So much so that I've even begun to offer scraps of bacon from the table. And I love bacon.

In the end, dogs offer boundless affection and companionship. And why on earth wouldn't you be up for that?

Oh dear, I think they've won me over.

We was robbed

Don’t it always seem to go, Joni Mitchell once sang, that you don’t know what you got til it’s gone? That lyric works in abstract terms as a reminder to enjoy the moment and be grateful for the good things we have in life. But when thieves ransacked my workspace this week, I can affirm that I knew precisely what I had well before it went, and could consequently itemise precisely what had gone for the police report.

In the rich smorgasbord of human existence, the feeling of being robbed is definitely the offal course. Walking into a familiar space and noticing that some of your things are no longer in their usual place is a wrench in the guts that turns into weary resignation as you trudge around the space trying to figure out what was taken, while you’re glued to the phone breaking the bad news to everyone.

My home wasn’t robbed, fortunately, although that has happened to me before. Instead it was a shared office space where I hang out with friends who work in the arts doing things like painting and writing, and while I haven’t been there often in the past few years, it’s still a home away from home where we can play ping pong, listen to music - or could, before the speakers were stolen. It’s where I go to write articles like this one, at least before my computer was stolen.

I don’t know whether the thief has figured out how to access my files, but if they do, I very much hope they’re enjoying my three novels and hundreds of self-indulgent columns. Then again, if Johnny Break-and-enter is listening to the whiny songs I recorded on my hard drive in my teens and early twenties, he’s probably suffering even more than I am at this point.

Fortunately, I have all my files backed up both elsewhere and online, so there wasn’t much harm done, as much as I dislike the prospect of some unknown villain browsing through thousands of my photos and videos. They’ll think very poorly of me when they realise that absolutely none of them are in any way erotic.

Whether you think my backup obsessiveness makes me seem paranoid or merely prepared, I do not much care. Because once again, my lack of faith in my fellow human-beings has been entirely justified, just as it was when Australia lost the Ashes and Redfoo was invited to become a judge on the X-Factor.

For many years, I have approached life on the basis that I am going to be robbed, all the time. That might not make me, say, terribly cheerful, but it certainly makes me prepared for burglaries. Upon returning home each evening to discover that my apartment is intact, I feel no relief, merely the certainty that they’ll get me the next time, or perhaps the time after that. Because they will, as sure as eggs are eggs and ‘Hold The Line’ by Toto is a winning karaoke selection.

I learned to expect a constant stream of thefts when I owned my first car, a Mitsubishi Mirage, in the late 1990s. I was enormously fond of it, but it had one significant issue that was not mentioned by the salesman - the stereo. There was no problem with it - to the contrary, it was excellent. So much so that it was a particular favourite of thieves, who just loved purloining it even when I’d detached its detachable face. Apparently my car door was quite easily opened with a coathanger, although more often than not the thieves just smashed a window. Which I felt lacked finesse.

During my three years of owning the car, the stereo was stolen - well, I’ve lost count, but it was at least four times. Sydney’s egalitarian car thieves, bless them, were happy to nick my stereo no matter where they came across it. Once it got ripped off in a dodgy back street in Redfern, and another time it was nicked in one of Woollahra’s poshest streets.

It got to the point where I went back to the car expecting the stereo not to be there, and even if it seemed like it was, I didn’t trust the evidence of my own eyes. Which is perhaps why Mitsubishi named that model ‘Mirage’.

All these thefts have taught me that you shouldn’t buy anything extremely valuable, because it’ll just get stolen. Even when it comes to jewellery, it’s simply not worth it - spend your riches on holidays. And you should always have insurance, so you can replace your things when they are taken. Most importantly, you should back up your files as many places as you can, in a manner that is automated.

If you’ve never been robbed, then I doff my hat to you - but there are sufficient horrible people in this world to get around to you eventually. Just be prepared for when they do. At that point, you can dust yourself off, and say - well, at least I saw it coming. And if you’re the kind of person who constantly boringly nags others to back up their files, then the theft of your computer is, if nothing else, a wonderful opportunity to be smug. And I enjoy those so much I could almost thank those thieves if they hadn’t also taken the speakers I use to blast out ‘Hold The Line’ while I work. Burglars, like love, aren’t always on time. But they’ll get you in the end.

Ten ways to avoid Election 2013

I love elections. Well, I usually love elections.

But this particular election – well, I’m not about to rip out my eyeballs and stuff them into my ears so that I can’t see or hear another moment of it. That would be foolish, and besides, when I was in hospital recovering, there’d be a TV in the ward, and even if I couldn’t hear or see it anymore, I could smell the election coverage.

Since this election campaign’s been going for either three or a bazillion years, depending on your perspective, I’m going to assume you’ve figured out who you’re voting for and just want the blasted thing to be over. So I’ve come up with ten ways to tune out of Election 2013.

1) Relocate overseas

Every single day of the campaign, I’ve found myself searching online for flights to some idyllic getaway. I’m thinking about another country, ideally one of the ones Mark Zuckerberg is trying to ruin by connecting to the internet. Some remote beach where they don’t have news websites, but do have those cheap waterfront cafes where you lie on enormous cushions.

If you do decide to escape from Australia for the duration of the campaign, choose your destination carefully, though – billboards of Australian politicians have been known to crop up in unexpected places.

2) Get fit

What better time? It’s still cool outside, so you should be able to spend hours in the gym (avoiding the exercise bikes in front of the televisions) or pounding the pavement. If you are a jogger or cyclist, just stick to routes where it’s unlikely you’ll encounter Tony Abbott.

3) Become nocturnal

Even KRudd has to sleep sometimes, so if you venture outside between the hours of 10pm and 6am, you should be able to avoid the election. The only caveat is to stay well away from Martin Place in Sydney, because they film Sunrise there and Brekkie Central is always chock-full of pollies pretending to be normal human beings.

4) Spend 10,000 hours doing anything

You know that theory that to become excellent at any task takes 10,000 hours? Well, I’ve worked out that there are exactly 369 hours between 9am this morning and when polls close at 6pm on Saturday 6 September. That’ll get you off to a flying start, and you’ll only have 9631 hours to go before becoming excellent at the thing of your choice!

I plan to spend that time learning how to play the drums, and my theory is that it’ll be all that much more enjoyable if I invest in a drumkit with Tony Abbott and Kevin Rudd’s faces on it.

5) Slow down iconic songs

Whether by accident or visionary genius, somebody put the 45 of Dolly Parton’s ‘Jolene’ on 33 and discovered that it sounded amazing – like a guy whose heart has been smashed into smithereens. (Explainer for kids – “45” and “33” are terms which involve these things called ‘records’ which have nothing to do with the Olympics and – oh, look, they just slowed the song down by 25% the way you can with certain digital audio players.)

Which reminded me that Dolly Parton once gave a big smooch to our Deputy PM – no, I must not be distracted by anything to do with politics. Perhaps if I slow down ‘Jolene’ to Barry White speed, it’ll take my mind off Albo and lipgloss.

So, why not slow down a bunch of other songs yourself, and try to create the next global internet meme? You could learn to DJ at the same time (see “Become nocturnal”).

6) Have yourself a Wet August

I would never advocate the excessive consumption of alcohol, because that would be socially irresponsible – but let’s just say that if you chose to spend this entire month pursuing the opposite of Dry July, a lot of people would sympathise.

7) Write that novel you always wanted to write

If you’re like me, you spent years moaning about how you thought you had a novel in you, generally in an attempt to impress attractive people with how creative and soulful you were. (Hint – it doesn’t usually work.) Well, National Novel Writing Month usually takes place in November, but my advice is that this year, you should bring it forward. Cloister yourself away from everything and everyone, and make it happen. Just make sure your novel isn’t itself about an election.

8) Watch a great TV series on DVD

You need the kind of show where you’ll just watch episode after episode, only pausing to sleep. Under normal circumstances, I’d recommend The West Wing, but you’ll struggle to stop yourself reflecting on how much better political speeches are when crafted by Aaron Sorkin. Perhaps a more appropriate choice would be The Walking Dead, although again, the legions of undead shuffling ominously around the countryside might remind you of the leaders and their accompanying press pack.

Ultimately I recommend Seinfeld, because unlike this campaign, it’s deliberately about nothing.

9) Refuse to leave your room

In Japan, some people simply withdraw from society, a phenomenon known as ‘hikikomori’. They generally rely on kindly parents to feed and shelter them, so why not tell your folks you’ll be moving home for a bit, and bring along a lock for your bedroom door? To be a proper hikikomori, you need to leave society for at least 6 months, but until 8 September is all you should need here.

The biggest challenge will be keeping your job, but claiming that the election has made you nauseous is highly likely to be plausible.

10) Volunteer for charity

If you spend the next few weeks helping the homeless, working in a soup kitchen or anything along those lines, you can almost guarantee your experience will be entirely disconnected from the process of our would-be leaders gallivanting around, promising to make everyone’s lives better. Even if the local MP turns up for a brief photo-op that uses the people they’re supposed to be helping as a prop, you can bet they won’t stay for more than 20 minutes.

Six awesome things about new parents

I recently wrote a piece about six annoying things new parents do, and offered some advice on how to avoid them. The majority of comments said something like “you don’t realise how hard it is”, “Yeah, well, non-parents are really annoying too, so there!”, or "suck it up, princess". (In reply, Essential Baby published a piece titled 'New parents need empathy, not telling off' - Ed) 

But it’s important to be balanced, especially during election season, so I thought this week I’d list six things that are wonderful about new parents. Give yourselves a slap on the back, guys! If you can somehow muster enough energy to even lift an arm, that is.

1) Reduce crowd numbers

If you’ve ever looked for an inner-city parking space on a Saturday night, or have tried to book a reservation for a hot restaurant, you’ll know that our cities are becoming far too crowded. And if you’ve tried to buy tickets to events like Splendour in the Grass that sell out in a matter of minutes, then you’ll know – there are just too darn many of us.

But you know who isn’t out there, booking the last tickets to that new blockbuster movie the night it comes out before we can, or making the last day of a big art exhibition so crowded we can’t even see the paintings? New parents. They’re at home, diligently minding their kids. Bless them.

Of course they have their own overcrowding issues at adventure playgrounds and big shopping malls and IKEA, but who in their right mind would want to compete to go there?

2) Making childless people feel cool

I’ve never been cool. At parties in high school and early uni, I was always a bit of a wallflower. But you know what happened to all those dudes who were great with the ladies? They went ahead and married those ladies, and then their social lives dwindled away when they had kids. So who’s the one hitting up the nightclubs on a Saturday night? Little ol’ me.

Well, I used to be. Now I’m just too tired. But still, I could go if I wanted, in theory. My point is this – when I talk to my friends with kids, they make me feel like my entire life is spent sipping champagne in a succession of VIP limos, just because it’s objectively more fun than theirs. Unless you count the fun they have hanging out with their kids.

3) Boost herd immunity

There’s one thing I’ve learned since young children became a regular part of my world, and that’s that there is no better medium for the rapid dissemination of illnesses. In an era when lots of children go to childcare – a very welcome development in many respects, of course – real viruses can spread as rapidly faster than a video of a One Nation candidate who thinks Islam is a country.

On a superficial level, this is annoying, because it means you’ll catch every single influenza strain doing the rounds. Some parents I know have even recently contracted retro ailments like mumps. And tummy bugs will constantly attack your entire house, not only confining you to your bed of pain, but then forcing you to leave it at regular intervals in order to do endless loads of laundry.

But this is ultimately a good thing, because it leads to more robust immune systems. The more antibodies that develop in a population, the more resilient it becomes. By turning your homes into biohazard units, you are the guinea pigs that are developing resistance for all of us.

4) Guarantee the future of the human race

By putting themselves through the exhausting rigamarole of having children, new parents are ensuring the survival, and ongoing superiority, of we humans. The rest of us are benefiting from the hard labour of those who bathe, feed and protect the leaders of tomorrow’s world. Without the parents’ efforts, cockroaches, rabbits or pigeons might take over as the dominant species on the planet. Just remember when you’re cleaning up yet another filthy disaster – you’re not just doing it for your kid, you’re doing it for the whole of humanity.

5) Excellent entertainment content

Harry Potter, Pixar movies and the Super Mario Bros games are just three examples of content that I, and many adults, enjoy which could not have been produced without a constant supply of children to provide a market. In this sense, many grown-ups are sponging off the efforts of parents everywhere, and I and my fellow immature grown-ups are truly grateful.

6) Simulate a zombie apocalypse

Thanks to new parents, we now know how to deal with listless, drooling, wild-eyed drones, shuffling amongst us. We childless folk also know how to deal with parents trying to convert us to their way of life – just as zombies bite non-zombies, many parents try to convince us non-parents that our lives won't be complete until we have a child, and are shuffling along the street, pushing a pram. This, I am convinced, is the perfect preparation for life once the true zombie takeover begins. So thank you, parents/almost-zombies.