Desire feasts on golden times,
where all is fair and just - 27/11/02

Struggle at the book stand: Adolf invading Wally's world? - 4/12/02

When the daredevil Santa virus kills the mystery - 11/12/02

Quietly crackers as bon-bonhomie goes snap - 18/12/02

Buy paradise now and get Nivana absolutely free - 25/12/02

Acquiring the taste for history's glittering prize - 1/1/03

Where bulls fear to stampede, Steve Waugh goes - 8/1/03

When a burger becomes a metaphor - 15/1/03

In the temple of creases, seams slips and covers - 22/1/03

Art's cutting edge: but really, it is just plain offal - 29/1/03

Saddam's gulf between reality and his 'inner self' - 5/2/03

Catch a falling dream and put it in your bag of hippy tricks - 12/2/03

We're all involved in a desperate search for harmony, a search for inner peace so desirous to our souls that we often come to blows.

To aid us in this quest, there are gizmos and gimmicks, notions and novelties, many of them pried from the stiff, clammy fingers of dead cultures.

I've recently come into possession of a dream catcher. As it came with no manual, I'm a little confused of its exact usage - but I suspect it "catches your dreams".

The object is elegantly tribal or a piece of earthy, New Age grotesquery, depending on your perspective. It consists of wood and leather encircling a spider web of cotton with beads and feathers dangling from the rim.

Some claim it can focus the unconscious mind and bring clarity to visions. It may also ward off "evil spirits"; certainly, a few of them tossed about a room would send a clear message to most of us. Thus far, all mine has caught is the attention of an unwary moth and I wondered if a similar fate awaited my dreams.

It came via a friend who recently gave me a lift. Her car is a commune, a transportable temple, a moveable Joss house, a time capsule of ideals with a top speed of 72kmh.

It's decked out with a fine assortment of "wellbeing, health-giving, life-affirming objects" and yet it's the most dangerous vehicle you could ever travel in. Crystals dot the dash held in place with Blu-tack. A Tibetan prayer bowl rolls about in the back and when the car hits 60 it begins to eerily vibrate. There are incense sticks, garlands of flowers and wind chimes, which are fine when the windows are open and the car is stationary, but once you start moving, it's a different story.

The most frightening object in the car was the dream catcher (probably constructed in some tripped-out, hippy-esque dream-catcher retreat with 12 other women - 13 being a magic number for the ladies - sitting cross-legged in an Adobe hut on a private property outside Mittagong bathing in smouldering birch).

My friend had this mystical object suspended from her rear- vision mirror. Suggesting, even to the uninitiated, that you are courting disaster. After all, she did drive by sense of feel, indicating a belief in forces beyond her control. A bobbing bauble like this would be distracting enough, but, one would assume, once behind the wheel of your car, alertness would be of prime concern. It would be distressing for oncoming traffic to catch sight of it. More worrisome if it is banging above your head in the passenger seat as you wait for the driver's eyes to glaze over and take the off-ramp to the happy hunting ground.

If you do "slip into a micro-sleep", will a piece of Native American shamanism enable you to capture it? Will it focus your "inner energies" as you plough into a tree? And will your unconscious mind ever regain consciousness?

To ease my mind, to help her driving and to alleviate some of the suffering in the world, I "borrowed" the dream catcher. Last night I installed it and waited for the magic to begin.

The dawn chorus of the garbo's chorale woke me after an evening of torturous nightmares: the world at war, North Korean "dong" bombs aimed at Mother Earth, the entire continent engulfed in flames, planes falling from the skies, disasters, human suffering and Michael Jackson's Faberge eggs. My steady stream of positive energy had become a muddied puddle and I found myself wandering in the early hours in search of hope. *

On the edge of a cliff over-looking the water were two women seated in the lotus position. They were united in the practice of yoga, having found the perfect spot to stretch and praise nature as the sun presented itself anew to the world. Their sinewy bodies moved in fluid unison until, from a path bloated with joggers and health fanatics, another two women shouted, "S'cuse us, that's our yoga spot. Move ya fat arses, ya slags!" Even for the motivated, peace and harmony are proving elusive. **

* "Michael Jackson's Faberge eggs" is not a euphemism. Although...

** Parts of this tale are complete fabrication or they may have came to me in a dream. I'm fairly sure I've a friend with a car. Perhaps the "catcher" is facing the wrong way and snaring my neighbour's troubled slumber. There's something worrying about him. I'll be calling that number if he puts out the garbage on the wrong night again.

White-line fever sends suburb into a spin - 19/2/03

someone, or something has been going around my suburb painting impromptu, unsanctioned pedestrian crossings.

The white rectangles annoy poor motorists who find themselves stuck at the corner of their streets while pedestrians proudly strut their stuff illegally across the road.

It's been the subject of much consternation about the house. The conversation has been diverted from the subject of imminent war and what a decent person Shane's mum is, to the three questions that dominate our lounge room chatter: how, when, why? Thus far we have concluded:

How? With a can of white paint.

When? In the wee small hours of the morning.

Which bring us swiftly and inevitably to "Why?" the only question that's puzzling and the only one that really deserves an answer.

Theories abound as to the reason behind the strange markings. Is it some obscure form of binary graffiti? Or the work of wily students engaging in a 'bush week" prank?

In a whimsical moment you could convince yourself they were latitudinal and longitudinal co-ordinates for an alien invasion. The suburban equivalent of crop circles.

Although, unless "the aliens" are dressing in size none Adidas joggers and leaving the scene of the crime on foot, it's clear humans are responsible.

I'm no detective but I'm fairly sure if you followed that trail you'd have discovered the abode of the perpetrator(s).

Maybe it's the work of one of them canny, lizard-skinned realtors trying to boost parental confidence in an area not renowned for its automotive caution around the little ones?

Or perhaps the "little ones", themselves tired of the uncaring fenders of SUVs, have plundered papa's paint supply and taken the law into their own plump little hands?

Or drunken backpackers fuelled on buckets of cerveza eager to confuse the inhabitants by altering their driving patterns. Perhaps, and this even more insidious, it's the only way to get the locals to stop so these cash-strapped world travellers can wash their windscreens.

Or they're not replicas of pedestrian crossings at all but the bars of an inverted cage suggesting we are all imprisoned at the end of our streets? A metaphor for our confined existence? A gauntlet thrown down to the steel radials?

Then again it could be an obsessive compulsive anal retentive who could only cross at crossings and suddenly latched on to this lateral thought after over-exposure to a Menthos ad?

The lines themselves are very poorly painted. The artist, prankster, civil libertarian or vandal is in such a rush that the blocks are uneven, often unparallel. On close inspection they have very little in common with the fine hard edge and geometric perfection achieved by the Malevich-loving council workers.

Splatters and drips of white connect the crude lines with the intensity of a Pollock or a giant dipsomaniacal pigeon with a bowel complaint - whichever you prefer. Anyone could see these recent additions aren't government-approved road markings. Distance lends them credibility, yet it's the pedestrians who allow themselves to be convinced and the motorists who don't.

What happens if these raids become more organised? What if these road rebels discover the beauty of colour and broaden their palette? A double-yellow line around the garage would mean you could never leave home. What happens if they move into more sculptural pieces?

One can only imagine the cyclical horror of being trapped in a two-way street where there are signs at both ends saying "Stop, Go Back, You are going the Wrong Way". Even a person with the soul of Mother Teresa would be prone to a touch of verbal abuse and road rage given these circumstances. We need to preserve order on the streets otherwise chaos ensures.*

A few days after they appeared they were erased and all was right with the world. Order was restored. The traffic moved as it should, children huddled on street corners and pedestrians roamed cautiously. The council had moved on the markings. Were they destroying free expression, obliterating the cause of making the street safe? The final result meant the ghosts of rebellion lay dormant under a thick coat of hard-working, jet-black tar.

They were gone but for one brief shinning moment, if you gave way to whimsy, then every aircraft in the sky looked like a spaceship.

*It may've just been a trick of the light, but now we will never know. Approaching one crossing from the left lane while staring into some high-beams around dusk resulted in an after image burnt on to the retina of the Virgin Mary. She was wearing gabardine slacks.

Demonstrating the new school of thought - 26/2/03

It's embarrassing when you're caught arguing over the best way to get to a peace march. It's embarrassing when you can't locate the "cause" and have to ask tourists if they've seen a few hundred thousand people and which way were they heading. It's embarrassing to arrive "fashionably late" dolled up to the nines in your best party frock and head straight towards the hot dog stands.

Like so many across the nation, we'd traipsed along to our local rally. However, we were stopped in our tracks by the confusing body language of a novice traffic cop.

Two boys in blue were valiantly controlling pedestrians and vehicles at a bustling intersection. After waiting for every other man, woman, dog, car, cattle truck and bison to pass, the lights changed and we surged forward.

The copper shot us a glance. His hands crossed his chest and then he flattened them out. Although the movement indicated "stop", we moved off the curb. He repeated the action more emphatically and we paused on the pedestrian crossing.

His seemingly mirrored lens fixed on all five of us and, despite the fact that everyone else was happily walking, we stopped. He crossed his hands in front of his chest and when he parted them he kept them level with his shoulders, fingers spread. I consulted with my argumentative colleagues, who agreed this particular movement meant "stop".

As everyone around us was still moving, we called out: "Should we stop?" He shouted something back - it sounded like "oooh". We asked again. He shouted again. My friends confirmed the "oooh" was definitely a "no".

The five of us became a blockage in the system. So he busted a hip-cracking move that made him look like all five members of the Village People falling off a cliff. It was accompanied by an aggressive "GO".

I'd heard about a government conspiracy that kept peace-loving, slightly dim marchers like ourselves oscillating at lights by employing unco-ordinated cops. A suggestion of elocution lessons and dance classes caused a little irritation. Still, I could understand his pain. He'd spent a whole day directing idiots and he wasn't even eligible for an Oscar.

The thing of it is many of the protesters in the recent protests had never protested before. Sure there were young soul rebels, and Che-wearing socialists and members of the left-left, but most were families out for a Sunday stroll, and dotted dandruff-like through this eclectic mix of humanity were clumps of old people.

The true blue rinse set had the whole marching thing down pat. Neat posters and placards, no spelling mistakes, witty comments and well-constructed, demeaning, yet humorous papier-mache representations of our leaders. Those marches in the '60s, '70s, '80s and early '90s turned the grey brigade into fuel-efficient protesting machines.

By comparison, some of the student-type folk unfamiliar with the construction of banners had used poor and/or cheap materials (or perhaps they were just poor and/or cheap students). Many made the disastrous error of not perforating their fabrics - probably offended by the notion of aggression towards their own bedsheets. One strong wind could've carried their heartfelt comments away.

This is only a problem if the banner with "Howad is a Cowad" (sic) takes flight and becomes, in itself, a weapon of destruction.

Reaching our final destination, the oldies triumphed again. They brought out chairs, rugs and hampers packed with food, backpacks with political manifestos, lamingtons, fairy cakes and that current corporate hot potato - the chocolate crackle. They were proud and unafraid and united in their love of bowel-cleansing bran.

By comparison, the young people were a blockage when it came to the free-flowing march. They were confused by the chanting, baffled by its heartfelt and simplistic repetition and, having worn impractical clothing, unprepared for the hardships of the protest.

Thongs snapped, sending them spiralling into other walkers, jeans more comfortable on the dance floor caused bloat and swelling. As they fell by the wayside, suffering fatigue and ennui, the elderly troupers powered on. This may not have been a cause of concern for this proud nation had it not been captured by the world's press.

To avoid more global embarrassment, it has been suggested by some academics that "The Art of the Protest" be included in student curriculums. Beginning in kindergarten with classes on "How to march and crawl efficiently", "Constructing hope from pipe cleaners and egg cartons", "Vegetable finger paint placards", "Drumming for peace with ice-cream lids" and "How to make a play-doh president".

Now if only we could get that uncoordinated traffic cop involved in international politics.

Contemporary mythologies - Madonna on the rocks - 5/3/03

Religious visions generally arrive at a time of crisis. They come to warn us, instruct us or to berate us for our foolish ways. It's understandable that, in this time of international unrest, the Virgin should manidest herself on an outcrop of rock on the ocean's edge - the Madonna of Coogee.

For those wandering by, it was a white painted fence. For th cynics, another chance to mock. For those believers, convivced the optical illusion was the Virgin, an instant undeniable union with God and a genuinely moving experience. Perhaps the message was simple: watch where you're going.

We are searching for a guiding hand in this time of consternation. In the past months, there's been an extraordinary amount of spiritual and psychic activity. What's discouraging is that the popular press has be reluctant to investifate numerous other sightings of mainstream deities and minor celestials. My knowledge of these phenomena has come to me via acquaintances, the internet and from a small number of devotees of the blister pack who've clearly skipped their meds and prefer to remain homeless.

It's the nature of the beast that none of these sightings can be confirmed, therein lies the elusive beauty of faith.

They're rumour, conjecture, downright lie and, as sure as I'm standing here, they happened. I relate them to you in chronological order.

Late December, early January, rumours circulated about the Madonna of Coogee.

February 3 - the Hindu deity Shiva "lends a hand" at a pineapple cannery near Townsville.

February 19 - a clump of clouds above Daylesford assembled momentarily into the beatific head of Justin Timberlake. A passer-by (who later proved to be a fan of J.T.), remarked, "He grooved upon the air mute witness to the goings on below then cranked out Mariah from Paint your Wagon".

On cross-examination, the witness admitted the song "could've come from the bakery". As the wind changed direction, the observer noticed, in a "nearby bed of posies", the oft-forgotten physiognomy of the other members of NSYNC.

February 21 - Charlton Heston dressed as Moses descends Mount Disappointment with two pump action rifles and couple of tablets. There's nothing written on the tablets apart from Cipramil.

February 27 - Elvis materialises at a karaoke evening in Fremantle. He's sweating inside a diamonte-encrusted jumpsuit and holds a half-eaten burger in the shape of Gandhi, and a French fry with the same breast, waist and hip measurements as Calista Flockhart. The King fails to win the event, coming second behind a duo of mute erotic dancers.

March 1 - the face of "El Ron" Hubbard (the pantomime spiritualist and Mexican "deceit" wrestler) appeared on a urinal at the conclusion of the week-long Gippsland beer festival. The stainless steel had been pitted with the imprecise spray of bevied up, skunk-drunk bipeds and, on Day Seven, the head became visible. The event was witnessed by five members of an elite drinking team. The head was said to be half normal size and favoured the left profile. It was just below waist height and much to everyone's surprise began speaking at about 2.30pm. It's first utterance was, "Use a cubicle". After that, it spoke continuously for an hour.

According to the inebriated, the head warned of "fleeing Thetas" and an invasion from the Red Planet. It forcefully suggested that a continual outlay of cash guaranteed an enriching environment for the soul. It lamented there was an overabundance of poorly written science fiction in discount bookstores before briefly mentioning Minority Report was available to rent on video.

It may've continued ad nauseum had it not been for the timely arrival of a truckie from Alice, who sashayed through the crowd and blasted the face to oblivion before anyone had a chance to stop him.

Panic ensued and several hasty petitions were made to have the festival continue while the mystery was solved. Two hundred recent converts tried in vain to "recreate" the head, but to no avail. The faithful were dragged away from the urinal early Sunday morning.

The original visionaries believe the spirit lodged in the yellow trough lolly, which is now protected in a piss-proof cabinet closely monitored by members of the church.

March 3 - Pauline Hanson may or may not have appeared in or around a shopping mall to speak about her current political aspirations. (There's nothing supernatural about this, but to many it still rates as "freaky".)

At the end of the day, there are many different "one true paths". It's difficult to find the exact fit for your feet, but the safest may run along the Sydney coastline because, at least, that one has a fence.

Being more than a force of nature can be a little draining - 12/3/03

Let us consider the humble handbasin.

What a marvellous article, a wonderful receptacle. Whether it's a peasant's bowl of beaten tin or etched glass atop a slender thread of titanium, its graceful curve forms the parentheses of our days - our head and hands the sum of its equation.

It's the first watery port of call in the morning and our destination before bed.

The ceramic equivalent of the dog - man and woman's best friend - it is faithful, obedient, with the occasional spillage accepted as part of its innate charm.

The handbasin - so often overlooked in our desperation to scrutinise the vanity mirror. The honest, hard-working handbasin - mute witness to our ego; a true friend in time of need.

When we are consumed by doubt and self-absorption, it provides the bracing splash of icy water that washes introspection away. Who has not found its non-judgemental character refreshing after a sordid night?

The only thing the handbasin lacks, like so many of us, is depth.

Nomadic tribes had long praised its ease of use (the basin in mobile mode may be referred to as a bucket). Basic, yet essential, it was domesticated years before other bathroom fixtures.

The internal toilet is a relatively recent addiction to the home and this may go some way to explaining why it insists on being positioned on the inside of an outside wall.

Admittedly, for porcelain, it's had a chequered history, standing alongside the most insidious plunderers of the earth.

It was the handbasin that, in league with Pontius Pilot, condemned Our Lord. Within its grimy pool, Ghengis Khan saw his birthright, the victorious Mongol hordes and the death of hundreds of thousands. Lady Macbeth exclaimed as she tried to rid herself of a persistent and incriminating imaginary stain, "A handbasin, a handbasin, my kingdom for a handbasin."

Could Stalin have maintained his dictatorial grip and kept his moustache trim had it not been for the tepid tub beneath his reflection?

And yet, for all its association with evil it has accomplished great good. It was instrumental in Ulysses' family recognising him. Mary Magdalene used it to clean Christ's feet and Florence Nightingale to rinse bandages.

The handbasin's indifference to our suffering, its detachment, is also its strength.

It has other virtues. In larger families, the fight for space before bed prepares a child for the harsh realities of life. Picture the beaming sibling who's dribbled toothpaste over your hands mid-wash or the grin that follows the accidental elbow to head. You cope, you move on, you exact revenge. You employ the brutish half-Nelson that brings with it the unexpected taste of soap. You clean the insect carcasses from the window sill with a loved ones toothbrush and fail to tell them. These gentle coping mechanisms are all good, clean, character-building fun. But, just as single basin can bring a family together, two basins can tear them apart.

Recent reports have detailed the difficulties families face when converting to the upmarket, dual handbasin bathroom. The separation of the bowls creates distance in a relationship. There is a coldness in these basins that no amount of hot water will overcome.

Envisage the dire situation of the only child with dual hand basins. As horrific as it sounds, these type of bathroom fittings already exist, probably in the lavish homes of recently deposed, monstrously overpaid, corporate board members.

It may afford those of us blighted by the greed of these men some small measure of comfort to think of their offspring endlessly oscillating between two empty, loveless bowls.

Still we must be on guard to prevent the misuse of the handbasin and to ensure its rightful place in society. Recently, it's suffered abuse at the hands of European designers who see it as little more than a platform to elevate their egos. A watery, shallow grave awaits all those who alter its form.

And, in this desperate hour, as each crisis approaches, the handbasin stands ready so that every man, woman and child, like so many before them, can wash their hands of them.

PS: In the past, the handbasin was hijacked by the glib debate concerning the Coriolis effect, which describes the effect of the Earth's rotation on bodies of water. We can place our faith in the scientific explanation of this phenomenon.

However, to simply accept fact as fact negates the mystery of the basin and the intangible majesty of the world.

The 'Open Sesame' power of a four-letter word - 19/3/03

Bert is the word. It was one of those days that began the night before with a phone call. I was in Sydney with an appointment in Melbourne around 9am. My flight was at 7am, so I booked a cab for 5.30am.

That particular morning I woke fresh, showered, shaved, donned a spotless suit and hit the street. Despite my preparations, the cold light of day revealed no cab. So I waited. After 20 minutes I called the cab company. They told me in no uncertain terms my driver was right outside my door. As I was right outside my door, I found this hard to believe.

I waited. Then, 42 minutes later, a torrent of abuse was being hurled at the silent intercom of No. 7, Flat 18. A cab had been sitting there for an hour. I was at No. 18, Flat 7. I ran with my baggage to the far end of the street.

"You're my cab!"

"Matt Damon?"

"No, McDermott."

He abused me for not being Matt. He abused the call station, the stars in the heavens and then he agreed to drive me. I thought that with such a ferocious temperament I'd be on the plane in no time.

"Domestic airport?"

The words were alien to him. As the sky clouded over, he reached for a sextant to plot a course and, placing his foot gently on the accelerator, we putted through the dawn. It has never taken me as long to reach anywhere, but as the lights of the terminal came into view my cabbie was overjoyed, for two reasons: 1. He never believed such a place existed. 2. It meant I'd finally stop clawing the ceiling. His happiness was undiminished by my hopeless situation.

He pulled into an area clearly marked No Stopping, and stopped. I swung my legs out the door allowing my feet to rest on the bitumen as I sorted the cash for the fare. Out of one fevered ear I heard, "You can't stop there, mate, move on". With my feet resting on the bitumen and my rump held fast by the plastic seat, my driver drove off. One foot stayed where it was, the other moved with the cab, and I found myself in an involuntary and yet damn impressive split. The only people who witnessed the event were the smokers clustered like a diseased cell on the outside of the pristine terminal. I sensed if their mouths weren't welded to their filters they would've cried out in one voice, "For god's sake stop!" Desperation for that last invigorating shot of nicotine prior to a lengthy flight was all that mattered. Once the cab had drawn to a halt, they wheezed a collective sigh of relief.

Entering the departure area, I ran straight into the arse-end of the longest queue I'd ever seen. Begging forgiveness, I greased my way along the line - suit crumpled, awash with sweat, bristling with a three-day growth.

On reaching the counter I heard, "Flight Closed".

"I need to get that plane."

"No sir, there's no way. The flight's closed."

She was sorry. There was nothing she could do. My heart pounded, I could feel the warm familiar flood of failure. Then I did something that I've never done before. I summoned all the courage I'm capable of, I leant forward over the desk, I motioned conspiratorially with my hand and whispered, "Normally I wouldn't do this, I'm a bit embarrassed, but I'm on Bert this morning".

Before I could finish the sentence she was on the phone. "Bert," the word spread like a Sydney scrub fire. "Bert," say it once and there's music playing. "Bert," and people parted before me like the Red Sea. "Bert," it's a magic word, the Australian version of "Open Sesame". A word doors cannot resist. The barriers, the restrictions were little more than a memory as my feet became a blur against the tiled floor.

"Get this fella to the gate."

I'm sure my cabin baggage was checked; it may've been gleefully thrown over the top of the metal detector and X-ray machines. I cannot remember emptying my pockets. Everything was a blaze of warm smiles and kind hands. I boarded the plane as the stewards laid down palm fronds. I've never felt so much love in such an enclosed space.

I just pray, in this time of crisis, it doesn't fall into the wrong hands. One can only imagine what sort of damage could be done if the enemy discovered the awesome power of that single syllable.

Infotainment - the rapid response vehicle for images of war - 26/3/03

Shock and awe; the language of war (1)

The media coverage of this war is second to none - infra-red, creepy night vision, sporadic explosions, red plumes lighting the sky above Baghdad - all captured in hard-working, long-lasting digital.

Already this conflict is giving us a lot more bang for our buck. Years ago we were spoilt by Desert Storm and we've come to expect a high level of visual excellence from war journalism. So far we haven't been disappointed.

Although some question the accuracy and veracity of reports, there's no doubting the technical skill and courage that's brought these images into our homes. Television is the medium that's delivered this information but it may well prove to be a double-edged sword.

What of the families who watch the war together? Those usually cautious parents who allow life to continue around the mid-afternoon news?

I caught up with a friend on the second day of the battle. She was playing a CD very loudly with the sound on the TV off. All well and good had it not been for her choice of music. Grease was blaring away as her children cavorted before the evening news.

There's little doubt there'll be numerous psychological scars left by this war. The only difference is if you've been "over there" you might be able to claim for them. My fear, and it's one shared by many who work in the field of mental health, is these children will always associate the images of carnage with the music of Barry Gibb.

Admittedly we may all do that from time to time to a greater or lesser degree but as American troops pour into Iraq will we inexorably link them to the yearning You're the One that I Want? Or equate the invasion as necessary to overcome a reluctant Sandra Dee? We should all dread what connections those young minds make if they see chemical weapons and hear "I've got chills, they're multiplying". Who could guess the emotional turmoil created if the unwitting soundtrack to this destruction was Jeff Lynne's War of the Worlds, the nihilistic Don't Worry, be Happy or, heaven forbid, anything by Lil' Kim.*

The other matter that should be of concern to parents is the insensitive programming of advertisements. It's difficult, after witnessing untold horrors and the suffering of thousands, to be informed your "limp hair can be brought back to life". Or to be told by the Pond's Institute there are seven signs of ageing and thinking - if we're lucky - we might experience them. Or, exploding on to the small screen after a live news break, the ill-timed footy promo. Juxtaposed against US marines heading into battle, it somehow revealed the dark genealogy of sport, and in the company of its more ruthless counterpart, seemed somewhat lacking. The question we must ask ourselves is; how can we return to "normal" television? This is the truest form of reality TV, and everything else pales by comparison. The interviews, the heroism, the night vision, what can compare? Pruning a shrub or changing a room seems suddenly so civilian. (Although putting furniture on a lawn could come in handy if there's an escalation of violence and the appropriately named Backyard Blitz could teach us how to make a "safe as houses" bomb shelter between the water feature and Egyptian palms.) But when it ends, will it end? When this incredible coverage is over, there'll be those who experience a sense of loss. Many social commentators have already suggested the major networks eager to find affordable and popular shows will apply pressure to maintain the war. They may even move it away from the desert to more exotic locations - think Jamaica, the colourful streets of Durban or the slowly sinking city of Venice (which, of course, poses a double threat). This insightful combination could lead to the best series of Survivor yet. There's a quiet confidence this hostility will be resolved swiftly, but just in case, it might be a good idea to refrain from any yearly subscriptions.

* On this issue I can speak with some authority. In the dim fit of youth I recall seeing an Australian Prime Minister on TV silently delivering an impassioned speech as Johnny Cash hammered away on the Kriesler multi-play stereogram. Ever since that day I believed John Gorton was a straight-talking, hard-living, "not afraid of a bit of biffo" fella whose name was "Sue". It still takes a great deal of effort to convince me I'm wrong and I may've even lost a fair amount of money defending this conceit.

I'm not afraid of the number 13 - 2/4/03

Winston Churchill once said: "There is nothing to fear but fear itself." Then, according to his scullery maid, he added under his breath, "and, of course, the number 13".

There's an irrational fear in our society of this figure but to what does it owe its poor reputation? Has the number 13 ever carried a gun? Offended your mother? Used vulgar language in front of genteel folk? Ever exposed itself in mixed company? Has it ever taken itself to distant lands to plunder or impose its cultural or idealistic beliefs? The number itself is innocent of any wrongdoing.

It's been used as a scapegoat (just as the scapegoat) for our own failings.

It's only guilty by association with our stupidity. For me the number 13 was synonymous with happiness - it meant the arrival of presents and kindness. It was a day of joy until the age of seven when an elderly rouge-rumped relative with dark knee socks pointed a crooked finger at me and wheezed: "Ah, the devil's day." She moved in to seal some demonic contract by kissing my cheek, her teeth the same colour and consistency as the stale yellow sponge cake she coveted. I saw neither she nor her kneesocks again but she had planted a superstitious seed, a seed that was then watered by "responsible" teachers.

Children born on the 13th came to the sad, slow understanding their special day was cursed. And woe betide you if it fell on a Friday, for then terror trailed on every street corner.

That "black" day brought 24 hours of foreboding until we were rescued by the lanky number fourteen and all was, once again, right with the world. I was born on the 13th, now like everyone else, I wait with trepidation for its arrival.

And yet it's not the presence of 13 that disturbs me so much as its absence. Our lives are dominated and devoted to numbers, although one prime is occasionally missing. No one appears to care about this lost child of the Arabic system. Each time we clamber into a lift, set forth on a voyage, board a plane or wait in line at the deli counter it's just not there. The aeroplane is certainly somewhere where superstition shouldn't have access to a seat. Air travel must rank as one of our greatest mathematical accomplishments, yet every time you board a plane between rows twelve and fourteen there's evidence of our betrayal of Euclid and Pythagoras and all things tangible.

As the stewardess casually counts us off to ensure all is routine, you must wonder if she too skips a number here and there? Is every 13th passenger consigned to the void? That missing row must instil fear in any rational mind. Imagine the devastation we would wreak if we treated the letter "M" with such savage disregard.

Who are these cabalists? These superstitious numeral-haters? And how far does the power of this anti-thirteen lobby extend? The same people who "see ghosts" are the ones who refuse to allow the rest of us to see what should be there.

The only reason 13 isn't present in elevators is so the concierge doesn't have to deal with some vacuous dead-eyed obsessive spiritualist with semi-opaque black knee socks screaming blue murder because she's been assigned the "floor of death". It's so a steward doesn't have to give the breath of life to a quivering jelly of a man who faints upon seeing 13F on his boarding pass. It's missing from our lives purely as a kindness to the service industry. Yet even without the curse of the number, buildings still burn and planes fall out of the sky. Would these statistics jump dramatically if we insisted 13 be reinstated? (And if they did what a magical day of reckoning and comprehension that would be.)

Numbers embrace every aspect of our existence. They're present in the grand design that governs all creation and continues to baffle and amaze us. As we proceed into the new millennium we must not be tethered to olde worlde concerns. I suggest we either accept 13 back into the fold, free from the burden of its past, or we banish it and all of its multiples forthwith.

1. Numerologists believe 13 is trapped in an endless cycle of redemption and destruction by the restrictive perfection of the number ten and the ultimate perfection of the number three. It's the number of Judas, the Book of Revelation. It's also the first year of the "teens" that prior to chicken steroids and childhood stress signalled the onset of puberty.

2. If we must hate a number may I suggest "14". It does nothing and is good for nothing. A multiple of the much-loathed seven. It lacks any visual charm. It's an angular, unbalanced grotesquerie appearing on the page like a three-legged bodiless flamingo.

3. During the writing of this piece, at precisely the mid-point, there was an electrical overload that plunged half the house into darkness, fused the power cable to the wall and left the turtles floating upside down.

I've no reason to believe this was due to the topic I was investigating. It was merely a coincidence, pure coincidence.

Buck up, or you could go over the edge - 9/4/03

Things could be worse. There's a loud, insistent ringing bleeding into the morning. It's coming from the alarm, but could just as easily be emerging from somewhere deep inside your skull. The day has started without you, you're behind the eight ball, you'll never catch up. The stress is causing a small knot of muscle to tighten in the nape of your neck. You're so taut your entire body feels shorter, denser. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and your eyes look stranded, as if they've been washed ashore on your face and have nowhere to set up camp. You burn the toast. The milk is off. Your keys have torn a hole in your pocket. You don't realise it at the time, but every important document you need for the day ahead is still sitting on the kitchen table covered in a thin glaze of honey. And then you crush your hand in the car door. You begin the chant that will console you over the course of the day - "Things could be worse". Once the words are uttered, you cannot help yourself, you're carried away from your traumas on the raft of imagination. After all, it's not like you're a canary seeking employment in a mining community or a plump, juicy sumo out on the Serengeti surrounded by starving hyenas. You instantly cheer yourself up by picturing the horrors that lurk in the darkest recesses of your mind, horrors destined for others.

So you're waiting in a waiting room with your hand throbbing and seated beside you is the anti-matter you - another person who looks roughly the same as you although they're incredibly neat and you're a complete mess. You've similar clothes although theirs are pressed and clean and yours have been through the wringer. You're both reading while you wait and you find you're peering over their shoulder to stare at their book. It's some sort of manual with instructive and charming cartoons of folk facing moral dilemmas. Although the sentiments are late 1990s, the drawings have all the naive innocence of the '60s - Playboy cartoons with foxy dames and their bosses crowded around water coolers. You ask about the book and the anti-matter you says, "In the rough and tumble world of big business, you have to stay ahead of the pack. This book is about how to improve your people skills, dominate with your ideas, exploit everyday situations and enliven ordinary conversations". An awkward silence follows which you eventually fill with an "Oh?".

"And what are you reading?"

Their inquiry is warm and speaks volumes about their easy nature and leadership skills. You show them your book, a novel, and this seems to confuse them.

"It's Peter Carey," you say. Their eyes narrow.

Had Carey been instrumental in the ground-breaking managerial classic My life as a Desk? Was he a precursor to the Anthony Robbins phenomenon? Had he written such classics as The Fat Cheque in History.

You realise you're worlds apart and stuck together in a waiting room so you politely ask, "Why are you here?" And then they tell you a tale of such woe and misery it freezes the blood in your veins. At the end of the saga, you feel incapable of speech and the only words that emerge from your mouth are, "Things could be worse" - the gap-filler offered when there is nothing else to say; the companion sentiment to "Look on the bright side", "Don't worry", "Let it go", "She'll be right", "Buck up", "Get over it". You may even have proceeded it with an accepting sigh or a neat little "Tsk".

And you realise you harbour an irrational hatred of these comments, as you remember how, years ago, you broke into a tower so you could witness some fireworks. A local who knew the ropes did it every year and assured you it was a wonderful experience, the perfect way to round off the night.

You've momentarily forgotten the amount of alcohol you've consumed and are buoyed up with youthful zeal so, as you scramble up the winding staircase, the last thing on your mind is the fragile nature of existence. You find a small, wooden door at the very top of the structure that swings outwards and, within moments, you're on a sliver of concrete with no guard rail, high above the street. As you move tentatively out on to the ledge, the quietest member of the party starts to freak out. She's decided she has issues with the concept; she loathes fireworks and she's just remembered she gets vertigo.

Suddenly, everyone's jumpy, which isn't a great feeling to have a hundred feet above the ground. The last words you hear as the door behind you closes and you realise the only handle is on the inside are "Things could be worse".

So you're stuck on a ledge with four other people terrified you'll doze off, roll over in your sleep and be cleaned off the pavement. As you wait for the sun to rise, shivering together, hoping someone will notice you, a plucky little voice offers the more positive, "Hey, it can only get better".

So what if animals prefer a life without liberation? - 16/4/03

It's great to be alive in this time of war. Every day brings with it revelations (such as the discovery that there's only one sledgehammer in all of Baghdad) and every day we learn more about Iraq.

At the start of the conflict, most of us knew very little. Like many others, I believed the "The Butcher of Baghdad" was just a very popular butcher shop located somewhere in the capital.

The only other grain of information, which every child was taught in school, was that "the juncture of the Tigris and Euphrates marked the birthplace of civilisation". Thus it's only fitting that the first round of the deciders be played out there. As the tide turns, those opposed to the war have decreased in number dramatically (more than 90 per cent opposed a few weeks back, today the figure hovers around 50 per cent). This was bound to happen as peace protesters never stick to their guns. As this conflict finds a resolution, there's hope that America and the coalition forces concentrate their incredible might not on the obvious targets of Syria and Iran, but on the insidious collection of fringe dwellers and activists sheltering beneath the banner of "animal liberation". (1)

There's no doubting the passion of animal liberationists: when they get their teeth stuck into something, it's hard to pry them loose. We've all seen the images these derisive outfits foist upon us, of monkeys with electrodes wired to their skulls; of the perfume-infused eyeballs of cute creatures bubbling pink with chemicals. In their unfailing support of every living thing but ourselves, they've turned their backs on their own kind and they must be branded and treated as traitors. (2)

Seldom, if ever, do we hear about the positive effects of animal experimentation. We're not speaking here of the extraordinary array of medical and/or scientific benefits, or the financial benefits derived by large cosmetics and pharmaceuticals companies, but benefits to the animals themselves. If you've ever seen a rat toking on a durry after a hard day at the forefront of cancer research, you might think twice about liberating it.

What's so terrible? Bad breath and yellow teeth are nothing new for a rat and surely living in a high-tech lab, with all meals, entertainment and accommodation provided, is the price you pay for a dramatically shortened lifespan.

There are the Brazilian chimpanzees whose work with anti-depressant drugs has been outstanding. Aggressive and unmanageable months before the procedure, these chimps now have a new lease on life.

They attend basket-weaving workshops, do flower-arranging and have a greatly decreased sex drive (which is great news for young families heading off to the zoo).

In Mongolia, dozens of dancin' sunbears have returned home with film crews following their every move, and they've busted some fine ones.

Admittedly, it's been hard for them to adjust. After dining for years on scraps from some of Russia's finest boarding houses, it's difficult to return to the vegetarian dullness of nuts and berries. Yet the ex-ballet bears are savvy with an easy-going manner that endears them to their more earthy "down on the farm" cousins. They carry themselves differently, take pride in their appearance and often wear brightly coloured waistcoats.

They learnt a great deal from observing human behaviour: demurely crossing their legs when seated, leaning forwards in conversation to feign interest in a companion, the sly wink combined with a quick flick of the fur to exhibit sexual interest. As the country bears stand around awkwardly in the bamboo, the city bears move confidently forwards.

One lesson they've learnt since being released by the do-gooders is ladies love a bear who can dance. Music brings them to life. All it takes is a little A-HA or Earth, Wind and Fire and they're up off their haunches. If we give these animals their freedom, we must ensure they don't lose their skills, their Darwinian advantage.

Today, the sunbears are dancing for themselves and that must be truly liberating.

1. As this goes to press, the Americans are looking for Saddam and his sons. They may be dead, they may not, they just can't be found. The ability to lose people is nothing new for this administration. Osama bin Laden, who's become the strange uncle whom no one talks about, is also missing. According to recent reports leaked from the White House, high-ranking officials and intelligence officers in the CIA were called in eight months ago to help President Bush find Wally. In fact, in the past 50 years, the only thing the Yanks have found is the moon, apparently.

2. Regarding the testing of perfumes and shampoos: if we're brutally honest, then stumbling round blind, walking into walls and stinking of perfume is how some of us prefer to spend our weekends. How can we refuse the humble rabbit entry to this wondrous world?

Fat chance of Christ regaining Easter initiative - 23/4/03

Another Easter has passed and left us bobbing in its wake, littered with silver foil egg wrappings and the skin problems we know are coming.

It was a strange Easter because for the first time in living memory I didn't see an image of the crucified Christ. There were bunnies aplenty. There were beaming children engorged on chocolate and current affairs programs dragging out the yearly filler about the merits of the bilby over the traditional pagan rabbit as the true Aussie Easter treat but no sign of the cross apart from on top of the bun (sadly we must wait a long, lonely year until we hear news of how our local entrant fared although it's doubtful whether patriotism will win out over familiarity in the great chocolate wars).

It's this lack of the suffering of Christ, or assorted saints and martyrs, that sets a troubling precedent. The trend in recent years has been to depict a happier Christ but how are good children going to learn suffering from that? It's bad enough that everywhere you look these days you encounter the beatific head of Buddha grinning like a Cheshire cat. It's such a happy engaging face it's hard not to be seduced. Even lined up in the back of the garden centre, ready to become instant religious gnomes, there's something jovially appealing. Juxtaposed against the injustices visited upon Christ, Buddha's having a positive giggle, he certainly seems no stranger to a good time.

As the two iconographic representations of each religion they're incredibly potent symbols, yet they sit (one of them quite contentedly) at opposite ends of the emotional spectrum. So different and so similar; two philosophical gents both gifted with a love for all living things and a strange connection to wood - Buddha came to enlightenment beneath a tree and Jesus was nailed to one. And this is how they come to us, the enlightened one living it up and the holiest of holies giving it up for the whole of humanity (or at least, those who decide to follow him).

The way you as a viewer are affected by these images differs vastly. I know I'm overcome with guilt when I see the crucified Christ, and when I see the bubbling beaming face of Buddha - I become a little bit jealous. Then, of course, as a Catholic I feel guilty that I feel jealous of Buddha. It's a theological vicious circle. I oscillate between these conflicting emotions, in a constant state of transition, which is in keeping with Buddhist beliefs.

I wonder how different we'd be as a religion, as a people, if the tone of our art wasn't so gloomy and sadomasochistic. The sacred heart, the bleeding heart, the stations of the cross, the suicide missions of the faithful attempting to get the gospel to the heathen; all harrowing depictions of suffering.

They're the images we as god-fearing Christians are raised on (and if you think TV is bad for you . . .). There were the saints we kept in postcard perfection pressed against our hearts. Prettily painted pictures of stoned, raped, and decapitated folk of the cloth. Sebastian: a pin cushion of arrows and still strangely at peace - Beatific Horror - Ecstasis at the exact moment of demise. By comparison Buddha is constantly seen having such a lovely time he just might live forever, if the cholesterol doesn't get him. A roly-poly happy chappy, the sort you might find at the local, a convivial companion, a geezer, solid, with a smile that could melt ya heart.

Buddha's not holding anything back - even when he's a crudely painted ceramic figure he's letting it all hang out. He's a positive role model for those of us with poor self image. By comparison Our Lord looks positively emaciated. It would be of benefit to both religions to incorporate some cross fertilising of their visual ideas. Christ looking a bit portly at the last supper, maybe kicking back rubbing his beer gut. Or perhaps, just occasionally, looking a little less earnest, a little less "Son of God", a little more "Son of Man", cracking a few gags with the mates. He'd be up for it, after all he got around in the Middle Eastern equivalent of the thong, how toffy could he be?

It may appear like I'm falling for the allure of a big fat guy and about to dump my hair shirt at Vinnies but I met a Buddhist once and you know what they say about apples. This Buddhist wasn't a Buddhist as you'd imagine. He was from New Zealand, but he said he was a Buddhist and everyone believed him. He seemed to be a Buddhist. He was vegetarian. He lived very simply. He had only a suitcase. He claimed he didn't care for material possessions - and everyone trusted him because he was a Buddhist until someone discovered thousands of dollars missing from an account and the Buddhist had scarpered. That one suitcase came in pretty handy. It wasn't until years later I realised the suitcase wasn't empty at all, it just hadn't reached its full potential. It was a suitcase, like all of us, in a period of transition.

Nose for trouble something not to be sneezed at - 30/4/03

It's only a cough: I've been telling myself the same thing for three days. Or is it five days? The last thing I can remember is drinking, drinking and prancing round in a beer-soaked shirt in the early hours of an overcast morning shouting, "I am invincible".

After that, it's all a nauseating blur of yellowy mucus. It's only a cough, only a cough . . . The words trail off, mingling with Vicks VapoRub.

I've struggled to overcome this illness by steadfastly avoiding medicine both Eastern and Western, and concentrating on repetition and denial. I'm concerned that I've failed. Staring at the mirror, I'm transfixed by a strange, breathless burbling coming from my oesophagus, a sound not of this world.

(Clear air passage, breathe uneasily through one unblocked nostril.)

One thing I know for sure is it's not SARS. There's no way. It couldn't be. It couldn't be SARS.

(Absent-mindedly rub tired eyes with back of VapoRub hand.)

The fear of SARS is running rampant. GOD - my eyes are on fire. They're burning due to a potent combination of menthol and camphor. When I can finally open them again, I note they possess the red-raw emotion of an ageing Paltrow honoured by her peers, but have the depth and dimension of Deputy Dawg on smack.

(Look away to sneeze.)

Tragically, the creature I share this squalid existence with steps into the line of fire. A globular mist settles on the feline monster. My senses tingle and I know not even Spiderman could sling that much web. Every year this happens. I catch the first snot-cab off the rank, but this thing that's crippled me is last year's virus, a biological has-been. It's embarrassing to be brought undone by it.

(Sneeze, wipe down screen.)

Just beneath the throb of my headache a coarsely nasal voice wheezes, "It could be SARS". I think back. I've touched a bacteria-laden elevator button; been downwind of a snuffling, germ-ridden geriatric; witnessed the bubble burst on the drooling nose of an infant. This paper could have contaminated me: the page feels poisonous, the ink infected. The world conspires to increase my paranoia. SARS may not be here, but it's all around. Emails arrive daily from somewhere, someone, an organisation? They arrive from the germ-free pathways of cyberspace to announce, in ever-expanding digits: there are 3000 infected; 4500; 9000. Every newspaper charts the course of the infection as each country falls, leaving us one headline behind the horror. As our closest neighbours struggle to deal with the epidemic I wonder what hope our already embattled medical facilities have. I don't want to cause alarm, but we're not the most scrupulously hygienic nation on earth. I've witnessed horrors on public transport - the wing'd oyster, the undefeated sniffle, the suck back and swallow, the ulcerated open-mouth spray, the discarded hanky. (The more morbid details of these encounters I can make available upon request, they're far too disturbing and visceral for the average reader.)

There's fear within the community that SARS might legitimise Michael Jackson. Already his pioneering work with the face mask has been adopted through much of the infected areas. If medical authorities discover that wearing a single glove can prevent contamination from shared points of contact, he'll become a visionary. If we learn through whatever agency that faux military apparel can limit the spread of the bug, then M.J. will be catapulted to the status of a prophet. We may all be forced to reassess his early work with Bubbles.

(I blow my nose hard. My head, a custard apple of aching bone, collapses on one side.)

SARS is a quantum leap for a virus. You've got to give it to those bacteria: for disorganised cells, they certainly seem to "have it going on". Information to hand suggests they'll just keep getting better at it and they're not going to take a sickie.

(Unconsciously examine contents of hanky.)

With the advent of SARS, the invasion of Iraq appears premature. The powers that be should've waited and unleashed SARS on the unsuspecting regime. That would've messed up the all-powerful moustache, that symbol of totalitarianism.

And how much would it take to make SARS as discriminating as a smart bomb? If the coalition had achieved this, no buildings would have been harmed and the clean-up could have been completed with a few tonnes of home-brand, anti-bacterial, kitchen wipes.

(Sneeze, replace handkerchief with aloe vera-soaked tissues.)

PLAN 1: Increase greenhouse emissions, alter the weather patterns, push for a permanent summer and thus avoid the yearly dilemma of a constantly mutating winter flu.

(Scrap several layers of torn tissue from my sad stubble.)

PLAN 2: For the sake of society, I've quarantined myself and the infernal cat by sealing us up inside a wall. Still damp from this encounter, he maintains a distance in the cramped space. He views me with suspicion, but there's no reason to be concerned: "It's just a cough," he purrs.

***Spoofy's note - I too have this lovely disease we fans call "Comfest flu" and can say I know exactly how he feels...bruised ribs (from coughing), phlegm, etc...its all there, and its not fun!!!

What's in a name? More than a little mischief - 7/5/03

It's neither plague nor war that now draws our attention. As the global clean-up begins, our efforts and concentration are focused on Sydney's Australian Fashion Week.

The nation breathes a heavy sigh of relief. Fashion Week.

One wonders what dramatic statements will be made, which designers will find their way into our wardrobes? Has every overseas model been checked for flu-like symptoms? And how will the shapes of our nation, indeed the shapes of the world, be transformed?

The tragedy of all this fluff and flurry is that most men in this country only ever make one fashion decision - which shirt to wear. Everything else in the wardrobe is interchangeable. The shirt contains the essential ingredients to a man's personality. Whether it's a day on the job or a night on the town, even if both activities involve tiles, a chap's shirt is the only piece of clothing he ever purposefully changes.

When preparing an outfit, regardless of occasion, all male effort and energy is expended in the choice of shirt. It's here a man truly expresses himself - his ideas, attitudes and beliefs (and most T-shirts have words on them, which helps).

As AFW continues to evolve, some fear that designers will push the boundaries of acceptability. It's important to remember we live in a country where, in certain pubs, the mere presence of a collar can incite violence.

I'm mixing and matching here. But rather than seeing it as two separate ideas thrown together, could you see it - just for this week - as a neat fusion of disparate pieces, with an asymmetric approach and a splash of colour that makes it perfect for late summer/early winter?

Has it seemed since the beginning of the conflict with Iraq there are more ads than ever with a war theme? Battalions of chemicals attacking a troubled organ? Strange paramilitary breads? And a trifling amount where things unexpectedly explode on the screen?

Normally you wouldn't think twice about Louie the fly, a fly who can speak and reason, succumbing to a deadly chemical spray, but, after recent events, it makes you wonder.*

One ad depicts a burning man leaving the golden arches totally unperturbed by the fact he's burst into flames. His jacket ablaze, he gulps down a Coke to extinguish the fire.

We must all ponder in this dark, political climate, surrounded by the actions of extremists and images of war, what would a child make of this? When burning people emerge from buildings, should you reach instinctively for the Coke? Now, we're all aware of the healing properties of this marvellous beverage, but that may be pushing it.

Must we read, "Not to be used as a life-saving device" on the side of the can before we stop this madness?

An ad for Smith's Crisps shows a schoolboy eating new, meat-pie-flavoured chips. As he hoes into the first mouthful, a spot of red appears on his white shirt. I thought he'd been shot, another victim of the school-massacre phenomenon. The message: eat the chips or else. Now, toss a little something at the back of the two-piece to complete the ensemble.

My previous column involved a recent illness with flu-like symptoms and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all those who sent in cures for my ailment. However, it's been brought to my attention that many, if not all, of these "gifts" are products from the disgraced company PAN. This "generosity" appears to have an insidious underside, with many hoping to rid themselves of two pills at the same time.

The fall of PAN was a scandal tailor-made for Australians who are clearly at fault for placing their faith in a company named after the Greek god of mischief, the personification of lust, a merry woodsman with the legs of a goat. Alarm bells should've been ringing years ago. Yet the banned product Travacalm (the name says it all) has done me a world of good.

I don't know if you've heard about the side effects of this little gem, but I've seen some amazing things, visited several countries, and not even left the lounge room. Although, when I encountered St John in a bathhouse in Kyoto, attempting vainly to remove a wart from the inside of his eyelid, I knew something was wrong. St John never visited Japan. (I only remembered this because I had some ginko/balboa. Or did I?)

* Does it strike anyone else as odd that the only fly who's survived every Mortein attack is this Superfly, Louie? I'm beginning to suspect this is one insect who's in league with the company.

Take one part rich diva, mix with two parts stud - 14/5/03

Celluloid deities have it all over the plebs when it comes to generating money and goss, but they're useless at the baby thing, explains Paul McDermott.

What is the use of celebrity? It constantly diverts our thoughts from the virtuous to the glib glitz of gossip columns. It drags our eyes from the black and white decency of newsprint to the glossy emptiness of the red carpet. Magazines, radio and television are obsessed by the antics of the attractive. Born gifted, or chiselled by a surgeon's knife, they fill our waking hours and sleepless nights with useless details involving celluloid deities and their sordid lifestyles.

The attention of the world, and most of its wealth, is controlled by a meagre collection of movie actors, singers and models. This elite group, predominantly weak-willed, bone-thin, botoxed, bloated with pomposity and in need of constant adulation, are meant to embody our finest attributes - the paragons of our civilisation. All too often they fall short of these lofty ideals.

The primary problem with the rich and famous is they rarely produce good stock. Successful Hollywood relationships can be counted on one hand (with the exception of J.Lo, whose relationships can be counted on one finger, if she's wearing her wedding rings).

Megastars have shown they're incapable of making decent choices when it comes to a life partner (and when it comes to well-adjusted, happy offspring, they have the success rate of pandas). They'll continue in this fashion - beauty marries beauty, wealth attracts wealth, madness follows - unless something is done. As soon as is legally possible, a breeding program should commence to shape the destiny of the entertainment industry. In the last century, the noble pursuit of perfection was slightly soiled by the Germanic desire to create a super race. As we enter this new age of enlightenment, we must seriously consider the concept of "celebrity eugenics". It's the role of a responsible society to intervene, take control of these careering lives, find complementary partners and harvest the children.

When the two great houses of pop came together, we waited with breathless anticipation. Here was a coupling that promised to produce the greatest performer ever conceived or a fresh-faced, all-natural, bouncing baby Frankenstein. Who knows what we lost when Lisa Marie and Michael Jackson failed to spawn. Their choices affect us. Do we control these loose cannons and soil our hands or merely deal with the confused yield. For instance, the world remains divided over the "Jen and Brad" marriage. For many, Brad has violated public trust by finding succour with a small-screen siren. Will this be a waste of his vital bodily fluids?

Then there's Gwyneth, who post-Brad has been associated with a series of bagmen and panhandlers, and has recently landed Chris (no second name necessary) from Coldplay. The product of this union would naturally have acting and musical skills in the blood, a high forehead and a melancholy falsetto.

But we must move quickly if we hope to see some issue before the ardour cools. Who can guess what may have come from Julia Roberts's brief flirtation with Lyle Lovett? The most pensive and intelligent singer of all time or a tone-deaf chanteuse with the head of a pock-marked carrot? And what of Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones: a transatlantic folly, or can audiences look forward to a third generation of saggy arsed heroes? Winona, still considered good breeding stock despite her recent convictions, must be teamed with someone who will balance her criminal tendencies, like Ronan Keating, the Mother Teresa of rock.

Society is also in desperate need of spiritual leaders. Oprah may have decided to not have children, but it's not her choice to make alone. Should we even contemplate a future devoid of this extraordinary woman's brood? Who'll lift the spirits of our sad children mid-afternoon 2025? It's essential that Oprah bring forth new life, that she and Dr Phil (or maybe Keanu) are locked in a trailer until the deed is done.

Once a breeding program is formulated, there's no end to the possible combinations. Lara Flynn Boyle and Meatloaf (it's a weight thing), Ozzy Osbourne and anything. We could even look at some missed opportunities: Marilyn and JFK, Elvis and Twiggy, or the Beatles and the Banana Splits. And if Jen and Ben fail to seed, we can mate, via the test-tube, Ben and Matt. The only other way to gain access to such a manly combination of genes would be to exhume Rock and grab Gomer.

Care should be taken to avoid the mistakes of the great houses of Europe, where good breeding resulted in a limited gene pool, which, in turn, led to handicaps such as over-sized ears and underachievement. It's only since the royals dipped into a commoner that a good-looking heir was born. Prince Harry is proof of what a good selection process can do. With some well-placed candidates, we could make future generations of Windsors attractive. And that's entertainment.

Stop passing the buck on children's party games - 21/5/03

The escalating cost of playing traditional children's party games is bankrupting society's values.

A terrible trend has emerged from the previously safe world of children's parties. As conscientious citizens, we are forced to confront these issues head on to avert a crisis. Pass the Parcel (PTP) and other staples of birthday entertainment have been updated to suit contemporary tastes and modes of thought. Although the alterations are small, motivated by political correctness and a desire to please all participants, they will cause countless problems in years to come.

The original PTP was a sedate affair, which swiftly descended into chaos. In a misshapen circle of mismatched chairs, a motley collection of the neighbourhood kids began to paw a surprisingly light package. The object of desire lay at the centre of that lumpy ball of finger-staining newsprint.

For some children, it was their first contact with the paper whose primary function, apart from distracting one parent each morning, was wrapping broken and dead things. Here, it played a dramatic new role, hidden beneath the onion skin of words was something truly glorious. For many it'd be the only time in their lives they'd find anything worthwhile inside a newspaper.

The game commenced with a musical cue. Then, child after child gleefully seized the bundle, shredding a layer to instantly expose more paper. The excruciating nothingness would delight. As the ever-diminishing bundle navigated a course through grubby hands and greedy eyes, the pressure mounted. Weaker children would weep. Some were reluctant to relinquish the lump fearing it would not pass their way again. Others, unable to cope, feigned bladder problems taking refuge in the toilet. Tantrums were not uncommon.

Occasionally, a chocolate bar or a red frog would be released, but the tension could only be resolved with that final fateful tear - a tear revealing to the jealous onlookers an inoperable Taiwanese copy of a toy, or an almost life-like, semi-pliable doll.

Generally speaking, all items for PTP were grabbed at the last minute by a frantic mother from the dusty toy rack at the local chemist. The gift's value was always totally disproportionate to the effort of the wrap and the enjoyment of the game.

Now, the simplicity has been soiled, the lessons lost. PTP has become a battlefield of power games, bridled with the casual one-upmanship that only a father can descend to.

At a recent birthday party, every single layer of the parcel held a prize of equal monetary value, destined for a particular child. Gone was the randomness, the battle, the brilliance: gone, too, the warm tears of loss.

At the conclusion of the game, every child was a winner, joyously happy with their preordained prize. What's the use? Where are the highs and lows of life? And the tragedy is, this is not an isolated case.

Another function, for an eight-year-old, clearly demonstrates the escalating madness. The ergonomic parcel was based on the work of Buckminster-Fuller and wrapped in Japanese, hand-made rice papers featuring Frank Lloyd Wright designs.

Each layer was capable of delivering the ultimate payload. Among the gifts: eight-year-old Ballantine's Scotch Whisky, a stainless-steel hunting knife and a collection of erotic, ceramic shot glasses. After a massive strain resulting in a juvenile hernia the "lucky" birthday boy unwrapped a Kia Rio (see Understanding, below).

These wealthy parental do-gooders have missed the point of PTP. The only thing they've unravelled is a centuries-old learning process. Games are essential to our understanding of how the world works. They insinuate themselves on our behaviour, gently transforming us from naive bundles of fat into street-savvy youths. They enable us to handle failure, to cope with loss and, in those rare circumstances when fate smiles, to win with dignity. PTP was never about the prize. It's true worth lay in the unseen gifts of the game:

Persistence: layer beneath layer beneath ...

Faith: there must be something at the end of all these layers;

Tolerance: don't hit the kid next to you because he lacks the physical strength and mental know-how to tear newspaper;

Gratitude: "Thank you, it's a great almost-poseable doll"; and

Understanding: a growing awareness that whoever controls the music system also controls the destiny of the parcel.

The integrity of games has lasted for centuries. To alter them now is courting disaster. Where does the madness end? A pinchata for every child to bash? Do we remove the blindfold in Pin the Tail on the Donkey? Or just have so many asses on the wall it's like a Labor Party leadership challenge?

And where do we stand on musical chairs? If you've as many chairs as children, surely you're in danger of beginning a game that has no end. Where's the excitement without the fear of loss? Where's the tension without the shame of being sidelined while other more "gainly" tykes skip gaily around the remaining furniture?

Our formative years should be more informed so that when we reach the end of our days, shedding the layers of our skin in life's PTP, we'll actually have something to show.