Paul's Sunday Life Articles

Counting Sheep
Speaking in Tongue
Dumbing Up
High Anxiety
Nose Job
Capital Loss
Urban Inquisition
Egg Heads
Petty Considerations
Pearly Rites
Magnum Hopeless
Frankly, the bird's a tart
Animal Acts
The Big Small Issues
Ad Versity
Concerning the Internet
Concerning Bliss

Counting Sheep

On my return to work I decided to clean out my desk. There, stuffed in the drawers, were the collected ravings of '97. Hastily jotted notes, unfinished thoughts and diary entries for things I had forgotten to do.

In the middle of the mess I found a curious pile of hand written papers. I went to throw them out, but the style of writing intrigued me. I had never seen anything like it before. It was almost illegible, completed in a child like scrawl with numerous scribbles.

Small drawings of severed heads filled the margin and, here and there, the ink was smudged from tears. It took me a while to realise I had written it myself.

To help you understand this situation I should give you some background. During 1997 I was copresenting a breakfast radio program; at the time I was rising for work about five in the morning. Due to my other commitments I wasn't arriving home until around seven or eight at night.

This may not have been a bad thing, had I been able to go to bed at that time, but there is something tragic about a grown man going to bed before children and I just couldn't do it. I was surviving on less than four hours sleep a night, which was fine under normal circumstances. The problem arose when I stopped sleeping altogether. When bed was the part of the day when I lay still for a few hours and stared at the ceiling. Around this time I went a little mad. Below is a transcription of the papers I found.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. What's the use of setting the alarm if you're always awake? How many times can you check a watch in a minute?

Sheep. Last night I counted them, thousands of them, jumping over fences. Well, they started jumping, but that was a bit strenuous. Pretty soon they're bumming fags, standing around the fence or hitching lifts out of my dream. After 200 I was very bored with the whole "jumping sheep" concept.

At about 320 they began to lose body parts to the abattoir. By 480 armies of handicapped ghost sheep appeared; by 660 only bloodless limbs and skinned heads were being tossed over the fence. A pile of offal collected at the base of my dream. I am looking forward to "sleep" tonight. Perhaps I will graduate to cows or even humans.

I am not complaining *. I am fully aware that there are those citizens whose burden is greater than mine. This does not, however, prcvent me from dwelling on the injustices I suffer in my own life, one of which is a disturbing bout of insomnia. This has given me the appearance of a derelict a derailed human being, a lifeless Tamagotchi. I have become the social equivalent of Mir malfunctioning, uncaring, self destructive and heading to God knows where.

I have tried a vast number of concoctions designed to knock me out. Helpful hippies from all over the country (mainly Mullumbimby) have sent truckloads of herbal remedies: sickening pot pourri from their bush gardens, evil alchemical recipes of a foul tasting nature. One bag was filled with what I believe was illegal drugs. Do these people think to cure my insomnia I would break the law? I need something synthetic, hardcore, something developed on the banks of the Rhine, something that has millions of dollars and hundreds of hours of research put into it. I need something I can buy in a tamper proof, airtight foil container. Something I can swallow with water. Something from the chemist.

A pharmacist was kind enough to prescribe a legal sedative that doubles as an animal tranquilliser. He claimed just one of these innocent looking capsules could knock over a rhino. I was game and took a couple. By 4 am my entire body was comatose, apart from my eyes, which were wired to the ceiling. Is that the alarm? I didn't set the alarm. Why set the alarm if you're always awake?

* Of course I'm complaining.

Speaking in tongue

A kiss may be just a kiss, but open mouthed, lip smacking canoodling in public ... now that's another story, says Paul McDermott.

There are some days when you wake to find yourself out of step with the rest of the world. When an incident or circumstance places you in opposition to all around you. When you are forced to ask: "Is it me or is the world mad?"

Last Sunday I entered a small, crowded cafe and although it was four in the afternoon, for me, it felt like seven in the morning (something to do with a late night and several missing hours). I needed a pot of tea and some food to rejoin the land of the living. What I craved was something to nourish my flesh; what I got was something that sapped my soul.

A couple were sitting at a table just in front of me and, as I sat down, they started to kiss. They kissed long and they kissed hard and there were tongues involved. This was not an affectionate, dry kiss, this was a loud, wet public display of sexuality. I tried to look away but I felt self-conscious staring at the ceiling. I buried my head in the paper, but my eyes kept getting dragged back to the spectacle before me. The waitress took my order. This was my world too, why should I be embarrassed by their behaviour? Why should I look somewhere else? I couldn't avoid it, I surrendered and decided to stare. By the time my food arrived they had still not come up for air.

They broke their mouth grip and I breathed a sigh of relief. But unexpectedly, something more nauseatingly saccharine than the kiss occurred the meaningful stare. An inch apart, they stared into each other's eyes with a fevered intensity. In this way they avoided the pock marked skin, sagging jowls and greasy hair of their partner and fell headlong into the iris. Their eyes remained locked together, their hands roamed freely, and then they kissed again.

It was like watching a car crash in slow motion: their faces colliding and absorbing the impact of each other, their tongues lolling obscenely out of their heads, their noses twisting and collapsing into their cheeks. This visual aspect was hideous enough but it was the aural dimension that managed to put me off my breakfast. They pulled apart with a slobbering smack, leaving their mouths glistening with saliva. It was an ugly, vulgar sound.

I wasn't the only voyeur, everyone was watching the show. This was their moment, a moment that had lasted over an hour. Another couple moved to a closer table to get a better view.

The nose breathing lovers had put me off my breakfast, but it must have caused a mighty appetite in them because they jumped right into their tucker. This time the entire cafe was relieved, but it didn't last long. Unperturbed by the egg and Kransky sausage half masticated in his mouth, she tore in for another kiss. She slammed her face into his, open mouthed and panting. I'm not sure what she was eating, but after that, he would've had a fair idea. Kissing, chewing, chewing, kissing and now, drinking and kissing.

I was confident my fellow diners would be equally disgusted but the opposite was true. The exhibitionists had a sickening, lovey dovey domino effect on the other patrons. Every other couple (I was the only lone diner) in the place began to coo to each other. It was as if they were given permission to be amorous by the excessive display they'd seen. People were laughing, giggling, stroking each other's thighs. The whole place was canoodling, even the rational waiters and cooks were engaged in a bit of frottage. It was disgusting and I realised I didn't belong there. Maybe there was something in the coffee? Had some pagan deity sprinkled fairy dust in the food? Was I the only Jesuit at a Bacchanalian festival?

I left my untouched breakfast and returned to the safety of my home. This was a day when opinion had turned against me. I had been made all too aware of my solitude, not just within the coffee shop but within the world at large. These two people, who were desperately trying to be one, had left me feeling incredibly divided. I went back to bed. I have no idea if they did.

Dumbing up

How to succeed in life by asserting your ignorance. By Paul McDermott.

n 1928 the New York Times art critic Enrico Raffaele wrote those now immortal words: "I don't know much about art but I know what I like." He wrote them in reference to an exhibition of work by the American Dadaist Bert Lange. In fact, Raffaele did know a great deal about art. He was a poet in the Italian futurist movement, instrumental in the theoretical development of neo plasticism. He contributed to and edited De Stijl, the seminal Bauhaus periodical. Raffaele simply did not want to comprehend the difficult conceptual pieces that Lange presentcd. Why should you see a painting in the context of its time? Why should you seek to understand the social and economic struggles that surrounded its conception or the bloody battle that greeted its birth? The most exhaustive understanding of a work will always be defeated by those inane words. There is no debate: the personal defeats the profound, the pawn takes the king, the mouse scares the elephant. The only true test is the test of time. Bert Lange has faded into obscurity while Raffaele's words live on. I don't know much, but I do know chat.

This phrase has become part of the popular vernacular and I suggest we broaden its application. We must cast the net wider if we want to use our ignorance as a virtue. I know nothing about car maintenance, entomology or plumbing and, yet, I know what I like. Why should we draw the line with art? How many times have you wanted to assert yourself in a field you know nothing about? It could be politics, literature or bread making. How simple it would be, before any discussion, to profess your naivety. You could then proceed with confidence because you've already stated that you have no idea what you're talking about. It is the perfect foil: no one would be prepared for such a brazen display of honesty. The finest writers and speakers never let the facts intrude on their tales, so why should you? So be proud, be vacuous and speak on.

In adopting and modifying this phrase we would not be setting a precedent. The abdication of responsibility or knowledge through a phrase in common usage has happened numerous times. One of the most successful of these was uttered in the film Dangerous Liaisons. It was Valmont's defence, structurally seamless, impossible to confront: "It's beyond my control." After that film no one had any control the man who made the kebabs, the taxi driver, the cinema attendant no one accepted responsibility for anything. But it was the banks and the phone companies who clearly profited from this mentality. Their staff became puppets operated by an unseen and evil force beyond anyone's control. I am positive that one bank issued this sentence as the standard response procedure in dealing with all complaints. (Although is was always prefaced with "I'm sorry sir, but...")

The major weakness with Valmont's defence is that it is often said with a smirk. The roadie, lackey or minion voicing it, aware they're safe in their mental fortress, feel they can afford to be smug. Which, in turn, makes the listener want to visit physical violence upon them, sinking a fist into the soft flesh of their head, insanely screaming: "Is this beyond your control? Is this beyond your control?"

The strength of the phrase lies in the fact that it is difficult to disprove. There is always a superior who governs your actions, someone or something greater and more powerful. So responsibility is guiltlessly abdicated to the next in line who does the same, in all ascending domino effect, until you reach the highest earthly authority who follows suit. You are then forced to arrive at the logical conclusion that God, fate or whatever forces shape the world, are in control. And let's face it, God and fate are often difficult to confront about the incorrect payment of a phone bill or lost cheques.

Both these phrases have enormous practical application. They can be used at the office or home. Always begin with "I don't know much about..." If you ever find you've painted yourself into a corner with your own stupidity, retreat behind the impenetrable wall of "It's beyond my control".

Used in tandem they are an unbeatable combination of dumb and shifty. The sooner we incorporate this terminology into our speech, the sooner we can assert ourselves in situations where we have no pourer. We may be the last to do so, because as far as I can tell everybody else already has.

High anxiety

A painful teenage moment need happen only once, but it can haunt you for a lifetime. By Paul McDermott.

It was one of three old photographs of myself my family had dragged out. Although a number of years separated the pictures, I was wearing the same school uniform in all of them, which gave them an unnerving unity. In the first one I was about eight and was smiling straight into the camera. I looked so happy, I found it hard to recognise myself. The same face beamed from the next photo taken three years later. Then there was the third photograph, the one when I was around 12, the one that instantly made everybody laugh. In between the giggling fits someone managed to spit out: "What on earth happened?"

It was undeniable that something had changed in those few years. It was more than bad lighting and a poor subject, my entire demeanour had altered: my eyes were downcast, the heavy metal spectacles I wore appeared to cut into my nose, my mouth had curled into a sneer, my hair had darkened to a lank mop. I had become "the thing".

As my family pointed and laughed I remembered what it was like to be 13 (because that seemed to happen a lot when I was 13). And I knew something they didn't: the way I look in that photograph is the way I see myself today.

That version of me, the thin lipped myopic monster, the human toad, the creature from the back of the room is the one I cannot erase. It's installed in my visual memory and no amount of "you beaut feel good positivity" can dislodge it. We can spend a lifetime trying to escape those awkward adolescent moments but they lurk in the subconscious until conditions are ripe for them to return.

For me it lifts itself out of my psyche like a teenage Mr Hyde running quietly amok in my life. I'll be at a dinner party and there, sitting in my seat, is that gangly, acne ridden, mouse haired invertebrate. I wonder why the other guests have said nothing. I wonder how long I can get away with it before someone throws me out. I feel like a great pretender waiting nervously to be uncovered. My outward appearance has not changed but inwardly I am 13 again and I find myself picking the scab off an emotional scar. I find I am too frightened to speak, nervous and embarrassed, and any confidence I have has evaporated. I tell myself it doesn't matter what's outside, it's what's inside that counts. And what's inside is a throwback, a mutation, a stunted nondescript. Then, as mysteriously as it appeared, "the thing" has gone.

The only saving grace is I'm not alone. There are some of us out there who have magnified one second of weakness for the duration of our lives: the girl who tucked her skirt into her undies, the boy who wet his pants just before the bell went, the slowest, the shortest. It could relate to a piece of jewellery, a pair of shoes, a shameful incident and it waits to be reborn.

Do people in positions of power confront these demons or are they forced to live with them as well? Does Clinton picture himself as a clumsy, sexually illiterate youth when he speaks to Congress? Does Tony Blair recall miming to Beatles songs with a hairbrush in his bedroom? Do their alter egos ever rise up in moments of crisis and "go the spoil"? Is there any way of overcoming this stumbling block?

I tried for a while to replace the negative image with a positive one but nothing worked. I looked for things I could be proud of, I searched for any triumph or success, perhaps if I had won something, achieved something. It was a useless exercise nothing I compared it to had the same power. I had to concede the weakness was victorious.

I can see the boundaries of my life, my limitations, the structures that enclose and surround me as clearly as the border of that photograph. As my mother slipped the photo into a frame and placed it on her sideboard, I couldn't help but feel he had won again. Even as I write he has been here. Crouching at my shoulder, whispering in my ear, grateful that I have given him shape.

Nose job

So a sneeze is the closest thing to an orgasm? That's cold comfort to a flu stricken Paul McDermott.

Sick, sick, sick. 'Tis the season for sickness, the season between seasons when sickness comes a'knocking. This is the time of year you're most susceptible, the time you're weakest. A flu will strike now, before your body is accustomed to winter. While you still brave autumnal days in a singlet, still dress in your flimsy summer wardrobe, sickness will give you a head high tackle, stuff your nose, choke your throat and pop your eyes out on to your cheeks. Flu has never seemed a substantial enough word to me. Malignant tumour, cardiovascular meltdown, pulmonary failure: these are terms that have a certain weight and power. The flu sounds so depressingly domestic, so anaemic in comparison. It may be a point of pride, but there is nothing common about my colds. They are strikingly individual in the amount of suffering they can extract from me.

My head aches, my back aches, my muscles ache. It all aches. I have a dry throat, not only dry but rasping. Then again, it's not so much a rasp, as a tickle. And not tickling so much, as four bovver boys with steel capped toes stomping on my windpipe with each breach.

I can't sit still. This bout of the flu is the perfect opportunity to relax, but I feel there is something I must do. I yearn to be the sort of person who, when sentenced to the sick bed, gladly takes their punishment. The sort of person who makes a sanctuary between the sheets: fluffing up the pillows, drawing the doona around them, reading, watching Kerri Anne or doing the crosswords. The victim who's content in their haven, as a healthy lackey brings them another steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup.

When you find them cocooned in their illness, they look happier and fitter than you. Surrounded by magazines, with half drunk cups of tea and discarded pieces of toast, they're the masters of all they survey. The curtains are drawn and there is the odour of sickness. I would love to lie in bed for weeks on end; happily rearranging my bedsores. Just to have a sense of fulfilment at the end of the day. "Yesterday that boil was on my upper thigh, look at it now, Ma, look at it now!"

Fluids and semi solids have two speeds leaving my nostrils: the 167kmh double barrel shotgun of phlegm and the continual trickle. The trickle is more frustrating than any dripping tap. I need a little washer made of cartilege placed at the base of the frontal lobe.

But the trickle is nothing compared to the sneeze. The sneeze is the ultimate destroyer. The thing that annoys me most about the sneeze is not the physical demands it makes on the body, it's the compulsion of someone to mention its similarity to the orgasm. When I first heard this cliche at the age of 12, I prayed it wasn't true. How could the mystery of life, the petite mort, be the equivalent of a lung oyster splattered out of your nasal passage? It created in my mind a very clumsy notion of copulation.

Yet every rime I'm in the grip of some frightening paroxysm, some idiot chimes in with "sneeze - closest thing to an orgasm". Now, I'm not judging their orgasms, but mine bear no similarity to a sneeze. Where is the overwhelming sense of failure? Where is the feeling of immense shame? Where is the wonderful loss of dignity with the sneeze?

When I began writing about this illness, I thought, because I was so well acquainted with it, I would spit it out in one swift, cathartic movement. It would burst from my body, a fine spray of ideas, soaking into the paper, spreading out into the community: It was my way of sharing my flu with everyone, and in a way I believed writing about it would cure me. Three days later, I have discovered it has oozed out upon the page as a continuous draining trickle.

So here I sit: my eyes are sore, my body is tired, my brain is numb and yet the strangest aspect is, in writing this, I have also lost my voice.

Capital Loss

You need to look carefully to find the heart of Canberra, says Paul McDermott. Just don't look up.

I recently visited Canberra and I recalled an incident that occurred when I lived there. It was something that made me realise that to find what you want, you have to know what you're looking for. I once lived in a government bedsit on the main road into the city Northbourne Avenue. This primary road carried humanity, essential goods and livestock to feed the ever expanding and insatiable community. (To be honest, most of the time there was nothing much on that road, with two exceptions: the ambulance that regularly passed by between three and six in the morning and always woke me up, and the summer Nats.)

At Nats time the entire strip became crowded with every type of car and every type of facial hair known to man. The Nats were a male thing, although seldom a lone male thing: the men tended to travel in packs or in smaller groups with their offspring. Families pushing strollers drank down sweet exhaust fumes from cars that were inspired by Big Daddy Roth cartoons.

The story I am about to tell you happened in early spring, on a Sunday, many years ago. I was enjoying the 20 minute stroll from my squalid flat into town. It was a beautiful day, a typical Canberra spring day. There was nothing that could have shattered the serenity of that day.

A car pulled up beside me. An American voice beckoned me to the vehicle. Four travellers with a love of Australia had taken the journey overland to the ACT Three to four hours' driving through the bush may not seem like much to us, but to a group of Americans fresh out of New York, it was exhausting. Their only desire was to see the city and find some accommodation.

My heart surged with pride: here was my chance to give back a little something to the capital. I felt honoured to tell these people where to go.

"So where's the centre of town?"

"Straight ahead, you can't miss it, about three or four minutes in the car, mate."

"Thanks, buddy"

Two hours later I was returning home on the other side of the same stretch of road, when a car pulled up next to me. It was the same hire car that had stopped me before. I had this curious sense of deja vu when I heard: "Hey, buddy, where's the centre of town? ... Hey, aren't you the same ...?"

"Yes. Didn't you find it?"

"We've been driving for two and a half hours." (They looked drawn, worn out and genuinely dizzy from the roundabouts.)

"Where have you been?"

"We went to somewhere called `Wooden'."

"Woden."

"Whatever. We did what you said, we drove for about five minutes and we didn't see any tall buildings, so we kept going. Twenty minutes later Wooden."

You won't find the centre of Canberra if you're looking for tall buildings. (I explained to them the centre of town was just a set of two storey high arcades and a bus depot.) They'd missed the heart of our capital, not once but twice. They'd missed the eloquent designs of W .B. Griffin, the seat of power, the burgeoning porn industry and Bunda Street, where the junkies hang. When they set off for the third time, they were sincerely depressed. I have no idea if they found it, all I know is I never saw them again. They may still be there, endlessly looping around Northbourne Avenue like a malfunctioning satellite.

Canberra is often accused of having no heart. I have never believed this to be true; it may have a weak pulse, but it's there. In a place that's a mass of contradictions, perhaps we just need a few more signs, and people from out of town should definitely buy a map. But the best preparation of all is knowing what you'll find when you get there, so if you ever go searching for the heart of Canberra, make sure you don't nave New York in your mind's eye.

Urban inquisition

Paul McDermott discovers potholes are not the only obstacles on the streets of Sydney.

Why me? Out of a street load of potential failures, why do they always pounce on me? What am I doing that attracts their attention? Is it something in my manner? Am I the only member of the herd with a limp? Is there blood on my flank? I'm a magnet for anyone with a clipboard and a questionnaire. They'll cross the street to stop me. "Hello sir, would you like answer a few questions?"

This exchange must happen to everyone, but it seems to happen a lot more to me. It always occurs on a busy street corner when I'm trying to get somewhere in a hurry. An earnest stranger, with the conviction of the converted, blocks my way. "Just a few questions, it won't take a second." A multiple choice minefield to prove, scientifically, that I'm an abject failure. It only takes a few minutes and in those few minutes I'm transformed from a retiring, yet confident, individual into a self centred egomaniac out of touch with reality. I don't feel any different, but my new friend assures me it's all there in the way I've answered the questions. The form confirms it, my life's a crock. "It's that bad, huh? What can I do?"

Fear not, hope is at hand. I can reach my full potential become a better person, find untold wealth, be attractive to the opposite sex and live forever if I answer a few more questions. All I have to do is follow the Street Interrogator (SI) up the stairs and into a grey office. It's of concern that the good folk asking the questions always seem more in need of guidance than anyone they stop. If this person has found their "full potential" why isn't there any physical evidence? Why are they dribbling out of both sides of their mouths at once? And if this is an improvement, what were they like before? It's wrong to judge a book by its cover but these are people we're talking about. Grey gabardine shorts, white socks pulled up to his knees, greasy hair plastered flat on one side of his balding pate: and he's asking me if I need help? What about the gibbering 18 year old recruit fresh from Stupidville, telling you they can assist you? The only way they could assist is if they were asking: "D'ya want fries with that?" And yet, you stand there in the middle of a busy street while they tell you what a mess you've made of your life. There is a way you can take your revenge. Lure the SI towards you. You accomplish this in one of three methods: 1) The limping seagull method; 2) The uncontrolled emotions method; 3) The heaps of stinking cash sticking out of your pocket method.

Your mission is to get asked to do the big test. I have always found it's best to take a surreal approach when the big test is in front of you. Circle at least two answers for every multiple choice, swap the test with your friends, leave entire sections out or ask if you can finish it at home in your own time. If a moral dilemma has an obvious answer, find the most grotesque response and circle that.

For instance, if the question is: a young,; attractive family of four are involved in a highspeed collision with a tree. Their expensive car is about to burst into flames. Do you:

a) Immediately ring the police and ambulance service;
b) Without thinking of your own safety rush into the burning wreck and save their lives;
c) Wait for the fire to die down, get rid of the bodies, and sell the car for scrap?

I would mark "c" (with the proviso that you would also flog their still-smouldering body-parts in the overseas organ market). You would be surprised how highly you can score as a motivated personality by this method. I may sound sceptical about the methods employed by the SI, but there are some undeniable truths. Their carefully designed forms do help you uncover aspects of your personality. For instance if you walk up the stairs, you've discovered you're Gullible. If you sign away your earthly belongings for a "seminar" you've discovered you're Stupid. How much else you learn on the streets of Sydney is up to you.

Egg heads

Paul McDermott lets his inner child run riot at Easter time.

A long time ago I stayed with a friend from school over the Easter weekend. His parents were ferret faced university lecturers. Rallying against the commercialisation of Easter, they hatched a unique plan.

They sent four children into the yard without having hidden a single egg. We entered the garden full of hope at 11 o'clock in the morning: it was six before the flyscreen door opened again. We were allowed back in the house, our bodies and clothes stained, our anguished faces streaked with tears. My friend's parents smiled and asked us what we had found. We held open our empty hands, they embraced us and said, "You don't always find what you're looking for." Then they added, "You'll never forget this Easter." And the strange thing is, I never have.

It was a lesson in life that made me obsessed with the true meaning of Easter. the egg hunt. Where no quarter is given and none taken. Where cheating by peeping out a window was mandatory. In the egg hunt there will always be winners and losers. Here was a game containing such power it was almost pagan. I would have dragged my bum along a razor wire fence if there was an egg waiting for me at the end of it. Sharing the booty was frowned upon what you found you had to consume. You became hunter, gatherer, eater: an unholy union of base appetites.

In the pitch of the hunt, nothing was beyond the realms of reason. Even though we knew our parents would never place eggs anywhere that put us in peril, we checked every possibility. We would blindly stick our hands into stacks of ceramic pots, knowing they housed a family of redbacks. We would crawl our on the branch of the old gum knowing it was dangerously close to frayed electrical wires. We would check in the neighbour's yard, aware of his short sightedness and love of antique guns. (He had once shot the cat with a wax bullet, mistaking it for a rabbit. If we were holding eggs in the middle of his yard, we could easily be mistaken for rabbits as well.)

When you had the prize, you could tell how much your parents loved you. In the family it was one thing: they could try to be impartial, but in the schoolyard it was another. The true test came when you described the type of egg (or eggs) you received the next day at school.

You endured an intensive study concerning the nature of the chocolate: if the gift included any other other kind of confectionery, the design and style of the packaging and approximate price. Standing alone on the handball courts with your pathetic paper train of caged chocolate eggs, you realised the sad truth was your parents didn't love you.

The tragedy for me is, as an adult, I have not managed to rid myself of the thirst for the hunt. This is the reason I have become unpopular at Easter gatherings. I confess I've pushed young children out of the way to get to the letter box first. I locked an astute child in a cupboard to keep him out of the running. I am the Philby Burgess and Maclean of the quest: I have pretended to be an adult, helped hide the eggs and then swapped sides and joined the kids. Last Easter I crawled along a ledge in an apartment block five storeys above the ground just to get to an egg I had placed there.

My saving grace is that I am not a hoarder. The hoarder is an evil child. Months after Easter the hoarder will still proudly display their stash This child will walk around untouched by the Bacchanalian excesses of the chocolate frenzy. The days of pain that traditionally follow Easter will not affect them.

Now let us spare a thought for the eggs we never found. The ones who never returned. They're still out there. Thirty went out and only 28 made it home. Tucked away under the blades of the Victor two stroke, shoved down the side of the compost bin or in the back of an unused tool kit. They're out there somewhere, in every backyard across this nation - the eggs that never came back.

Petty considerations

Who shall inherit the earth? Not the meek, says Paul McDermott.

The meek shall inherit the earth." This is a mistake, not on the part of the speaker, but on the part of the all cool human translators. The original error was made in the translation from Hebrew into Greek and further compounded by an error in the translation of Greek into Latin.

From then on, who knows what happened? I have no facts to back me up on this and I certainly have not engaged in any research on the matter. It's a gut feeling and thus very difficult to refute in academic terms. It is my assumption that the correct translation of the phrase should be: "The petty will inherit the earth," primarily because it makes sense.

The petty deserve the earth, and besides, where else could we go? The residents of Heaven would hardly be interested in us constantly bitchin' `bout the place. We shouldn't go to Hell because, unless the Church's stance has changed, I don't think pettiness is mortal sin. Ergo we get the earth.

There has been a great deal of mail generated by last week's column concerning my pettiness. Many readers believed they had a similar gift for intolerance, a few were appalled and others wished to learn more. The question that arose more than any other was: how can I become more petty?

For those inquiring minds I have attempted to deconstruct my own pettiness, but let me say this: the truly petty are born, not made. I am a complainer. Even when there is nothing to complain about, I complain. It's the only way I know how to make a conversation.

Some of you may aspire to depths of pettiness that are beyond you. You may be too good natured, annoyingly positive, cringingly sentimental or have faith in humanity With time these qualities under a patient, watchful eye can be ironed out anti may disappear completely. The more you make others suffer, the greater your feeling of accomplishment. Hence the phrase "No pain - no gain."

Before long you should start feeling the benefit of this regimen and join the ranks of the consciously petty. Never let a moment pass you by you have a right to comment on anything. Never forget, it's your planet too (and with time it will be all yours).

Attitude, repetition, suspicion, expectation. By following these four simple steps, you can become very petty in a short time. If you don't see immediate results, just try harder.

Attitude: This is a term you should hear often and employ yourself wherever possible. It is normally preceded by the words "I don't like your..." or "It is a question of your..." It will enable you to nearly side step questions by deflecting attention to your accuser. If anyone has the audacity to query the extent of your pain, the validity of a story, is indifferent or suggests you're exaggerating question their attitude. Never forget: there is only one way to view a situation and it's yours.

Repetition: Repetition is a major weapon in the arsenal of the petty. When properly applied it will wear your opponent down. Repeat, repeat, repeat, go on and on and on, labour your point and when you stop - continue. When repetition is combined with lethal amounts of bitterness you have a dynamic combination.

Suspicion: The petty person thrives on the misfortunes of others. To capitalise on an error you must be aware of it; therefore, always be on the look out for mistakes. Watch your acquaintances continually, make them nervous, be suspicious of their actions, thoughts and motivations. Let them know you are watching them. This will make them more nervous and more capable of failure.

Expectation: I have saved the best for last. Expectation is the greatest tool available to you. Optimism guarantees misery and false hope produces the perfect situation for a petty outburst. Push the level of expectation up very high and you have nowhere to go but down. Regardless of the situation, always expect too much from it.

Every day, more disenfranchised people join the ranks of the petty. There are millions of us and we are the true democrats. The petty do not recognise race, colour, religion, disability or sexual preference ... to us, anyone is fair game.

Remember, the only person in the world who is truly disadvantaged is you. So it seems only fair that you and the rest of us get this spinning ball of mud. If I'm wrong and we don't get the world, we'll make it hell for them in heaven, just like we made it hell for them on earth. The truly petty can make a mountain out of thin air. Now that's a miracle.

Pearly rites

Toothbrushes, once thought to be good only for cleaning teeth, are really a sign of democracy in (circular) motion. By Paul McDermott.

I have been brushing my teeth all my life. Every morning and night I enact this ritual that begins and then ends each day. Over this time I have witnessed the evolution of the toothbrush and waited on each new development with bated breath. I can remember when you polished your baby pegs with sandpaper and emery board, your gums bleeding so profusely they stained your teeth crimson. The days when you flossed your teeth with a toilet brush covered with caustic soda. The days you flossed with razor wire and rinsed with unchlorinated water. Happy days, yes, but those days are gone.

Thankfully, every few months for as far back as I can recall, there has been amazing progress in dental hygiene, particularly regarding the toothbrush. This is the result of countless hours of careful research and not token changes meant to inspire a flagging market. In tandem with these advancements for the brush have been marvellous changes in the paste as well. Fluoride, calcium, tri colour gels, glitter, minty flavours, peroxide and baking soda, but it is the toothbrush that continues to impress me with its unceasing transformation.

You'd think with these continual changes the humble toothbrush would be the most exceptional piece of bathroom hardware, yet it has remained essentially the same. A solid piece of plastic measuring 18 - 20cm in length (roughly the distance from the index finger to the wrist) with a collection of scrubbing bristles at one end. It is in the minute detail that the brush has undergone dramatic modification. The array and choice of the modem brush is a testament to our free society. It means no one need go unbrushed: regardless of your dental state there will be something to suit you.

The antiquated and cumbersome rectangular head that ruthlessly tore your gums has been replaced by a streamlined diamond head. If the diamond head fails to satisfy there's the advanced rounded head or any number of geometric shapes you can stick in your mouth. Angled, tapered, compacted with an articulated neck, this implement (nothing more than a stick with hair) defines the need for design.

Toothbrushes are no longer slippery lumps of 4/2 that fly out of your hand at a moment's notice. These days they have rubber pads for greater control and thumb grips for assured manoeuvrability. Never before has a toothbrush felt so comfortable in the hand or flown so effortlessly over our teeth, never before has it felt so natural in your cakehole.

Then there's the bristles (what a limited word for the modern wonder of these dental excavators). The bristles of today are longer than ever before, enabling them to reach further, push deeper. Why didn't someone think of this earlier? They're rippled for maximum plaque removal, polished with rounded ends to prevent irritation and in the past few weeks they have become micro textured. I pity the generations that have passed away never knowing the joy of the indicator brush. A brush that gives you a visual sign it needs to be replaced. No longer do you have to peer at the frayed head, wondering whether it's time for a new brush. Now a fading blue line alerts you before you have time for concern. How stupid we were using shabby and worn brushes that were ineffective and perhaps dangerous. With the indicator brush, a look at the bristles is all it takes.

Forgive me, for all those extraordinary advances, I can't feel the difference. How can something in a state of constant change look exactly the same? And how much further has the toothbrush got to go? When will the designers and the builders say "This is it, the pinnacle of oral hygiene?" I fear the toothbrush of today will be nothing in comparison with the toothbrush of tomorrow. And yet, as long as the toothbrush continues to evolve, we can safely say "We live in the free world!"

Magnum hopeless

if you think you've found your inner novel, please press the delete button, implores Paul McDermott.

A number of people survive in this world under the misguided belief that they have a book in them. Don't take me literally; 400 pages of 12pt Helvetica isn't clogging their spleen. They don't have a bestselling hardback jammed under their rib cages, pressing against their bladders.

It's stored in their heads, hidden in their memories. Resting there is a grand love affair, a little death, joy, sorrow, success and failure - all waiting to be brought back to life, reborn on the. page. If we could flesh out our memory, then we would have a definitive tome, a master work that would justify our life, excuse our existence or just sell well. This novel idea has been around for centuries and I am here to tell you it just isn't true. Most of our lives are a waste, why make them a waste of paper too?

To be completely honest, most of us don't even have a novella inside us, much less a novel. Some might have good copy for an ad, a select few the operating manual for a Camira or an episode of Seinfeld, but the great novel will definitely elude most of us. Why is it a book? Why literature? Why can't we all have one fully realised all dancing, all-singing musical? And why limit this thing to the arts? Perhaps some of us out there have one great moment of plumbing. One great chest of drawers. One great septic system.

We first hear this lie from the over eager lips of the English teacher. I cannot recall a maths teacher telling us we all had a unique logarithmic progression struggling to get out, or a science teacher telling us we all possessed the formula for carbon. I was informed of this universal potential in pre school; what novel did any of us have then? Even now the best I could manage would be a poorly illustrated pop up book. I once tried to put my story into words but discovered it was a dull read; even for me. I can't imagine what someone else would make of it less interesting than a shopping list and longer than the Yellow Pages.

Some people do have lives worth recording, but I'm stunned that every Australian sporting hero has found a literary voice. I know I will not be popular for saying this, but I don't care - I have never read a sporting autobiography and never will. Apart from lacing their boots or polishing the ball what can an Australian sporting hero tell us about the nature of man?* That he bites in the scrum? He stares in the shower? God was not a team player?

There is another tragic aspect for those who find the "great novel" inside themselves. Those who spend years spinning gold from the lead of your lives, those who toil over manuscripts and eat, sleep and breathe themselves. A day will come when you've examined and cross examined your life, when you've run the spell check and word count over it, when you've dotted the i's and crossed the t's. That will be the day when you stand, mentally naked, with 300 pages of typed A4 and ask: "What d'ya think?"

You'll suffer the indignity of getting your life rejected by countless publishers. Receiving your life back in the mail accompanied by a letter. "Sorry Sir/Madam, we find we are unable ..."

Alternatively your life may return one day, accepted in exchange for a paltry advance. It may be transformed into a limited edition run on poor quality paper for the Christmas market. But before this can happen your life will be edited by an independent hand. A hand that finds '76 to '85 a dull period and cuts that bit out. Or, they suggest your great novel should be 160 pages shorter.

Thankfully most of us will never write a book. We can console ourselves that we are common people and that we have one thing in common: we'll all make it to print at least twice in our lives. It won't be in a fancy book: it'll be in the local newspaper. There'll be one entry for the staff of our lives and one for the end.

* I have chosen the "nature of man" here, rather than "human nature", due to the dominance in Australian sport of the male. 1

Frankly, the bird's a tart

Paul McDermott has nothing but disdain for the once proud ibis.

White feathers brown grey from the muck and grime of the city. A tiny blackened head foraging for scraps. Its elegant beak pinpointing morsels that shorter beaked birds cannot reach. It is a superior animal in every respect and it is rewarded for this evolutionary gift with a half eaten egg and bacon sandwich still wrapped in plastic.

Several readers know of my loathing for the cockroach; few are aware of my deep and uncontrollable hatred of the ibis. Hatred fuelled by sadness. How could this bird have fallen so far?

The ibis, treasured bird of ancient Egypt, who possessed a special relationship with the gods. The ibis, who inspired the Greek poets Ovid and Callimachus. The ibis, Colleridge's second choice for the albatross, and friend of the phoenix. This once magical bird has fallen further and harder than any other.

Maybe it happened when the ibis swapped the banks of the Nile for the sewage outlets of Bondi. Perhaps when it left the Tigris and Euphrates, the home of civilisation, and settled for the comer of Victoria and Darlinghurst Streets, the home of the cappuccino.

One thing is true. The proud bird that left the drifting sands of the mystic East is not the same one that arrived penniless in the Antipodes. The ibis has become a vagrant, a hobo, a bum. The only difference is the ibis doesn't have a shopping cart to push around.

If you get close enough to one to smell its breath, it even reeks of turps. Somehow the ibis has become the Robert Downey Jnr. of the heron family. A gifted creature with an assured future, who now stalks the back streets covered in crap. A shadow of its former self, desperately in need of rehab - Robert, not the ibis.

My eyes first alighted on the bird in a book on Tutankhamen. I was trying to complete a school assignment on interbreeding, false gods, water on the brain and pyramids - when there stood the ibis.

A divine creature with a swan like neck and stark white feathers. Its noble profile carved by long dead artisans into stone. A bird with a living body and a tiny mummified head. The more I looked, the more the ibis stared back at me from the pages of history.

Its sacred image shaped with lapis lazuli, pressed into metal, etched into the walls of Cheops. Those papyrus readers loved that bird. In this old world the ibis knew Osiris and Horace, the gods of ancient Egypt, and roamed free in the gardens of Rameses and Cleopatra. You can tell a lot about a bird by the company it keeps.

These days the ibis is most often seen in the company of pigeons (the rats of the air) and seagulls (the pigeons of the sea). I have no idea what goes on in the mind of the ibis; it may think the other birds look up to it. It's like the big dumb kid at school who hit puberty first, the kid you send in to get the fags and booze.

The truth is that the only reason those mongrels hang around is to feed on the scraps the ibis drops. These scavengers are using the ibis, and the dwarf stork is too stupid to figure it out. So there it stands, a moronic featherhead Fagin surrounded by an assortment of winged rats and sea birds. And thereby hangs a tale . . . .

A tiger, a fox and an ibis met one night in the jungle. The tiger said, "I have these stripes to conceal me in the forest." The fox said, "I have these eyes to help me see at night." The ibis said, "I have this really long beak to get to all that good stuff at the bottom of the bin."

What a gift. What immortal hand or eye framed that one? Here's a long bill used for probing mud for soft molluscs or for hunting through garbage to find a mouldy felafel fused to cigarette butts and lemonade. And here are some long legs to help you wade through water or give you a height advantage when you're raiding the bins.

And so ends a moral story: the ibis is the ugly duckling who grew up to discover it was just a duck, and an ugly duck at that. Where the phoenix rose from the ashes, the ibis rolls around in them, which serves to remind us of the price you pay when you fall from the heavens.

Animal Acts

Judging by the demands being made on him, man's best friend should have his contract rewritten, says Paul McDermott.

"Ain is man's best friend." In the earliest transaction between humanity and an animal, dogs agreed to be loyal, subservient companions in exchange for warmth, shelter and food. Part of this agreement meant they would be called upon to perform unpleasant tasks. The most unpleasant and degrading of these would be to appear in commercials.

The world of advertising has entered a new phase, with an alarming increase in the number of animal oriented ads. There have always been the Shirley Temple quadrupeds: "trained" animals bred to perform. Dogs and cats with shiny coats, good teeth and a carefree attitude to life. The kind of animals that, if they were human, would be in Coca Cola ads. At least these creatures advertise products that have some impact on their lives: like chowing down on liver or begging to be wormed.

But these days all kinds of exotic mammals are working their arses off selling everything from cars to chocolate bars. We have polar bears swigging rum and acting like Westies, para gliding three toed sloths and camels who get off on funk and afros.

There are many reasons for the popularity of animals: they're cute, cuddly and tell the truth, as opposed to human beings, who are all liars. A panda would never mislead you about the interior comfort of a car, an elephant wouldn't swim for a drink unless it tasted great, and we all accept the fact that polar bears are party animals who dig foxy ladies, bad jazz and getting pissed. I cannot deny the honesty or popularity of animals, but I am concerned about the psychological strain a workload places on a creature of leisure - it could be the straw that breaks its back.

There are safeguards ensuring animals in ads are not physically mistreated, but what of their mental state? They're well fed and pampered now, but there may come a day when they're not needed anymore. What happens when the Daewoo dog has finished its hectic schedule of script reading, shooting, performing and mall appearances? What then? What happens if a young pup comes along with more talent? After years of being the top dog in sales, will he be happy to be put out to pasture like some stud bull? After the limousines, the late nights, the whining and dining, where does the Daewoo dog go? Will Peter Luck scout around dumps in search of our "Littlest Hobo" for Where Are They Now? Will he appear bloated or corpse like on Oprah? (The Daewoo dog, not Peter Luck.) Will he end up as maggot food and mulch like Skippy, Gentle Ben, Flipper, Rin Tin Tin, Lassie and all the others?

We have all seen the terrible effect that fame and fortune can have on people. Just look at Shirley MacLaine and Marlon Brando. Will our Daewoo dog swell up to the size of a Zeppelin, lose loved ones in a bizarre murder triangle and write best selling books about self realisation and reincarnation?

In the fast livin', easy sex, hard drugs and "dog eat dog" world of advertising, any creature could lose its innocence, despite a wilgness to be exploited. Animals will continue to be used in advertising because they're cheaper than child labour, most of them work for peanuts, and they have no conscience. This final factor is most important: it means animals will sell anything, even if they don't believe in it.

This is one issue that has got my goat and where we have to take the bull by the horns and enter the lion's den. It's not too late, the horse hasn't bolted, and if we're eager beavers we won't end up flogging a dead one. We have to go cold turkey on the whole animals in ads thing. Animals are sitting ducks for unscrupulous merchants, and if we don't take care of them they'll all be as dead as dodos. So tomorrow, if it ever comes, I'm off to see a man about a dog. We have reduced their numbers, destroyed their habitats and now we force this final indignity upon them. How long will it be before that bear in the woods is using Sorbent?

The big small issues

Paul McDermott asks the question: "Who's a petty boy, then?"

I believe the most trivial concerns are worth voicing and worth voicing loudly. Where others recall moments of splendour in their lives, I focus entirely on insignificant events. Insignificant events that have left indelible emotional scars on me. It is not that I have never experienced great events, I just can't remember them with any clarity. Momentous_ Dew!ms have a hazy dream like quality, while the trifling ones have the power and presence of a hardhitting documentary. Even world events pale into insignificance beside day to day misdemeanours.

In the past few weeks, I have become obsessed by the petty nature of my nature which in itself is fairly petty. I was aware of this aspect of my personality but recently it has been brought to my attention over and over again. Friends and relatives have been appalled by my need to express my annoyance with anyone and anything.

My ability to object, for five hours straight, about being served a tepid cup of tea disgusted them. My complaints about lazy staff at leading retail outlets or my rage concerning someone who "understood my silence" infuriated them.

From my point of view, these events were valid topics for discussion. But my acquaintances claimed I laboured the point, embellished or extrapolated the truth, and had the effrontery to suggest I was repeating myself. These friends listed various social crimes I was guilty of, while I sat and made comprehensive mental notes about who said what.

I remember the day John Lennon was shot, not because Lennon was shot, but because a woman pushed in front of me at a bakery and took the last sausage roll.

When Mandela was released I realised the song Free Nelson Mandda would lose much of its anthemic qualities. If it were played it wouldn't prompt the same feelings. I heard the band had to drop it from their live set and I thought that was unfair because the song had another year in it even if Nelson didn't. Some people only ever think of themselves.

When Princess Diana died I had to pay late fees for overdue videos. The thing was, I didn't watch them because of Di. It wasn't my fault, how could you not watch a world altering event like that? I sat glued to the TV. Seven days later, when I left the couch in tears and took the videos back, they charged me $14. All I could say was, "how can you live with yourselves? The Princess is dead".

When I told my friends, they were stunned that the loss of a few dollars meant more to me than the loss of the Princess. They weren't concerned with my missing money or Diana, they were troubled by my attitude. They displayed an unhealthy interest in the shallowness of my character.

And yet, in recording and judging my pettiness, they were as small minded as I. They were shocked by this allegation but accepted it. forgave my temperament, telling me it was an all too human failing.

Then I proved they were right about my pettiness by refusing to accept their apology, and they proved I was right by deciding never to speak to me again. It worked out well for everyone involved and no one had to compromise their nature.

I ordered a pot of Irish breakfast tea. I reordered twice. I received a cold Earl Grey with the tide out. It was in a mug, not a pot, not a cup - but a mug. I then paid $4 for the privilege and was questioned as to why I didn't leave a tip.

OK, tell me, is this unreasonable? Five customers waiting for service: of the three staff members, two are engaged in a conversation about "Troy" - what an "unqualified spunk" he is - while the senior stiff member is organising her "big birthday bash". I mean, it's not like anyone else has a life to get back to. That's how I want to spend 20 minutes every Saturday morning.

It is one of life's mysteries how total strangers can be so perceptive on a first meeting. How intuitive to realise I was frowning because I was sad, not merely bored out of my skull. How enlightened to continue chatting to me about the wonders of life, when all I wanted to do was rip off their scalp.

How do they gee away with charging daily fees on weekly films? Who else would ever borrow The Omega Man and/or Soylent Green? No one, that's why these films are one dollar a week. But you bring them back seven days late and you're up for seven dollars a video - 14 bucks. It's not like anyone else would ever want to see those films.

Ad versity

Some actors will do anything to claw their way to the top, writes Paul McDermott.

Poisonous, venomous and ugly creatures that regularly eat children tend not to feature in ads. You may as well hire an actor. Which brings us to the second aspect of animals in ads (see last week's column): some of them are not animals at all. Some of the animals, noticeably the tapdancing' ones or the ones with a rudimentary grasp of English, are, in fact, human performers.

Due to the immense popularity of animals in film and TV, there is a hole in the market that must be filled from somewhere. Young, vibrant performers, many from our finest acting colleges, are sucked into this strange world and their dreams of playing Hamlet are lost forever. Confined to the back end of a dancing cow or the animatronic skull of a dog, they become cynical and bitter. For these young people, "playing the Dane" has a completely different meaning.

Sadly, more and more performers are being called upon to play animals. Not just in Berkoff plays, but in shopping malls as tigers or Easter bunnies. Most of us cannot imagine what it's like to be trapped inside tons of rubber, fur and fake hair. We'll never have our feet turn into talons or know what it's like to be stuck inside a polar bear all day, and few of us want to find out.

My awareness of this terrible profession was raised when I met a man called Jack. Jack was up for a part in a new movie called Godzilla: a multimillion dollar epic from the subtle creative team that brought you Independence Day. He was shortlisted to play the lead, but no one would ever know it was him, as the anonymity of the animal actor is of paramount importance. No one would notice him walking down the street and beg for his autograph. There would never be a buzz of murmurs in his local restaurant: "Look over there! Isn't that ... Godzilla?" He would remain unrecognised, but he could hold his head high, knowing he was a star.

Jack began his life as a beast working in China, where each day consisted of stomping over papier mache buildings and terrorising Tokyo. He cut his teeth on difficult characters such as a boxing kangaroo, a three legged dog called "Kundo" and a dancing starfish.

He was true to his art and stayed in character on and off the screen. Stripped of his costume he maintained that of the beast: he refuses to talk (preferring to growl), slept on straw and had poor toilet habits. He lost friends but found professional acclaim. This was the cost of being the best. Jack excelled with his unique interpretations of these creatures but, like most actors, he longed for the classics. His chance came with a Chinese European co production of Ulysses. Jack got his wish: he played the Hydra, Cyclops and Cerberus.

After 10 years along came Godzilla, the most coveted of all the monster roles. There was intense competition for the part. Out of hundreds of applicants they were down to the last three, possibly the finest creature performers in America if not the world. These w re three men who knew how to think like animals and they weren't even involved in politics.

The moment of truth carne when Jack clambered inside the motorised rubber body. In that airless prison of PVC he felt at home and he brought Godzilla to life. With her mighty limbs he tore down buildings, breathed fire, crushed cars and menaced children, but at the end of the day he wasn't the one.

It was a painful rejection, an emotional upheaval that forced him out of the business. On contemplation, Jack found that staring through the nostrils of monsters gave him a limited vision of the future. With his head removed the world, once again, opened before him. Here was a real world that didn't crumple when he touched it, a world where men were men. These days Jack is happier playing a comical father in a popular American sitcom - a father that moves with the grace and poise of a caged animal.

Concerning the Internet

The information superhighway contains too many potholes and dangerous curves, says Paul McDermott.

As the heaving beast of technology drags its marketable carcase into the new millennium, there is one statement we can make with absolute certainty the Internet is responsible for all crime in the late 20th century.

Thousands of eyewitness accounts chronicle the abuse of the information superhighway. These accounts are from teachers and High Court judges, the most trusted members of our community - many of whom have done years of painstaking research into the net's more perverse activities. They realise, as we must, this technology is being corrupted for personal gain; credit card fraud, get rich quick schemes, investment scams; virtual. casinos and our children are learning to make bombs. Bombs more complex and damaging than the ones we used to make. What gives them the right? Where will it end?

Every article in the paper seems to be accompanied by the phrase "from information taken from the Internet". or, "a criminal mind inspired by the Internet". Or, "before the triple murder they met via the Internet". From children's hobbies to small crimes to government toppling conspiracies, the Internet is always there. Where did the information about the travel rorts come from? Where do you thinkl

We must judge and pass sentence on cyberspace. For too long we'have allowed technology to rule our lives. Each and every technological advancement has been touted as an aid to communication, yet these advancements quickly become symbols of our failure to communicate. Around every home they are scattered like electronic corpses: the television is a life support for the fatigued, the radio thrives on nostalgia and rancid talkback, the telephone is cradled in the iron lung of the answering machine and the mobile phone has become a digital albatross.

A casual trawl of the Internet reveals many disturbing trends. Adolescent humor, pop groups, conspiracy theories, Meerkats, nuclear weaponry, and behind the fluffy facade is the ever present spectre of pornography.

Within its Borges like labyrinth tasteless humor abounds. Imagine what could be achieved if the millions of minds that are typing in Diana and Dodi gags were used for good. Imagine if those millions of minds wrote something nice. Something really nice. A few gentle lines that would enrich humanity, not the vicious puns about Di dying in the smirking Merc. This sort of material degrades us all and only produces the forced laughter of embarrassment or shame. You tray have a private giggle hours later, but this is merely a release of tension that subconsciously confirms an awareness of your own mortality.

Too much information is not a good thing. We only have to look at the Library of Alexandria an ancient equivalent of the Net Overflowing with.. plays, novels and epic poems it was a repository for . centuries of Western thought In the 3rd century it was razed by well meaning Christians who despised its liberal Greek texts the collected knowledge of the world destroyed by fire.

What would the world be like if the library had survived? We would have a plethora of texts comparable to Shakespeare's finest. We would be forced to live in a state of perpetual anxiety there would be too much choice. Should Year 12 study The Tempest or the Middle Comedies of Antiphanes? Amateur dramatic societies would be thrown into a tiz, choosing between not only Shakespeare and Marlowe but the lesser works of Aeschylus and Sophocles.

Let's face it, it is time for another big fire. Thank God that in the intervening 17 centuries those wellmeaning Christians have kept the torch alight. Not the same Christians, of course, although He does move in mysterious ways.

It is possible to reach critical mass with information. A place where fact and fiction become confused and true meaning is lost. That would be the greatest crime of all. I cannot recall who said it but it may have been Nero playing the zither at the fire, of Carthage "Bum, baby, bum". n

Concerning bliss

What is bliss? It's a state of delirious ignorance that most of us grow out of. By Paul McDermott.

All of us have heard the phrase "ignorance is bliss", but do we comprehend it? To understand ignorance we need to look at America. The cornerstone of its Constitution is the "pursuit of happiness". However, the Americans don't just pursue happiness, they give it a head high tackle. They pull happiness to the ground and brand it. How is it they can be so happy? They don't have to try hard, they just don't think about it.

Eighty seven per cent of Americans believe that Elvis is alive; 65 per cent believe Jesus was an alien; 15 per cent have been sodomised by a ghost, and 39 of them, in the Heaven's Gate cult, all wearing Nikes, went to join a spaceship in the tail. of a comet.* When the Yanks. say "Just Do it" they really mean it. In America, an executive decision is choosing between Coke and Pepsi, and The X Files is a documentary.

The truth is out there, and as far as the Americans are concerned it can stay out there. That is why they're so happy. Hillary Clinton said, "It takes a village." I'd say it takes a village idiot! And he became president. Speaking of Ronald Reagan, he is going through a difficult time. He is suffering from Alzheimer's disease, and it has reached a stage where he no longer recalls he was the president of the US, which isn't that surprising because I seem to have erased that period from my mind as well. But apart from being permanently confused he seems to be quite happy.

When were you last truly happy? Peel back the years of misery and you will find a time of unparalleled rapture. It was before you were educated in preschool. Preschool,. before school, when the most intelligent thing you did was "quiet time". When you lay there on the heated floor cocooned in a world of silent wonder, beautifully stupid, blissfully ignorant. Preschool, just one year before the terrible realisation in 1st class that the world was a sham. Your parents were liars, Santa didn't exist, the Bionic Man was just a dream, and a single world currency would never be achieved in your lifetime.

A little knowledge is a terrible thing. I cannot remember anyone saying "intelligence is bliss". The greatest minds of the past few centuries have been stuck in a spiral of misery. You would think if they were so smart they could make themselves happy. Einstein was constantly complaining. His solution to saving energy was wearing the same shirt day in, day out. Artists, writers, scientists and intellectuals have suffered needlessly for their art. From Nietzsche to Hemingway, from Van Gogh to Sartre, they all went mad, killed themselves or had funny looking eyes. Our desperate search for knowledge and selfimprovement is holding us back from true happiness. The truth is we think too much.

The Bible says the birds in the field are happy. You ever wondered why the birds in the field are so happy? It's because they're stupid. It's not because the Lord God gives them all they need. It's because they don't understand logarithmic progressions, systems of weights and pulleys or modem methods of amputation. Rhinos don't wont' about meeting the mortgage repayments on the Serengeti. Dolphins don't think: "Gee, should have sent the kids to the private school." Pandas don't have to color co ordinate the bathroom. They don't have to worry that they've reached 45, their family has left them, there's no one to rum to, that they have no prospect of a job, that the big black lump growing on their flank is a malignant tumor.

In the popular film Bahr, a pig was happily ignorant of the fact he wasn't a sheep dog. He was unaware he was nothing more than leg ham and middle rashers. Ignorance is strength and that little pig proved it. So what if they roll around in their own shit, it's a small price to pay for happiness.

The truth is out there, let's keep it out there. The way to a happier life is through ignorance, ask anyone, just ask them slowly.

o These statistics are falsified, yet this should not effect their credibility.