Paul's Sunday Life Articles - part 2

Self Help for the Helpless
Self Help for the Helpless - 2
Sappy New Year
Have a Happy Diety
The Joys of Unisex
Choice Cuts
A Titanic Struggle
Titanic - 2
Dial M for Murderous
Seeing the Light
Christmas Crackers
Longing for Fulfilment
The high cost of giving
Concerning the Lie
The Rites of Passage
The Gods of Modern Living
Concerning Cockroaches

Self help for the helpless

What is it that is so appealing about a man sitting alone in a cafe pondering where he went wrong in his failed love affair? Absolutely nothing at all, says Paul McDermott.

In a coffee shop crowded with cooing couples, a gentleman sits stoically by himself. As love struck partners exchange pet names over Turkish bread, his face is buried in a book. Sunday morning oozes into Sunday afternoon. He sips his short black, his brow furrowed, his eyes moist with tears. The attention of everyone in the coffee shop becomes fixed on this enigma. One by one we are sucked into the black hole of his pathos.

His fingers are splayed out over the edge of his book. They are tortured hands, bent and twisted. This has less to do with any physiological deformity and more to do with displaying the title. He holds the tome at an awkward angle, facing the busy street. If one was suspicious, one might say he held the book so that anyone or everyone could read that cover. How To Overrome The Hurt And Learn To Love Again. While beneath in smaller print: A guide for generous loving men whose lives have been destroyed by the whims of wily women.

If he had been reading the memoirs of Churchill or the Debbie Does Dallas pop up picture book, no one would have cared. As it was, that book made him seem interesting (not interesting enough for anyone to stay with, but more interesting than without the book). He became a riddle that needed a solution. Who hurt him? Would he overcome the hurt? Would he learn to love again? Why on earth was he reading such tripe in a public place? Still there was something intoxicating about the vulnerability of the guy.

A tiny voice deep inside me cried out in sympathy. Here's a troubled man who is not afraid to bare his tormented soul to a group of strangers in a coffee shop on a Sunday morning. Sadly, that tiny voice was completely overpowered by another voice, a voice shouting and hurling abuse. This was a manipulative and insidious display. Here was a blatant attempt by an emotionally scarred trapdoor spider to lure an unsuspecting female fly to its doom.

That book sickened me. With the soothing pastel toning; it appeared like any number of generic no name off the shelf self help books. There was nothing on the cover apart from words, big words. There was no picture, no thoughtful design, just calming colors and the title screaming out in block letters. The subtext of which was: "You need me, buy me and I'll make your mundane life bearable."

The day turned cool as evening approached. I had run up a bill of over $100 for tea, orange juice and Turkish bread. Trapdoor folded that fabulous book into the warmth of his jacket making sure to keep the title in plain view. He gave one last mournful look around to see if anyone would take the bait. There were no nibbles he sauntered off into the gathering dusk.

As the street lamps obscured him from view, I wondered: "What's more pathetic? A man reading a self help book in crowded coffee shop or, a man watching a man reading a self help book in crowded coffee shop?" I was furious with him as I headed home. What was so fascinating? It wasn't War And Peace. Why does there have to be 300 pages plus of life affirming crap?

Here's a solution to the question in two lines. "How to overcome hurt?" Just get over it. And on the more difficult topic of "Learning to love again" give it a shot! As the night swallowed me I had a vision of his home. There on his bedside table sat another self help book: How to Cope With Rejection After A Day Of Looking Like a Dill At A Coffee Shop In A Desperate Attempt To Get A Bit Of Attention.

Self help for the helpless, Part 2

Self help books are becoming the new addiction of the 90s. Paul McDermott dabbles with a nasty habit.

There is no doubt that we live in an era of high stress, aggression and abrupt change.

Nothing prepares us for the terror of modem life. We are not equipped for the unexpected turns, the betrayals, the lies, the incriminations or even the ennui that binds it all together.

Thankfully, there is help at hand. For every mental, physical and spiritual ailment society hurls at us a book exists to combat it. The message is clear. if you're about to die an emotional death, bury yourself in a book.

Seeking to understand this phenomenon I went in search of a book store, hoping to find a text that spoke to me. I strolled into an average looking book store. There was nothing free or freaky about the place. There were no love beads hanging from the ceiling, no smell of frankincense or patchouli oil, yet the place was a refuge for those in need.

They clung to the shelves, crouching in the shadows, designer slacks, credit cards and expensive sunglasses disguising the tears. Every accessory a testament to the harshness of life. These people were here for one thing and one thing only selfimprovement.

The book store should have set up a soup kitchen. They were offering what religion used to offer. That feeling of community, safety, acceptance, the sense that any sin could be forgiven. Yet pews remain empty while book stores thrive and for one simple reason. How can a pamphlet on heavenly salvation compete with the brutal honesty of "If I'm so wonderful, why am I still single?". We need answers and we need them now.

A quick fix, a pat on the back, a shoulder to cry on and someone who understands. Even if that someone is a psychologist with dubious credentials and a grip on reality straight out of Dr Seuss.

It wasn't hard to find what I was looking for. The self help books took up 80 per cent of the store yet the entire history of the world was confined to two meagre racks. (What sort of world have we created where the knowledge accrued over thousands of years is dwarfed by the output of Southern California). Books with alluring titles like: Get Out Of Your Own Way, The Danee Of Anger and Lam Me! Love My Trauma!, called my name from the shelves.

I had a rush of fear sensing someone was watching me, trying to decide which book I "needed". Was I lost without love? Did I love too much? Was I hurting others to hurt myself? Had I found the child within? Could I learn to smile with my brain?

I grabbed the nearest paperback and let it fall open to any page. This is a trick I leamt years ago. I was being receptive to the book, letting it speak to me. It fell open on a blank page with a price sticker. I picked up another There's More To Life Than Sex And Money and on a quick perusal discovered nothing to support their case.

I leafed through another dozen volumes and still nothing really spoke to me. Why couldn't I find anything that appealed to me, something gently affirming like I'm OK - You're Completely Stuffed.

It was then I became aware of a greater tragedy. Self help addicts in search of the perfect life can never stop at one. It begins with the seven stages of grief but pretty soon you've turned to personal growth and before you know it you're discovering past lives. Past lives that were invariably more successful because you didn't have self help books to help you get through them.

I suffered a bout of melancholy for the old days when the remedy to any hurt was time. Those words "give it time" were a virtual mantra when I was a child. They were happier days when manic depression could be cured by the phrase "buck up".

I did leave the store with a book and I believe I did not compromise my mission. It was by a real doctor, it put a smile on my face and made more sense than anything else I had seen. Even the title intrigued me Green Eggs And Ham.

' Some of the titles in this article do not exist.

Sappy new year

The tinsel is gone. The office parties are over. New Year's Eve is a hazy memory. Now, all that's left is...you. By Paul McDermott.

Have you looked in the mirror lately? You look haggard! Not just haggard, a year older, as if a year passed last night and left you in its wake. So do not look in the mirror.

There is no more dangerous time of year. The parties can make or break you socially, so it is essential you paced yourself. An early dash, though much admired could leave you drained and unable the star attraction the big one have been your focus. Never lose sight of that ball falling in New York. The sheer joy, the excitement, the countdown, and if you're not there the next day you won't be able to forget what you don't want to remember from the previous night.

Hopefully by now you will have completed the obligatory office functions. The ones you say you hate ("It's work, they expect me. I get no enjoyment out of this either! This is a no fun zone for me too, you know!") and every year there you are.

At some point in the evening, you look around to find the sedate world you inhabit during the week has gone out of control. In one corner, men and women in party hats enact scenes from Sodom and Gomorrah with photocopiers taking the place of goats. Mrs Somebody, a simmering cauldron of repressed sexuality, is dancing lasciviously with a gawky post baby boomer on a co worker's desk.

You drink a glass of water that someone has flicked their ash in and come to the conclusion that all water is bad for you. The teetotallers are consuming the most alcohol, the "quiet ones" are talking your ear off and the girl that "always has a smile on her face" is crying in the corner.

A conversation a year in the making is occurring, the protagonists are shocked, but everyone else i glad it's finally happened. The guy everyone hates breaks down and says he's sorry and the office forgives him, for a second, until they regroup and recall how repulsive he is.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in a darkened window, but manage to turn away before any real damage is done. As you leave you find yourself saying in all honesty, "What a great night! Hope it's as good next year!"

Then the big one New Year's Eve. In one swift act of purging, we rid ourselves of the old skin of '97 and prepare to snuggle into the soft new skin of '98. We normally manage to do this by staying up all night and losing any sense of decency. Old Father Time bows out and the Child of Time, fresh from the crib, is already ageing rapidly.

We manage to blot out this "passing of time" with the convenient memory loss that over indulgence brings. We see the night as a disjointed series of tees: There is never any coherent story, just one disaster after another. Spilled drinks, forgotten names, accidental meetings, lost friends, bad jokes that lead us in a dizzy rush to the countdown. Followed swiftly by the disgusting feeling of being kissed by total strangers on the stroke of midnight*. Or even worse, on the stroke of midnight, being steadfastly avoided by total strangers. While everywhere around you people abandon themselves, you're left standing, lips untouched.

The hours fly till dawn. When you come to there's always streamers and confetti on the floor. A few days later you inevitably find something in your pocket. You don't know when it got there or, more importantly, how it got there and you're too ashamed to even look at it.

In the last 24 hours you've committed at least four of the seven deadly sins that you can't remember enough to enjoy. You greet the first day of January in a darkened room because overnight you've become light sensitive.

And, although you were warned, you look at yourself in a mirror and discover you have become a walking, talking, all singing, all dancing version of your own death. You're the monster from the bottom of the bottle coming up for air. As you peeam into your eyes, the mirror of your soul, you see shattered glass and read "you are truly alone" scratched into your retina. What I recommend is closing your eyes for a while and going to sleep because tonight ..

o The stroke of midnight is not a euphemism

Have a happy deity

Never pretend the Street God has smiled on you when you are stealing. If you follow this simple rule you will enter his kingdom, says Paul McDermott.

As we have already seen, we live in a world surrounded by gods. There are the gods of all the major religions, the gods of the lesser religions and finally the deities we create for our own pleasure. One such deity is the God of the Street.

Where other gods ask for a life lived in chastity, the Street God only requires that you have a keen eye. Where other gods ask for a life of servitude, the Street God asks for patience and perseverance. Where other gods look for the good inside, the God of the Street leaves the good outside.

He leaves the good in plain view where his followers discover it. Once the good is discovered it can then be re shaped, re fashioned, re born. A spoiled recliner from a North Shore home becomes a cosy reading chair in a Newtown squat, discarded bricks become a bookshelf, an old sign a novel highlight above a Mancare bar.

The Street God is seldom recognised by the rich. He belongs to the poor. His temples are garbage bins and anywhere rubbish collects. His palace is an earthly palace and it is situated in the dump. His kingdom extends to the inner suburbs and overflowing skips everywhere.

His angels are reversing trucks. He is a material and temporal god and his gifts are seldom gold. He is the god of broken or three legged chairs. He is the god of the discarded, the rejected and the useless.

Within the cult of the Street God there are tenets of the faith that must be obeyed.

You must never ask the Street God for specific favours - cardboard boxes are his forte.

Never rely on the God of the Street for a birthday, wedding or engagement present.

Never pretend the Street God has smiled on you when you are stealing.

If you follow these simple rules you will enter his kingdom.

Open your eyes to his kindness and you will never fully close them again.

There was a time when I would converse with the God of the Street constantly. His bounty was plain to see, exploding out of skips, at the back of the department store, forgotten at the end of a lane. If you failed to take an item he offered there would always be another to tempt you, a cracked Thermos, an old pair of loafers, a ripped vinyl jacket. His generosity knew no bounds.

I first met the Street God at the tip amid burst green garbage bags oozing pustulant gunk and lockjaw inducing razor sharp sheet metal. He was there in mountains of waste rising from valleys of debris: Slag heap cathedrals to consumer society, glittering in the afternoon sun, with all the promise of capitalism. Here an enamel pendant, a malfunctioning radio or a mayonnaise stained magazine was a gift from god.

Then someone somewhere, in the safety of an office, decided it was too dangerous. They closed the tips. Yet for every unfortunate who tore his foot apart on a rusty tin there were thousands who would discover a useless phone or a crushed circuit..

I was thinking that I had not heard from the Street God for a long time. I thought he and I had fallen out. That was when I had the dream. And the dream brought me to a realisation.

There were two sets of hand prints foraging around a skip. I knew one set was mine and the other set belonged to the Street God. I looked again and there was only one set. I, asked him what happened. Why did he leave me? He smiled and replied, "That was when I foraged for you. You went to take a leak."

I woke realising the Street God was still with me. Over the years I, had changed, not he. I was no longer a disciple, I was a priest. I realised as I descended the stairs with my garbage I was still doing his will. I peered longingly into my own waste - a stack of faded English magazines, a broken Rotring pen and a three legged chair.

My weekly walk to the wheelie bin is an offertory procession and the damaged, worthless scraps I drag there a tribute to the Street God.

The joy of unisex

Paul McDermott is still inspired by the gender liberation of the 1960s, when sexual difference became a dirty word.

It came from California, a dynamic new concept in human relations. It came as a word whispered by inspired youth that challenged the status quo. It was driven by the need for the sexes to unite in something more than the base coupling required for procreation. It called for the barriers developed over centuries of systematic sexual repression to disappear, it demanded the sexes become indistinguishable, it promised a liberated sexual democracy. It was a word that would change the way men and women related: unisex.

It is a word many will remember, although it has all but been erased from our language. While the old guard saw "unisex" as something dangerous, to the young it was a call to arms. Like freedom or liberty, the mere mention of the word caused governments to tremble. It spread like wildfire through populations eager for revolution. For men and women tired of the seemingly arbitrary roles society imposed, here was a concept that would render them obsolete.

Virtually overnight, unisex clothes, bars, clubs, coffee shops and tobacconists sprang up. Suddenly men and women could mingle: share ideas, hopes and dreams. A few older establishments held out against this tidal wave of change. They paid the price for their stoicism: their numbers dwindled and within a few years they no longer existed. There was nothing on the face of the earth that couldn't become unisex. To make anything gender specific was a crime against nature. Humanity had come of age, proudly proclaiming its individuality by celebrating its sameness.

Fabrics that had previously been the preserve of women became popular with men: gabardine, organza, polyester, velveteen, corduroy and glomesh. Pastimes from the rnalc domain, like steerriding and spitting, attracted women. Women stood proudly by their brothers in pantsuits. Without fear of embarrassment or workplace ridicule, men could wear Bonnie Bell strawberry flavoured lip gloss, cruise to the office on their rollerskates and sport chunky zodiac jewellery.

This dark horse escaped the doomed utopian vision of the '60s and forced its way into the '70s. It was in this age of hedonism and wild abandon that it flourished, and as a child, it was here I first encountered it. After the strict confines of my upbringing it was initially disturbing to witness men and women conversing in public places. Nothing will compare with the shock I felt on entering my first unisex toilet. The confusing genderless image on the door opened my eyes to a world of tiled wonder. I was filled with a mixture of horror and excitement when I heard conversations from both sexes rising from the cubicles.

But it was in Raymond's swinging unisex salon that I observed the true merits of unisex culture. Here "man" and "wo man" could sit side by side and have a haircut, rinse and blowdry. Men could get their hair crimped, shagged, tinted or flicked while women settled for a trim and shave and neither felt self conscious. Californian Poppy mixed with the chemical scent of Gossamer Hair as they discussed politics and art beneath enormous pale blue egg shaped dryers. As Raymond's hairy knuckles created a universe of androgynous styles, the world changed for me.

Here was a period of unsurpassed creativity and design. There is often regret and embarrassment over post 60s, pre 80s fashion. I believe this has more to do with the fact that we, as a people, are ashamed we let such a vibrant period pass us by The Renaissance pales beside the explosion of thought that accompanied the unisex movement. (Let us never forget this was the period that gave us body language.) It is only now, 20 years later, that we can begin to appreciate the immense service this decade performed for civilisation.

The haircuts have long since fallen out of favour, just as the clothing has gone out of vogue, but the fervour and lust for life I perceived will always be in fashion.

Choice cuts

Paul McDermott isn't so keen on the idea of liberty if it means he has to pass a multiple choice exam every morning.

We are faced with a complex and distressing dilemma in the modern age: we have too many choices. In our blind quest for ultimate freedom we have placed our daily liberty in jeopardy. Every day we are forced to make decisions ranging from the mind bogglingly difficult to the blindingly simple. As the world contracts about us it has become far denser, far more impractical. We are inundated by information, overcome by difference and baffled by variety. I believe we have reached a point where we must make a decision about making decisions or we may reach a point where the decision making process is all we are capable of.

The full terror of what the future holds was hammered home when I attempted to order breakfast at a common cafe. My request was simple enough: bacon and eggs on toast, a pot of tea and orange juice, but the conversation that followed left me dazed, confused and unable to eat.

"How do you want the bacon?"

I thought this was a trick question and, without meaning to be rude, replied: "Cooked..." The waitress stared at me with lifeless eyes. I suspect she made a quick and unjustified character assessment as she mumbled under her breath something that sounded like "arsehole".

"Do you want it streaky; crispy, rindless, heavy on the fat, grilled or fried?"

Bacon had always been bacon to me. There was no great mystery; you asked for it and it arrived. A strip of pig nestled beside the unborn embryos of chickens, was that too much to ask for?

"Eggs? Sunny side up, over easy, runny, fried, poached, scrambled, hard boiled, free range or battery?"

I couldn't cope. I grabbed at the last word I heard. As it spluttered from my mouth I realised, too late, I shouldn't have said battery. The other customers stopped eating and peered at me in disgust. A sweat formed on my brow. I had become, in an instant, a social pariah. I needed to catch my breath. I have never suffered asthma but I wanted a blast of Ventolin. The waitress had me on the ropes; she could see the fear, in my eyes and she continued, in her merciless fashion, to destroy me.

"Toast? White, vitamin enriched, high energy, brown, rye, sourdough, mufti grain, yeast free, pumpernickel, Turkish, organic?"

Adrenalin pumped into my veins. I could hear my heartbeat as a dull thud in the centre of my body.

"Freshly squeezed orange juice or the other stuff?"

I could sense her readying for the kill but, for some reason, she took pity on me and moved slowly away from the table.

My inability to deal with the situation made me acutely aware of other similar circumstances, where multiplicity has made life difficult. Once everyone had the same haircut, listened to the same music, wore the same clothes, ate the same food and genuinely enjoyed life then war came along and mined everything. Men and women fought bravely for our freedom to choose, but they didn't have to contend with hundreds of different mobile phone plans.

In the near future we must make the choice for less choice. We must decide to be indecisive, curtail our ever expanding freedom and recover our liberty. Choice has always been promoted as a good thing, but anyone knows that a difficult decision can cause a great amount of distress. How much unnecessary anguish do we endure each and every day?

By the time the food arrived I had lost my appetite, but the waitress had one more surprise in store for me. A maniacal grin crossed her face.

"What type of milk do want with your tea? Full cream, skim, calcium enriched, iron enriched, soy, low fat or chocolate?"

Titanic struggle

How is it that seemingly insignificant factors can conspire to defeat far greater forces? By Paul McDermott

I fought my way to a decent position in the middle of the cinema. I was early and the sombre warmth of the dark cinema lulled me into a sense of well being. Meanwhile, the forces of evil were rallying at the candy counter. Before I knew what was happening, the place was awash with people.

A group of lanky students invaded my aisle from the left, and on the right two large buckets of popcorn sat down. They trapped me in a pincer movement. I consoled myself with the fact that no one was sitting in front of me ... just as someone did. Not just someone. Someone who insisted on sitting up straight, someone with good posture.

Why is it people with bad posture never sit in front of you? Where are the people who slouch when you need them? No, I get a seven foot tall basketball playing pinhead and his little dreadlocked friend.

I recently saw Titanic. I do not pretend to be a film critic and so I will not discuss the merits or otherwise of the picture. Given this tragic voyage is so well known, I do not believe I am giving away too much telling you the ship sinks and a great number of people drown.

The central theme of the film is the enduring nature of love. The two main characters find that wealth and the trappings of opulence have no hold over this simple joy. I wondered why the most expensive film ever made has to cell us this? By its mere existence is suggests that perhaps there is something quite beneficial about having a great amount of money. Money and Love, Good v Evil, Man against Woman, everything competing against nature.

It's a titanic struggle across the screen between big themes and bigger budgets. Of course I'm concerned with size, but it is always the little things that grab my attention.

Why is it big things can be totally overpowered by little things? The big thing I refer to here is the film, the little things arc the annoying habits of other human beings. Titanic was a massive project, years in the making, costing millions of dollars, employing thousands, and it can all be destroyed by someone sitting in front of you with itchy dreadlocks.

The tides blazed over my head, engulfing me in 70 millimetre grandeur, and my attention was dragged to this weird guttural noise, like a toad regurgitating its own phlegm - it was coming from the pinhead. How is it that one persistent cough can overcome even the most sophisticated audio system?

Yes, the audience is listening to the slurping of watered down post mix, to the crunching of popcorn and to the clumsy passion of 14 year olds. This is a monumental undertaking that should totally absorb me in its fantasy, yet I get distracted by Gumby and his mate slowly tearing open a bag of Burger Rings.

The film was about 20 minutes in when the dreadhead began to rock. He managed to rock rhythmically for more than two hours, only pausing to take something out of his bag, and he even managed to do that quite loudly.

It was jarring for me that Bullwinkle and Rocky were enjoying the film so much. And why not? They were well fed, they were having good conversations, the little one was even dancing.

It amazed me that all these minuscule, insignificant, puerile and petty things conspired to drag my attention away from the most expensive film ever made. I thought of David and Goliath, the mouse and the elephant. I even managed to relate is back to the iceberg and the Titanic.

At that moment I came back to the film. I no longer cared if the dreads left a trail of grease over my leg every time Rocky leant back. I didn't care about Moose and his pleurisy. I couldn't care less if he was suffering from TB, coughing up great hunks of blood over his Burger Rings. I was aboard Titanic and heading out to the open seas.

I focused all my attention on the screen. I broke through. I conquered all those annoying little things and could now concentrate on the big picture - a film about water. Lots of it, dripping, gurgling, swishing, trickling, dribbling, pouring in. Something inside me responded to the swirling majesty of the ocean, something deep within me stirred. It was an hour and a half after the film started when my body decided to betray me and I faced the trot terror, the true torment of TITANIC... (to be continued).

A Titanic struggle (II)

When they say Titanic is a disaster movie, they're not talking about the action on screen ... By Paul McDermott.

I have thought about it for some time and there is no easy way to say it. I have tried euphemisms and analogies, but all these pleasantries do is distract from the importance of the information. It is best to be brief and blunt, so please, do not be shocked at what I am about to say.

My message is simply this: empty your bladder before you see Titanic. Especially the very young or elderly. You may be offended by my brutality now, but you will thank me for it later.

I made the mistake of seeing the film on a full tank. I thought I had an unburstable bladder of steel. I thought I could defy this film.

When it ran for over three hours I was worried. But the duration of the film was not the real problem. The problem was the water. A digitally enhanced ocean in luminous 70 millimetre crashing all around me. Every time is lapped against the hull it called to its aquatic doppelganger, its discoloured sibling resting in my bladder, to come join it.

There is so much water in this film it deserves its own credit. When it's not streaming through shattered cabin doors or bursting through stained glass, it's steaming windows, moistening cheeks, disguised as champagne or summoned as spit. Not a scene goes by without some poor relation of H2o making a guest appearance.

Every time the sea burst through a pipe, eddied in a stairwell or careered through the corridors, I understood the shallow meaning of water torture. When the captain stood on the deck of his sinking ship and twin jets sprayed in arcs across his chest, my bladder cried out in sympathy: It, like the waters of the Atlantic, needed to express its nature.

Even when there was no water in shot, I heard is about to corer like an over eager actor, shuffling his feet outside the door. It burbled, sprinkled, dripped and announced its wetness without being seen. It was always there and it was always calling, calling, calling...

And as water forced its way into the body of the Titanic, it was trying to force its way out of mine.

I thought, I'll be damned if I let this rebel organ dictate my actions. Why should I let one part of my body defeat the others? If I leave, I'll lose the plot. I made a financial investment in this feature and a tittle internal pressure was not going to waste my hard earned cash. I decided to grit my teeth, gird my loins, bear down and stay seated. I was going to brave it out! I crossed my legs, I hunched forward, I loosened my trousers. I settled back and relaxed (but I didn't relax too much).

I then noticed the entire cinema sat crosslegged, hunched forward and slightly distracted. With this awareness, my panic dissipated. I felt a connection, a unity with my straining comrades.

Seconds later I was also aware I wouldn't be the only one heading to the toilet at the end of the film. My new comrades instantly became the enemy and I eyed them with contempt. Images flooded my mind of overcrowded urinals and columns of misery stretching from each cubicle. I saw damp fathers pointing their exploding sons at the trough, rolls of wet toilet paper and so much acrid spray the lavatory became a steamroom.

I lost the battle with the bloat minutes before Titanic ended. I rushed out a street exit, knowing everyone else would be heading to the foyer. I found myself in a poorly lit, uninhabited back alley. I opened the flood gates. Every muscle sighed with relief, even my mind seemed clearer.

Clear enough to realise that what I had taken as a back alley was, in fact, a major pedestrian thoroughfare.

Those members of the audience with stronger constitutions than I were now using this handy walkway to get to their cars. Sadly, the sight of disgusted families was not enough to stem the tide. They scurried by shielding the eyes of their children. I clamped down, but I couldn't stop. I was a liquid blimp, a urine geyser, a four litre wine cask being squeezed dry by the hand of God.

Hours passed, as did half the population of Sydney, before is slowed and finally stopped. I crept off into the night, noticing I was not the only one affected by the movie. The city was drenched.

The true magic of this epic will not be seen in the streams of people with satisfied faces leaving the cinema, but in the screams of people with satisfied faces behind the cinema. I suspect it's going to be a long, wet summer. m

Dial M for murderous

A holiday soothes the mind, lifts the spirit, rejuvenates the body. Booking the holiday is utter hell. Paul McDermott gets caught in the holding pattern.

I was recently trying to book some tickets for a small trip overseas. Sixteen hours of sheer hell ... not the trip, the phone calls. In the time I spent on the phone I could have travelled to America, and come back. I was so tense I needed A holiday just to get the memory of the phone calls out of my system.

"If you want to confirm your tickets - press one."

What do I press to speak to a human? I want to hear a human voice. (Of course when I speak to a human being I want the machine back.)

"If you want information about other arrangements - press two."

Can these people speak any more slowly? If timed local calls ever happen in this country, within hours we'll have the economy of Albania. And never get stuck on a call with your mobile. That's the fast track to poverty. You might as well burn your money. At least it'd keep you warm.

"I'll be with you in a minute, sir."

When did the meaning of the word "minute" change? Surely a minute still comprises 60 seconds. These seconds follow each other, one after another, in quick succession, with no gaps. Or has the term minute a different meaning when you're on the phone? Is that a "real" minute or a "phone" minute?

In a phone minute, the seasons change, the years come and go, your children grow up and move out.

The phone minute can be used to denote any length of time, as in, God created the world in a phone minute.

Most of the time I was alone in Hold World limbo for the living. A comforting recorded voice told me what a great service I was getting. That voice, always so gosh darn happy, so infuriatingly understanding, offering me wonderful incentives and letting me know what a clever chap I was for choosing this business.

Spaced evenly between the incentives were the apologies:

"Your call is important to us." If it's so important speak to me.

"All our operators are busy" So employ some more.

"We'll be with you shortly" LIAR (will that be in a minute?)

"Thank you for calling and now some music specially designed to torture your brain." Is it a coincidence that the most offensive tunes humanity has to offer are played every time you're on hold?

My ears suffered the indignity of Roxette as I waited for my six digit code. I for Inefficient, M for Mistake, W for Wait, L L for Long Wait, E for Extra Long Wait, P for Pay Us NOW The sixdigit code makes everything more efficient, things really move once those magic numbers are quoted. But to quote them you have to spend time in the Hold World, and speak to Mr I don't really care if you live or die Recorded Voice.

I discovered the person I had a problem with was also the person I should complain to if I had a problem. I told her something wasn't quite right, she said there was nothing wrong, and that's where it ended. Thank God Kafka never lived to see this.

After the ordeal, I had to speak to someone to get it all off my chest. I called a busy friend. Have you ever tried to tell a deeply personal and traumatic story to someone who has "call waiting"? It's embarrassingly cruel. There's that tell tale buzz. Your host expresses concern and promises to get rid of the annoying caller. You nervously wait while they see who the other person is.

When they come back, you know instantly how important you are to them. If they continue the conversation with you, it's OK (although if you are a caring person you worry about the caller who's been rejected). If they say, sorry, I have another call, you don't mind, do you, we'll talk later, this is important ... you're wretched.

So I am going to have a holiday. I think I need one, but please, don't expect a phone call.

Seeing the light

Relax. Breathe deeply. Think of the universe inside you. But, Paul McDermott wonders, what if it's somewhere else...

We were told to lie flat on the floor looking up at the ceiling. The carpet was a thin grey and blue weave on which hundreds of boys had lain before. I could feel how worn away it was beneath my body. We were told to close our eyes and relax.

The room was large and had been painted a distasteful off yellow. The curtains were drawn and all the lights turned out but the sun managed to infiltrate the space. It oozed through the curtains, it permeated the weatherboard, it heated the air making everything seem close and uncomfortable. As a result the room wasn't so much black as a disquieting shade of grey.

Your fingers are becoming numb. The numbness is creeping up your arms. You feel heavy. Your limbs are like lead weights.

His voice floated over our heads and I tried to feel numb but something kept distracting me. It was a short zap accompanied by the faint odour of death.

Concentrate on your breeaathing.

There was a record playing. In Search Of The Lost Chord by the Moody Blues. Between its obvious drug references and Eastern mysticism I could hear a flute playing. They spoke of Timothy Leary and astral travel. They incorporated "om" into their dense lyric structure. They had mantras printed on the gatefold sleeve of the record.

I expect you were meant to tune into this mid '60s groove by smoking a reefer, riding the white dragon or dropping a tab. You know: "Let your body loose baby and spin out of the mind numbing hallucinogenic wonder of the Moodies," but I think a lot of the connections were lost on schoolboys lying on their backs. Where was that noise coming from?

Let the air enter through your mouth, breathe in and let it leave through your nostrils. Breathe out.

I found it. My eyes were wide open and fixed on a device on the wall. It was slightly to the left above my head. A perfect halo of shimmering blue in a cage of white wire. A fly zapper, but it didn't seem to discriminate, any creeping, crawling, flying thing was treated in the same manner - instantaneous death. As the class commenced their inward journey I was stuck outside myself. I couldn't tear my eyes from it. This thing of luminous beauty seemed to take on a life of its own.

You are in the universe and the universe is in you...

The humming machine claimed another victim. It was curious to contemplate my mortality while insects discovered theirs. I was trying to sink deeper and deeper into myself to come to a greater understanding of my role in the universe, while the game of life was being enacted right in front of me. I wondered if it would always be that way: life and death, just out of reach, above my head.

Breathe slowly, listen to your heart...

But my heart was a dull, distant drum and quite a boring when placed alongside the intermittent crackle of the zapper. That sound had spirit and zest. That sound was dynamic. That sound was going places. That was the sound of the eternal struggle. I think someone had started snoring.

You are on a journey. .. into inner span... into silence . .

God, that thing was good. There weren't this many bugs in all of Christendom. I was sure some of these tiny beasties were flying from miles away just to see it. "Yeah man, a beautiful circle of blue. C'mon, let's take a closer look." Excited moths in other countries dreaming of the day they'd see the light. There had to be some heavy karma happening there. A crackle of electricity, a plume of smoke, and the charcoaled body of another moth was fused forever to what it had most desired. The blue neon kept up its merciless crusade.

Imagine a light.

I didn't have to, it was there! A halo luring innocence to its doom. The quest for inner peace was lost on me. Where the others found their souls illuminated, I saw burnt out carcases, where they glimpsed heaven within, I saw fragments of transparent wings.

Christmas crackers

It's nearly Christmas. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid. By Paul McDermott.

It's still a few weeks away, but the warning tremors are here. There is a heightened sense of terror on the street. The desperate scramble has begun and it will not be over until well into the New Year. Statistically, more people suffer breakdowns during holidays, and Christmas takes the honours for the highest incidence of crack ups.

If your trolley is going to run off the rails, it is more likely to do so in the coming weeks than at any other time of year.

You are the most important person in the world and, for once, you must think of yourself. You're like Santa to your family without you, there is no yuletide joy. You are the passport to fun, the decorator of the tree, the wrapper of presents, the source of all understanding.

Don't expect your family to notice you falling apart, they're too busy trying to buy you presents. It is one of the great riddles of Christmas that we are so concerned with being generous, we have very little time for kindness. You could be wearing a tutu, urinating into the salad and no one would notice.

You have worked hard this year and you deserve a rest. The days grow shorter as your list of commitments grows longer. A few more hurdles and the end of the year is in sight. On the horizon, a golden crest of glorious sunshine beckons. Christmas is coming and another year is condemned to memory. The time has come to let the sun kiss away the tears of anguish and to dance upon the edge of rainbows. I tell you: don't be a fool!

You can't wind down - you have got to stay tense. No! You can't afford to be tense. Why? Because everyone relies on you. But the mere fact everyone relies on you makes you tense. Admit you're tense. You're that poor, sad looking Christmas tree in the corner. Each piece of tinsel, each tiny wooden Santa, every coloured ball, drags your branches even lower. Overloaded with baubles, bound by flashing lights and unbalanced, you are about to topple into the middle of the lounge.

The reason we experience trauma over Christmas is because we believe we can relax. I tell you solemnly do not relax. The only way to avoid a fall is to convince yourself the hurdles keep coming. When the last hurdle is in sight, conjure another in your mind. As you approach that one, imagine another. Keep this up for the rest of your life. There is one consolation in this method you'll die young.

Stay alert! In every store, carols attempt to lull you into a false sense of security. Beware! These songs are a rallying call to misery. You are salivating at the thought of turkey and cranberry sauce. It is a recipe for disaster. To protect yourself and your family you must continue to set yourself hurdles and, whatever else you do, do not relax.

Trust me, because four days ago I relaxed and three days ago the wheels fell off my trolley.

Three days ago, the face that greeted me in the mirror was not my own. A hideous creature loomed before me. Two dark, black bags dragged my eyes down to my cheek. My cheek had collapsed into my neck. My neck was hiding in my chest. My stubble was like sandpaper. I had accidentally sprayed Baygon on my toothbrush. At every turn, malevolent forces conspired against me.

The bus was late, so I took a cab. The cab driver didn't seem to be in the same city as me. I was sweating, my heart was grey from worry. It was failing in its sole function to keep me alive until the festive season. The lift was out, so I took the stairs. I had a continual headache. It was behind my eyeball, threatening to push the pulsing orb out of the socket and on to my cheek.

I know it isn't a tumour. It can't be. I haven't got time for a tumour. There's a smell in the house I can't locate. Someone keeps calling at 4.23 in the morning. I have been urinating into my salad.

I type this letter with a pencil attached to my forehead at a major metropolitan hospital.

Merry Christmas.

Longing for fulfilment

We live in a world where anything you want is available - but sometimes it's out of stock, says Paul McDermott

I can understand how, in attracting customers, a restaurant may wish to make a dish seem more alluring. One dessert that has hooks in its name is "Death by Chocolate". I have witnessed friends salivating with the mere thought of the ultimate demise. I wonder whether "Death by jellied eel in sow's stomach" has as much appeal.

In the wee small hours, when naming a cocktail, the most ridiculous and obscene thing may appear best. We have all giggled with childish delight when a drunken office worker demands from a bored bartender, "... three Orgasms for me and me mates". But why call a cocktail an Orgasm? It doesn't look, taste, or feel like an orgasm, although very occasionally (and I stress very occasionally), it may lead to one.

We live in a world where language and meaning are heading in different directions. Where Opium can be bought over a perfume counter. Where a child thinks an "Act of God" is a choc coated double banana treat in an ocean of peppermint cream.

Last week I found myself confronted by this phenomenon several times.

Looking down a menu to find an appropriate dish, I was confused. Every meal had a weird title. On the menu were words I was familiar with, but had never associated with food. The chicken stew, with pepper and caper, became Bewitchment; braised veal rolls with olives Impulse; the hot and spicy lamb casserole Reckless. There was Anger, Ambition, Fantasy and Fury it'd be like eating the Gladiators.

The waiter's pad would have been a surrealist's dream, every time someone ordered bizarre poems were formed.

Two Longing, a medium rare Enchantress, one Temptation, a double Eternity holding the mayo, Reckless - not too hot, three to fat Utopias, water for the table, screwdriver, rusty nail!

The meals arrived and a general mood of satisfaction prevailed. There was one problem: noone had accepted the Temptation. For a minute the waitress circled the table, growing steadily more annoyed.

"Temptation? Temptation for anyone?"

Nobody moved, most were too busy getting stuck into their own plates of moral and philosophical dilemma.

"Someone ordered it. Who was it?"

"Maybe they've gone?"

Her voice became shrill with tension.

"Who wanted the Temptation?"

No one stirred and the Temptation returned from whence it came. If only all forbidden fruits could be sent back so easily to the devil's kitchen.

None of this would have been strange had it not been for what happened next ...

The following day I found myself before a perfume store. Tendrils of sticky sweet odours lured me into the shop. There were slender bottles of musk, civet, lavender and flasks of essential oils. Front floor to ceiling the place was filled with exotic distillations. I ran through a number of perfumes before discovering, with horror, that some were last night's meals. There again were Longing, Excitement and Passion.

One perfume in particular held more promise Fulfilment. To my surprise the tester was empty. Obviously this particular fragrance was in great demand. I battled my initial fear, turned to the nearest member of staff and asked, "Could you possibly find me a little Fulfilment?"

The staff were shocked to learn someone had forgotten to restock that particular scent. No need for concern, there would have to be some Fulfilment out the back. I heard them frantically tear apart box after box in search of it. Somewhere in this jungle of aromas, the odour du jour had gone missing Tension rose as they searched liar the scent.

A whisper went round the disgruntled customers "No Fulfilment!"

The woman returned, a little out of breath, a fine sweat beading on her forehead. "1'm sorry, sir," she said, "We can't find Fulfilment anywhere!"

I smiled, because in my heart, I sensed she was.

The high cost of giving

It's not the thought that counts, it's the price. Christmas is the time to discover what you really mean to your friends. By Paul McDermott.

That joyous time is here again. That time of peace on earth and goodwill to all men* and universal happiness and unbridled greed. Just a few more days to discover how much you are loved.

It is unrealistic to equate emotion with expenditure, but it is something we all do. As the presents are handed out from under the tree, our minds are engaged in mathematical gymnastics. How much was that? Where was it found? Were there many others like it?

At Christmas there are numerical equations that indicate how much you are cared for, how much you are loved. The cost of the item (gift) over the income of the giver (approx) multiplied by the amount of time spent searching is equal to the sum of their affection. With certain items, say a pair of pyjamas, I wouldn't even bother with the maths.

Christmas is a terrifying time, when we tread a tightrope between lose and gain, love and hate. It is a time of judgment and assessment. It is a time of defining ourselves in relation to others and we do this by comparing. Comparing what we got to what they got. You gave a state of the art handmade juicer from Dusseldorf that took two weeks to find, she gave a pair of nylon mix socks from Target. The juicer was $628 less $2.50 for the socks that comes to a loss of $625.50.

It is an awkward situation, but just as awkward the other way around. You're suddenly aware that the giver has greater regard for you than you previously thought. You should also be aware they are simultaneously discovering, as they rip open the wrapping of a bargain basement CD of '70s love songs (**) you picked up at a newsagent, that you couldn't give a toss about them.

It is a time for questions. How many items of rubbish can I grab at the $2 shop, put in a box and send to the relatives I never see to make it appear I care? Can I make a family of five happy for $10, including postage?

And though you are loathe to admit it, it is a time for getting what you want. In the months preceding the big day you've hinted at the perfect gift. You thought you were subtle, casually dropping the name of the object into every conversation for the past three months. You discussed your favourite colour, left notes on the fridge, when the ad appeared on TV you fainted with desire. If you had written it in blood on your forehead it couldn't have been more obvious.

Then the moment of truth arrives when you tear away the wrapping paper and the gift is not quite what you were expecting. The look of sadness that slurries across your face is impossible to disguise. That pretence of a smile curling into a sneer. The moisture in the corner of your eyes. That interminable silence as the room awaits your reaction. There is only one response you can ever make: "I love it! WOW! Who would have thought of that for a present? A Batik handbag and a plastic folding straw look sunhat. Only you Nan, only you could have got me that."

Even when given the option of an easy out we fail to take it. How often have you stood there inanely smiling while a voice says, "if it doesn't fit you can take it back, or swap it for something you like".

You want to be honest but you find yourself lying. "No, it looks great on me!" You long to say, in as gentle a way as possible, "it's the wrong colour, the wrong size, I hate it! Get me something decent! I don't care if it is lam on Christmas Day. Take it back! How could you think, even in your most deluded fantasy, that I would think that thing is attractive?"

Your mind is screaming, "It's crap!" But the words that dribble out of your mouth are "no, no, it's fine. It'll stretch".

With all this talk about buying presents and the cost of living, you may think I have lost the Christmas spirit. You may think I have forgotten the true meaning of the festive season. And you're right, Christmas is not about buying things, it's about selling them and selling them at outlandishly high prices.

* This is a sadly archaic phrase that does not extend "goodwill" to all our sisters.

** Not by the original artists.

Concerning the lie

Is it a mid life crisis that makes Paul McDermott want to tell the truth?

An expanse of shimmering white paper lies before me. It is virgin cartridge, fresh from the box and unsoiled by human hands. The smell of ink rises to my nostrils and my hand trembles. Once I release this "blue black" genie from the Quink bottle where he resides there will be no turning back. At the first touch of the nib, ink will forever scar the paper. It will permeate the fibres. The blue/black against the white will appear like a bruise. The mark is indelible. I touch the paper. I write a few words, then I falter.

The bruise stares back at me, a coherent statement of my guilt. The words accuse me for a moment before being consigned to the bin. It is a difficult task I have undertaken. I am about to tell the truth and that is an arduous undertaking for a liar.

I have come to the stage where I must admit the indiscretions of youth and take on the mantle of journalistic responsibility. Although I do maintain anything written is subjective, truth (which is not absolute) is open to interpretation and one person's truth is someone else's big fat filthy porker.

In previous lives I have toyed with the media. I have lied outright on occasion. The sins of Helen Demidenko seem insignificant by comparison. What is a book with a couple of borrowed phrases when the greater part of my adult life has been a fabrication? Perhaps only expelled members of Cabinet with their business diaries "as a work of fiction" can appreciate the true depth of the fib.

We are all plagiarists, liars and cheats. Some of us have the misfortune of being caught. I am making a clean breast of it, here and now, believing there will be some sympathy. A few understanding people will say he is a liar but at least he is honest about it.

When it came to the interview I was compulsive. Imagine my joy at reading in The Times that Doug Anthony* was the assassinated prime minister of Australia, killed on the 11th of the 11th '75 by members of the right wing. Or that Sir Joh was Australia's Nelson Mandela. Or that Pauline Hanson is a clever parody created by a university revue:

In all the years of lying, I never once picked up the paper and was disappointed. There is a moral in there somewhere but what message would I be sending to the youth of this country? Deceit is not only fun; it can be profitable as well - at least it always has been for me and it seems it may be a prerequisite in the political arena.

The media has been under a great amount of scrutiny of late, and it should be. There are thousands of hack journalists spewing forth mountains of litigious claptrap. Endless diatribes to wade through to get to one perverted juicy snap by the paparazzi. There are legions of investigative journos with nonexistent codes of practice beaming at us every night. The time has come to draw the line.

I believe it is important, so that we understand each other, to set a guideline for this column.

I will not take myself out of context.

I will listen to what I am saying and transcribe it faithfully.

I will not try to back myself into a corner with clever questions written specifically to trip me up.

I will not chase myself over a back fence to secure a breathless interview concerning my faulty electrical procedures, my inability to erect a house or my stealing old folks' super.

I will not use sex as a gimmick to promote or tempt the more rabid members of society. (Unless there are damn fine, high quality graphics to accompany the text.)

I will not blame the Internet for every crime committed by a youth.

I will stick to the cold hard facts and not falsely romanticise a situation to gain favor.

Finally, I will attempt to restrain my desire to lie**. There is too much deceit in the world, too many easy excuses and too many cliches. Today we sail into a bright new future, a brave new world and this great nation of ours can once again hold her head up high and proclaim herself the lucky country.

* Doug Anthony is one of the most charismatic leaders this country has ever seen and he continues to inspire children all around the world.

** I work at a computer. There was no shimmering paper, no genie and I have absolute faith in the honesty of the Government and the men and women who work tirelessly, often in two places at once, to make our world a little bit better.

This is the first of Paul McDermott's weekly columns for Sunday Life!

Rites of passages

Stuck at a T junction in the corridors of power, Paul McDermott looks for room to move.

Corridors are haunting me. They fill my dreams and in my waking hours I find they enclose me. I am trapped and tortured by the mere thought of them. I see them everywhere as part of everything. I have tried to avoid them but it is to no avail.

Once I leave the safety of the room, I am in one. There is another leading to the front door. There is no other way out of the house so I am forced to use one to leave my own home. Then I find myself in another and another. The places I work are riddled with there. Look around, you could be in one right now.

I am not limiting my notion of the corridor to a carpeted stretch of floor from the front door to the kids' bedrooms, a useless ante chamber cluttered with trinkets, books and framed photos of the family. I see the corridor as any space that serves to separate or "unite" two distinct areas. They are the spaces between spaces, segments between rooms.

They are meant to link spaces, but to me they create division. We have an over reliance on them. They turn our houses into rabbit warrens, our buildings into Swiss cheese, our lives into misery.

Picture, if you will, your most potent memory of a corridor. The hospital corridor? The corridor outside the principal's office? The corridor of a prospective employer? The endless weaving corridors of bureaucracy? I have begun to loathe and fear them. They are an anti space space, a form of architectural purgatory, a linear maze.

There are two popular theories as to their origin. One claims they are descendants of the aqueduct and other forms of Roman plumbing. The leadlined tubes that carried the ablutions of the empire were enlarged to carry people, the purpose being very similar.

The other is that they became a fundamental part of European architecture during the reign of Victoria and symbolise the worst excesses of puritanism. Their function was to shield, to disguise and to hide.

We speak of the "corridors of power" because we know this is where true power lies, skulking around a corner outside the honesty of the room. They were put in place so delicate conversations could not be overheard, so parents could conceal their passions, so governments could plan and conspire. They were designed to throw up a veil of secrecy and separate age from youth, men from women, knowledge from innocence.

Where a fine room will make a statement, a corridor will always pose a question. If I venture this way, what will become of me? What is at the end of this passage? Even as I write there is one corridor stretching off to my left and another off to my right. I am stuck in the middle, a rat at a T junction

Of late I have started to wonder about their real purpose. They have begun to infiltrate the arts. They have been in paintings, poems and referenced in songs. Corridors are where most of the action takes place in thriller, horror and adventure films.

They are a means of escape from which there is no escape. They have even appeared in mature, dramatic pieces. Bergman was prone to a corridor now and then. They also inhabit the four elements. We have corridors of fire, air, earth and water.

They lie in wait in cinemas, cathedrals and casinos. Every time you switch on the television, you can see them lurking in the background. In most computer games you battle in endless mutating artificial corridors.

Lifts are merely cramped vertical corridors that dump you at long horizontal ones. They also come disguised as modes of transport (corridors with wheels) trains, buses and trams. And what is an aeroplane, if not a corridor with wings.

When we are born we are forced out of a corridor of flesh into the harsh glare of life. Is it any wonder that as we depart this world there is another corridor, a corridor of light? No one, who has come back to us, has made it all the way along this final corridor. No one can tell us what's there or where it takes us. The tales of the journey are vague, often confused and yet they all agree on one point: a long corridor with a bright light at the end. Is it a passageway to heaven or an after image burnt on to the optic nerve as our brains give out? Probably just an infinite corridor: One last eternal joke at our expense.

Gods of modern living

Paul McDermott discovers our spiritual G spot is stimulated when the conversation turns a bit deity.

Science and religion have always been strange bedfellows. Over the centuries they have been as close as lovers, as distant as bitter enemies. They have often looked in opposite directions to find they shared the same point of view Occasionally they' lie back, light up and congratulate each other. This happened recently when a scientist discovered the so called "God spot" a part of our brain that sparks with electrical energy whenever the name of God is mentioned.

Every society has had its gods often the more the merrier. It made a lot. of sense to have a different god for every different thing. A god for water, fire, earth, sunflowers, cats. You wanted victory in war pray to Mars; a good harvest sacrifice a virgin.

In this day and age of high stress and constant pressure, we need our faith to strengthen us. We have not lost our urge to create gods; they abound as never before. The "God spot" is as active as ever. We.require new gods and these new gods deserve our respect and recognition.

Like the old gods, they are small minded and Perry and couldn't care less about eternal struggles between good and evil. We invoke them whenever we call on them for help.

I lived in a flat where we would, call upon the God of Hot Water. "Please, God, let there be a few minutes of heat before I freeze." The God of Hot Water always seemed to be deaf until we made a monetary sacrifice to one of his high priests, a plumber called Ron. There is the God of the Radio, who can torment or tantalise. The God of Let The Takeaway Be Open. We ask the God of the Car Park to find a space for us at the crowded . shopping mall. For the little God of Money to plant coins at the back of the couch. For the God of. the Street to leave something good in the skip. To the God of Washing to return the other sock. To the God of the Bank to make the ballpoint work. To the God of Sleeping In On Sunday Morning to stop that person playing the French horn.

Some gods seek to make life more difficult for their own delight. These are playful, fickle gods, from the line of Loki, Norse god of mischief. Praying to them is a waste of time a bloody sacrifice is the only way to gain their attention. Every morning and evening we cram ourselves into their moving cathedrals. We mere mortals are their playthings, clumsy lumps of dough in desperate need of their assistance. It is only by accepting them into our lives that we can reach our final destination.

They are the Gods of Transport. A triumvirate of minor deities who wreak havoc with our fragile faith in the written word of the timetable. They are, in order of cruelty, the God of the Bus, the God of the Train and the God of the Cab.

I am forced to believe the Gods of Transport exist. The only other conclusion one can reach is too devastating, too frightening. With malicious forethought transport services are conspiring to make our lives a living hell.

What little prayer do you murmur after a long day at work? If you are like me, you pray to the Television God. "Please let there be something good on the television. Oh God, let there be something good." And is there something good? No, there's never anything good. And why not? Because the Television God does not exist We invented him. We created the Television God to fill an unhappy void in our lives. The Television God doesn't exist, so it does you no service to pray to him. You've got to pray to the God of Programming. And the God of Programming is the most self important, talentless, middle of the road, arse licking, glorified accountant the universe ever had the displeasure to fart into existence.

After all this talk of God, your "God spot" should be hyperactive. Electrical energy pulsing in that section of your brain that believes in a higher authority, a greater force in the universe. Did some, celestial being place it there or did it develop as a way of ordering society? No doubt science and religion will battle it out again to find another answer that (cads to yet another question.

Concerning cockroaches

As cockroaches threaten to take over Paul McDermott's life, he comes up with a novel solution.

I am at war. I am at war with an adversary who does not recognise the suffering of war nor art of war. An adversary whose resources are limitless and who is more numerous than the stars. The cockroach. The war began after they sabotaged a latenight snack. A crack team of SAS roaches infiltrated the stayfresh bag my life would never be the same.

It was late and I fixed myself a small reward. The reward, a bowl of a well known breakfast cereal, dates back to my childhood and affords me some small comfort when I am feeling depressed. Pouring out the golden flakes of corn a hard, dark husk loitered at the bottom of the bowl. My eyes being weak and my responses slow, I thought it was nothing more than a "golden flake" that had been overcooked. A black sheep in a field of corn, a hunk of charcoal, a little bit of cereal gristle.

I poured the milk. The gristle moved. It twitched.

Its tiny ugly antennae unfurled. A polished exoskeleton scuttling over my golden flakes. Filled with disgust and revulsion, I picked the offending creature out of the infested mire and crushed it My reward was ruined by the minuscule monster and, distraught, I threw the bowl into the sink.

This incident alone failed to push me over the brink. It was the surprise attack moments later that caused me to snap.

I went to change the fax paper. I lifted the hood on the machine and recoiled as five roaches fled the light. The new run in their campaign shocked me. I had staked out most areas that contain food or scrapings of skin, but I never thought that they would attempt to infiltrate the machines.

To battle the cockroach, I have had to think as they do. Our needs are remarkably similar - eat, eat, reproduce, eat I have put myself in their shell. Each day the differences are becoming less distinct - the boundaries are beginning to blur. There is still one major difference between the roaches and myself. They do not pay rent.

I have tried to live in harmony with nature, but I live in absolute hatred of cockroaches. Do not mistake me, I do not fear them: the emotion that I feel is deeper and darker than that It is an awareness of "the truth".

They inhabit the same space, they eat the same food, they frolic in the same bed. Under my roof they have the same rights as me. It is a struggle for life and only the strongest will survive. I have bombed, baited, laid traps, mixed obscene concoctions developed on the isle of Haiti. I have danced naked in the moonlight, prayed to pagan gods and killed with my bare thumb. Still the hideous hordes continue to pour from every nook and cranny.

All methods to eradicate them have failed. I have made intricate notes concerning the effectiveness of the various agents of roach death: I am Vlad the impaler, Genghis Khan, Pol Pot I am numbered among those who enjoy the fever pitch of battle and display their victims as trophies. I have ritualised the deaths of my loathsome adversaries I wear their shattered carcasses as a necklace.

In Spain a broken army crucified to show the resolve of the emperor and what happens to those who oppose his rule. I have crucified the roaches on Paddle Pop sticks evenly spaced on the main road to the fridge. This is what happens to all who defy the might of Rome.

You may think that all this has brought me some measure of comfort. It has not The one small joy in death I find is contained within the "Cockroach Hotel". What a marvellous deuce. TV has lost all interest for me. I sit in an armchair and gaze at my captives as they writhe in agony attempting to escape their fate. As they twist out of their skins, snap their limbs, I watch, I have no desire to channel surf. It's all there on that sticky toxic piece of cardboard - life, death, the eternal struggle.

I have, you may argue, lost my humanity in this struggle. But, in this war surrounded, by constant death, I have found a clarity to life I have never known before. I have seen the truth and am not afraid to speak it We have all heard when we destroy our planet, cockroaches will rule the earth. Why do we attempt to delude ourselves, they rule it now.