Holidays Not Only Start Romances...

I may have just caused a divorce.

To be clear, I didn't create or place the explosive charge, but I may have leaned on the detonator.

I am currently on the cruise ship Pacific Jewel, hugging the Queensland coast. I don't perform until tonight, so at the moment the passengers have no idea that I'm part of the crew. So, when I stood next to one particular passenger at the buffet line, she thought I was simply another sun-lover on holiday (although a glance at my pale complexion might suggest otherwise).

Not everyone would be concerned by the fact that the crab salad was next to the coleslaw, however crab is one of my extensive portfolio of allergies; a small amount ingested, and it would look like I was growing my own neck brace, my lips would swell beyond the desires of the most addicted plastic surgery recipient, my tongue would fatten so much that it would feel like I was trying to chew a bouncy castle, and breathing would take an effort usually reserved for pushing a reluctant teenage elephant. I watched as she took a share of the personally toxic food, and then declined to set the contaminated tongs back down, instead heading them to the salad of my goal. I had to act quickly, touching her on the shoulder and saying “excuse me, please don't.”

She turned, the indignant fire that filled her stout frame burning brightly in her eyes. She was clearly annoyed by the interruption, and downright offended by the fact that I dared place a hand on her, managing to communicate her outrage with the mere word “what?”. With the amount of force and bile she managed to pack into that one syllable, I'm guessing that one of her ancestors can be found in the Bible, wielding a trumpet at Jericho.

As a crew member, I need to tread carefully, in case any perceived misdeed ends up on paper. So, I have made my own effort at condensing, trying to combine politeness, clarity and brevity into my explanation. Apparently the element I missed was believability, as when I have told of my shellfish allergy, she has immediately snapped back with “oh, you are not!”. This took me aback for a moment – my brain whirled with the idea that either she had assessed me medically and come to a different diagnosis, or she thought I had nothing better to do than to police utensil usage in the buffet line. Fighting every urge towards sarcasm, I have played back with a straight bat - “No, I rea-”

“That's really rude! You're really rude, what do you care which tongs I use?”

Part of my thought process was doing a systems check to establish if I'd had a stroke, and wasn't in fact speaking in English. The rest was formulating a response, but the reply that came back wasn't mine.

“Oh, you stupid cow!”



When many couples go on holiday, they have a chance to get away from the grind of the real world, and reconnect in a relaxing setting. Others, however, find out that they are now spending more time together than they're comfortable with. As this lady's husband continued, there was the distinct tone of a camel's back giving way.

“He's got a bloody allergy, why do you get to cause a ruckus just because you can't be bothered changing tongs?”

Intra-couple arguments are called “domestics” because they're supposed to be held at home. This one had become a spectator sport, if you can picture more than half of the spectators trying to focus on anything else in the room. From the few grabs of the resulting din I could pick out, there were accusations of lack of support, quick tempers, and knowing that a cruise was a bad idea (as far as this pair were concerned, they had the rest of the room's silent agreement). After another long, loud minute, the husband has leaned in and snapped “you know what? I'm done.” With that, he has turned and stormed off, leaving behind both his tray, and an awkward silence of such thickness that it could have been used to make a bank vault door.

For ten points and a chance at the bonus round, answer this question; who Lady Shriek's gaze next fall upon?

Fortunately for me, embarrassment set in, and she made her own exit, in the opposite direction to her husband. The silence took a little longer to ebb, but eventually, with a few arched eyebrows between strangers, people have returned to their meals, left to wonder about a possible sequel (to the cabin steward working in this couple's area, I apologise).


And I ended up passing on the coleslaw.

Be vewwy, vewwy quiet... I'm hunting ignorance

Ever since I saw the first interview on Australian commercial television with a Muslim after September 11, 2001, I've thought that certain people shouldn't be at the helm of public debate. Of course, everyone has the right to an opinion, but some are all too ready to set an agenda when, frankly, they'd have trouble setting a watch. For those of you fortunate enough to not remember the interview, the crack journalist asking the questions was Richard Wilkins, and answering them was Anthony Mundine.

This pattern has continued recently - a talk radio station in Melbourne recently hosted an on-air discussion of the appropriateness in Australian society of the burqa. One of the key voices in the exchange... John-Michael Howsen. His lack of objectivity might have been given away by his response to the idea of ever personally talking to a Muslim - "No, I don't want to. Frankly I have no need to." And while the producers had contacted Sherene Hassan, from the Islamic Council of Victoria, to contribute, it was allegedly Howsen's protests that changed the producers' minds. After all, why would you want to hear from an Australian Muslim about whether or not the burqa is un-Australian? Picking one part of this scenario that offends me may seem to neglect the others, but beyond the xenophobic outrage wrapped in national pride, like gold leaf decorating a soiled nappy, what stuck me was this - why is someone who cut his media teeth as a leech on the arse of Hollywood celebrity culture telling anyone about what is un-Australian? By that logic, the next time my car needs a service, I'll take it to a butcher... no, I'll take it to someone who does nothing but talk about butchers.

At least, with his "Stay In The Closet" column in the Herald Sun, Jason Akermanis was writing as a footballer talking to other footballers. And he does have one convincing point... for the first AFL footballer to publicly admit being gay, he will have a tough road to walk. But it doesn't take long for the article to go sideways - the threat that such an admission could "break the fabric of a club". Is small-mindedness something to be protected, then? Trust me, it's not rare enough to be endangered. And if he is correct with this assessment, then rip away, and then a new fabric can be woven without the pointless fear.

Akermanis references other players' potential "discomfort" - ironic, considering a large part of a footballer's job is dealing with physical pain. The thing about discomfort, and awkwardness, is that they are temporary. Human beings adapt to far more arduous circumstances than being uncomfortably close to one of them.

A further irony is that, considering the backlash that Akermanis' column has received, he has probably made the football environment more conducive to the first official AFL Closet Exit. From gentle counter-argument to howls of derision, the majority of responses, from the public and the football establishment, have been of the "who gives a crap" variety. Before an obvious retort comes out, I can tie my own shoelaces, and am okay to operate cooking equipment ninety-five percent of the time, so I am not foolish enough to think that this goodwill translates directly to the locker room environment. However, considering the fortunate position professional footballers find themselves in - namely doing something that people love and do for free regularly, but for ridiculous amounts of money - they should show the heart, determination, and one-game-at-a-time grit to shut up and cope.

I honestly don't think that Akermanis is homophobic, just misguided. Waiting for a culture to change is futile; brave people are needed to bring the change. In hoping that, some day, "the environment changes to a degree where coming out isn't a big deal", Jason is waiting for Godot, when we need a person, or people to show enough courage to drag Godot onto the stage.

And if, in the scuffle, someone should accidentally knock John-Michael Howsen into the orchestra pit... I can live with that.

Generation Why?-Because-It's-There

Ask a few people over thirty-five about the creature known as the Modern Teenager, and a couple of themes are likely to appear; the stereotype seems to involve a sense of entitlement, and a shunning of unnecessary motion - with a distinct definition of “unnecessary”. Certainly the word “adventurous” doesn't come up much, unless it's referencing a recent purchase for the Wii. Two teens have been in the news recently for bucking this trend, possibly doing their generation a great disservice in the process.

Firstly, Jessica Watson's around-the-world sail concluded. I must admit, when the sixteen-year-old took off, I agreed with the gale of commentators who were proclaiming her to be a more telegenic Tony Bullimore: a recue mission waiting to happen. When her craft collided with a freighter during a test-sail, I was eye-rolling and eyebrow-arching to an Olympic standard, ready to add my voice to the chorus demanding that her parents contribute to the Navy's costs of plucking her out of the ocean. However, Watson has responded to the dangers, difficulties and doubts with a resounding “whateva.”

Adding to this, American Jordan Romero is planning to be the first thirteen-year-old up Everest. The urge to scoff is almost irresistable – not only is he just barely a teenager, but an American! Surely this is just a more macho version of the same genetic disorder that created children's pageants! In my case, the scoffing lasted just long enough to discover that when it comes to collecting views from the top of each continent's highest peak, Romero has already pocketed the other six.

What Jess and Jordan may not realise, however, is that their efforts are a weapon, useable by parents everywhere. Adolescents around the world will be hearing either or both of these tales, finishing with “...and you can't even clean your room!” As you read these words, Facebook statuses are going unupdated, and iPods sit dormant, as youths suffer from comparisons to these two intrepid kids. When I look back at myself age sixteen, the assessment is no prettier; I would fend off physical activity by brandishing my Ventolin like a crucifix against vampires. At thirteen, I was as motivated as a doona, as adventurous as tupperware, and as co-ordinated as a drunken Labrador in clogs. At ten, the same age that Romero scaled Mt Kilimanjaro, I'd need oxygen and sherpas to climb the monkey bars... assuming that I had time to set up base camp before recess ended.

So, let us congratulate Jessica as she discovers that she can't leave her sea-legs on the boat, wish Jordan well in his attempt at the top of the world, and realise two things – generalisations are always going to sell some people short, and when compared to the best of our generation, most of us are going to look a tad shiftless. And, if you listen carefully, you might hear the following plaintive cry across the night breeze...


“Aw MUUuuUM, I'll climb Everest TOMORROWuh!”

Ode to the Fragile

I'm starting to get offended about just how easily some people are offended.

Two of my colleagues have hit the news over Twitter postings they made during the Logies, one losing her column-writing job in the process. The point I need to make immediately is that if you don't like someone's work, avoiding their Tweets is marginally more difficult than breathing.... that is, up until they "become news". Then, apparently, they become thrust in front of decent folk everywhere, causing these people to voice (or at least type) their outrage, else their restless indignation wander the Earth, unable to find peace, and needing to go bump in the night.

The pivotal Tweet from Catherine Deveney, that apparently was too much for her employers at The Age to bear, was a reaction to a certain child's appearance;

"I do so hope Bindi Irwin gets laid"

To take this as an actual endorsement, or even excusing, of paedophilia (which some of the respondents to various news articles have done) is a mixture of oversensitivity and hysteria. In fact, the line uses the natural revulsion to such activities to make its point - not that I would ever speak for any of my colleagues, especially one as forthright as Catherine. It is a gag that is not to everyone's tastes, nor is it meant to be - it was for the followers of Catherine's Twitter page. However, its subject matter is someone who, somewhat ironically, appears to have become a protected species... another comic, Fiona O'Loughlin, also courted controversy by making a couple of televised jokes at Bindi's expense.

The thing that concerns me is that there seem to be a few itchy trigger fingers, waiting to open fire on any perceived wrongdoing by comedians, ever since a certain sketch on The Chaser's War On Everything. The sketch, which created the Make A Reasonable Wish Foundation, caused consternation all the way up to the Prime Minister - which was ridiculous. For foreign readers, or those who don't remember, the sketch involved sick kids being given worthless gifts, on the basis that they were going to die anyway. Again, the League of the Easily Outraged was heard from, taking this as a mockery of sick children. This is, point blank, incorrect... in the same way that Geoff Brooks and Steve Blackburn's huckster creations The Dodgy Brothers weren't about mocking victims of con artists, the Make A Reasonable Wish sketch didn't poke fun at the kids themselves. The risk in any dark comedy is that it needs to be funny enough to overcome people's squeamishness, and the crime committed in this case was that the sketch wasn't funny (but then the Chaser team were always far less skilled at set comedic pieces than they were at audacious stunts).

And just to switch my mood from concerned to annoyed, CNN inserts another page in the Failure To Take A Joke file. Much has been made of the rise in the US of the Tea Party movement, a name chosen to add a domestic, homey feel to a far-right organisation. Apparently, President Obama has referred to their members as "Teabaggers". This, frankly, is funny. However, not only has it set the Palin Pack's teeth on edge, one response has been to declare that calling these neocons "Teabaggers" is the equivalent of using the n-word.

Pause while that sinks in.

Here's a message from one middle-class white person to this particular coven of upper- and middle-class white people. We have no equivalent of the n-word. We don't get one. Look at the scales here - one is a term of abuse and hatred used over hundreds of years, the other is a point of mockery that is a few months old. They are not equivalent. If I knock on your door and run away, that is not the equivalent of you burning down my house.

I think that it's time that the easily offended started taking responsibility for the protection of their own quivering hearts. I take a large dislike to the work of Andrew Bolt and Sam Newman... so I avoid it. It isn't hard. If your sense of personal calm is that fragile, whack on a Wiggles DVD, and leave the risky chat to the grown-ups.

ADDENDUM - just as I was getting ready to post, I read how Ellen DeGeneres has apologised to Apple, over a sketch involving the iPhone. If you get the chance, read a book called "Manufacturing Consent", to find out how powerful capitalism can be as a force for censorship, and keep in mind how necessary this makes organisations like the ABC in Australia, and Britain's BBC.