Real Tart

After businessman Sol Trujillo came out and called Australia racist and backward there’s been a predictable response from people here.
The Victorian Premier, Cyril Brumby, or whatever his name is, said there was no racism and made the point that Australia was multicultural and over 40 per cent of people in Victoria were immigrants. From a professional journalist’s perspective I was ashamed that no journalist asked the obvious question of Brumby: “Oh really, why does being multicultural and having 40 per cent immigrants mean Australia isn’t racist?”
I mean, it’s like saying in Germany in 1934 there were 2.5 million Jews. While not making a direct comparison I’m sure anyone with an ‘O’ level in, say, knitting can see the stupidity of simply saying, we have ex-number of immigrants therefore we’re not racist.
Meanwhile, as it happens, India’s Foreign Minister, M.S Krishna has hit out at what the Sydney Morning Herald calls, “an apparently racially motivated attack on four Indian students earlier this week which left Sravan Kumar Theerthala fighting for his life in intensive care in a Melbourne hospital”.
For those of you who don't know, Melbourne is the State capital of Victoria and it's Premier is....oh come on, pay attention at the back!
Also, earlier this month a 21-year-old student, Sourabh Sharma, was bashed by a gang on a Melbourne train, and last year two Indian students working as taxi drivers were seriously assaulted.
"We will also impress upon the Australian authorities that such attacks should not be permitted and that it is their responsibility to ensure the well-being and security of our students studying in Australia," Mr Krishna said.
He also sent India's High Commissioner to Australia, Sujatha Singh, to Melbourne to "assess the situation" and to ensure that those responsible for the latest attacks are "brought to book".
The attacks have received widespread publicity in India over the past two days.
"Australia, land of racism" screamed a headline in the influential Economic Times yesterday, and some news blog sites were swamped with comments accusing Australians of racism.
The story also featured prominently on many Indian television news channels, which showed video surveillance footage showing Sourabh Sharma being brutally bashed by a gang on a Melbourne train.
But no, there is no racism here – you just ask Premier Brumby.

Now, in brighter news, Six’s latest milk tooth has fallen out after five days of hanging there like a chad. The Tooth Fairy gave him $2 this time around because of the relief in this house – ie: no more whingeing and sucking spaghetti like he was emptying a drain.

Three is a bit worried his teeth will also fall out and believes it may be all in one go and happen sometime this afternoon.

I went round to Jerome’s yesterday so the kids could play with his girls. We had a fine time and Jerome and I stood out on the back deck while he had a smoke and in the mist and dripping rainforest stretching away we talked about stuff and listened to the call of the bell bird.
Seems he doesn’t need to go into the office very often and people just “call me so I can give advice.”
Jerome’s boss lives next door and if that isn’t a lightly armoured Mercedes-Benz in the driveway I'm a Chinaman.
We’ll find out more on the weekend...

The Bentley is in for a service today. Can you believe, it’ll be the first time the brakes have needed replacing in 10 years, though in fairness it has done only 90,000kilometers, and of course my driving style rarely includes braking.
While it’s in I’m tooling around in the Peugeot 206. This is the most unreliable car I’ve ever owned, not even surpassed by the Citroen ZX which was stupendously unreliable (and made by the same company, as it happens...).
The Pug – designed by the French but made in England, really what chance did it have - is eight years old but within 14,000km, so about 8000 miles in old money, I had to have the power steering replaced twice. The litany of other problems is too long to list here, or anywhere for that matter.
Anyhow, on the Bentley...back when I was a full-time motoring journalist I used to go on advanced driving courses, partly so I could write about them and partly to make me a better driver.
When I was in the US about 15 years ago I managed to get on one of the more bizarre courses. Organised out of Ford Bragg in North Carolina, it was an evasive driving course for secret service and covert operations people. I could write about it but you know, no names, etc, otherwise I actually do think they could have killed me.
The instructor, a sergeant with steel blue eyes and one of those crew cuts you don’t want to touch because it will injure you, said on the first day, “Gentlemen, your automobile is your weapon.” I said, “but what if it is a Bentley?” which they all tittered about.
“Sir,” he drawled, “the Bentley is your finest automotive weapon of all time.” We all laughed and then he shouted at me, “Sir! If you do interrupt me one more time I will take your bootlaces and tie you to that damn Bentley and drive it off the nearest cliff edge, sir! Do I make myself clear! Sir!”
Yes, it was a lot of fun and I never knew you could use a Bentley ashtray to disembowel a man.
The main point is, one of the people on the course, a bloke called Jerome from Alabama, was in the Navy Seals which is the US’s equivalent of the SAS, only they swim better. Jerome is a fine person.
Imagine my surprise back on Friday when I saw Jerome in the school playground. Oh yes.
I thought I must be mistaken (though I never forget a face) because he bent over fussing over a little girl who would be his daughter. He lifted his head and looked right at me and smiled, so he knew I was there. He patted the daughter on the head and she skipped off. He walked over to me and stood by my side as the Principal called assembly to order and he said out of the side of his mouth, “Used that Bentley on anyone yet, sir?”
It seems, coincidence of coincidences, that Jerome is now a professor of oceanography, has married an Argentinean woman, speaks fluent Spanish as well as Alabaman, lives just up the road from us and has two daughters, one of whom is in my son’s class. They’ve just moved here from Buenos Aires.
They’re coming around for a meal on the weekend so hopefully I’ll find out what he’s been up to in the last decade, and perhaps more importantly, what he’s really doing here in the mountains...

Sol Trujillo, an American who was running Telstra, the part state-owned telecoms giant, has just left the building after an eventful few years which saw the company battling with the government and its share price plummeting.
He wasn’t popular. But now he’s caused a new controversy with his claims that Australia is both racist and backward.
Of course, Aussies are rushing to deny it, saying Sol is a loser.
Well...if I’d got a dollar for every time I’ve been called a Pommy bastard – er, just to my face – I’d be driving the latest Bentley GTC now and have had it pimped up too, with enough change to buy a Rolls-Royce convertible. Pom and Pommy are a derogatory terms that Australians believe are acceptable because they so commonly use them. So, Paki bastard is obviously okay too, as is Jew bastard.
People of Italian descent are commonly referred to – sometimes by themselves it should be said – as Wogs. Can you believe it?
And when you scratch the surface a lot of Australians really hate the English. Some of them think we’re arrogant. I have no idea what they mean.
I mean, really, all we did was send Captain Cook across the oceans for six months, find this country, tell the Aborigines it was now ours, told the French to bais off, brought over some blokes to get some buildings and roads put in, installed democracy and the rule of law and then handed it over lock, stock and barrel, and not a farthing changed hands.
And do you know, I’ve never had one Australian thank me.

...is the first line from Simon & Garfunkel’s Sounds of Silence.
Back about 20 years ago I had tickets to see S&G somewhere in London but I got the flu or something and couldn’t go. At the time I thought I’d never get the chance to see them again because they were so old. In fairness they probably weren’t really that old but I was seeing it from the viewpoint of a 20-something boy and I say that because men are boys until they are at least 45 and sometimes 50, and sometimes it never happens...I know, madam, sadly it’s true.
Well, now S&G  are coming to Sydney in June and I managed to get tickets. They cost a motza, almost $400 can you believe!
They have this Ticketek system here where you don’t talk to anyone, you just key details in on the phone, realising at the last second that your credit card has been sucked with a similar skill and dexterity offered for free by those who skim your card at crooked ATMs. You get no option of which seat you want either.
Anyhow, I swallowed it because I want to see S&G on stage before I die...
Here’s the thing though; a week after opening ticket sales they were advertising it again.
Of course, back in the ‘60s I imagine an S&G gig was packed but now some of the regulars probably can’t go on account of hip and knee replacements and zimmer frames and wearing felt hats with a brim sitting on ears which look flapping huge as you’re following them in their 1982 Ford Granada Ghia X in gold with the nodding dog on the back parcel shelf and you’re thinking, Jesus Christ pull over and why does he grip the steering wheel – at the top – with such a tight on-the-edge-of-a-cliff grip. Maybe they can’t remember their own names let alone Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, which let’s face it is a mouthful anyway, so perhaps there’s not a lot of demand for S&G tickets.
Well, knock me down with an electric buggy with a flag on it, now they’re advertising them at $70 a ticket! It’s making my blood boil. I mean those of us who paid almost $400 (well, maybe it’s only me...) are going to be in a right mood before it even kicks off. Frankly for that sort of money I expect to be taken out for dinner afterwards by Paul and Art, followed by a night on the town – or perhaps we’ll just go back to their hotel room for a hot chocolate and a bit of a lie down.

I’ve been reading a lot lately, so I’m going to do a really quick run-down.

The Eye of the Abyss by Marshall Browne
One-eyed bank auditor, 1939, Germany, doesn’t like Nazis.
Real gripper, well written.

The Iron Heart by Marshall Browne
Excellent follow-on to above. Makes you feel like you’re there. Nazis really not very nice, hope there’s more to come in this series.

Sail by James Patterson
Formula, formula, formula and then a bit of formula, Patterson makes another zillion.

The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas
Kid gets slapped at BBQ. Could be boring but it’s really good, confronting at times. Bloody well written.

The Coast Road by Peter Corris
Writes two easy-to-read Aussie thrillers every year but still only makes $12K a year. Please give generously...

Devil May Care by Sebastian Faulks
A James Bond thriller, set in the 60s. Costs $36 but I got it for $18, enough said.

Tsar by Ted Bell
Suspend disbelief while reading...Russia has a new Tsar, oh yes it does, and he’s a nutter but British spy is up to task of shagging the bloke’s daughter, er sorry, I mean rescuing the world. Really this should be awful but it’s well written and gripping.

The Laws of Nuclear Thermodynamics and Cross-Transfer of Polymer Regeneration in Tibet by Crispin Douglas
Excellent. The table is no longer wobbly.

I went to the P&C meeting the other night. This is Parents & Citizens, which is the same as your PTA in the UK (well, it used to be called the PTA...). basically you sit around in the staffroom from 7.30pm and discuss cream cakes, how to make your pies rise nice and golden brown and what to do if your child overdoses on lime cordial. Oh yes, they also discuss things that are going on at school.
Latest news is that we’ve got $2.5million for a new school hall. This is courtesy of the government spending our money to try and keep people looking busy, busy, busy in these challenging economic times. Multiplex are going to build it. These are the same people who couldn’t seem to finish Wembley Stadium, so I tell you, they fill me with confidence.
Now, $2.5m for a hall, I hear you ask. Yes indeed because though it could be built for a fraction of the cost if you used your local builders it seems this is a package price agreed with the government and a few choice companies like Multiplex. Is it suspect? Is the Pope a Catholic?
But, the school will soon have a spanking new hall. I asked if it would have air conditioning, which in this part of the world is about as necessary as shark repellent and all the women looked at me as if I’d asked them to undress and let me make them all pregnant quick as I could.
“Air conditioning!” said one of them. “That costs another $20,000.” Of course, how silly of me.
They also discussed the winter school uniform and why various bits of it are still not with us despite the weather turning very bitter indeed. To cut a long story short, if I was doing it I’d just go to Shanghai, take a uniform with me and get someone to run them up. The way it’s done here they have all sorts of middlemen who basically get to pocket lots of money and don’t seem to feel too obliged to come up with the goods, or is that just my suspicious mind?
One woman brought a uniform from another school to show us. I kid you not, this is what she said, “The material these are made of, look, it’s silky smooth and shiny and reflects the light. The great thing is, my friend, when her kids’ uniforms are dirty, she just gets them to stand in the shower.” A short period of silence followed this useful laundry tip.
The uniform was handed around and the women perused it and handled it and stroked like only regular clothes shoppers could do. One woman said, fingering the polyester blend, “I wonder if the girl’s tops are see-through.”
“Only when they’re in the shower,” I said drily.

I was asking around yesterday at Six’s school if anyone knew a chimney sweep. The way some of the mothers looked at me, with their nervous smiles, you’d have thought it was the first part of a joke, you know where you go boom-boom! at the end.
Thing is, everyone here has a slow combustion fire. I know this because you can smell the woodsmoke every night, and when we were looking at houses back last winter everyone had theirs on heating their homes. They are pretty efficient and because they’re essentially a closed fire (a glass door allows you to see what’s cooking...) they heat the house pretty well all on their own.
But...of course you have to get the chimney cleaned and it seems to me that nobody ever does that here.
One woman said to me, “Oh yes, my husband has a spiky ball. And he’ll come around your house.”
Interesting, I thought, but I want my chimney cleaned, not a vaudeville act in the living room.
But it seems what you do is climb on the roof (which frankly not even a possum would do thanks to the height, given it’s three storeys high, and the steep pitch of the roof and also it’s steel and so it’s pretty slippery), then dangle your spiky ball down into the chimney and lower it on a rope. The upshot, I’d imagine, is that it either rips the metal chimney pipe leaving it looking like a Scotsman at Culludon who’s charged an English cannon or – and of course it may do both these things – it fills your lounge room with choking soot four foot thick.
Anyhow, I found a proper chimney sweep and he’s coming around next week, though he did worry me a bit when he said, “I’ll send the boys around.”
Presumably they are small enough to be sent up the chimney to give it a proper clean.
Well, I’m all for tradition.

Well, I have a good excuse for my absence - I’ve been moving the firewood from the front driveway to the steel shed out back.
I bought three cubic metres of red gum which meant nothing much to me until the bloke with the truck dumped it on the drive. Put it this way, if you’d have climbed it you’d have been able to see China and would have needed an oxygen mask.
It took me two days to haul it out back. I felt like I was a contestant on Biggest Loser. I have to say, exercise is not all it’s cracked up to be.
That aside, I’m bashing on with Mr Wolf which is nearing the end of draft two. I just have a couple of plot turns to sort out and then I reckon once I’ve read it through again and dickered with it some more and given it to a couple of friends to read it’ll be ready to go to publishers. I’m getting pretty happy with it. I’ve also had an idea for a crime thriller (I know, yawn, but I reckon I’ve got a unique take with this one) which I’m thinking about a lot at the moment and it’s taking shape nicely, though only in my brain so far.
This morning Three fell over running into Six’s school and banged the back of his head. I think he might have given himself a bit of mild concussion because as soon as we got back home at 9.30am he went to sleep on the sofa and snored like an old man until 11.30. Then he sprang up and said, “I alright now. Where my lunch?”
That aside the two of them are driving me nuts with their arguments about nothing. A couple of days ago we were out in the Bentley, both of them strapped in their own back seats and Three says, “Six, don’t look out of my window.” Six replied that it wasn’t his window and so Three rapped hard on the glass several times and said, “Hear that, Six. That is the sound of my window.”
Another day as we drove along Six said, “Daddy, I’m just watching that cloud up there.” Three said, “Six, that is my cloud. Do not look at it.”