Many long years ago, a rather famous TV presenter asked me about being a wizard. I told her about all the spells I had cast and she confessed herself disappointed. It is hardly surprising, since the point is an especially abstruse one. What I told her about was mostly undergraduate humour. Why, she seemed to want to know, are you still doing this? I merely smiled and let it go, because it would have needed a great deal of exposition; and I wasn’t in the mood for it. Also it’s one of those things which if you have to explain, they won’t understand it anyway.
The underlying truth is that if you want to be a wizard and cast spells which will affect the world at large, then there is no other way to do it under current metaphysical conditions. Yes, you can imagine yourself to be an evil warlock casting spells on your enemies. Please don’t try. The overwhelming likelihood is that it won’t work. If it does, then you really *can* start worrying. This doesn’t end well, for you or anyone else. I have met a lot of self-styled witches. The young are often delusional, and mostly harmless. And sometimes they’re simply good. The old? That’s different. I have met real-life Nanny Oggs and Granny Weatherwaxes. It is more than probable that Sir Terry Pratchett did too. When we meet, there is mutual recognition. We incline heads to each other, and pass on. If you’re still practising witchcraft past the age of fifty, then you’re probably a force for good. Heaven help you if you aren’t.
Long ago I learned about the force of Levity: far more amusing and exciting than gravity. I was sufficiently inspired by this that I decided on what Nigel Molesworth would describe as a Wizard Wheeze. At my university’s Orientation Week I collected nine pages’ worth of signatures on a petition to the Victorian Parliament to abolish the law of gravity. I then defied the ghost of Isaac Newton on Parliament steps and presented my petition. Ian Cathie (then Minister for Science and Technology) played up to me nobly, and was interviewed on the ABC TV news about it. If Ministers of the Crown can keep a straight face under such conditions, why: this is a fine thing. I don’t know if the film clip is still around, but it certainly brightened up the daily news. Now this was a vintage stir: amusing, utterly harmless, and it lifted spirits everywhere. That’s a big tick. And not many, surely, can claim to have been made the subject of a Leunig cartoon:
And here we are planting a giant carrot in the Bourke St mall:
I did many other public spells during the 1980s, with varying degrees of success. My spiritual master advised us apprentice wizards to go out there and get our faces on TV and in the newspapers. I also presented the Archwizard’s South-Up world map (he thought of it first!) to the state Parliament and received this most courteous response:
I was rather proud of my campaign to welcome Halley’s Comet to our solar system: the culmination of which was a city centre demonstration during which Murgatroyd the Prophet waved a giant comet-on-a-stick which he had built, and walked miles carrying. I spoke to the Comet on my Hotline To Heaven:
and gave my assurance that we wouldn’t do any daft things like excommunicating it, as had happened during the pontificate of Pope Calixtus. I then conducted a thirty-voice choir singing the theme music to Dr Who arranged in six parts and waved sparklers around. I have been on TV many times in my uniform. Alas, on this occasion the TV cameras stayed away, which was rather a pity:
This was the specially designed (thank you, Susan!) choir T-shirt for the Dr Who theme:
The biggest and most successful was my campaign to undo the Bicentennial, which I had privately decided was filled with bad magic. Yes, yes, we’ve managed 200 years of white settlement here. So let’s have some amazingly expensive celebrations all over Sydney. Our First Nations folk were predictably grumpy. Why would they not be? But I wanted something different which would possibly unite us all. So I suggested that we should celebrate twenty million years of marsupial civilization in Australia. I wrote a Wombat Anthem, which I recorded (to the tune of Waltzing Matilda), accompanying myself on a creaky old pedal harmonium, and placed it on my answering machine. And suddenly … the whole thing took off.
There was also a fine interview on Channel Nine. I hope you may find it inspiring, or something.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YQj5NQGNAF0
Thanks, Mike. The post-production you caused to be layered over our interview (partly in my parlour, and partly halfway up my back garden ash-tree) was exceptionally good. There was a similar article in a popular magazine (above) and in the daily press:
Next thing I knew I was doing radio interviews like these:
Well, yes, of course! (Nothing else I could say, naturally.) I was relatively new in those days to talkback radio, but I managed all right. Now these are the sort of spells which make a difference to the world. It was a good thing in itself, and excellent training for when the Great Spells came along. Do wizardry this way and it will probably work. People should do things for fun. Earn your money elsewhere.
The Stock Exchange
In 1987 the stock market crashed. What of that? It brought to a (temporary!) end an absurd era of shysters, spivs and arrogant idiots who realized that on a rising market, you could make an imaginary fortune by loading yourself up with debt. Because the world’s financiers were living in a fantasy world, they threw unimaginable sums at these unthinkable dolts because they’d read somewhere that these were the Coming Men. Better jump on the bandwagon and throw more money at them! The gold standard for these unpleasant creatures was Alan Bond. His inglorious career has been extensively canvassed already. He lasted longer than the other spivs only because his platinum-plated arrogance was more assured than theirs. He bullied everybody, and they saluted him and said yes sir three bags full sir. He even sucked up to the Prime Minister and pretended to be his best mate. But he made a dreadful error in trying to muscle in on Lonrho. You don’t take on Tiny Rowland: the man who brought down Rhodesia. Rowland’s accountants went over Bond’s books and pronounced him insolvent, by a factor of billions. Bond finished up in prison. It suited him.
I had no wish, then or now, to indulge myself with rampant Schadenfreude. (Though I did whisper Wie Schade! to myself.) But at the time Australians were stunned, angry and afraid. A job for the wizard? Definitely. So I organized a demonstration outside Melbourne’s Stock Exchange. We flew kites, rode unicycles, and sang choral harmonies, and I informed the passers-by that the sun was still shining, the world had not come to an end, and any money which had suddenly evaporated wasn’t real anyway. I presented a kite to the Chairman and we all had a Grand Day Out. I like to think that this was a musical intervention which brightened the place up a bit, and lifted, if only somewhat, the general sense of doom.
The Perils Of Pauline
The election of someone like Pauline Hanson to the seat of Oxley in 1996 was in retrospect inevitable. After an unprecedented thirteen years of ALP government, those in the unregarded parts of Australia were completely jack of the whole thing. Bob Hawke had managed to hold the nation together; but his replacement by Paul Keating exacerbated tensions which had been gathering steam for a long time. It didn’t help that Keating, despite his gamecock virtues, was openly contemptuous of anybody who didn’t live in Sydney. If you’re not in Sydney, he famously proclaimed, then you’re camping out. Well, what about bloody us, then? We know you despise us. We’re blue-collar or lower middle-class and we’re completely bloody fed up with you and your Italian suits and your endless moralizing. You clock-worshipping, globe-trotting berk! Hey? I’m talking to you, Paul!
This was, it appeared, the voice of unfashionable Ipswich. The blue-collar brigade should always be listened to. Keating never understood the working class. He was never one of them. His absurd love of Second Empire France bewildered many who otherwise admired his rhetorical flights of fancy and his scorching contempt for what he regarded as class enemies. You can always negotiate with the working class as long as you don’t talk down to them. Keating didn’t know how to, and lost the election in a landslide. But the revolt of the lower-middle class is a perilous thing. Keating couldn’t talk to them at all. Neither can I, for that matter. I get on with almost everyone except them. It is they who support and buttress the world’s most odious tyrannies. They are born with a chip on both shoulders, and marinade themselves in perpetual grievance.
Pauline was all of that. Her xenophobic rhetoric was too much for the Liberal Party, who revoked her pre-selection. It didn’t matter. She went solo and won the seat anyway. Her maiden speech to the House set the nation by the ears. Fashionable Australia went into conniptions. She was roundly condemned all over the place. I was concerned, but I didn’t see it as any of my business. If asked, I would have pointed out that hating her only feeds her sense of grievance and increases her power. However, she then paid a flying visit to my home town which lasted a whole two hours. She thereupon told anyone who’d listen that in Footscray she felt like a foreigner. Because the Asians had taken over.
That changed everything. I could hardly ignore this. I had letters written to me by the local Council addressed to the Wizard of Footscray. And here was this fly-by-night blow-in stirring up racism on my very doorstep. All right, lady. Game on! So I went public. I called upon her to repent. We don’t have any Asians here! I thundered. Australasians we have in plenty. But Asians live in Asia. I offered her a dinner for two at my expense at my favourite Indian restaurant in Footscray, so she could see for herself the benefits of a multi-ethnic and multi-faith community. If she did not repent, I threatened to turn her into Bronwyn Bishop!
This wasn’t a private meditation. I went on TV and in the newspapers. My TV appearance was marked by the presence on my shoulder of my green soft-toy dragon. Her name is Pauline, and I have her still. I teased Hanson and pulled her leg with a smile. I was merely following the example of Jesus, who exhorted us all to love our enemies. And truly, I don’t think she knew how to deal with this. My letter to her she could well afford to ignore, as she did. Once I was in her face in the mass media she had no idea what to do about it; so she continued to pretend I wasn’t anyone important.
However. Her hair really did grow out from a Bart Simpson buzzcut into a luxurious Bishop-style bouffant. She fired her chief of staff – a ruthless and able fellow – and replaced him with someone she’d met on a cruise. Her nascent political party plunged into chaos. She lost her seat, briefly went to prison, and reinvented herself as a Senator. Because there were and still are enough lower-middle class folk with chips on their shoulders to give her a Senate quota in her home state. She and her Party are still with us. But she is and remains a national embarrassment. She has worn many borrowed robes in her time in politics. Not least of these was that she appeared to present as the Bogan Senator. That bogans should be represented in our parliament is unquestionable. We have far too many ambitious white-collar clones there already. But others far more worthy have supervened. Senator Lambie is everything Hanson is not. She actually listens to people. She is quite willing to admit she was wrong, and change her vote accordingly. She is a true proletarian, and is generally admired by an extraordinary range of voters. So, by the way, was Senator Muir, who won a seat with a tiny primary vote; shut up for six months until he felt he understood what was happening; politely ignored a delusional mountebank who regarded him as part of his voting bloc; and made up his own mind.
There is a narrative out there that the inner-city intelligentsia despise bogans. There is little truth in it. West Wing fans saw in both Muir and Lambie local versions of Mr Willis From Ohio. Some of my friends voted for Ricky Muir. So did I. Decent plain folk who speak their minds and cannot be bought off are still admired. And this is very much as it should be. I didn’t take on Pauline because she was a bogan. I regard her as an unscrupulous opportunist who will do and say almost anything to win votes and gratify her fathomless sense of grievance. I didn’t manage to banish her from our Parliament for good; but it seems pretty clear that I derailed her resistible rise to power. And for all those out there who offered her hatred and loathing, please learn from this. It only gives strength to her arm. Loving and humorous chastisement is the way to go.
Adventures In Banking
Part One of my intervention into the wonderful world of banking occurred in the mid-90s. This was a perilous time for my home village of Seddon. At the time electronic banking was still largely in the womb of time. Most shops relied on cash payments, which meant that shopping centres were utterly reliant on having local bank branches. The Commonwealth Bank was the last to close. Our village shopkeepers were devastated. My genial and generous supermarket owner was livid. Normally he would greet one and all with a happy smile. On that fatal Thursday he glared at me. Have you heard? Yes, I had heard. We’re having a protest meeting tomorrow outside the bank. These bastards have been taking our money for years, and now they’re leaving us in the lurch! Moustache quivering with barely suppressed rage, he gave me a ninety-watt glare and said Well? You’re our local wizard. What are *you* going to do about it?? I’ll be there, I promised. So I duly turned out in full uniform and cast my spell against the senior managers who had abandoned our village. I pronounced perdition upon them in Scots Gaelic, which was a tongue spoken locally until the turn of the 20th century. Our local bookshop manager was an ex-Age journalist, and she managed to insert me and my spell into the Saturday business pages:
Most satisfactory so far. The fun began on Monday. Their share price tilted downwards. On Tuesday they had a huge glitch which resulted in tens of millions going missing. This was reported on the front page of the Australian, with senior managers scratching their heads and saying things like It’s not a virus! We don’t know what it is! Oh dear, indeed. Meanwhile we in our humble village looked on with a wild surmise. They eventually managed to relocate their missing money. Which pleased me: I wouldn’t like to think that my spells could make money disappear permanently. Temporarily, on the other hand …. just to give them a scare? Oh yes. Oh YES! Unknown to us, the Commonwealth had plans for a new system of banking which later became known as EFTPOS, which obviated the necessity for having a physical branch. Bank executives contacted the local shopkeepers and explained their plans. They then told the media that Seddon had in truth put up a hell of a fight, and they hoped that the new system would prove acceptable. And it was indeed.
I have since made my peace with the Commonwealth Bank. That they actually came to the party and talked to us says a lot. Banks are what they are; but there is reason to assume that this is one of the better ones. Ever since our victory, Seddon village really did take off. Everyone walked taller thereafter. New shops opened. The affluent middle-class moved in. Remarkably, they did assimilate. Unlike elsewhere, our new arrivals adapted to the neighbourly spirit of our proletarian ways. The Inner West of Melbourne is not like other places. We have welcomed migrants from over a hundred nations. Why would we treat yuppies any differently? Now we have a thriving café culture in Seddon, and everybody wants to live here.
So why did my spell have such spectacular results? Three reasons. When you have the hard-working self-employed on your side, your wizardly power is multiplied tenfold. My choice of a Gàidhlig spell was culturally appropriate. And, bizarrely enough, the heavens were arguably at work. I have a history with comets (qv). At the time of my spell, two of them (Hale-Bopp and Hyakatuke) had their paths cross dead in a line of sight with Algol the Demon Star (Beta Persei). As above, so below.
Refacing the Currency
Early in 2001 the Queen was removed from the $5 bill and replaced by Catherine Helen Spence. Now I have no problem with suffragettes as such; but the Sovereign ought to be, by long-standing tradition, on the lowest denomination banknote. At that time Murgatroyd the Prophet was terminally ill. So I asked him if he would like me to organize one final stir for him before his untimely departure from earth. What would you like to do? Put the Queen back on the $5 note was his answer. Very well. He had loyally supported me for many years, and it was the very least I could do for a man stricken with inoperable cancer.
Phase One was to scan the image of the Queen from the old notes and make up a roll of stickers. Every time I got a five dollar bill, I stuck HM’s image into the middle of it. But you can’t do that! I was told. That’s Defacing the Currency! No it isn’t, I replied. What I am doing is refacing it. That’s different. Phase Two was the media campaign. Queen Can Save our Dollar – Expert was the magnificent headline I was granted:
Phase Three was the Full State Visit. Why, where are we off to now? my colleagues enquired. The Reserve Bank itself, of course. So Murgatroyd, Wizard Charlie and I walked into the Reserve Bank’s Melbourne HQ in full regalia. Mr Door Bitch rose from his chair, preparing to give us the Bum’s Rush. At that very moment, Charlie’s phone rang. It’s a journalist for you, he said, handing me the instrument. Now at this point mobile phones were still new, and obviously magical. Ergo: anyone talking on a mobile phone is too important, or too perilous, to be shown the door. ‘Oh, hi, Chris,’ quoth I. ‘Yes, we’re on the floor of the Reserve now and we’re just about to do our spell. I’ll keep you posted.’
Security Guy resumed his seat. I may add that Wizard Charlie has supernatural good fortune like this at all times. The fact that the providential call came at the perfect moment was, for me, a sign that heaven was clearly with us that day. We went into a huddle and muttered spells. Just then, a grey-haired, grey-suited figure walking down the staircase saw us, and his features creased in a delighted smile. ‘Oh, I didn’t know the Reserve Bank Board was meeting today!’
Indeed. We inclined our heads, exchanged glances and left. Outside, I told our support team Look, I reckon we’re in with a big chance here. And so it proved. The Board relented; HM was put back on the $5 note; and the AUD, which had been languishing as low as 46 cents US, stabilized to its accustomed position around 70 cents. There are many lessons to be taken from this triumph. If you want people to do things for you, make it quirky, amusing, intellectually coherent; and above all: ask nicely. We didn’t demand anything. We politely requested, and our boon was granted. And perhaps Heaven was with me also because it was a favour to a loyal friend. He perished not long afterwards. It was indeed a tragedy.
Elections
I also stood for Parliament no less than five times, for the Imperial British Conservative Party. I did so in Kooyong, for obscure reasons. The first time I did so, I met the incumbent member, Andrew Peacock, at a Meet The Candidates. These events are essential for democracy to function. Everyone should be free to meet those who put themselves up for office. It was quite an event. The Hon Member spoke well, easily outpointing his Labor opponent, who went ten minutes over her limit: a cardinal sin on any podium. Then it was my turn. Like any public speaker, I have my off-days. This wasn’t one of them. I got a standing ovation, and was – at the conclusion – mobbed by young persons wanting my autograph. And the Hon Member?
Did he spit the dummy at being shamelessly upstaged? Not he. Handshake, congratulations, the whole deal. I wasn’t surprised. I hoped he might make PM one day, and I hoped to inspire him to keep our monarchy safe. He only missed narrowly. His unfortunate TV manner was rather against him. In real life he was much more impressive, and far more pleasant than most folk would have believed at the time. We became friends, after a fashion. I remember he rang me once, excited at seeing my victory on an ABC/NZTV quiz show. And we chatted at odd times. He was a good man. I’m only pleased that he didn’t live long enough to see the appalling decay of his Party.
Standing as a fun candidate who nevertheless has a serious message usually leaves you balanced precariously on a number of stools. I stopped doing this after I found myself upstaged by a professional comedian and an exotic dancer: both of whom were playing it purely for laughs. (I may add that the exotic dancer was not only very beautiful indeed, but her policies were more entertaining than the professional’s. One highlight was: Easier Questions On Sale of The Century!) Each time a federal election came around, I mused on the knotty problem of Shall I Go Around Once More? I decided that I would only if I could think of a new twist. Once I conducted my campaign solely in Latin. It earned me the friendship of one of my prospective constituents: an admirable classical scholar who pointed out that I had used Tuis instead of Vobis in my campaign pamphlet: an error swiftly corrected. Ave atque Vale, magister optime!
The fact remains that during the campaign your time is not your own. How politicians stomach this full-time is something I will never understand. There is radio, there are newspapers, there is all sorts of stuff. And you must do it all. You’ve put your name down, and you must follow through. The best coverage I ever got on TV was from SBS. That was indeed an eye-opener, with wonderfully spooky post-production around the university’s cloisters and the like; but the hidden bit was my interviewer’s ambush. She asked me all the usual questions; I posed for some amusing photos; and then out of the blue she fixed me with her glittering eye and spake as follows:
Right. This is where we find out if our talent is a dud or not. I’m going to count backwards in Spanish. You will count forwards in German. Then we’re going to discuss German poetry. In German.
So we did that. She recited something which sounded oddly familiar. Friedrich von Schiller? I ventured. Schiller it was. I was tempted to respond with Kennst du das Land wo die Zitronen Blümen? only I couldn’t remember the rest of it. All I could think of for my turn was a ridiculous piece by Morgenstern which begins Ein Wiesel saß auf einem Kiesel inmitten Bachgeriesel. I got through it all with only the odd error and she pronounced herself satisfied. And the breath I had been holding in for longer than I knew was quietly expelled. Memo to you all. If SBS comes to interview you, be vigilant and keep your brains online. They are a thoroughly superior outfit and do not suffer fools gladly, or indeed at all.
Wild horses would not drag me back to the hustings now. Been there, done that. But my small handful of fairy dust lifted the hearts of many. Polling day in a functioning democracy is a rare and precious thing. It isn’t the votes so much. What you can sense is the fragrance of freedom. Yes, we all disagree, on all sorts of matters. But here today we are celebrating democracy, which (as Churchill really did remark) is the worst possible system of government except for everything else that has ever been tried. We are here to celebrate those who put their money where their mouth is and put their hands up for public acclaim, or disdain. Of late, Australia has witnessed disgraceful scenes at polling booths. This must be suppressed. There is a time for robust discussion, but outside polling places is not appropriate. Democracy is under threat, all over the world. Don’t add your ill-digested emotions to the cause of ochlocracy. That really is bad magic.
There have been other wonderful times, like the occasion when – as a favour to a mate – I addressed a corporate breakfast in Adelaide dressed as Archimedes, complete with tin bath-tub, and gave a talk on the (imaginary) history of Ancient Greek data processing. And some are just ineffably sweet:
This was the official launch of the Reading Chair at the Footscray Community Arts Centre. A lot of community art could best be described as officially dubious, but this Lothlórien-themed reading chair is entirely beautiful. I accepted His Worship’s invitation to launch it with a short but amusing address and a performance of one of my Hobbit Songs by the Consort of Hobbits. On the front underneath where one sits is a copper panel with a hand-calligraphed inscription in Quenya (High Elvish – Fëanorian letters). Should you be wondering what it says, the text reads as follows:
Lastë Ar Istimë
Listen and learn. Good advice anywhere, especially for wizards.