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For once in my life. I wanted to be the first at something and here it is. I wanted to be the modern equivalent of John the Baptist, preparing the way the big fella who will follow. It won't be long now, it gets closer every year. Within a few weeks we'll see the telltale signs: pine trees on every corner, untold bargains, frosted windows, happy little faces, unconditional love.

I wanted to be the first person this year to remind you that Christmas is just around the corner, a mere six months away, so you'd better start saving now. I wanted to be the first person to raise the spectre of Santa Claus and the feelings of doubt.

Santa is a thief, a jolly red giant who steals every penny you save over the course of the year. Saint Nick and Ol' Nick have more in common than their names. Santa was never truly altruistic: his whole reputation is built on a lie. Having to leave biscuits and milk in exchange for the presents made him mercenary. As the years wore on, the old sod developed a taste for beer and crackers. These offerings would always be gone by morning, and when I multiplied our hospitality by the rest of the world, it added up to a lot of beer and crackers. I pictured an out-of-control sleigh aquaplaning across the heavens as Santa tried to make it home before he was stopped by the big RBT in the sky. Santa is a dipsomaniac, a sozzle-pot - that would explain his permanently rosy cheeks and his gin-blossom nose.

I have bizarre recollections of my first encounter with this mythical man of mirth and girth. It occurred on a brilliantly hot December day. As the road melted, we were told we were off to the North Pole. As the sweat poured from us, we were led into an Arctic kingdom girt by air-conditioners.

In the middle of a drab mall we encountered the snow castle a magical land of cardboard and white paint that wouldn't deceive a goat, let alone a mature two-year-old child.

And there, sitting in exhausted majesty, was Santa, but something was awry, something amiss with this toy make from the North. Perhaps it was the acrylic beard or the ill-fitting wig or the stray nasal hairs, but this Santa just wasn't right. There was a massive gap between what I had imagined and the monstrosity of reality that confronted me.

I couldn't put my finger on what it was that left me with a permanent loss of faith in Christmas. It may have been when he lifted me to his knee and revealed an overly hairy wrist and a tattoo. It may have been the potent smell of tobacco that filled my nostrils every time he spoke or the fact he burped as he asked me what I wanted "on that special day". I suppose it takes a special type of stamina to cope with a toddler's damp arse on your thigh all day. Apart from the offending odours, he was honest and unsanitised and, if anything, just too human.

As I expected, I didn't get anything I asked for. Still, I suppose a request for world peace was naive. (I was younger then; I realise now it's best to go for smaller, more manageable items.)

The idea of a big jolly fat man distributing gifts struck a chord of disbelief. My trust in Santa was lost at an early age, much the same as my trust in economy, so I have come to warn you to be ready. When politicians make promises, I am reminded of that wet knee. (You'd say anything to stop someone pissing on you) Half the year has evaporated and most of us haven't prepared ourselves for the "joys" of Christmas. It's been a good year so far: international financial disaster followed domestic financial disaster. How will you explain to those questioning little eyes that the dollar is worth less than spit and Santa might have to sell the reindeer? We've been obsessed with interest rates, the fall of the dollar, the situation in Queensland, the tax man at our door and we haven't spared a thought about 25 December. Just take a moment to let it all sink in and ruin yourself and splurge on the beer and crackers now, while you can still afford them.

On December 25, 1983, the Catalan artist Joan Miro died. The Australian National Gallery in Canberra has one Miro and I decided to make the pilgrimage to pay homage and bid farewell. The gallery was closed on Christmas Day but on Boxing Day I found myself there. I knew exactly where the Miro was hung, I could have found it blindfolded: left at the entrance, through the Primitive collection, a sharp right at the Tucker just past the shadow of Duchamp's chair and there it was.

It owned a vast grey slab of concrete and seemed to vibrate off the wall. I recognised the two biomorphic shapes that were strangely related yet separated by a purple sky and a brilliant red earth. I sat on one of the black leather couches, sank into the red earth, and thought about Miro.

Living in incredible poverty, Miro began suffering hallucinations from lack of food. These intense hallucinations featured the shapes and forms that would become the trademark of his work, simultaneously mature and childlike, profound and simple. Miro understood their potential and sought to summon them from his subconscious. He deprived himself of food and drink and stared at a white wall until figures and surreal creatures materialised before him. These he would scribble onto canvas or scraps of paper. He would capture them in that moment: recording their numerous tendrils, or their misshapen heads, their bloated feet or questing eyes. He trapped the circles, the light, the colours his mind threw up. Beautiful monsters evolved as his white wall turned into a luminous sky, a landscape of dreams.

Miro believed his visions were part of a universal subconscious, the same belief that Jung ascribed to, a common visual language that connects and exists in every human being. Miro suspected the reason we were unable to understand these images was due to the fact we "grew up". Society, education, civilisation and experience all formed a barrier to the intuitive and to the natural. The idea that everything we learn prevents us from reaching what we already know. Miro believed his works were childlike and they must be seen through a child's eyes.

I had been watching the Miro for about 20 minutes when a mother and daughter blocked my view, standing between myself and the painting. The little girl was about five and had dragged her mother away from some other pieces to gaze at the bright canvas. She stood twisting her head from one side to another, before he mother asked if she liked the work. The daughter nodded and the mother wanted to know if her little girl knew what the picture was about. She looked puzzled by the question so her mother began to explain as best she could.

"That's Bugs Bunny and he's under the ocean, and that other ball thing in the water, that's a balloon. You see Bugs has the balloon on a string and he's going over to his good friend Goofy's house..."

The mother's reading of the work astounded me. Each new observation was a torpedo of bilious popular culture straight into her child's imagination. How was she going to explain Blue Poles: "that's Mickey after his stomach ruptured from too much gentian violet?" I was saddened she couldn't create her own myths but had to rely on American cartoons. How could this happen on the day after Miro's death? I felt the artist's dreams dies with him and it took less than 24 hours. The description left me desolate.

The little girl continued to twist her head and said, quietly at first but gaining in strength and confidence, "No, it's not. That is the moon and that is a duck."

In that moment the girl realised Miro's vision; she understood intuitively what her mother could not; imagination triumphed over reason. It was Boxing Day and I received the finest Christmas present from a little girl I would never know.

This was the perfect conclusion to an unspectacular day: a traffic jam. I surveyed the world from the car window. The glassy-eyed misery of every driver mirrored my own. We sat in unmoving lines of metal and rubber, spewing forth carbon monoxide from exhausts left to idle for hours. We had one thing in common - we all wanted to be somewhere else - but there we were, trapped, our lives wasting away to the hits of the seventies, eighties and nineties.

Then something inspiring happened. I heard it before I saw it, a clean, beautiful machine ducking and weaving through the assembled throng. This car seemed to skate over the top of us; it showed no concern for road rules as it mounted the pavement. Terrified smaller cars bunched together helping it through, clumsy vehicles bumped fenders to get out of the way. I became aware of the hierarchy of the automobile. There I was trapped in a second rate road muncher, a four wheeled death trap, while what was akin to automotive royalty flew by. Its tail lights disappeared into the night and we were left to contemplate its passing.

We were stuck at the lights, our meagre lives dwindling away, while this magnificent vehicle sped on, saving and savoring life. It had a graceful, streamlined appearance and sirens and lights and words written backward on the hood. It was a sublime combination of form and function.

We'd all get to where we were going a lot quicker if we drove ambulances.

Ambulance drivers must get everything done they need to do - I'm envious of the time they must save. They'd be able to pay the bills, do the banking and make it from one side of town to the other even in rush hour. Nothing would stand in their way. Imagine just for one day having all that power and using it for your own selfish ends. An ambulance driver would never do anything untoward, but if these people have nothing to hide, why are the windows always closed?

I am, by nature, suspicious. If an ambulance passes me at the lights I have no idea if it's someone with a ruptured kidney being rushed to hospital or someone just rushing home to catch Seinfeld. Of course, I'm not so grim as to imagine that if the occupant was geriatric having a cardiac that the driver would whip down to the shops and do a bit of grocery shopping in the meantime.

Everyone seems to be coming up with insane plans for saving this country at the moment, so here's another. It's a fairly radical idea but it could just work. I believe we should all drive ambulances. We should piss off every other car on the market and just make and sell ambulances. That way we could all get to where we're going there'd be no traffic jams, and freeways would be just that. I guess if we all had them it would defeat the purpose, but just for a moment, let's weigh up the pros and cons.

On the negative side the ambulance is quite difficult to park. On the positive side you could probably leave it anywhere as long as the lights were flashing.

On the negative side it could get annoying if the kids are always playing with the sirens and the lights. On the positive side you've got as much pure oxygen as you want.

On the negative side with everyone ignoring the road rules, running reds, mounting the pavement, there'd be a lot more accidents. On the positive side there'd always be an ambulance around if you were an accident. So I think I'll go out on a limb here and suggest that every car in this beautiful, brown country of ours be an ambulance. Hell, it makes as much sense as printing money.

*PS: I personally think the ambulance service does a wonderful and essential job and if I should be involved in some accident in the next few weeks I would trust that this flight of fancy is not taken personally.

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

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

The major weakness with Valmont's defense is that it is often said with a smirk. The toadie, lackey or minion voicing it, aware they're safe in their mental fortress, feel they can afford to be smug. Which, in turn, makes the listener want to visit physical violence upon them. Sinking a fist into the soft flesh of their head, insanely screaming: "IS THIS BEYOND YOUR CONTROL? IS THIS BEYOND YOUR CONTORL?"

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

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

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