Paul McDermott finds clues to human behaviour in the unlikeliest of places.

'A small figure flits back and forth across the rainforest floor. Between the sagging branches a tiny thief works tirelessly. His keen eye pillages the landscape for morsels that he can use. Discerning and tactful, the wrong colour or shape and the item is immediately discarded. An artisan of the highest order, he returns to his concealed castle and places his newly found twig in place. Filled with pride, he pauses to survey the majesty before him, an architectural tribute to nature. He possesses the mad desire of Van Gogh, he is the Gaudi of the animal kingdom: the humble and insane bowerbird'' *

The bowerbird goes to obscene lengths to attract a mate. It creates lavish structures filled with bright objects, plants 'lawns', builds stages to perform on and, occasionally, will paint interior walls with regurgitated charcoal and vegetable pulp.

There is one reason and one reason only fort he strange behaviour of the bowerbird: it has too much time on its hands (and it doesn't even have hands). Bored out of its tiny bird-brain, this evolutionary freak was forced to come up with an inventive way to find a meaningful existence. With surprisingly few predators inhabiting its environment and a plentiful supply of food, the bowerbird has filled up its time in a way that is anything but natural.

Like the bowerbird, we are the most successful creature in our neck of the woods, having nothing to fear from any other creature. The consequence of this hard-won position at the top of the food chain is that we spend less time fighting for our survival, which leaves us with more leisure time. We need something to distract, entertain and occupy ourselves and, like the bowerbird, we have found it feathering our nests. We crowd our homes with useless trinkets, discarded toys and mountains of paper, defining ourselves by what we possess. And from these citadels of crap we coo to our prospective partners. Our major shopping malls are the cluttered landscape where bright shiny objects lure the 'bowerbird within'.

Overcome by our instinct to shop, we spend hours dragged from cabinet to change room to counter in search of the perfect ornament, the exquisite artifact. The human bower can be found from Harrods to the two dollar shop, picking up bargains. What we select indicates our likes and dislikes, our strengths and weaknesses and, like our feathered friend, our little chests puff out with pride when our effort has been noticed.

The tragedy is, although we have seen numerous documentaries about this bizarre bird, we have failed to learn the valuable lesson it can teach us. We have failed to see we follow the same imbecilic pattern - we too have a surplus of time. Over the centuries we have weakened ourselves physically and mentally. We have become the knock-kneed, feather-brained, sparrow-chested cousins of the bowerbird. At the moment, half this country is complaining about working a measly 35-hour week and the other half is always wanting something for nothing. Everyone wants more money for doing less and, as a net result, all of us are plunged into financial chaos. There is a devastatingly simple solution to this circular trauma: work twice as long for half as much.

If we brought back the 70-hour week (or the 90- hour week) then people wouldn't have enough energy to complain. At least we'd stop being a nation of whingers. A clear message is being sent to us from the rainforest floor; its time to wake up and listen to the song of evolution: for the bird of paradise, life is hell. We have always been jealous of the bird, envying its ability to fly. From the doomed Icarus, to Freudian floating dreams, to air travel, we have yearned for the limitless freedom of the sky. The sad truth is, if we were born with wings, they would be the wings of the bowerbird and life would remain essentially the same.

* This extract was taken from Tarquin Regent's The Secret Life of the Bower' (1952)

It is the greatest tragedy this world has ever known. It has infiltrated every society, poisoned anyone it touched and polluted the world. Over the past few years, Satan, Saddam and smoking have battled it out for the title of Ultimate Evil but the big belt goes to the humble fag. The battle lines have been drawn between the Clean Lungs and the Yellow Fingers and the fate of the earth hangs in the balance.

What travesties of justice are committed when lighting up in a small office or having a puff while you're pregnant. Has the individual's space ever been more compromised than with the insidious creeping death of the cigarette? Who has not leant back after a fine meal, savoring the flavor of an expensive creme brulee, only to have their senses overpowered by the noxious, invasive odour of a coffin stick? Who has not had the smoke blown in their face by an over-achieving, brain-dead freak of inferior moral and social standing?

In days long gone, smoking assured you a treasured place in society, the constant affection of the opposite sex and riches beyond your wildest dreams. With a cigarette dangling from your lip, you had the wisdom of Solomon, the wealth of Rockefeller and the sexual power of Valentino. Thankfully, these images of smoking have decayed as quickly as our respiratory tracts. Nowadays you're as popular as O.J Simpson, have the pox ridden lungs and the pity of all your friends. Graphic TV commercials depict clotted arteries and fat strangled hearts and are usually screened for our edification around dinner time.

Despite Quit campaigns, family pressure, hypnosis and support networks, the smoker continues to evade capture. The Yellow Fingers will always succeed in the short term because they're cunning, clever and more often than not, fun to be around. But there is a larger problem than the individual puffer and it is one few of us have recognised.

In our desire to banish them from polite society, we have foolishly created a new underclass. You can see them huddled together at the back entrance of every department store, beneath enormous air-conditioning ducts in public service workplaces; a small, tireless band of men and women prepared to stand up to the tyranny of the politically correct. You tend to notice them more in the winter months when they're the only people milling about in the freezing cold. They're easy to recognise by the halos of smoke that ring their heads and their plaintive cry: 'Got a light? Got a light? Anyone got a light?' They are crowded together for moral support and warmth, and in between drags they even talk - and this is the dilemma.

Once, like minded people from different offices would never meet, never converse, and the status quo was maintained. Now this offensive minority have the opportunity to rally their numbers and realise their demented, nicotine-fuelled dreams. In these haphazard meetings, is it possible that alliances are firmed? In the glow of Bic lighters, are plans being hatched? Is the terror within actually just fagging on outside?

Having one of them in an office was easy enough to handle: they could be ostracised during morning tea, marginalised by management and overlooked for promotion. There were numerous ways to keep then at bay, but now that they're organised, they just need the right catalyst to burn out of control. Forced segregation has mobilisied them into a political force, one that transcends race, colour, creed, weight and gender boundaries. How long before this beautiful land falls prey to the ashtray apartheid?

For too long we, the Clean Lungs, have tolerated their foul breath and their claustrophobic clouds of cancer. We have loathed how they always have something to do with their hands. But can we face a world where accidental meetings give them the edge? In a cliché of justifiable paranoia" 'Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer'. It may be time to invite smokers in from the cold, at least until we know what their master plan is.

Shakespeare once wrote in praise of tobacco: "Thou weed, who art so lovely fair and smellst so sweet'. Over the centuries great poets, writers and artists have been inspired by "sublime tobacco', but these days there is a perception that smoking is not merely misguided but evil. At the risk of being savaged by the politically correct, the surgeon general and conscientious families, I intend to defend the right to smoke. It is important we understand smoking in its historical context and not just as a product subjected to years of hyperbole and discrimination.

There is little doubt that smoking has had a chequered career; it has been loathed and despised as equally as it has been loved. From the moment humanity conquered fire and someone thought, 'That looks dangerous, I wonder if I could suck it into my body' smoking has been a contentious issue. It has dominated politics, been incorporated into religious ceremonies, featured in great literature and art, and it was the peace pipe that made smoking the embodiment of an ideal. The peace pipe - a symbolic gesture of unity and fellowship - has echoes of many cultures, although it is attributed primarily to the Native American.

We have only to look at the work of the Rolling Stones to see how attitudes have changed over the years. In Satisfaction, Mick Jagger sings: 'He can't be a man cos he doesn't smoke the same cigarettes as me'. Forty years after this track was recorded, the most recent Stones album, Pushing it Uphill, features a heavy handed anti-smoking message. On the track Don't Smoke It's Bad For You', Mr Jagger coughs his way through three verses of propaganda, while Jerry asks Keith to put it out when the kids are around.

There was a time when the humble cigarette was our friend, before it became the prime suspect in the big hunt for the 'big C'. It was on a hookah that the caterpillar puffed as he spoke to Alice and thus an endearing children's character was born. In these more enlightened times, would we ever allow Dipsy or Po to reach for a Longbeach? Will the Bananas ever light up?

Until recently films featured good men and women with the filthy habit; these fine troubadours, many now riddled with cancer, championed the cause of the cigarette. Once cowboys wore white hats and blew smoke rings as they saved the innocent; detectives savoured the flavour while solving hideous crimes and lovers shared a post-coital moment with a puff. These days no decent human being on the big or small screen smokes, you're only permitted to draw back if you're a killer, a thief or poorly educated.

Anyone with political aspirations understands that smoking is taboo and being caught with a fag can destroy your career. If these attitudes prevailed 50 years ago, the world could be a very different place today. Winston Churchill, the cigar-chomping hero of World War II, wouldn't have lasted two minutes on the political stage before being pulled down by well-meaning, socially aware, smoke-intolerant lobbyists. No amount of support from the tobacco industry would have saved him from the indignation of the populace, and the world would have lost a powerful leader. During these years of war young heros would huddle together prior to a moment of truth. In those precious moments before going 'over the top' to certain death, those brave lads were unified by the chemical wonder of the American tobacco industry.

What does the future hold? There'll be no more wheezing politicians, no more loveable children's characters with bad habits, no more poets and playwrights composing odes to the ashtray. And in the event of a terrible war, there'll be a last glass of milk before you go over the top - and let's face it, that just doesn't cut it. We live in a society fractured by divisions; can we allow another to exist between smokers and non-smokers? Has the time come for all of us to sit down and smoke the pipe of peace?

Recently, a friend purchased a second hand car. Justifiably proud of the new acquisition, he pointed out the many splendid features for the 'deluxe' model from '71: the vanity mirror, the padded sun-visor, the personal flow-through air-conditioning. He was incredibly lucky to find it, the second car he looked at, what a bargain.

He mentioned it was owned by a little old lady who only took it out to get the shopping once a week. As proof of this he pointed to the St Christopher medal on the dash. It was a black disc about an inch in diameter sitting slightly out of view beside the steering wheel. I remember him saying, 'It's quite a good little St Chris', as he prised the medallion off the dashboard to give me a better look. I only had the medal in my hand a second, before we ran into a wall.

If one were superstitious one might make a connection between the taking of the medallion from its resting place and the subsequent smash. Certainly this was the view of the owner, who now has several clustered over the dashboard of his newest car. I couldn't help but think it was nothing more than coincidence. I cannot recall seeing anywhere that St Christopher has to remain on the dash or swing from the rear vision mirror to be effective. Is the tiny safety officer off duty when he is in your hand? I thought Ol'Chris had failed in his function because, in fact, he was still in the car.

There will be numerous times when you will be forced to make a decision between coincidence and an event preordained by destiny. No matter how extreme the circumstances, I have always sided with the haphazard nature of Nature. But sometimes, even with all the will in the world, it is hard to prevail against the undeniable truth of a situation.

One such incident occurred in London several years ago when I was working in theatre. One of my fellow performers mentioned, while we were backstage preparing for a show, that earlier in the day he'd tried to avoid a black cat. He didn't succeed. The pesky critter got in front of him and, with malicious intent. crossed his path. I was amazed that a mature, educated adult could place any faith in an old wives' tale. A heated discussion ensued where I willfully walked under a ladder, smashed a small mirror and performed numerous other feats of stupidity to prove nothing would happen: there'd be no plague of frogs, no tsunami from the sink would engulf us.

My companions refused to agree with me, their response was simple: 'You wait.'. I decided to throw down the gauntlet. I shouted the name of the Scottish play - Macbeth.

To say the name Macbeth backstage is an anathema, according to theatre folklore. The tragedy is said to be cursed and the mere utterance of the word will bring down the wrath of whatever powers there may be upon the poor players: death, destruction, loss of income, failure to reproduce. In some circles, to even think it is considered dangerous. But to run around half-naked, screaming it out in a variety of ludicrous voices while pretending to be Isadora Duncan, Richard the Third and a Womble is an insult to every sensibility - akin to throwing a pressed ham at the Almighty.

My friend's threats of imminent devastation failed to impress me. I took to the stage fearlessly while they followed with some trepidation.

Needless to say, the night was splendid, the show an unqualified triumph. We came off stage and drank three pints of bitter to the fables of the theatre. Four days later, the guitarist broke his arm, the company lost thousands of pounds on cancelled shows, and we returned to Australia in disgrace.

Fortune, fate, circumstance, coincidence were not blamed for these incidents - I was. To this day I maintain my innocence. It had nothing to do with me. It was not the mocking of Macbeth, the walking under a ladder or the smashing of the mirror that caused these tragedies. It was one thing and one thing only - that damnable black cat.