Articles Downloads Links Lyrics Merchandise Mosh Pictures Sunday Life >> Weekend Australian

My mind groped instantly for the most obvious explanation: a ghost; an escapee from Scream Test, an astral travelling acquaintance; or a cockroach granted the divine gift of speech at one of those ecumenical groups that take on anyone (praise him).

After my sojourn into stupidity, I found the voice was still there, louder and more insistent - it was emanating from my arse. After a moment of deep-seated confusion I recognised the voice, which was bristling with sleep deprivation.

"Turn your bloody phone off!" it said.*

I'd woken someone two time zones away (or rather, my phone had) to engage in dialogue with the lint in my back pocket. It's one of the hidden dangers of communication - the bum dial, the arse call. This kind of call has opened up a whole new world of the "accidental". For those with unlimited funds it's a unique way of meeting people, for those with a hungry rump it's a disaster, and for the phone companies it's another unexpected financial boon.

I've discovered the mobile generally favours darkness for this nefarious activity. Phones have an overwhelming desire to communicate. They need to reach out, they want to be involved, but once they've dialled the number they have little to say. They tend to enjoy background noise and ambient sounds. It's their one moment of power and they savour it - as they rarely, if ever, hang up.

Why is it they can never make a collect call? Why do they favour recorded message services? Why do they lazily redial the last number called? And why is it that they never perform these tasks while being watched? Seated calmly on a table, they exhibit the shyness of a panda, but nestled in the warmth of a back pocket, pressed hard against the buttock, they're capable of all manner of hideous telephonic crimes. Who has never plucked a phone from a pocket and caught it in the act, with a mass of seemingly random digits arranged across its face, just waiting for you to sit on the "call" function? My arse and mobile conspired to dial a lawyer, resting and renewing at a hilltop sanctuary in Peru. How they achieved this I'll never know. The number was so complex that I couldn't dial it sober. And yet with nothing more than a shift of weight in the cramped confines of my car, I've rung a coffee seller on a market stall in Istanbul, a business partner I'd been avoiding for six months, and the upset lawyer whom I'd neglected to pay.

Sometimes there's no way of telling who your phone has been calling behind your back until the bill comes in. I fear mine has become self-aware and enjoys making long- distance calls at premium rates.#

Yet the mobile is a two-way street, a double agent, one only now realising its full potential. We often forget, while we're talking, that people are also listening. I've experienced both sides of communicating 'cheek to cheek". I've eavesdropped via a treacherous spy phone that called me while its mistress was on a hens' night bender. From the darkened pit of a handbag, surrounded by the jingle of keys and the clatter of mysterious "womanly" objects, I've heard conversations. Dim, distant conversations, barely audible and yet, so deliciously covert, I've hung on every shadowy detail. As in the movie Blow Out, I once tried to divine the secret of a 24- minute garbled sonic communiqué left on my message bank, realising on the fifth attempt that it was a rather boring train trip to Frankston.

What other horrors lie in wait for us as buttocks and phones conspire? If only Sophie had sat on her mobile and let it do the talking for her. If only her arse had called the Queen and not decided to leap into her mouth. But, then, if that had happened, we'd have nothing to celebrate.

* There's a simple - solution to this dilemma: read the manual, usually a tome of Proustian dimensions in six languages, and find the section titled 'Locking the Keypad'. a simple procedure that ensures butt-free dialling. But, then, who's anal- retentive enough to do that?

# A friend of mine is convinced her phone is possessed by the angry spirit of a Russian dancing bear. It's the only way she can explain the phone's innate ability to call the same Georgian circus regardless of where in the world it happens to be.

In Melbourne, one wintry night circa 1990, a combination of factors led to a minor infringement on a male pop diva's personal space. They were:
1. Alcohol.
2. A pair of motorcycle despatch rider boots from 1918.
3. George Michael.

This final element was crucial. Without George, this would be simply a tale of accidental cruelty; with his inclusion, it's a tale of accidental cruelty featuring a celebrity.

The effect of the alcohol we can take for granted. The motorcycle boots were another issue entirely. I'd purchased them from St Vinnie's for $15. The transaction left me in financial ruin at the time. They were the sort of boots you could wear through the mud, blood, broken bones and landmines of Flanders. The drop-forged steel in the soles was enough to keep man grounded on the moon. They were pure evil - 42 holes, three buckles, hobnailed, with metal toe caps and thickly stitched leather soles. They would slide across a parquet floor, tearing strips off it as they went.

They were too monstrous to wear out, but one night the fates and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin conspired to send me to a nightclub dancing. It was a ritzy affair, and both 1 and my female companion were obviously out of place. The night turned surreal when George Michael and his entourage of employees, hangers-on and lovely ladies stormed the club. The bouncers sealed off the section we were in. George grabbed the hand of a foxy momma and got up to get down.

There were just four of us busting a move in this private, protected disco. My boots were suddenly like the red shoes; I no longer controlled them. Due to their enormous weight, they'd acquired a momentum all their own - they were two tan dervishes on a mission.

Over the deafening thud of Funky Cold Medina, I heard a faintly audible "snick". It was the sound of hobnailed leather with a metal reinforced heel biting into a fleshy kneecap. Under the epilepsy- inducing disco lights I watched as the uncrowned King of Pop, in tragic slow motion, began to topple. He looked like a half-felled tree clad in state-of-the-art denim.

For a moment I thought it could go either way. George teetered on the brink, then he toppled to the floor, clutching his right knee.

As he lay there twisting in agony I wanted to say something sharp, something witty, something like, "Sorry George, guilty feet ain't got no rhythm." Instead I stared at him impassively and the only thought that ran through my head was, "Would this make me more or less popular with my music-loving contemporaries?"

I was a clumsy assassin, the dumb dancer with the death-dealing boots. My victim's mouth contorted into a silent, questioning "Why?" I had no awareness his bodyguards were bearing down on me like three well- trained, badly dressed gorillas. As the first enormous fist made its way toward my head, my eyes instinctively closed; after all, I'd no desire to watch my blood paint the patrons of the disco red. Before my head had a chance to cave in around that gargantuan paw, George waved a magnanimous, all-forgiving hand. The fist stopped in mid-air. I opened one eye and I could see regret ringed across the knuckles hovering before me. The bouncer turned away, his expression like that of a Doberman deprived of an infant to snack on.

I don't believe I did any permanent damage to the leg of Mr Michael, but I've noticed George rarely gets his groove thing out in his videos anymore. If he does he tends to lean a little to the left. In the end, the night was a great success. For a start, I'd gone out and not been beaten up (a rare state for me to find myself in), and I had felled a giant of the music industry.

I regret it was George; it should've been Celine. Her wee stick knee would've snapped like a dry old twig, and I've the strangest feeling that her bouncers wouldn't have rushed to the rescue.

(I'm pleased to announce there was no alcohol involved in this debacle. I was able to make a complete arse of myself without any stimuli.)

Now it came to pass that on one dark, stormy night in Edinburgh, a charity benefit had been organised by a member of the Royal Family (the one with greasepaint in his veins) for some other less fortunate members of the community. I was with a musical/comedy trio, The Doug Anthony Allstars, and we were invited to perform at the charity, which was helping to raise money for underprivileged children. We were a strange call for the bill which boasted Ronnie Corbett as host, assorted grey-haired thespians from the glory days of music hall, and a chap from Brideshead Revisted who enjoyed walking around backstage in little more than a tea towel. According to the producer, we were there for "a taste of something different - a walk on the wild side..." Who'd have guessed that would happen before the show even started?

On the day of the performance, an afternoon nap produced a marvellous dream which led to me oversleeping. With little time to spare I found myself dramatically late, running frantically through a maze of twisting grey streets towards the venue. A heavy rain had started to fall and my feeble Australian clothing no match for it. By the time I charged through the stage door I was drenched to the bone and in a state of panic.

I stopped and shook the rain off me, inadvertently spraying a group of men loitering nearby. That was when it dawned on me that something was not quite right, something was definitely different. Normally the small hall was filled with a bevvy of performers; tonight there were a gaggle of elderly women in evening frocks and five men, all dressed in black, with an average height of 200cm.

The men were peering down at me, this wee drowned rat, with faces devoid of expression. I noticed some of them had earpieces and there were subtle, but nonetheless strange, bulges in their suits. I assumed they were members of a Polytech theatrical society or a dance troupe from Scandinava. Before I realised, they had me surrounded. It's obvious to me now they were attempting to direct my attention to a man standing beside the wall. But my mind had one objective - to get to the dressing room. If someone had broken the silence it might have helped, but we were trapped in a mime moment.

I saw a breach in the suits and slipped through. I had almost made it to the dressing room door when a gargantuan figure rose up in front of me and blocked my escape. At this point I may have let out an expletive; in fact I'm sure I did, judging by the facial reactions of the henchmen and the delicate old crone in the elegant pale blue ballgown who fainted.

The figure beside the wall moved towards me, hand extended. I vaguely remember sneering. After all I was late, I had to get dressed, royalty was waiting. Then I heard a voice that was clear and sharp and endlessly purified: "Paul, I must say it's a pleasure to meet you."

It knew my name.

"Oh, yeah," I spat, my own tone modulated into an over-aggressive Strine. Didn't this fool know there were children in financial distress?

"And who are you? I snapped. The room froze. The dark guardians seemed to swell in stature. It was a bizarre moment where all boundaries dissolved and there was the imminent threat of immense embarrassment. And sure enough, no sooner had the words left my mouth than I realised, in a flash of clarity, who it was. I'd seen those piercing blue eyes before. I was no stranger to that balding pate. Even the fine, tapered fingers seemed uncomfortably familiar. I knew the immaculately dressed man before me was none other than His Royal Highness, Prince, er...(his name eluded me for another few moments). Edward. Edward. Edward.

"Edward," he said. "And a pleasure to meet you?" This time a question mark hung over the platitude. It was a strange moment to be recognised by a member of the royal family, and yet have no idea who it was. But I believe I saved the situation from complete disaster with a display of antipodean nonchalance: G'day," I said.

Have you "paid to belong" only to find you can't stomach the crowd? Have you discovered that although you carry the same card, you are not the same? Are you tired of standing in queues behind people who insist on paying for a pack of raisins with a frequent flyer card so they can get 1.5 m closer to the politically unstable paradise of Fiji and their "free" dream holiday? Is it time to close our hearts, open our wallets, and burn every piece of credit-crap inside them?

The unhappy birth of the borrower occurs with the acquisition of that first credit card. The indignity of this moment cannot be overstated. You're treated like a maggot, often subjected to ritual abuse and a probing investigation into your personal monetary history. Your lacklustre financial existance is calibrated to a credit rating and then, with a pat on the back, you're away. Will you live up to society's expectations as a good creditor, or will you fail Australia and fall into debt?

For years you remain cautious - although, in truth, some of us only a few hours. Then comes the day, which in time comes to us all, when you're struck by the notion that somehow you're not spending your own money at all. You convince yourself that sliding an innocent piece of plastic along a harmless looking machine will never again impact on your life. And it doesn't until the second day of realisation*: when you fall behind in your payments.

You know the wrath of the corporate god is about to descend and you spend days terrified of what the mailbox might hold. When the dreaded letter arrives, through disbelieving and tear-stained eye, you find your credit rating has soared. In the developmental life cycle of the borrower, you've reached the chrysalis stage. You've transformed. Once, you were a series of uneventful numbers (the accountancy equivalent of flatlining). Now you've grown into a fully fleecable bad creditor and a highly valued customer. You've been given your wings.

Suddenly your mailbox is overflowing with corporations eager to make your acquaintance. But they have to be clever; they know you have one card already. So as an incentive to lure you into a lifetime of financial servitude they offer you a gift voucher to spend at a major metropolitan store. $20: You beauty!

Typical scenario: There's nothing good in the store for $20. There is something okay for $65. With the voucher, that's half-price (irrational thought process and poor arithmetic to justify the bus trip to the store). With no cash, you use the spanky new card to make up the difference.

And they have you. There's no way they can lose. Daily and annual percentage rates, government costs, hidden charges, and those computer errors we all know never happen apart from the times they actually do. (A show of hands: who has ever been ripped off and that excuse was trotted out?). The way things are going, even a penny for your thoughts would end up costing you.

Every time a wallet is opened an array of credit cards tumble out, imitating expensive minerals - platinum, gold, silver. They're wearing a disguise. Beneath the veneer of paint and dye, they're just plastic, cheap plastic - the gutter tramp of the polymer world.

This is the greatest illusion high finance has ever achieved - all of us desperate to improve our standing in the community with fool's gold cards. Let us escape the debt throes of credit, brothers and sisters, and tear down our house of cards.

* There's a third day, where men with heads like meatlockers and clutching official papers appear at your door and, unsmilingly, bundle everything you thought you owned into hermetically sealed bags to sell to someone else.

Postscript.. A close friend of mine, who had been unemployed for several years, recently received an 'invitation' to join a major credit company His response was swift 'If they're handing American Express gold cards to people like me, it's seriously devaluing its worth. And how did they get my address? And what happens when all the people like me find they can't pay? And there's got to be something good in this store for 20 bucks; can you see anything? 'Cos I'm f...ed if I can.'

The Mother - guardian of the family, practical and profound, capable of altrustic acts of love. The Mother - who raises and cares for her young and, if the situation demands it, protects them with her life. It's astounding those in the business of war have not thought seriously about the deployment of this classic homemaker as the ultimate defence weapon.

Who has never witnessed this paragon of domestic perfection turn into the fearful harpy of hygiene when breadcumbs have been carelessly dropped onto recently scrubbed lino? What chance would any architects of evil have against a mother's patience? How would they deal with a mother's reason? So intuitive, it defies any accepted form of logic and, yet, can be understood by any other mother? Adeptness in the kitchen makes them the perfect candidates for cooking up bombs using only household items. And what soldier could stretch a tin of bully beef to feed a family of four and still have enough for bubble and squeak the following morning?

Those are the stereotypical (and, as astute readers may ascertain, patronising) applications of The Mother during wartime. But it's her hidden arsenal that we should concern ourselves with here... Espionage: Mothers traditionally have no problems, ethical or moral, with the removal of locks, particularly those on the diaries of traumatised teens. Each year, thousands of them faithfully transcribe tasty morsels of adolescent yearning and vice, forgetting they're in the floral wallpaper enclosure of Stalag Mater. A flimsy brass lock is a piece of cake when Big Sister is watching. What pushes The Mother to these extraordinary lenghts of discovery is the need to know. Given this predilection for information, The Mother would make the perfect spy (the only reason Burgess, Philby and Maclean were caught is because they weren't mothers - though there's been some dispute over Burgess).

Search and Destroy:The Mother has been known to have senses finely honed for the detection of cigarettes (or any object alien to the family environment, eg, pornography, alcohol, drugs, etc). A mother can feel the hard edge of a soft pack of Styvo's buried under tonnes of Styro in a vinyl bean bag, without even sitting down.

She's the perfect sentry, instantly knowing when her household has been disturbed. Take a room that to the naked eye (especially a paternal one) appears untouched. The Mother will know without even entering that something is amiss. She'll sense the subtle displacement of furniture that suggests: the carpet has been lifted; floorboards have been removed; the bed is 1.2mm higher. She'll elevate with one determined arm the heavy oak bunk, that took four prepubescent boys an hour to move, covering the hole beneath the relaid carpet. She knows, without looking, that here lies a cache of confronting material of the pictorially educational variety. Once discovered, these items will disappear without trace.

Ration rationale: Near inexhaustible supplies of energy and the ability to ration are essential on the battlefield. The Mother is virtually unstoppable. Take the Christmas clean-up. Long after everyone else has sunk, defeated, into comfy chairs, The Mother is still engaged in activity, like storing torn festive wrapping paper.

Though there's no scientific evidence to support these claims, the military applications of The Mother are endless. She can see through walls, read minds (she'd never be duped into proclaiming "Peace in our time"), is equipped with some kind of freaky radar and is a brilliant strategist - her guess being more accurate than any psychic's prediction. And once every man in our defence force has been replaced by a Mother, and the Mothers of all nations meet on some distant field of glory, they may decide to sit down and resolve their conflicts over a cup of char and the limited exchange of recipes. Let's welcome the brave new girl to the front line.

* The Mother: generic term for classic 1950s Christian model; may well bear no resemblance to mothers, living or dead.