For the last few years our fear of the unknown has been racing along at dangerously high levels. Y2K has managed to strike terror across the planet and it's only a cheap acronym. The loss of all financial records, global systems failure, the imminent destruction of all we hold dear, a third world war... It all seemed a heartbeat away. We managed to puta curse on the beginning of the future - the millennium's buggered.

How could we look forward to a bright new tomorrow when we believed the power stations were going to fail? How could we boldly travel into the New Age with planes failing from the heavens? Our fears might have come to nothing but, thank God, we have the lists. As that date approached there was a frantic scramble to get the historical house in order. The greatest, the best, the worst, people, fashion, films - it didn't matter what it was, so long as it could be placed in the context of good, bad or ugly. You'd think the world had never experienced the passage of time before.

For all the complaints, these lists offered a unique insight into humanity. It was astounding to discover that the best songs of the millennium were all recorded in the last 30 years. That the greatest historical figures of the last 1000 years are all still alive (or only recently dead). And that the worst fashions of all time occurred simultaneously in the mid-70s.

Some cynics had the audacity to suggest these lists were unabashed navel-gazing. They claimed they were a complete waste of time, but let's not forget that they said the same thing in 999. The good thing is if all the electronic systems did crash. If all the heating went off and we had to keep warm in a blistering Australian summer, then we could burn some of the crap that has been produced in the last year. Throw all those lists on the blaze, along with the telly, and the bonfire of the vanities will keep us warm for another 1000 years.

This is where it begins. Not the start to the new millennium - the start to the most annoying question you'll ever have to answer: "Where were you that night?" The countdown to the big mistake has commenced. On January 1 we received the greatest Christmas gift of all time - the gift of hindsight. As we stumble into this new century, those of us who survived will be continually reminded of the mistakes we made in the final days.

We'll have to endure endless dinner parties where triumphant motor-mouthed wags describe in minute detail the glorious debauchery or heavenly innocence of their celebrations. Where they went, what they did, who they locked tongues with in an unrestrained orgy of saliva as the clock struck 12. Tragically, only a treasured few went to the right parties. Only a treasured few have those sickening "I'm so good, bet you're jealous" anecdotes. Those boastful tales of NYE exploits that make the Marquis de Sade look like Mother Teresa. The tales that'll fill you with shame and envy at every gathering until you're rescued by dementia ... "We celebrated the birth of the Earth Mother and the Age ofAquarius in Taipei; everyone who was anyone was there."

"We were naked on an unreachable hilltop in the Andes, whacked on peyote with 4000 other tripped-out hippies, partygoers and refugees from reality. They came from all round the globe to contract botulism. What better way to greet the next 1000 years than by purging the stomach?"

"Stonehenge, man. The Druids and those in the know have known about it for the last 10 years. It seems so obvious now: Meet at the big stone clock."

"We were in Sydney*."

Thankfully, due to the unimaginable amounts of alcohol consumed, only a handful will remember that night of nights. And for many of us that'll be a good thing. It was the night the whole world looked forward to. Now we can look back at it and wonder... what the hell happened?

* Sydney was predestined to be the first city of the future. Is it mere coincidence this city has the same postcode as the new year? Sydney 2000. Excitement in Melbourne is running high as they begin preparations for Y3K. And Perth, be patient - your time is coming.

1.Cinema policy
Some Sydney cinemas have adopted a new policy, The poor ushers (they must be rushed off their feet, standing there, tearing tickets) have now been given another thankless task by the dim-sighted gang, paranoid management. They're to patrol the aisles of the cinema three times during every screening. Almost overnight, these pawns in a much larger game have become the warders of entertainment. Their tour of duty takes them along the aisles and in front of the screen. They're in search of those who transgress one of the great laws of cinema-going - no feet on seats. All the other laws are mere by-laws: no speaking during the film, no mobile phones, twice the price of admission on the inflated perishables at the so-called "candy bar". Surely it would show greater foresight to design a cinema where those who need to relax could put their feet up.

For countless centuries now, people have taken this liberty in cinemas. These picture palaces are nothing more than safe houses for the slovenly. Many feel that education, specifically focused on the negative aspects of slouching, is the way to stop this pandernic. It's my belief that it would happen regardless, and the best cure is tolerance and acceptance. Besides, it's almost certain that once this practice is allowed, it will lose its allure. There is an immense feeling of betrayal when ushers make their presence felt. Ours appeared when the world was being destroyed, and his annoyingly coiffed head became part of the greater tragedy - a silhouette engulfed in a blaze of friendly fire. These pathetic mininions of the dark forces of film deprive us of the basic joys of cinema (which I have deemed fit to list):
a) to sit in the all-enveloping dark,
b) to drift away on the dank perfume of stale popcorn and Pepsi permeating the carpet,
c) to watch the screen,
d) [and of utmost importance] to be the spectator.

Surely when the watcher becomes the watched, and the spectator becomes the spectacle, it destroys the very nature of the medium.

2. Department store policy
Why are there never any sales before Christmas? All the major department stores join in the frenzy of Christmas with ecumenical zeal but they never offer anything in the way of a real gift. Their catalogues are filled with the overt signature of the silly season: red, green, reindeer, snowflakes. But we must be aware that papier-mache ice castles and Santa are only there to lure innocence, and innocence's guardians, to their fiscal doom, it'd be more convincing if the chanty-loving stores of the world, who claim they want nothing more than to bring the joy ofgivingto the masses, marked everything down around mid-December. There is nothing more unjust than discovering the financially painful pre-Chnstmas purchase, now lying broken and discarded in the top room, is a bargain come the start of January. When you witness that poor purchase bundled up with a thousand other loser gifts, when you see it stretched out on the Flanders field of commerce, when it lies significantly reduced under the red flag of the all-conquering store, it's too much even for the meanest heart.

3. Big business policy
The banks, and big business across the globe, spent billions ensuring they'd not fall victim to Y2K data corruption. We'd all heard the message, "Your money is safe", in the past few post-imaginary holocaust weeks, there's been another development. The ones who must beware the bug's bite are small business and the home computer users - the unprepared masses. It's us who'll fall before the monster the commercial empires have brought to heel, Now, ask yourself why this makes perfect sense. When there's a discrepancy, as surely there must be, who'll be at fault? The banks who have safeguarded their systems with countless billions from their over inflated interest rates and criminal fees, or Mr and Mrs Nobody? The answer is obvious. This may prove to be the most cunningly devised global conspiracy ever - years in the making to skim a few more dollars from the deserving poor. Damn clever.

After this work of holiday whimsy I'll leave you with this thought: Sometimes you kill crickets thinking they're cockroaches. The time has come to tread carefully.

In years gone, by the semblance of aggression was easy to recognise: 18-hole Docs, red bigot laces, stretch or stonewash denim, shaved head or mullet cut, men in groups of three or more often accompanied by a barely restrained, ferociously hungry pit bull. And if indelible proof is needed - the full-face spiderweb tattoo in prison-blue ink.

On this day there was only one of those signs. Three lads swaggering with intent, dressed deceptively in the height of slacker fashion. If it wasn't for the aura of contained mischievousness they could've stepped out of a Mooks catalogue. Beige three-quarter length cargoes, loose-fitting Ts with pertinent comments about the futility of existence and dark suede Camper boots. They looked like three of the butch members of Five, or like Mary Poppins, if she were alive and a man.

All that was needed to transform this quiet street was a catalyst. It arrived in the shape of a contented older gent. He stepped onto his verandah, senses dulled by an afternoon nap, vulnerable to attack. The verandah was his pride and joy, clustered with cacti and succulents in terracotta bowls. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, tipping a small amount of water on his Green Angei. Then it happened, before either of us had a chance to react. The leader of the slack, head tilted in a Jimmy-Dean-post-accident snarl, aimed his pristine teeth at the weary home owner. Then, in a voice just days from breaking, he spat: "Sandstone verandah sux. "

The householder stumbled back, shocked or wounded by the seeming stupidity of the insult. It was grammatically incorrect and misspelt. I missed a step rubbernecking in awe. The two cohorts of the acerbic villain grinned. They patted their chum on the back, congratulating him on another superior slur. "Sandstone verandah sux." Surely a personal attack would have been more effective. Something about the man's failure in life, the stooped back, the sleepy look, the fact that his pyjama bottoms gaped. Why strike at the verandah? Why not throw a few "f" words in there and a couple of empathic "c"s? Those hard-consonant words are always effective and guaranteed to shock old, young, women, men, dogs and cats alike.

"Sandstone verandah sux.' The words repeated, looping around each other in a dizzying spiral of confusion and cruelty. And I realised it was clever, too damn clever. This insult would work its magic slowly. It would turn the old man's heart like a screw.

Most of us have forgotten fights of years gone by. The broken bones, scabs, cuts, bruises and abrasions have ail long since healed. But the words we said would never hurt us still do. The japes and asides, the clever, cruel and carelessly constructed lines, are still with us and always will be.

Under the stinging nettle of the taunt, my sense of civic duty evaporated. I was terrified they'd turn their wrath on me. (I was poorly dressed for any sour-tongued attack - my mother's hand-knitted poncho had left me wide open.) The lads owned the pavement. I walked on.

How can society protect itself from such garrulous assaults? Will our gardens, homes and floral arrangements be critiqued by wallpaper-reading thugs? What if this is a trend, if flick-knives and guns become passé and ridicule is the weapon of choice? Where could you hide? What protection can the police provide from a well-aimed, concise quip? Do we form vigilante groups of smart-mouthed do-gooders to counter this threat? How can you defeat the truth? For in the end they were right. The sandstone verandah did suck. It sucked big-time. The offhand comment enabled me to see the verandah for what it really was - it was sandstone. It was a sandstone verandah. I realised, with some sadness, the old codger would be feeding mushrooms before it came back in vogue.

I passed the house again yesterday. The owner looked dishevelled, older. He sadly shuffled in slippered feet to the edge of the verandah. I could see the loss in his eyes. His love of this verdant shelter with the overhanging pots and healthy plants was shaken and would never fully recover. He stood framed between the pillars in his own green-tinged hell, silently mouthing the words over and over again. "Sandstone verandah sux. "

The reason for this is the structure of the school day. School was neatly compartmentalised into hour-long segments, which could easily be subdivided into quarters or halves. This regime gave life a rhythm that found divine correlation in the TV guide. The fact that school finished at 3:30 and by four children's programming was well under way seemed more than just mere coincidence. And, just as in school, the world of TV was based on hour and half-hour segments that dovetailed beautifully to form entertainment. The repetitious format of school suggested that the rest of life would be seamless. When it wasn't, many of us fell apart.

I believe, and recent studies tend to support this thought, that the celebrated Australian inclination to laziness is due entirely to school. There are two ways to attack this problem. The first is to adapt our working hours to regular school hours. This would reduce the working week to a manageable 25 hours (plus homework). The other option is to keep future generations in school a bit longer. It'd be a harmless piece of legislation to extend the school day from 8:30 to 6:30. That way, when the kids mature and have to hold down "real" jobs, they won't feel the urge to head home at three in the afternoon.

This could also open up a new world for disenfranchised teachers. Regardless of the fact that they educate and instruct our greatest assets, they'd make a great deal more money in private enterprise. To get the wheels in industry turning again we need prim authority figures armed with pieces of chalk walking around our workstations, forcing us to pay attention. If we're sluggish, a loving crack across the knuckles with a metal ruler. And nothing focuses the attention more than a blackboard duster hurled with ferocious intensity at the temples.

Large corporations could employ these Matrons of Mathematics and Dukes of Discourse to patrol officers ready to confiscate tennis balls, rubber bands and pornography. Leaning on a shovel would be a thing of the past if council workers had Mrs Deportment, the third-grade English teacher who was only ever interested in posture, on their backs. But it's in the area of cleanliness that teachers excel. How spotless would our cities become if teachers followed around sanitary workers with that calm, commanding voice of authority: "There's one you missed"?

For most of us, our conditioning became ingrained with our primary education. We emotionally begin each day at nine, finish at three, with bouts of imagined educational boredom in between. I pity the poor individuals (you may have them in your office or perhaps they're members of your family) who failed to progress to the secondary stage and remained fixated on a time- management program dictated to them in kindergarten.

These are people who barely make it through the day without bursting into tears. They're normally a bit sleepy until 11 in the morning, by 1.30 they're overexcited and experiencing rapid mood swings, and by 2 they need a nap. At the sound of a piano they have an urge to lie down (which can make it difficult in a lift). After work they stand outside, looking maudlin, waiting for someone to pick them up.

The rhythm of school was beaten into us for 18 years, most of them spent in the mindless pursuit of knowledge. We moved from halls of mechanical precision into an organic world of chaos. Is it any wonder we're confused? Unless we act now, of the future will be the workers same. They'll sit at their workstations fondly remembering play lunch, joyously swapping Pokemon cards, mimicking The Simpsons and wondering, from time to time, whatever happened to Dawson? Just like us, they'll find themselves daydreaming at work, staring out a window, overcome with nostalgia for the great TV of the past and waiting. Waiting for that final bell to release them.