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The Hub was Pay TV's Arena's long-running arts/culture program. It began in the late-1990s with Amanda Keller at the helm, and it became known for not being afraid to show weird and wonderful things on our televisions.

In 1999, Richard took over as host, after the show had been hunting around for a new host in the latter stages of 1998. Richard guest hosted at this uncertain stage, along with celebrities of the calibre of Tony Barber and some bloke called Tim Ferguson.

Richard only hosted for half a year, and he was replaced by Allison Whyte. The producers said that thought the show was more suited to a female host, and by this time, Richard was busy with his new son, Cosmopolitan radio and his work with the Republican Movement. The show finished at the end of 2000.

And that's the truth.

As I see it, this is a serious threat to the purity of blind prejudice. They should ban it first and if they want to see it later, they should do what the rest of us will do - wait for a mate to come back from a holiday in Malaysia with a pirate copy.

I think what they're trying to tell us, is that it's not the thing itself that's offensive, it's the representation of it that's disgusting. Like, sex for instance. Sex is a beautiful, wholesome union of two married people, and it's even nicer when it's with each other. But when there's a camera in the room, well, then sex is obscene!

Likewise, John Howard. In the privacy of his own home, a fine, upstanding community leader with a proven track record. But as soon as he's splashed all over the media, well then, he becomes a disgusting spectacle that no one should have to tolerate!

Please, Mr Howard, stop going on TV. If not for decency's sake, then for the sake of the children.

And that's the truth.

Who could forget the wonderful slogans of yesteryear, such as, "where do ya get it?", or, my personal favourite, "Delmonte suits. Look good. Feel good. Are good."

Where do these geniuses get their ideas from? Well, if the campaign for the crickets's summer season is anything to go by, they get them from other ads. Now, according to Ad News, "Go Aussie, Go", is the direct descendant of "Come On Aussie, Come On", created by the advertising powerhouse Mojo.

Now, now, think about that. That's a huge conceptual jump. Before, they were coming, and now they're going. Brilliant! For this, these creatives pick up a few million, they own a waterfront house and get to wear an ugly jumper to work. And with the Sydney Olympics bearing down on us like a pregnant Russian shotputter in a labour ward, I predict that Mojo's magic formula will once more be called upon to rouse us from our pre-Olympics slumber and turn us into homicidal sports facists again.

We could have, "Swim Aussie, Swim". Or "Run Aussie, Run". Oh, ideas! Or "Dwarf toss Aussie, Dwarf toss". And perhaps, for our proud Olympian rowing team, "Stroke Aussie, Stroke". Unfortunately, that slogan has been reserved by the Australian adverristing industry itself for its own purposes.

I'm Richard Fidler and that's the truth.

Middle Australia needs hate figures like the Paxton kids, Lindy Chamberlain and Arthur Tunstall to unite us all, to give our little lives meaning for Christ's sakes. For instance, Christopher Skase. A shonk who, due to a minor clerical error, was given a mastercard with a five billion dollar credit limit. He goes belly up and a nation of credit card abusers want him lynched.

And then there's Phil Coles. Phil gets caught going to the footy with someone whom he said was there but wasn't. And for picking up some jewelery that he said wasn't there when everyone else said it was. Australia, a nation of petty theives who make pilfering in the workplace an Olympic sport, want him to perform Hara Kiri with a Welcome To Salt Lake City sovenir set of steak knives.

And finally, there's Rowan Yi, that freaky chick from the Chinese swimming team. We got furious about her because we all know she's hiding a dick in that costume somewhere. That's so unfair because Australian athletes never take steroids, do they? Haha!

And that's the truth.

Which raises the question, do the big Hollywood stars really need the extra cash? Every right thinking Australian person knows the answer to that one - of course they do. I think on this issue, Melanie Griffith can give us the benefit of her wisdom. And that's a sentence I was positive I would never make. She's declared that in this day and age, to make sure that her children are set, she needs eighty million dollars!

To be fair, though, let's remember that Mel has three kids, so it's really only twenty-six million a head. Let's see how that works out. Well, of course, you need your Porsche pram, then there's the Alessi stainless steel potty, the Gaultier designer nappies with the bum cut out of them, and the baby powder flown in especially from Columbia.

Okay, in a sense, these things could be considered relative luxuries, but every Beverly Hills brat eventually has to face a series of uniquely unpleasant and expensive facts of life. Drug rehabilitation bills, the cost of the drugs that forced them into rehab in the first place, breast or penis implants, removing of the implants, lunch tabs chalked up trying to convince some malnourished editor to publish a book about what a self-centred bitch your mother was, the years of therapy required to come to terms with your status as a useless sponge on society. And all this before the poor kiddy hits six-years-old.

So, was Audrey Jean crazy? Is Melanie Griffith one Pop Tart short of a nutritious breakfast? Will Charles Bronsan leave everything to his favourite film star? The world would be a more pleasant and far less confusing place if we all just stopped having children. Contraception has always been, and always will be, the answer to most of life's little problems.

And that's the truth.

These khaking left-wing critics want to rub uglies with the man. They all want Jeff the privatise their private parts. The proof can be seen in this month's Australian Style magazine. These women were once pre-selected ALP candidates, brilliant committed feminists and potential front-benchers, dedicated to the destruction of the Kennett government. Now they've given in and admitted that their anger was fuelled by complex feelings of sexual attraction for his royal Jeff-ness.

And Jeff is making enormous strides in changing the sexual culture of Melbourne. In Sydney it's always been 'root anything with a pulse'. And Adelaide, of course, it's 'root anything without a pulse', but for a long while, well, Melbourne has been a bit Victorian about sex. All that has changed. When it comes to sex, Melbourne is on top. Let the word go forth, put full page banner ads in every paper - "Melbourne: The world's most liveable city, with the world's most rootable premier!"

And that's the truth.

It used to be you came sliding into work with a hang-over, do some work for a few hours work that consisted of hanging around the hot water room complaining about being snowed under, and then you'd slide out at midday for a huge Chinese meal. Then you'd eat a shitload of food, get as full as a fat girl's sock, start a fight, have a massive arterial thrombosis, drop dead, and then get up the next day and start all over again. And all of it tax deductable!

Then, with the so-called fringe benefits tax it disappeared over night. Restaurants went broke, people got healthy and worst of all a lot people sobered up and had to start working for the first time in their lives. We've gone from being hard-drinking, Tarana driving maniacs to hard-working Volvo drivers.

*** My tape has a bit missing here ***

When we lost the long lunch, we lost a tradition. And that's the truth.

First, there's Tom, who won't go on a set unless everyone agrees not to make any eye-contact with him. Well, there's not much risk of that, unless you're crouching down to pick up some change. Why, it's little Tom! You're sacked bitch!

Then there's Keanu, who when people start to tire him, apparently puts his hand in their face and walks away mid-sentence.

Then we have Leonardo, who wants to tear down half of Thailand to make room for his winnebago. And anyway, I'm convinced Leonardo is a woman. If you look really carefully, you'll see that now that he's reaching puberty, he's actually growing some small, but pert, breasts.

And these cute little hippies are always telling us about how much they care about the Dali Lama, the whales and the rainforests. That is, when they don't get in the way of the winnebagos. The great Oliver Reed said nothing that was intelligable for the better part of twenty years. How much better to sit in honourable silence than crap on for years in a loud voice when you don't know what you're talking about!

And that's the truth.