Charity begins at home.. so why not stay there

I can just about deal with someone bursting into the office at one minute to lunch. So long as I give the burstee some fragment of assurance that I will chase up whatever it is i haven't done after lunch they don't mind. But when you come up again a force so powerful that any reasoning or act of excusing oneself is gobbled up faster than left overs at Rick Waller's house, it becomes a far more unsettling matter. I'm talking of course about the street nazis or as they are better known.." people in kagools collecting for charity." I just don't get it, what happened to the kind ladies of the salvation army who used to stand outside shop fronts on cold saturday mornings handing out pin badges or the man who sold the poppies who understood if you were having a busy day and didn't bat an eyelid if you didn't have time to stop. When did charities start adopting the hard sell? You will listen to me and i don't care that you're running late for picking your kids up from school.

"It's all about raising awareness" a spokesman for the charity will say. Is it ? I mean aren't we already living in an age where we are constantly bombarded with so much information that even before Brian from West Bromwich is arrested for burglary we know his name, where he lives and what his favourite meal is (pasta and chips with muller yoghurt to follow). With Facebook, Twitter, Mobile phones, plus the old stagers like newspapers and television it is almost impossible to know nothing about any given topic. Living on the moon is no longer a valid excuse.

And yet with all this information it is still not acceptable to suggest that you'll have a look later.

If someone holds a subject close to their heart and wishes to campaign on it's behalf then they should have the right to do so. But that dosen't mean that someone who literally has to be back in the office in 15 minutes and still has to go to the bank and get a sandwich from Boots should be made to feel guilty. And no one does guilt like the kagool wearing charity collectors. At least with Jehovah's Witnesses you can shut the door.

Part of the reason for disliking this form of press ganging is due to the fact that they have an uncanny knack for stopping people at the worst possible moment. I went to a funeral once and they were flocking outside the church with their free pin badges. The deceased was the lucky one. They always stop you on your lunch hour or straight after work, if they approached you on a saturday afternoon when you've just had a liquid lunch then you would probably be more prepared to pour over and digest the information in front of you. You might even sign up for a year in order to get the free T -Shirt. It's partly that but it's also the feeling you get that by 3 o'clock that afternoon, after standing around in the sun all day, they're going to be in the pub singing Maggie May on the karaoke whilst you're in the office taking flack for sending out the wrong insurance document for the 50th time.

I got stopped once , whilst i was walking home from work and and I was having guests that evening so my mind was firmly fixed on what frozen pre -cooked nibbles I could bung in the oven. As I entered the high street, I was attacked. Well it was more of a skip, that skip they do with their clip board and insincere smile seldom seen outside a sales conference.

" Hi mate " I ignored this bit- " How has you day been?" No need to look up, default setting already set to " sorry I'm in a rush."

" That wasn't what I asked?" she said. Fuck! I wasn't prepared for that. I stopped and turned towards her and tried to not to fix her glare. I made a stab at humour, " I have to be in the house by six o'clock, doctor's orders." She gave me a look that suggested that I explain that to the starving kids in Africa. " It will only take 10 minutes, what's 10 minutes out of a whole day?" A lot when you have 4 dinner guests and you haven't even got to Iceland yet. " Just 20 pounds can pay for a mosquito net, we can even spread the payments". She showed me a financial breakdown of how those monthly instalments. When I saw in big bold letters " the equivalent of £1.66 per month " I thought I was going to explode with guilt. I should have heeded the advice of my colleague at work who said " I just ignore them, annoying twats" but now I was digging myself into a hole. I'd finished reading the propaganda but she wasn't paying attention as she was now talking to her colleague. She carried on as if I wasn't there. I wanted so much to get away but by ignoring me i felt like someone in a bar just before closing time who has made a stab at chatting someone up. Just as the conversation is dying on it's arse a male "freind" she knows turns up and they start chatting. You know full well that she's probably going to leave with him but you stay in the picture to see what happens. So you stand, shit faced, propping yourself up against a wall, muttering to yourself until you think there might be an opening. Oh for an opening now.

" I won't be long " she said to her departing friend. She swung round to me and for some reason I looked again at the dialogue in front of me even though I'd just spent 5 minutes before reading ti from top to bottom. This vexed her, " Tell you what I'll leave it with you." And with that she left. Hold on, don't get arsey with me. I'm not the one who pestered someone who was in a hurry to get home. For someone who was looking for an escape route I wasn't very grateful.My ordeal wasn't over. I still had to make it from one end of the high street to the other and that involved walking straight into the heart of their lair. I bowed my head to avoid fixing eye contact, any one making goose steps towards me was quickly halted as I walked the other way. A white man with dreadlocks probably called Spider or Ebola raced at me bellowing in a scottish accent - " Hey Big Man"- like I was some long lost relative. I didn't stop. Sensing my annoyance he escalated it further by shouting after me - " You have a nice day now eh?".

The Power Five and the Glory

liked Deal or No Deal when it first started. After years of throwing any item I could find at the telly during shows like The Late Late Breakfast Show and Noel's House Party, I was actually quite pleased to see Noel back on the TV. The intervening years had been kind. He still had the beard, the jovial demeanour and didn't appear to have gained any weight. Although wearing shirts a few sizes too small may have contributed to that. He had it seemed taken on the appearance of a trendy, older, university lecturer. The sort of man who would gladly crack open a bottle of wine if you paid a visit to enquire about a time extension for your essay.I liked the unfamiliarity of the format. A seemingly disparate group of people standing behind a hat box waiting for Noel to bring them into the game. These weren't veteran quiz players, chomping at the bit to answer a question on The Carry on... films but people who had by the look of them just come straight from work with a chance of winning money.
The quirkiness of the banker and in particular the phone itself seemed to work. The Spanish version of the show, despite winning huge ratings, involved the contestant in the hot seat speaking into a bog standard Nokia mobile phone. It therefore lacked the theatrics of Noel teasing the audience as he spoke into a prop from an episode of Miss Marple. Even the ever burgeoning catch phrases such as "East Wing" and "West Wing" , although a little cheesy at first, did eventually add to the drama.
It was refreshing that there was absolutely no skill involved, although some contestants would try to convince us that they had a pre-prepared fool proof system based on the number of houses in their street times the number of cats they owned. This they promised would lead to untold glory. The contestants would add to the tension by revealing insights into their make up. Were they a gambler by nature or overtly cautious? Information freely volunteered under the gaze of the studio lights. Before long, Noel became a local confidant, held in higher trust than a G.P or a Justice of the Peace.
But the biggest draw was the scale of money involved for comparatively little work. Millionairehad some years previously set the standard for prize winning but the participants still had to have some quiz knowledge, they still reserved the right to stop if the questions got too tricky. There was no disgrace to walk away with £32,000 in your back pocket. But with Deal, faced with accepting the sort of offer that would make a tramp blush or ploughing onwards towards a potentially life changing sum, the tension was unbearable. And all this rested not on knowing when Cliff Richard came second on the Eurovision song contest but on the toss of a coin or in this case the flip of a box.
So where did it all go wrong? Where did this seemingly indestructible format start to show chinks in it's armour? Well, it wasn't the format that became tiresome, more the way it was presented. Like a rock star, high on the continual flush of success, it became aware of it's self importance. The people standing, patiently waiting in the wings to offer advice when called upon were suddenly plucked from the shadows and given a leading part in the play. The short pre-ambles suddenly became confessionals. Husbands, wives, brothers and sisters were invited down from the audience to join in with the re-telling of woe and strife. The back story became more important than the story being told on stage. And before long the flood gates opened.
The people on the wings started to get nick names, David became Big Dave, unassuming Stuart from the North East became Geordie Stu, like some larger than life caricature from that corner of England. Sometimes the nicknames were slightly abstract, Sue in the hot seat would ask advice from "Armitage", so called because he fell asleep drunk in the hotel bath. The banker would then ring up to say he approved, like an office winding down on a Friday afternoon and all the while the subtlety and distance that made the show what it was, was quickly evaporating. It was being humanised when it didn't need to be. Like a punch line to a joke having to be explained over and over again, each time losing less and less of it's impact.
The hot seat, so sinister on shows like Mastermind became overnight The Crazy Chair,making it beguiling rather than terrifying. The high end sums of money - £30,000, £50,000, £75,000
became the Power Five, making it sound like a political movement intent on eradicatingpoverty and famine. I'm sure if you asked Noel he would have said it was next on his agenda.
The banker, so long a mysterious figure who no one would dare oppose suddenly became a figure of ridicule. His aura seemingly stamped out. Humbling reverence that had normally been displayed when being offered the equivalent of a years salary in Venezuela was tossed aside with disdain. Trepidation had now given way to cockiness. I stopped tuning in way before the East Wing and West Wing started to link arms like women at a C.N.D protest. My stomach just couldn't take it any more.
And for months and months I didn't watch it and then last year in the run up to Xmas , full of booze and Xmas spirit I tuned in for one last fling. I reasoned that if liked it again I might start watching it more often and just before it started I began to wonder if maybe I wasn't a little bit too harsh , maybe I had grown too cynical in my old age and after all 5 million viewers can't be wrong can they? But no sooner had Noel arrived wearing a Xmas tree imploring people to join the Dream Factory that i realised that my initial instincts were right.

Anyone for Tennis? So long as it's British

If ever I was famous to be invited to go on T.V's Room 101, one of the things I would have consigned to the nightmarish room, apart from Piers Morgan, would be Wimbledon. Not the area in London or the re-born football team but the annual Tennis extravaganza.
I am not against Tennis. I can appreciate the sporting endeavour, the history, I can even just about stomach the endless cavalcade of middle aged women called Jan who constantly shout "Come on Tim" whilst emptying the contents of a tub of face paint.
No, what really raises my ire is the way in which the BBC seem hell bent on getting as many positive references to British Tennis in as possible, whether it is relevant or not. Anyone visiting the Earth to take in a day's viewing on the BBC would naturally assume Great Britain to be some fallen super power in the sport. Longing for a return to the days when everyone had a tennis court in their garden and trophies were won on great regularity.
Don't believe it. Anyone who can remember tennis, P.T.H (pre-Tim Henman) will remember just how shit we were and to some extent still are at this sport. You only need to look at who fills the seats in the BBC's commentary booth for that. Chris Bailey's major claim to fame, apart from having nice hair, was that he once took a set off Goran Ivanisevic. Andrew Castle is there I understand because he once won a game of Swingball in 1987.
The BBC seem compelled to sell the sport of Tennis at any cost. If the BBC production team cannot get a positive sound bite they practically go into convulsions. But it just doesn't make any sense. The lean years of the 1980's and early 1990's was the time to sell the sport not now when you have a crowd who can still remember the heroic runs of Tim Henman and occasionally Greg Rusedski. And yet they still try to shoe horn in as many positive references they can.
For example the BBC will dispatch a reporter to do an interview, probably Gary Richardson (the Richard and Judy of investigative journalism), with an unranked Croatian player who has not only won their first match ever at Wimbledon but had never even played at Wimbledon or even been to England before. Instead of wrapping up the interview with the customary - " Do you know much about your opponent? Have you had a chance to see them play yet?" No, instead of that they will say " Andy Murray's got a great chance this year? What do you think?"
What ? I'm sorry ? Is the purpose of the interview not supposed to be about me and my game?
Now there's a strong chance that this player has never played Murray or is ever likely to , so how can he possibly comment. In terms of a relevant question it is like asking a recently released detainee from Guantanamo Bay whether he thinks Gran Canaria is a good holiday resort. And yet the Croatian player will stand for a few moments trying to politely mask his admonishment before saying - " Well he's got a great chance." To anyone else this is a fairly non - commital admission. I don't really know the answer but I don't want to look dull on national telly. But the reaction in the studio is something approaching fever pitch, with Sue Barker positively grinning like a Cheshire cat - " Well Mario seems to think Andy's going to win."
And yet at the back of all this hyperbole is poor Andy Murray who has yet to open his bag of balls let alone play a match. They sit discussing crumbs of comfort as one player is left in the women's draw on the opening morning whilst on court 14 Marat Safin has just completed a ten hour epic which scarcely raises a mention. When Roger Federer equalled Bjorn Borg's achievements of five Wimbledon singles titles, instead of the viewer being allowed to bask in the enormity of what had just happened, all you could hear in the background was the BBC commentator talking about an upcoming British Davis Cup tie against the Sandwich islands. The one's I really feel sorry for are Boris Becker and John McEnroe who are brought in to provide a perspective of what its really like to win at Wimbledon, to elaborate on how the pressure on you grows as the tournament progresses and how you deal with it as an athlete. And yet these great figures in the game are reduced to providing expert analysis on Lilly Butterworth's chances in the forthcoming challenger match in Newport Pagnell. You know when you are on a sticky wicket when the commentator has to resort to finding any opening they can to prevent the viewer from switching channels to watch Bargain Hunt. " Well she won her first service game in the opening set, let's see how she gets on in this one." She went on to lose 6-1, 6-0.

Don't call us we won't call you

A few months back I happened to switch over to Channel Five's Wright Stuff with the conveniently name Matthew Wright. During the course of the show one of the panellistslaunched into a tirade concerning cold callers and tele-marketers constantly blocking up their phone. They then proceeded to read from the newspaper in front of them a list of tips to avoid such nuisance calls. Unfortunately, this wasn't a topic up for wider discussion. Had it have been then I would have been first on the phone advising that if you wish to stop the phone from ever ringing then simply register with a Recruitment Agency. They'll never ring back.
Recruiters in such agencies are the best bosses, the best life coaches you've never met. They are like a teacher who invites you into their office to give you words of comfort shortly before an exam. They are Mickey to your Rocky. Brierley to your Botham. And yet unlike these father figures once you leave the room they want nothing more to do with you.
You spend one hour filling in a form in a drafty reception area, another hour sitting in a small room with a ZX Spectrum in front of you being asked if the "Glass is Half Full" or alternatively asking you whether you agree, strongly agree or are just not sure that "finishing second is the same as failure". By this stage your brain is so shot that you just want to write " well it depends , if someone had a gun to your wife and kids head then I guess finishing second would be construed as failure but if it was the olympics then at least you get a silver medal."
After the form filling and the aptitude test you are then welcomed into a suite to go through your application. They will then read from the form "I note you don't drive and you have a phobia of chickens. Let me just check. Ok a job has just come up at a KFC in Edinburgh. It's a 300 mile round trip but we will pay a 16th of your expenses. " That tedious job you wanted so desperately to leave doesn't look so bad now.
You point out a job you saw in the window that you might be suited for and they immediately try to skirt over it as if they've reserved it for a friend.
" A vacancy has come up for a washer up, any thoughts?" Yes, plenty, but in terms of work I was looking for something more permanent.
" Well they might take you on full time." You ask if they have anything in the field of office work.
" Well we might have something come in next week but they go quite quick."
It's not the bloody Next sale. Isn't there a priority system for these things? Surely once a job comes in that matches my skills my name will be put forward. And just as you are about to give up the ghost a nugget of salvation is thrown forth. " As regards references " she says as you move eagerly forward in your chair " do you think you'll have a problem getting references from your employer in China".
You put down your pen, your clipboard and move closely before whispering in their ear;
"I said fucking Cheltenham."

It's double points if you go on the floor

Schools love to show off their achievements. They love to wax lyrical about the time the school came third in the National Schools Choir contest and that summer many moons ago when the first XI Cricket team went a whole season unbeaten. They'll even point you to a headline about it from the local newspaper stuck above the head master's office. History, teachers will tell you, is what schools are built on. Each pupil passing through the front gate, each academic or sporting success is only adding to the history of the school. But this is only the history that is documented. A lot of a school's history goes un-recorded and the only proof is in the memories and testimonies of those who were there when it happened. Every school has a sub culture, an underworld where achievement is measured not in how many people pass their Wood Work GCSE (or Wood and it's Environment AppreciationStudies GCSE as it is probably called these days) but in how many 1st years Biffo Wilkins kicked the shit out of in one day or how many up skirt shot of Frau Renard one was able to get during german conversation. These are the achievements that galvanise the pupils.
At our school it was the infamous Dump League of 1992 that did it.The Dump League wasn't a conscious teacher/pupil initiative to eradicate the litter problem around school or take a keener interest in the welfare of the planet. No, the Dump League involved a pupil taking a shit and getting it marked. The concept was simple. The participant excused them selves from their lesson, completed the deed in as long a time possible without arousing suspicion and then returned to the class only for the appointed "Judge" (i.e any pupil willing to stick their head down a toilet) to then excuse themselves to do some marking. The results were then passed onto the official recorder and then presented in the form of league table, kept at all times in the safe keeping of Martin Dirkin. Dirks, as he was known, was too street smart to be accosted by bullies so there was no danger of the results being leaked.
The league started in February 1992. It was made up of 8 competitors; of which some volunteered freely but others had to be persuaded. They approached me because as they put it I was a " fat bastard and my shits are bound to be massive". I was reluctant at first but after some verbal harassment and a threat of a dead leg I agreed. The rules were set out on day one. The "attempt" would be judged on size, smell, texture and how many flushes it took to wash away. Any "attempt", big or small that disappears up the U Bend is exempt from full marking. Should any section still be visible after it has disappeared up the U Bend then that section alone will be marked. You could go as often and little as you liked and there was no law against what you ate or drank before hand. Like a chef in a Michelin star restaurant it didn't matter what ingredients you used so long as you produced the goods. Oh and if you dropped the kids off on the toilet floor you got double points.
Despite the interest shown towards me taking part I wasn't one of the pre-race favourites. Simon Barker was head and shoulders above the rest. His pedigree was well known way before the tournament; which was surprising as he seemed to exist solely on a diet of Super Crunchies and chewing gum.
After week one I was in 4th place, respectable I thought. By week 2, I was in 7th. And by week 3, I was last. Dirks' sole words of consolation were always ; "remember it's double points if you go on the floor. " Taking a dump whilst semi - bunking off lessons and getting some one to mark it had a sense of danger to it but taking a blatant crap on the floor was just wrong. I mentioned this to him and all he would say was " Well you won't get into Europe with that attitude" . After 4 weeks the competition was going global, well Europe anyway. It wasn't just Europe that was taking notice. Girls who have never even paid us time of day in the past would stop us on the way to the geography block. " Is it true you're in some sort of turd league?" To which you'd nonchalantly agree before preparing yourself for the inevitable snog. But of course it never happened, but at least people were talking. Unfortunately it wasn't just the pupils who were talking. I had a habit of being quite regular. Which was quite handy when you're participating in a Dump League but it always meant that my toilet trips coincided with double Maths, more precisely around 11.45 on a Monday morning . As per normal I put my hand up to be excused and normally the teacher Mr Johnson would say " be quick" but for some reason on this occasion he put his foot down. " No! You know it's come to my attention that you and Parsons ( John Parsons, committee member and lying in 3rd place) always seem to go to the loo on the same day. I don't know what's going on, I'm not entirely sure I want to but I'm keeping my eye on you." Someone at the back of the class shouted "nonce" but I didn't laugh. All I could think was that we'd been rumbled. That lunch time we organised a meeting. I was adamant we should stop so were 2 others but all the rest were eager to carry on. The eager beavers it should be noted weren't exactly propping the league up. They had good reason for carrying on. And so in the light of the majority decision, even though they wouldn't agree with us if we had the majority, we continued onwards. Shortly after this decision I became aware that there always seemed to be school maintenance men in the vacinity of the toilet every time we went. It wasn't unusual to see them around school it just seemed a bit of conincidence that they should be there every time I went for a bowel movement. But there was no knock at the door, we were not frog marched there and then to the headmasters office to spill the beans so I put it all down to my paranoia. And then everything went quiet until one lunch beak everyone was milling around the yard when Simon Barker emerged from the lavatory, arms aloft, nodding his head shouting "Double Points". The unthinkable had been done. A parka clad first year lept out in front of Barker nearly retching. Within minutes word had got round and pupils flocked to see this 7th wonder of the world. As the dust settled and the lunch bell rang, I saw 2 workman in deep conversation with the deputy head. This time I was sure it wasn't paranoia. That afternoon in French I expressed my feelings to Dirks and all he could say like a true humanitarian, was: " You're talking out of your arse, if you shat out of it once in a while you wouldn't be bottom of the league."
I felt vindicated when they came for us the next day. Parsons and I were dragged out of Maths and interviewed separately. I was first in. But no one had de-briefed me on what to say. There was no point in lying, especially when you've been under surveillance by maintenance men ( one of which was ex-Army) . Should I name names or just take the rap myself? I had visions of me sitting there stoney faced, muttering "no comment " whilst the charge sheet was read out. The minute I got back into class Parsons or maybe even Dirks would put their arm around me and say; "You learnt a valuable lesson today, you never rat on your friends". As it was I owned up to my side of it, didn't mention any other names and signed the confession in the presence of the deputy head and left. I returned to Maths and nothing more was said. When Parsons came in, he sat at the back: " Did you say anything?"he said. " No " I answered with a certain amount of gangster pride. " I did " he replied " I ain't getting kicked out of school for those numpties" So much for loyalty. Until then I hadn't even thought about the punishment. I was so relieved to get my story straight and not drop anyone in too much shit that I hadn't dwelt on the repercussions. Had they all fingered me after all?
I spent an uneasy night contemplating my fate. To get kicked out of school for fighting or cheating was one thing. At least you could argue that it was a moment of weakness or in the case of fighting that you were defending someone's honour. But to be involved in an operation whereby you examine each others poo and then grade it in terms of smell, colour and whether or not it disappears up the U bend. I'd never be able to hold my head up high again.
The next day we were marched into the Head Master''s office like squaddies facing a court martial. The Head gave a speech on being young and the exuberance of youth. I felt at one stage that he was about to allow us into some secret that he had from his school days. Had he himself partaken in some such activity? As it was he said no further action would be taken and more importantly our parents would not be informed. Probably more out of wishing to spare the school secretary's blushes than our own.
For the next couple of weeks random pupils would come up to us to call us twats or make them laugh by regaling some of the stories. I later found out that I was only one who hadn't named names during the interrogation process. I may have finished rock bottom with possible relegation to the second division if Dirks' plan for resurrection came off ( his proposal was that we do it in our own time and in public loos) but I learnt that in the face of overwhelming pressure I didn't buckle and more importantly I didn't rat on my mates. Something that in the 17 years since I have taken absolutely no comfort from what so ever.

Who the fucking Mel are you....?

I think back to the 1980's it seems that 3 things always happened. Liverpool FC always won the league championship, Steve Davis always won the World Snooker Championships and Mel Gibson was always an Aussie. The truth is that during this decade Liverpool only won the league championships 6 times , Steve Davis only won 6 World Championships and Mel, well , Mel still seems to me to be Aussie Mel. Even all these years on I can still sSometimes when

ee Mel, clad in leather , chasing the Toe Cutter through the ravaged wastes of the outback in the movie Mad Max. You couldn't get anyone more Australian than Mel Gibson, unless you spliced the DNA of a kangaroo with Paul Hogan's craggy face. If he told you he was born in the back of his father's utlity truck you wouldn't doubt it. Ask a contestant on Family Fortunes to name a famous Aussie and they wouldn't say Merv Hughes or Rod Laver or Dame Edna. Pound to a penny they would say Mel. He was as Australian as Alice Springs, sheep shearing and short term memory. Whenever a newspaper ran a story on Mel it always included a caption; " Aussie hunk Mel Gibson", unless of course it was The Sun when it would read "Ayres Cock". To the average Brit in the 80's Mel and Australia were as inextricably linked as Max Clifford and making money is today. And then he went to the United States of America to film Mad Max 3 and it spelt the beginning of the end. The transformation of Mel wasn't sudden but built up over time. At first he made references to his upbringing in New York, something that was news to about 99% of world's population. Remember these were the days before wikipedia. Then he began slowly diluting his aussie twang. Now supporters of Mel would contest that anyone who lived in the States as long as Mel had would start to talk with an American brogue. It was only a matter of time before his voice changed. But I didnt buy it one bit, to me it seemed too convenient. And when I saw him in the Lethal Weapon films sporting a mullett I knew the conversion was complete. Mel had defected to the other side.
I didn't resent Mel chasing fame and fortune in the bright lights of Tinsletown but the way in which he became a different person seemingly overnight I found odd. I don't recall, during his time as Aussie Mel, him ever making references to his upbringing in New York (he only moved to Australia at 12 years old) . I don't remember him ever giving a shout out to the New York Knicks or Yankees or complaning how much he missed Taco Bell whilst someone shoved another shrimp down his gullet. Likewise when he became an American hero, I dont remember him ever commenting on the policies of Paul Keating, the music of Inxs or even looking out for the score in the Ashes. Even the most fairweather of Aussies (if there is such a thing) would look out for the score in the Ashes. It was as if the road he took from 12 years old to super stardom never existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.

er existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.n. Remember these were the days before wikipedia. Then he began slowly diluting his aussie twang. Now supporters of Mel would contest that anyone who lived in the States as long as Mel had would start to talk with an American brogue. It was only a matter of time before his voice changed. But I didnt buy it one bit, to me it seemed too convenient. And when I saw him in the Lethal Weapon films sporting a mullett I knew the conversion was complete. Mel had defected to the other side.
I didn't resent Mel chasing fame and fortune in the bright lights of Tinsletown but the way in which he became a different person seemingly overnight I found odd. I don't recall, during his time as Aussie Mel, him ever making references to his upbringing in New York (he only moved to Australia at 12 years old) . I don't remember him ever giving a shout out to the New York Knicks or Yankees or complaning how much he missed Taco Bell whilst someone shoved another shrimp down his gullet. Likewise when he became an American hero, I dont remember him ever commenting on the policies of Paul Keating, the music of Inxs or even looking out for the score in the Ashes. Even the most fairweather of Aussies (if there is such a thing) would look out for the score in the Ashes. It was as if the road he took from 12 years old to super stardom never existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.dn't resent Mel chasing fame and fortune in the bright lights of Tinsletown but the way in which he became a different person seemingly overnight I found odd. I don't recall, during his time as Aussie Mel, him ever making references to his upbringing in New York (he only moved to Australia at 12 years old) . I don't remember him ever giving a shout out to the New York Knicks or Yankees or complaning how much he missed Taco Bell whilst someone shoved another shrimp down his gullet. Likewise when he became an American hero, I dont remember him ever commenting on the policies of Paul Keating, the music of Inxs or even looking out for the score in the Ashes. Even the most fairweather of Aussies (if there is such a thing) would look out for the score in the Ashes. It was as if the road he took from 12 years old to super stardom never existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.