Now How Do I Write This...

I've recently joined up to an ABS support group on Facebook.

Surprisingly enough, it's not the kind of ABS that Clarkson, May and Hammond crap on about once a week on our tv screens. In fact, rather that save lives this ABS has a nasty tendency to end them before a baby's even had the chance to leave the womb.

This support group has a mixture of ABS sufferers and ABS parents. As someone approaching 30 years with Amniotic Band Syndrome, I want to write something to share my experiences with ABS, and how it definitely should not stop you doing anything.

I'm just not sure how.

I guess to start with I'd probably reassure parents - and mothers in particular - that it's not their fault. Two years before I was born my grandmother gave birth to her fifth child (yeah, unusual family). When Sue was born Grandma only wanted to know that the baby was healthy and that it had ten little fingers and ten little toes. I'd imagine it was quite a shock then when Mum went to repeat the quote and discovered something a little different.

Thing is though, nobody's quite sure what causes ABS. The first theory - and the way I explain what happened - is that at some point during the pregnancy there's a rupture in the amniotic sac that surrounds the baby. This means the baby is exposed to very small fibres that can wrap themselves around extremities like hands and feet. Think of it like having a tight rubber band around your fingers: it's kind of like that. The second theory is that there's some kind of blood circulation defect.

So what causes that sac to rupture? No-one's actually all that sure really. It's not a genetic thing and it certainly doesn't affect future pregnancies - I'm the oldest out of Mum's six kids and the only one with ABS. All I put it down to is one of those things that happens from time to time.

I guess all I'd say to parents then is simple: It's not your fault.

So what then would I say about growing up with ABS?

That's a tough one. I could start by saying that some way, somehow, kids adapt. Despite being born with all fingers fused together on my left hand and only three affected on my right, apparently right up until I was 2 I was left-handed. No idea how I managed that. It's something that still sticks with me today, most often when I put a coffee cup on the table then turn the handle around to my left. It might seem implausible to parents, but trust me, you don't miss what you never had.

I could then go on by saying that to try and fix ABS deformities is not easy. For me it's taken seven sets of plastic surgery at three different ages (two at age 2, three at 9, two at 16) to reduce the webbing down so each finger can move individually. I'd also mention that it hurts. Imagine your hand being caught in a vice for two weeks, throbbing so badly you so think that they've actually moved your heart from your chest to your hand, which, incidentally, you can't use for up to a month. (On a completely unrelated topic, buying sporting equipment for a birthday that arrives while you're still in hospital recovering is not a Good Thing. Couldn't use that bloody cricket bat all summer...)

It would also be remiss not to mention that both sufferers and parents are going to get a lot of looks and a lot of questions. ABS isn't all that common - about 1 in 1200 live births, with many of those of having mild deformities as a result. I've met tens of thousands of people both in Australia and overseas, and only know of one person with a hand resembling my own - and even then a sketchy memory tells me it was something other than ABS.

Because it's not that common people will ask questions. Mum was often asked if she'd been on Thalidomide when pregnant with me; fortunately that particular drug was taken off the market back in 1961 as opposed to 1980. Kids will also point and stare, as kids are want to do. Where my three brothers just accepted things and got on with it, Mum's youngest two - who are 18 and 21 years younger than me - often ask questions or want to have a good look. When I was younger this would freak me out, but now I'd rather people asked what happened rather than them come up with their own explanations (the one at boarding school where apparently my parents were cousins was the best).

I guess though the big thing I'd tell ABS sufferers is that it shouldn't hold you back any. There are going to be times where something triggers you off and all you can do is sit there and wonder "why me?".

I certainly used to do that. Still do sometimes if I'm honest, although that's fading with age. It's easy too to blame things on the fact that you're different. Again, fading with age.

Sure, there are always things you're not going to be able to do. I can't join the Defence Force or police; I'm certainly not your man when it comes to getting and holding a round of drinks in a crowded bar or club!

I'd tell those with ABS how my parents actively encouraged me to get out and use my hands, to not feel like I was any different to anyone else. I'd talk about winning a piano competition at the Toowoomba Eisteddfod (trio, 1990 for those playing at home); working out a way of bowling leg-spin in cricket (for the uninitiated, something very difficult to do for anyone); playing National League indoor cricket in England (even if I did get the call-up in the pub the night before); and finally spending four years working as a tour guide in Europe, meeting and entertaining thousands of people, precisely none of which cared I had ABS.

I guess that's what I'd say. Question is though, how best to write it?

Please Let Me In Mr Hostel Man

With humblest apologies to Billy Joel...

WELL it's 1am on a Saturday

The regulars drunks shuffle in

There's an Irishman standing next to me

Smells like he's been hitting the gin

He says "mate can I get on the internet?

I'm going to go talk with mammy

Tell her I'm fine, drinking shitloads of wine

But in the morn I'll be feeling shabby"

La la la didi da da

Lala didi da da daaaaa

Please let me in Mr Hostel Man

Please let me in tonight

I need to go lay down for a little bit

Because I'm not really feeling alright

Now the girls at the bar, they are friends of mine

Still won't give me my drinks for free

But they're quick with a joke, and my bourbon and coke

And there's no place that they'd rather be

They say "man, that strange guy, I sure he's stalking me"

As the smile runs away from their face

"I think that I might call the bouncers across

So he can get out of this place"

La la la didi da da

Lala didi da da daaaaa

Now Paul is a local long-termer

Who's not really looking for a wife

And he's talking with Tony, who can be a phony

Next time in jail, it's probably for life

And there's guests shagging in the tv room

A drunk man gives the dog a bone

And it doesn't matter when I tell them to go

They're back at it when they're back alone

Please let us be Mr Hostel Man

Please let us be tonight

I haven't had sex in over six months

And now this is feeling alright

It's a rowdy old crowd on this Saturday

The bar manager gives me a smile

Coz this revelry pays for my salary

While they forget about life for a while

And the reception it sounds like a carnival

And all the guests, well they smell like a beer

And they come to the counter for support or they'll flounder

And say "Man, what are YOU doing here?"

La la la didi da da

Lala didi da da daaaaa

Please let me in Mr Hostel Man

Please let me in tonight

Me sweetheart's upstairs, how can you not care

I'm need to see that's she's feeling alright...

Your Instinct Can't Be Wrong...

So I've sold my soul to the devil and actually watched part of So You Think You Can Dance Australia on the idiot box a couple of times now. I'm not proud: on one occasion I was over a mate's place; tonight it's because Old Man River decided to change over to it (between you and me, I think he's going through that Mid-Life thing).

I've also watched more than one episode of Australian Idol, which under today's standards leaves me fully qualified as a social commentator. Somehow I doubt this would pass close scrutiny, but something about both shows has struck me.

Now I'm a sports fan first and foremost. Like former US Chief Justice Earl Warren, I always turn to the sports pages first: "the sports section records people's accomplishments; the front pages nothing but man's failures".

My sport of choice is cricket, a game that caters to pretty much everyone. You have the option of following the classical techniques (McGrath, Lillee, Hadlee, Warne et al) or the unconventional (Muralitharan, Mitchell Johnson, Malinga). And that's just the bowlers.

Thing is though, ask a knowledgable cricket fan who they'd really like to watch, and they'll probably tell you Johnson or Murali bowling to Afridi or McCullum. What do these four have in common? They're all instinctive players.

Forgive me if I'm wrong, but what Dance and Idol seem to lack are instinctive performers.

Make no mistake: technically, these guys are brilliant. The control these guys/girls have over their bodies/voices is nothing short of amazing. To consistently do what they do takes years of training that allows them to do things the rest of us can only sit there and dream of doing.

But...

It's a potential thing. I'd rather watch Johnson and Afridi take risks on the off that it leads to something special; likewise, I'd like to see performers take a risk on the chance that its leads to something unforgettable. Better that than play it safe for something that you remember for whole minutes.

Unfortunately Dance and Idol's formats don't lend themselves to this kind of risk-taking: wouldn't it be compelling viewing if they did?

Ridin' Along On My Bicycle Honey...

I'VE spent a lot of time on the road.

Lots of time.

I mean seriously, an absolute truckload of time. And we're not just talking about the past four years tootling around the world on a variety of coaches/buses, chalking up kilometres the way Tiger Woods chalks up notches in the bedpost; but also a childhood spent travelling the east coast of Australia, sitting in the back of whatever car we had, trying not to kill three younger siblings who felt it necessary to invade my part of the seat.

One thing we always had during this family "together" time though was music. For all those who've had to put up with the best of Elton John, Billy Joel and Paul Simon during European road adventures, blame my father: and in particular his mix tapes.

So, in the interests of absolutely no one in particular, I present to you my five greatest (for the minute) driving songs of all time (or until I change my mind)!!!

5. Chris Isaak Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing

You ever love someone so much you thought your little heart would break in two? I didn't thinks so...

Imagine driving down a deserted freeway. The lights of the city begin to blur as you push down hard on the accelerator, leaving what haunted you deep in the past... until this song comes on the radio; Isaak's howling matching the mood as you drive away into the night...

4. Jimmy Barnes Driving Wheels

Well he's following the broken lines; Living on borrowed time; Motel rooms and broken hearts all left behind...

If someone ever decided to run a series with a long-haul truck-driving lead, they wouldn't need to worry about composing a theme song. They'd probably want to come up with some drama though. Reckon it'd be pretty boring watching half an hour's worth of man driving a truck, Waylon Jennings on the radio, country music and the engine's roar. Maybe they'd have him (or her - now there's a thought) meeting their significant others in Shitville, South Australia, but any efforts to get them to stay are thwarted because only the road can tame the rebel in their soul. Reckon they'd go for it in Alabama.

3. Dire Straits Telegraph Road

A long time ago came a man on a track; Walking thirty miles with a pack on his back...

What makes this such a great driving song isn't the fact that it tells the life story of a town, nor the fact that you could imagine the lyrics describing a town springing up in any deserted area you happen to be driving through: what makes this song such a great driving song is the fact that it starts softly, slowly sucks you in, then spits you out just over 14 minutes and 23km later.

2. The Whitlams Tangled Up In Blue

Early one morning the sun was shining, I was lying in bed; wondering if she had changed at all, if her hair was still red...

Dylan did the original; these guys upped it a notch. Although only 5:40 worth of Whitlamy goodness, it's still another track that drags you in kicking and screaming before leaving you wondering just where the protagonist's life will take him - and where he'll next meet his lady friend.

1. Bruce Springsteen Born To Run

In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream; At night we ride through mansions of glory in suicide machines...

If ever there was a song that you'd play when leaving town to escape... something, this is it. Anyone's who's been trapped somewhere would know all about the feelings this song invokes; all could relate to the basic theme. This is the song that will be playing when I give you (and you know who you are) that ten-minute warning that I'm coming around, and your bags better be packed and you'd better be ready to go Anywhere, Earth, because tramps like us, baby we were born to run!!!

Is Australia racist?

IT'S the question that comes up every few years or so. Events in Australia seem to show a dangerous undercurrent of racism that pundits here and abroad are quick to comment on. In recent times this has ranged from a spate of attacks on Indian students (especially in Melbourne), to a drunken idiot of a spectator crash-tackling Pakistan cricketer Khalid Latif during a One-Day International in Perth.
Certainly Australia's history seems to be held against it. Australia's indigenous population went down from an estimated minimum of 315,000 to just 93,000; in part due to the effects of diseases such as smallpox for which they had no natural immunity to, but also due to the Australian Frontier Wars, which killed an estimated 20,000 indigenous people (compared to around 2000 European deaths). Indigenous Tasmanians suffered the worst, wiped out so effectively that some historians consider it an act of genocide. Indeed, it wasn't until a 1967 referendum that Indigenous Australians were counted in the national census.
Sadly, this wasn't the extent of early Australian racism. During the gold rushes opf the mid-1800s Asian prospectors were often resented for their work ethic and their habit of working together, as opposed to the European custom of working alone or in small groups. This resentment eventually got so bad in the goldfields of Burrangong that on 30 June 1861 a group of around 3000 Europeans drove the Chinese off the goldfields, destroying their camps. This followed a series of anti-Chinese attacks on other goldfield scattered around the country.
Possibly though the pinnacle of Australian racism was the Immigration Restriction act of 1901. This was one of the first pieces of legislation passed by the first Australian Government after Federation in 1901; designed to keep "undesirables" (Indians and Eastern Asians) out, it gave immigration officers the power to ask potential immigrants to complete a dictation test in any European language they chose (later expanded to any language). This test backfired rather badly in 1934 when Czech-born Jewish Communist Egon Kisch passed the test in a number of European languages before coming unstuck when the immgration officer asked him to write down the Lord's Prayer in Scottish Gaelic; a task the immigration officer wasn't able to do himself.

SO THAT was then; what about now? After World War II the Australian Government embarked on a scheme to help populate Australia after fears that the relatively low pre-WWII population would make possible invasion easier. By 1955 the one millionth post-war immigrant arrived in Australia; while in 1949 work began on the Snowy Mountains Scheme, a project that involved workers from over 30 different countries, a fact commemorated in the town of Cooma with the Avenue of Flags. Indeed, the story of the Snowy Mountains Scheme is one of remarkable tolerance given that many involved were fighting each other during WWII.

Later years saw further positive changes, with Aboriginals finally given the vote in 1962 before a 1967 referendum to include Indigenous Australians in the census and allow the Federal Government to make laws for Indigenous people was endorsed by over 90% of voters. The 1970s also saw mass Asian immigration after the Whitlam Government scrapped the White Australia policy.

In more recent times Australia has had the unfortunate spectacle (if that's the word) of the 2005 Cronulla riots, where people of Middle Eastern appearance were attacked by an angry mob that had initially gathered peacefully. A few years earlier right-wing politician Pauline Hanson's maiden speech to Parliament (see page 47) warned of the dangers of multiculturalism; while the current attacks on Indians don't seem to suggest that much has changed in 200 years.

But still...

In this article published by the Sydney Morning Herald, Gerard Henderson suggests there are two ways of testing racism in a country: ethnic crime and intermarriage. Colloquial evidence would suggest low levels of the first and higher levels of the second; indeed, I can only think of one case of parental disapproval due to a partner's race - which says everything about the person involved.

SO WHAT is it then? Are Australians, by nature, racist?

Let's not kid ourselves: there is racism in Australia, just as there is racism everywhere else in the world. Perhaps Australia's location away from pretty much everyone doesn't help: how many Australians actually experience other cultures compared to, say, Europeans; while how much does the rest of the world know about Australian culture outside of Neighbours and Home and Away? Having worked with international tourist both in Australia and abroad, I can personally vouch that Australians aren't the only ones with the "it's not like this back home" mentality.

But perhaps though the final word should go to a man who makes no secret of his love for Australia. In his book Downunder author Bill Bryson retells the story of a post-war immigrant who went to the police station after arriving to register his presence. The officer stepped out from behind the desk, but instead of striking the new immigrant, put out his hand and welcomed him to the country.

Doesn't sound very racist to me.