Air and Graces

Tip for you. When dining exclusively with ladies, never bring up the rumour that a certain American President’s mother was sired in an occult sex magick ritual in 1926 by the Great Mage, Aleister Crowley, over dinner. Specifically, tapas. It tends to belittle and demean the tone, apparently. That I should learn this lesson in the Southern hemisphere’s epicentre of style and class, Melbourne, was, maybe, fitting. My emergent priapism did not go unnoticed and led to my all-female travelling party debating the root of my obsession. Over breakfast the next morning, an inferiority complex was muted. Nailed, one might say.

Inferiority complexes can be dangerous things. History is littered with stories of poorly-endowed, short men resorting to all manner of unpalatable behaviour in an attempt at what psychologists like to call ‘transference’. The Holocaust? Hitler was a shave under 5’7” and a failed artist. The Napoleonic Wars? Bonaparte’s, ahem, Little Bona was less than an 1812. On a tiny frame. Not tonight or any night, Josephine.

Countries who suffer from such afflictions can also pack a macho swagger, as an Englishman who’s spent any amount of time in Australia can attest. Of course, God’s Country’s only crime against humanity has been Paul Hogan and being annoyingly unsporting when winning at games of mild ball skill. And physically, one could hardly call it a wimp, even behind it’s back. Yet, the amateur shrink can detect a touch of the insecure braggart in Aussie trumpeting of their achievements and inherent qualities.

Which is not to say that they should be down on themselves. Because they have an awful lot to be proud of. Comparatively high standard of living, generally gorgeous weather, bountiful sources of barbecued protein and strapping, healthy, morally-ambiguous young women (there I go again). It’s all there. The problem they have is that it does tend to be there, as opposed to here. And it is a long way to go, especially considering the current strength of their dollar and the rise in oil prices.

Melbourne suffers from an own inferiority complex, all it’s own. In short, it’s not Sydney. Canberra was conceived only to break up these diametric sisters and be the dull one in the middle. Melbournites will tell you that Sydney is up itself and flash. Crass and gauche. A star fucker and a hanger-on. Whereas they are the bookish, hot, geek in thick-rimmed specs and a demure blouse, showing merely a hint of décolletage. Who talks in French and understands Art and doesn’t think vintage clothes and objects are old peoples’ junk. Nouveau? No, no.

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