A Wealth Of Others Meddle With Our Hopes

Sydney Morning Herald

Saturday March 25, 2006

MIKE CARLTON. smhcarlton@hotmail.com

TO MY surprise, and no doubt yours as well, it turns out there are several other Commonwealth countries competing in these games in Melbourne.

This fact has been patriotically concealed from the Australian public in the girt-by-sea media coverage, especially on television, although the occasional hint has slipped through. "There's the little Kenyan girl," said one of the commentators, as a strapping African amazon strayed into shot on day two of the track and field stuff. Sexism vies with chauvinism. I haven't caught anyone saying "There's the little Kenyan boy."

The truth emerged when it became horribly apparent that our male swimming team, sans Thorpe and Hackett, was wallowing in the wake of all manner of foreign odds and sods. Aquatic hunks from Guernsey, Botswana, Sri Lanka ploughed along the lanes like dolphins. It is a sorry day when a boyo from the Welsh valleys can win the 1500 metres in an Australian pool.

National honour was restored by 23-year-old John Steffensen taking gold in the 400 metres on the running track. Mouthy as a rap star, all frizzy hair and bling, his victory lap was swank and swagger. It cannot be long before he cops the ultimate Australian accolade, his own brand of undies.

Best of all, he seems to have avoided the clutches of the sports media minders who drill those robotic banalities into our Aussie heroes. None of this "the other guys have been fantastic" guff from our Steffie. He aims to beat the world and doesn't give a damn who knows it.

DAY after day, more damning evidence emerges at the Cole inquiry to confirm that the Government was warned years ago about AWB paying kickbacks on wheat exports to Iraq. Intelligence documents, diplomatic cables, queries from the United Nations, protests from the Americans and the Canadians, the litany rolls on. We now have more smoking guns than there were at the Charge of the Light Brigade. Someone has blundered. But, bold as brass, the Prime Minister and Lord Downer sedulously deny all.

What more would it take for them to 'fess up? A personal letter of thanks from Saddam Hussein himself, perhaps, found buried deep in the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade: "Dear Excellencies Howard and Downer, On behalf of Iraqi people and Baath Party, I expressing my profoundest gratitude for Australian generous donation of $300 millions paid to Banque Gnome de Zurich on the 14th inst. Rest assured, your monies will be put to good usage in defence of our fatherland. May Allah be with you. Yours in fraternal greetings, S. Hussein, Dictator."

Even that, I think, would not faze the dogged duo. You can imagine the response: "The Foreign Minister, Lord Downer, said today he had not seen a letter from Saddam Hussein thanking the Australian Government for facilitating the payment of bribes for the export of Australian wheat to Iraq."

"You should see my email inbox," he told reporters in Canberra. "It is chock-full of offers for penis extensions, cheap Viagra, horny romps with blonde nymphos and intriguing Nigerian investments. I simply cannot read and reply to them all."

ENOUGH of affairs of state. Loyal readers will know that I am a sucker for all things nautical. Last Wednesday, the navy invited me to sea for a public relations trip in a Collins class submarine, HMAS Dechaineux. I am still buzzing with the thrill of My Exciting Adventure.

Unfairly, the Collins boats have been a running national joke since some American expert reportedly said a few years ago that they sounded like an underwater rock band. But extensive (and admittedly costly) modifications to hulls and propellors have cured all that, and our six submarines are now stealthy weapons envied by the navies of the world. On exercises with the Yanks they have snuck up to startle the giant nuclear aircraft carriers that are the pride of the US Navy.

Dechaineux's captain, Lieutenant-Commander Phil Stanford, dived the boat beyond the harbour heads. Fans of Das Boot and similar submarine movies would have been disappointed. Crash dives don't happen anymore. There is no honking of klaxon alarms, no hammering of boots on steel ladders, no clang of hatches being dogged down, no thunder of diesels. Save for a few crisp orders to sailors glued to control room computer monitors, all is as quiet as a lift descending in a city office building. We glided to the depths at an angle of about 10 degrees, with barely a sense of forward motion.

A glimpse through the attack periscope is the right stuff, though, grey seas heaving to the far horizon. And it is one of life's stirring experiences to re-enter the harbour perched on the tiny bridge atop the sail, as they now call the conning tower, with white waves creaming over the bow, white ensign snapping at the flag pole.

There are four female sailors in Dechaineux's crew (yes, a separate cabin) but the remarkable thing was how young everyone looked. In the navy's elite, most are under 25.

© 2006 Sydney Morning Herald

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