Australia had the best de facto national anthem in the world. Even people living in swamps in Brazil knew that if you heard the strains of “Waltzing Matilda,” you’d soon be swamped by young men and women with orange complexions and the heaviest knapsacks in the world. So, when Australians actually got the chance to vote in a replacement for “God Save the Queen,” what did they vote for? “Advance Australia Fair,” that’s what. Now, true, it’s more hygienic than most anthems, singing the praises of sunshine and fresh air rather than, say, bashing other countries, but it does sound so … worthy. Why didn’t “Waltzing Matilda” get chosen? Because it wouldn’t have been respectable. Australians care a lot about what other people think.
I had this conversation with an Aussie on the edge of a swimming pool at Ayers Rock:
Aussie: So what do the poms think about us wanting to kick out Queenie, then? (The “republic v. monarchy” debate was big at the time.)
Me: Doesn’t worry us. We’ve been thinking along the same lines.
Aussie: You don’t mind?
Me: Nope. It’s fine by us.
Aussie: So … you poms don’t mind, then …
Me: Nope.
Aussie: Oh. Right.
I saw him once or twice again that day, and he was clearly uneasy. He wanted us to mind, so he could say that it was none of our bloody business.
Because … well, Australia is still very English, down at bone level. You can see it everywhere, especially in the letters columns of its newspapers. There’s the same hair-trigger fear that someone somewhere might be getting more than their fair share, the same low-grade resentments, the same tone of voice … it’s just like being back home. I love the place, and must have been back at least a dozen times.
I did my first Australian tour in 1990. It was a bit of an eye-opener. They talk about U.K. and Commonwealth rights in the contracts, and the author says “yeah, yeah” and signs—and then you go out there, and there’s all these real people. Let’s see, what were the highlights on that tour … oh, yes, going into a bookshop in some tiny place called Toowoomba and finding a huge crowd of people, and on the signing table was a Vegemite sandwich and a cup of Milo, corner-stones of the Australian Experience. One of the others is “a chunder,” which I didn’t have. Incidentally, an early Australian rival to Marmite was tentatively called Pawill, although the proposed slogan, “If Marmite, Pawill,” was never used as far as I know, possibly because of police intervention. I was also pissed on by a koala, because that’s what they do. A taxi driver ran after me in the street to give me my change, a thing that’s never ever happened anywhere else in the world. And we shifted a lot of books, in this huge continent hitherto known to me as a word in the small print on page 28.
Since then I’ve done a tour most years, sometimes linked up with SF cons either in Australia or New Zealand. And after every tour I do The Report, of things we did, things that went wrong (and right), and all the other stuff that might be useful in the future.
It’d be sort of suicidal to print one. So I looked at all the reports, and tinkered with them.…
In The Last Continent I tried to make it clear that the Discworld continent of Fourecks is not, of course, Australia. It’s just a bit … Australian. So this is a report of a tour that never was in some place that doesn’t exist. But it all happened, somewhere. I’ve just moved things around a bit to protect the innocent, which in this case means me.
Day 1
Off on BA009, 10:25 p.m. from Heathrow. Watched Mars Attacks; shame Mars didn’t attack earlier, like before this waste of space went into production. Rowan Atkinson and Mel Smith were also in the cabin, so there was understandably a genteel air of silent gloom which meant I could get some sleep.
Day 3
(Day 2 is confiscated by Customs when you arrive but they give it back to you when you go.)
Arrived feeling fragile but okay, checked into hotel, slept for six hours, woke up feeling as though every sensory organ in my body had been wrongly wired. A vital piece of equipment on tour is a small torch and a notebook. Every night you’re in a new room. It’s not just that you don’t know where the bathroom is, you don’t even remember where the light switch is. Before the jet lag wears off, you don’t even know if you’re the right person. This is where the notebook comes in handy.
Up and shower and do some local media and then it’s time for a talk and signing.
This was something originally dreamed up by some fans as a little chat, got bigger at the insistence of the fearsome PR lady who likes my time to be filled edge to edge, and ended up in this big hall with four hundred people. Nice bunch. Someone congratulates me on my deadpan delivery. Haven’t the heart to say that this is because bits of my body think it’s 5:00 a.m.
Day 4
Morning doing more media, many of whom I’d met before. One keen guy conducts entire interview with the mike of his recorder plugged into the auxiliary power socket. I didn’t like to point this out, because it would be impolite, so when he found out by himself we did the interview again.
Noon: Small Mainstream Bookshop signing.
A very small shop—250 square feet or so, I’d guess, but with a very mixed and friendly queue that took up more or less the whole ninety minutes allocated. This is one of those shops where the owners seem to know half the customers by name, and probably ring them up to find out how they are if they don’t see them for a month. Couldn’t fault it. Banana daiquiri supplied, entirely unasked.
Straight on to: University of Bananabendin, Worralorrasurfa.
A good crowd that took two hours to get through. Pet wallaby brought along to see me, and a fan presents me with a bag of dried bush tomatoes, of which I’m known to be rather fond. Oh, and here’s a banana daiquiri. And someone’s holding a baby kangaroo.
Then a phone interview with a journalist doing a preview piece for the signing a few cities down the line. She’s never read a Discworld book, but nervously admits to sharing a home with someone who’s read them all. And reads out bits to her.
On to Small Family Bookshop, for a talk outside in the rather nice back garden. Nibbles and, hey, a banananana dakry. Overhead, possums swoop from tree to tree, unless I mean wombats. Hard to get away from this shop because the owner is one of those lovely people who tries to give you his entire stock to take away, but I make it in the end.
Day 5
Damn—the cooling fan in the laptop has stopped working. Ring up local office of Wasabi Computers, who might be able to fix it tomorrow, except that tomorrow we’re somewhere else.… It might be a software problem, says the engineer, and there’s a fix on their bulletin board, but time is pressing.…