It seems just a mere few weeks ago that I was toasting a crumpet in the prefects’ room at St Crispin’s, and thinking that the coming holidays would be bit of a bore. The last six months had been such a roller coaster ride. First, I had been a vital part of the Band of Brothers who had gotten rid of that bounder Abbott as head prefect. And what a brotherhood we had been: Malcolm, our guide and inspiration; ‘Cookie’ Hendy who had kept up the steady flow of savoury mince and tuna mornay during those midnight meetings in the Man Cave while Malcolm was agonising over whether he wanted to be head prefect or not and decided he did; Scotty from Remedial Maths who followed the Pantsdown 53 to see if they went up or down ( the numbers, I mean); Arfur, the day boy from the fruit shop who looked after our Fighting Fund (even if there was a bit of confusion about where the money came from and who got it); Mitch who ran communications and dirty ops; little Julie, who wove her Mata Hari magic by whispering in the bounder’s ear at every opportunity ‘I’m right behind you’; and, of course, yours truly, Riot Woy, mascot. Then, when Malcolm had taken his rightful place in the prefects’ room, his first act was to put me in charge of innovation and other clever things. But what goes up must come down and there were lots of people who were jealous of my rapid rise and took their revenge by voting me out at the next prefects’ election. I know now how that other great man, Churchill, felt about ingratitude. But here I was, on the eve of the hols with nothing to do and, between you and me, I could not help but think I was being ignored.

Then it dawned on me; I could visit my old chum Sam who was working for an NGO (Non Girlie Outfit) bringing the benefits of civilisation, like Netflix, tight jeans and Senate reform, to Iran ; no, sorry, the other one, Iraq! So, after a quick look at the map and getting the wretched thing the right way up, I thought I could do it all: meet Sam, perhaps help in an orphanage like Prince Harry and then take a canoe upstream and do a spot of nation building. And I don’t mind telling you that after all the childish nonsense from that bounder Abbott about goodies and baddies, shirt fronting and heads rolling all over the place, it was about time we showed the world that Australia could do some serious foreign affairs stuff in a sober and well ordered way, based on high principle.

So, after a quick dash to Uncle Jim’s farm to borrow his old pith helmet, ant-malaria pills and elephant gun and another stop in town to grab Revolt in the Desert by Lawrence of Arabia, it was off to the airport and the night plane to Cairo. I soon met up with Sam who, by this time was helping build a human rights commission for the Kurds, up where Iran, no, the other one, meets Cyprus, no, the other one that starts with a C, Cyria. We took the canoe right into no man’s land, bunked in with the natives and threw ourselves into village life, studying their needlework, tasting their strange aromatic food and playing the ancient game of Hump the Sheep, in which…no, I should leave that part till later. In fact, they loved us so much, we became known as the Kurds and Woy and, for a while there, I felt a bit like Little Miss Muffet. But then, before you could say Baden-Powell, everything went pear-shaped and bullets were whistling everywhere and I mean real live bullets with a capital ‘b’. I swear one of them parted my hair. Suddenly we were surrounded by a sea of screaming dervishes with tea towels. I grabbed Uncle Jim’s gun and let fly with both barrels. ‘Ker-powee!’ I got a couple of the blighters, but we were so heavily outnumbered it was like Rorke’s Drift in the Zulu wars, just before they sing ‘Men of Harlech’. Frankly, I thought we were done for; the human rights commission would never be built. Then, to make matters worse, Sam took a bullet and hit the deck. But then, just when I thought all was lost, I had a vision: it was Malcolm, smiling and shimmering like Mother Teresa with music and repeating those immortal words: ‘Don’t be downcast, Riot. Be agile and innovative’. There was a message there and it was enough for me.

With my leadership skills rushing to the fore, I threw Sam into the canoe, closely followed by three natives and, finally ( I went last to set an example of nation building) yours truly, who took up the stern position and kept up a steady barrage with Uncle Jim’s gun while the natives paddled like mad until we were out of range of the screaming dervishes, and just before my ammo ran out. Back in Cairo, I could safely say it was Mission Accomplished. We certainly showed that the chaos of the bounder Abbott’s era was not a permanent thing, that we could still bring order out of chaos and put Oz on the map, that Malcolm’s agile and innovative agenda, if only people could learn what it meant, could inspire a nation. What’s more, Channel Nine wants my story and I have now got an agent.

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