OK, little guy. There’s no point sugar coating this so I’ll say it straight. You’re born on kind of an awkward day in history, a day which has come to symbolise a whole bunch of bad stuff. I wish it were otherwise, but that’s how it is.
You were due long before September 11, but like the stubborn little thing you are, you took your time. Your poor mother was so big she looked like she’d swallowed a wombat. Then finally, out you popped. A whopping, healthy, 4.9 kilo boy, born on the fifth anniversary of the world’s worst act of terrorism.
Son, there are some scary images I’m finding it tough to shield you from this week. Believe me, it’s the hardest thing in the world to explain why a bunch of guys flew those planes into those office towers and killed all those people.
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It’s The Punch’s second birthday today. And we’d like to celebrate by offering you this free cupcake, on us. Just hook up to the new NBN, and Communications Minister Stephen Conroy has personally assured us it will pop out on your desk. Whammo! Just like that. That’s what $43 billion gets you, folks.
At the very real and somewhat enticing risk of provoking a snarky Crikey piece bagging our self-indulgence, we’ve thrown together a few thoughts on two years of The Punch below.
We’d also take this opportunity to remind those of you who have not yet done our survey to give it a go. It’s totally anonymous, and it’s all about giving you a say on the direction of your, and our, favourite opinion website.
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I once wrote and directed a play (yes, a real play – in a theatre, in front of an audience) in which one character gives his son some life advice along the lines of: “Try to live life the way that old Keith Miller played cricket. Dashing. Brylcreamed. Individual. Larger than life! Not giving a damn for what anyone else thinks.”.
So for no good reason, here are 49 pieces of gratuitous advice for my two sons Charlie and Sam on this, my 49th birthday.
1. Never raise your hand to a woman.
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