Politics IS a real job

I am fed up, completely fed up.

Too many times have I listened patiently while people with strongly-held but not-critically-examined opinions explain that the trouble with politicians these days is that most of them have never held a ‘real job’ (see list of examples of media whinges at the end of this article).

I am generally too polite to make the obvious retort: ‘Oh, I didn’t know that some jobs were real and some were pretend. Which ones are the real ones then?

A favourite here in Australia is to hold up the example of Ben Chifley, who worked for the railways for a few years. Ironically, those for whom he is a poster child eulogise him for ‘having worked as a train driver’, little knowing that train driver was – at the time Chifley did it around 1912 – a very prestigious position – the pinnacle of the railway industry. Hardly the sweat-of-the-brow, in-touch-with-the-common-man position that people dream it was. Chifley did work at lowly, manual jobs in the railway trade, including shovelling coal, but that was in order to work his way up to the lofty (some might say ‘ivory tower’) position of train driver.

When the criticism is made, it usually includes union organiser among the ranks of ‘pretend jobs’. I find that criticism astonishing. A good union organiser is a combination of human rights barrister, public relations consultant, aid worker, counsellor, logistics engineer and CEO. The job sounds so hard to me that I can’t imagine any amount of money being enough to induce me to take it on. They have to persuade people to join unions, negotiate with powerful business interests, chair union meetings to try to get workable decisions from groups of employees that may have quite disparate aims, organise strike funds, conduct legal battles against laws aimed at removing any remaining negotiating power of employees against their big business employers, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Given the skill set needed to be a successful union organiser, I imagine any business looking for a new head of HR, finance or operations would be happy to take them on – as long as they promise not to organise any strikes.

Yet, somehow, all that activity is not regarded as being a ‘real job’. I have nothing against real estate agents, pathologists, car vendors, fast-food checkout operators or NHS statistics processors, but I cannot see what life experience or exposure to the ‘real world’ those jobs provide that being a union organiser does not.

Another apparently ‘pretend job’ is being a political aide. I don’t know much about political aides but, from the outside, it seems such a job would be a combination of super-PA and media advisor. They have to make sure the MP or candidate they advise gets to all their engagements in time and is briefed on the issues they need to know about, as well as being properly dressed, fed, rested and toileted. Hardly a walk in the park. And hardly a low-skill profession.

But is it something else rather than a lack of skill that is being insinuated about political and union jobs? If so, what exactly is it? Does the job have to be strenuously manual and involve almost no brain work in order to be ‘real’? Then a brickies’ labourer has a real job but someone gutting fish in a cannery does not? That makes no sense to me. And why does there have to be no brain work? Is that just the current anti-intellectual fashion playing out? Are people with clever minds required not to use them in order not to stand out from the crowd and seem elitist? Could it not just be possible that if somebody has a clever mind it would be better employed trying to find ways to raise the wages of the working class or make sure that our politicians are actually well-informed on the issues they are deciding, than in digging a ditch? The good book itself tells us (No, not the HitchHikers’ Guide to the Galaxy. The other one), in the Parable of the Talents, that it is a sin not to use the talents you’ve been given.

Often the accusation of politicians ‘never having held a real job’ is equivocated with the accusation of ‘never having experienced real life’. This is as nonsensical as the other lines of attack. The challenges of real life are things like trying to find a home to rent, save up money and maybe eventually borrow to buy a home. They are going through the joys and pangs of love found and lost and maybe searching for a life partner. They are trying to carve out a sense of purpose in a world that is a babble of noise, shallowness and competing interests. They are trying to find communities to which one can belong, to gain acceptance in them and then work to benefit the community and to help it achieve its goals.

I think most of these are experienced by everybody, and all of them are experienced by most people, regardless of their chosen occupation. The occupations that are least exposed to these challenges are those that are tremendously well-paid – investment banker, business tycoon or senior barrister. Yet somehow those are regarded as ‘real jobs’ while being a lowly-paid political aide or union organiser is not.

The phrase ‘out of touch with real people’ is another popular one to throw around. Again one wonders what one needs to do to be a ‘real person’. How can I tell if I am one? Wouldn’t it be terrible if, after years of thinking you were a real person, you suddenly discovered you were a fake? Could you demand a refund? From whom, I wonder?

I think what they mean is just ‘has regular contact with people that don’t work in unions or politics’. Well that criticism doesn’t stand up to scrutiny either. Most of a politician’s day seems to be spent meeting people, and only part of that is with other politicians. As an MP they have to meet whatever constituents ask for a meeting, within reason, and my understanding is that they do plenty of that. If you have a grievance, make an appointment to go talk to your local MP about it, rather than sitting at home whinging!

Now senior ministers don’t do much meeting with constituents, because the other demands on their time are so great. But the only people that get to be a senior minister without serving their time as a backbencher – with all the time ‘meeting real people’ that that entails – are those that come straight into parliament at a senior level, typically from a career in either business or law, two professions that are mystifyingly regarded as ‘real jobs’ even though the average big businessman or senior lawyer meets far fewer working class people per week than just about any politician. Those that have to work their way up as a backbencher before becoming a minister will have had plenty of exposure to ‘real people’. Are we then going to complain that, once they are Treasurer or PM, they should set aside a large proportion of their precious time for yarning with locals at the pub, rather than spending that time studying and reflecting on the pros and cons of an important decision that will affect the lives of millions of citizens? If we want to make that criticism, why do we not also make it of the senior people of any organisation, be it a business, a church, a charity or a sport federation? Why should politics be the only profession in which one is expected not to devote one’s efforts to making the best decisions possible, and achieving the best possible outcomes.

Now I’m not suggesting that all politicians do spend all their time studying and agonising over policy. If they did, the policy would never be enacted. In business, selling a product is as important as designing and manufacturing it. A business that devotes all its efforts to the latter and none to the former will soon be a dead business, and the same applies in politics. If politicians have a policy they believe is worth selling, they need to put their utmost into selling it and, because of the adversarial nature of our political system, that will always be a difficult job. Selling it means speeches, private negotiations, cajoling, counting numbers, nurturing votes from fence-sitters, and so on. It’s a really hard task, and not one I’d have the stomach for. But it has to be done. Otherwise somebody else with less benevolent motives – a Putin or Trump – is likely to get up and sell their alternative, and we’ll all be worse off.

A good policy needs effort to sell it, and that effort is worthwhile. Where I get cross at politicians is when they cook up useless or even harmful policies solely in order to sell themselves, ie to increase their popularity and thereby the likelihood that they will retain power. They may be selling themselves to the public, as is the case with politicians that flirt with the xenophobia that can always be found in any population under a moderate amount of stress. Or they may be selling themselves to a king-making power group within their party or to powerful financial backers. The current Australian PM seems to have sold off so much of himself to those groups that he is now indistinguishable from his reactionary, climate-change-denying, Muslim-hating, would-be-theocratic predecessor, with the sole exception that the predecessor at least had the virtue of being true to his own values.

Politics, including being a political aide or a union organiser, is a tough job. You have to work really hard, for pay that is much lower than you would get if you were working that hard, and with that level of skill, in private industry. You have to endure public hatred, mockery, accusation and vilification. You are always at work – none of your time is your own. You are regularly confronted by failure and heartbreak, when you lose an election or maybe just fail to get approval of the policies you believe in. You are always on the move, often living out of hotel rooms rather than in the comfort of your own home.

The way I see it, a job in politics is as tough and as real as it gets and, as long as they are not using their position to corruptly enrich themselves (which, mercifully, is fairly rare in my country, and in most other OECD countries) politicians deserve our respect for that, even if we vehemently disagree with their policy proposals. Someone who has always worked in politics has always had a tough job, more so than somebody that spent their first ten years after uni at Wernham Hogg, playing office pranks like putting their co-worker’s stapler in jelly (not that I have anything against office workers. I’m sure they can be good citizens and lovely sons or daughters-in-law too).

So let’s all stop whinging about our politicians’ backgrounds and start engaging with them about their policies.

It’s all just so silly. If we were to apply the same standard to other professions as we do to politics we’d have job interviews containing lines like:

The university is very impressed by this thing you’ve invented called Gravity, Mr Newton, but what we really need to know before we consider employing you as a research fellow, is whether you have had any experience as a blacksmith’.

Andrew Kirk


Bondi Junction, March 2018

Daily Telegraph 1/3/18

Daily Mail 19/7/12

Sydney Morning Herald 23/2/17

Post Script.

In searching the internet for examples of this opinion I have been railing against, I came across a couple of reasonable-sounding defences of the view. While they do give pause for thought, I am not persuaded by them. Here they are.

Argument 1 – Requiring a previous career screens out the young

This argument says that, if a starting-out politician has already had a career in another profession, they are likely to be at least middle-aged, with the wisdom and life experience that people generally expect to come with age. It is undeniable that life experience accrues with age, and most people would agree that wisdom generally increases with age for most people, at least until dementia sets in. But very few people would argue that we should therefore only allow people aged over forty to enter politics. That would be a very different, and highly controversial argument, and while it may have some points in its favour, I would not be inclined to back it. Furthermore, it would be an argument about age, not prior profession, and would exclude people who had worked in bakeries, hair salons, at building sites and at law firms as much as it would those who had worked in unions or political offices. So I don’t see this argument as providing any support to the ‘must have worked at a proper job’ case.

Argument 2 – Having a fall-back career allows greater integrity

This argument says that, if somebody has worked successfully in another occupation, they have the option of returning to that occupation if their political career doesn’t work out. Hence, the argument goes, they can tell the party’s Chief Whip to get stuffed when she demands that the new MP vote along party lines for a bill with which the MP does not agree. Somebody who does not have a fall-back career may follow the Whip’s orders because they fear that if they do not, they will lose party pre-selection and hence lose their job at the next election.

I don’t find this convincing either. Somebody that has worked as a unionist or a political staffer will have developed skills and experience that enable them to return to working in that capacity just as easily as one can return to working in an office or a hospital.

Secondly, if we pursue the logic of this argument, we should favour politicians that are rich, because they don’t need the salary and hence will presumably have greater integrity. Experience shows again and again that that is not the case. It is the lure of power, not money, that makes many rich people still desperate to retain their political appointments. Australia’s current PM is enormously wealthy, wealth gained from working so-called ‘real jobs’ (ie lawyer and investment banker), and yet has comprehensively sold his integrity to the reactionary right of his party – an influential group that opposes every value that the PM used to stand for – just so that he can hang on to his position as party leader, and hence PM.

Thirdly, it is not a tautology that a system in which MPs vote according to their individual views, without any sanction for departing from the party line, leads to better, more democratic, outcomes. Sure it sounds good, the idea that our representatives follow their conscience. But in practice in can generate some very unsavoury results. Party discipline may be oppressive but it also provides a defence against manipulation by powerful lobby groups. Nowhere is this more evident than in the US Congress, where the NRA targets individual MPs in non-safe seats, threatening them with a targeted hostile campaign at the next election unless they vote against gun control bills, even if their own party is promoting those bills. The reason the NRA can do that is because party discipline is so weak that it easily outbalanced by the NRA’s threats. If party discipline were such that voting against the party line would mean losing pre-selection, and hence losing the seat anyway, the threats of groups like the NRA would be futile. It is certainly arguable that one reason US politics is so much hostage to certain sectional interests is the ability of those interests to target individual MPs, something that cannot happen in countries with tighter party discipline like the UK or Australia.

I am still not entirely sure whether the benefits of party discipline outweigh its disadvantages (although given the recent terrible gun tragedies in the US, it’s hard not to lean that way), but regardless of one’s view, it is certainly far from self-evident that making it easy for MPs to vote against their party’s policy would be a good thing.


The End of the World

One day the sun will grow so large that it will first dessicate, then bake, then engulf and vaporise, the Earth and everything on it. No life will survive that. Perhaps some people will have escaped to habitable places in other solar systems, but it’s hard to imagine it would be many, given the enormous energy that is likely to be involved in any interstellar travel. I expect ordinary people will be unable to escape.

Even escapees will be wiped out eventually, as the universe, many billions of years from now, slides inexorably into heat death. No life will survive that.

So there it is: the end of the world is a matter of when, not if. We are powerless to prevent it.

That background makes it a bit confusing to work out what moral obligation we have to take actions that prevent a near-term end of the world, and to avoid actions that would hasten it.

If we are talking about preventing the end of the world in our lifetime, it can be easier to resolve, because that would affect people that are alive now, and most people recognise that they have at least some obligation of care to other people that cohabit the world with them.

But that obligation is less widely accepted when it comes to future generations, and the farther away those generations are, the fewer people tend to feel an obligation towards them. Politicians sometimes talk about intergenerational equity and caring for the future of our children, maybe even our grandchildren. But it’s a rare politician that argues for a policy on the basis of its effect on our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-children.

At some stage, life on Earth will come to an end, and it seems likely that that end, unless it occurs in the blink of an eye – which it is hard to imagine happening – will be accompanied by tremendous suffering. If that is inevitable then how can we work out whether it matters whether it occurs sooner or later?

We cannot solve this by reason alone. As David Hume so acutely observed “Tis not contrary to reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my finger.” Of course he wasn’t saying he did prefer the destruction of the world. He was saying that one must look to one’s emotions to find an answer.

Looking to my own emotions, I confess that I am more alarmed at the prospect of the world ending in a catastrophe in 100 years than in 100 million years, despite the fact that I will not be here to see either..

I use the word ‘catastrophe’ rather than ‘cataclysm’ because I think the end would be lingering and painful. We should be so lucky as to be extinguished in the blink of an eye. Philosophers who have nothing better to do with their time make up thought experiments involving a button you could press to instantaneously end the world, and ask under what circumstances you would press it. But there are no such buttons, nor ever likely to be, so we need to contend with the end being a drawn-out, painful process. I suspect widespread famine would be a major part of it. That would lead to outbreaks of uncontrolled violence as people compete for the dwindling resources of food and water. Disease would spread to accompany the famine – perhaps providing a more merciful end for some. We see this sort of catastrophe already in some parts of the Earth, and we will see them more often as climate change becomes more severe.

Is a ‘soft landing’ possible? What if, realising that the world will become uninhabitable within 200 years, we were to decide that we were morally obliged to not have children, in order not to inflict on those new people the pain of experiencing the world’s slow death? What would a world with no new children be like? Most of us, including me, feel that it would be very sad. I know of two novels that explore this: ‘The Children of Men‘ by PD James, and ‘I who have not known men‘ by Jacqueline Harpmann. In the first, for some unknown reason, humans cease to be able to conceive. The novel is set about twenty-six years after the last baby was born. In the second novel, a group of female prisoners escape from their underground dungeon to find the Earth deserted. They wander for many years in vain search of other survivors and after a while start to die of old age, with no replacement.

Both novels are confronting, bleak and sad. The James also has a thriller element to it (which I won’t spoil for you), but the basic premise is still bleak.

It would be very hard for us now to decide ‘No more babies’. Imagine us all gradually dying one by one, deprived of that feeling of continuity – the circle of life – that one gets from seeing younger generations. But what if society had the time to work up to that over several generations? What if, realising that all life would cease within ten generations, society worked to change its culture in order to equip people to feel more positive about non-procreation and less reliant on younger generations. It would be a very difficult psychological shift to accomplish. It would have to counteract the powerful impulse embedded in our psyche by evolution – to perpetuate the species. But who knows what techniques of psychological manipulation humans may have managed to invent in a thousand or more years’ time? Maybe they could condition future humans to find fulfilment in bringing their species in for a soft landing – for instance in working as a childless carer for old people until one becomes too old to work. Things could be set up so that the last remaining people have all the food, water, clothes, medicine, shelter, power and entertainment they need to survive solo (we would also need to train people to be comfortable with isolation, which we current humans are definitely not). They might also be provided with pills to provide a painless end to life once they near the point where they will no longer be able to feed themselves. That is not how it happens in ‘The Children of Men‘. But that book is set in 2021, not 3021, and with no notice for society to prepare for the landing (for some reason fertility just suddenly ceases in 1994).

If a soft landing were possible then, while an end of the world may be inevitable, its accompaniment by great suffering would not be. It would then become easy to argue for doing what we can to delay the end of the world. It is simply to prevent a great suffering.

What if it’s not possible, so that the great suffering is simply a matter of ‘when’ rather than ‘if’? What if the amount of suffering accompanying the end of the world will be roughly the same regardless of whether it occurs in 200 years or 200 million years? Are we morally obliged to do what we can to defer it beyond 200 years? I pick 200 years by the way because that should be long enough to be fairly certain that nobody currently alive will be around to experience a world’s end in 200 years.

It seems to me that the main difference between the two end dates is all the currently-unconceived humans that would experience life in the intervening 199,999,800 years. Is it a good thing or a bad thing that such lives should come to pass? There is very little moral guidance on this. Even religions have little to say about this, with only a very few religions (albeit big powerful ones) forbidding contraception.

A group that has a decisive opinion that is the direct opposite of the anti-contraceptionists is the anti-natalists, led by the prominent South African philosopher David Benatar. Benatar argues that, since all life contains some suffering, it is immoral to create any new life. He does not accept that suffering may be offset by pleasure at other times in a life. Even a few moments of mild pain in an otherwise long, happy life makes the creation of that life a moral mistake, in Benatar’s book. Less extreme anti-natalists argue that procreating is OK if we think the new life will have more pleasure than suffering but that, since we can’t be sure, we are obliged to not procreate. A more folksy version of this is the comment uttered at many a late-night D&M discussion, that ‘this is no world to bring an innocent child into‘.

Not many people are anti-natalists. Most people, despite the exaggerated doom and gloom on the news – terrorist this and serial-killer that – (of course no mention of the real dangers like climate change, malaria, poverty, road carnage and plutocratic hijack of our democracies) see life as a generally pleasant experience and look positively on conferring it on new humans. But that tends to be a very personal feeling, in which the moral dimension cannot be disentangled from the powerful personal urge to procreate.

For those of us who are neither anti-natalists nor anti-contraceptionists, the question of those lives in the intervening 199,000,800 years remains a mystery to be explored. Is it important that they come to pass? Is it good that they do so?

Lest you decide I sound like a homicidal maniac and ring Homeland Security to have me ‘dealt with’, let me state here that I feel that it is better to do what we can to delay the end of the world. That’s a major factor in why I think action on climate change is the most important issue facing humanity today. But I won’t go into the reasons why in this essay, because this topic will be discussed at my upcoming philosophy club meeting and I want to avoid spoilers. In any case, I’m more interested in what other people think about this.

The dilemma posed by this essay was first raised by Oliver Kirk.

Andrew Kirk

Bondi Junction, April 2017


  1. What, if any, obligations do we have to unborn generations? Do they include an obligation to ensure their existence?
  2. Does the nature or strength of the obligation change with the remoteness of the future generation?
  3. If we accept that the end of humanity will occur, and will be accompanied by great suffering, are we obliged to do what we can to delay it for as many centuries or millennia as possible (taking as agreed that we are obliged to delay it beyond the lifespan of anybody currently alive)?
  4. If we do feel obliged to delay, does that imply an obligation to maximise the population of the Earth, subject to being able to maintain adequate living standards?
  5. How do I feel about the fact that a time will come when there is no more life? Does it strip life of meaning? Or does it enhance meaning? Or neither?
  6. How would I feel about a world in which human reproduction became impossible?
  7. Do I feel differently about the world ending in 200 years from how I feel about it ending in 200 million years?
  8. What implications do our opinions on the above have on our feelings of what stance we should take on current future-oriented issues like climate change, balancing government budgets, infrastructure building, asteroid mapping, solar flare prediction?


PD James: ‘The Children of Men’

Jacqueline Harpmann: ‘I Who Have Never Known Men’ (‘Moi qui n’ai pas connu les hommes’)

Peter Singer: “Practical Ethics’. Discussion of obligations to future generations on p108-118 of Third Edition (2011, Cambridge University Press).

On Adventures

When I was little I wished I could have an adventure. I put it down to reading too much Enid Blyton. The children in her stories were always having adventures. In the Wishing Chair and the Faraway Tree they visited magical lands in the clouds, got chased and imprisoned by goblins, wizards and stern school-teachers (Dame Slap and Mr Grim), flew on various improbable objects and had regular feasts. In the Famous Five and the Secret Seven they snuck across dark moors at night, following shadowy men in overalls who turned out to be either burglars or smugglers, frequently nearly getting caught, but finally managing to trick the wrong-doers and manoeuvre them into a sticky situation in which the grateful police were able to arrest them.

Oh, why can’t I have adventures like that?’ I wondered. ‘Why is my life so dull? If only I could have just one adventure, I’d be so happy!

In primary school I loved playing soldiers with my friends in the bush around my home. Sometimes it was just me and my imagination. There were lots of great places: creeks with banks you could peer over to take a shot at the enemy, tall grass you could creep through, mounds of stones and sticks to hide behind and wriggle over. ‘If only’ I thought ‘this was a real war and I was a real soldier, with a tin helmet, a combat back-pack and a Lee-Enfield rifle’. I never thought about what shooting someone, or getting shot, would mean for me or them. One generally doesn’t, as a seven year old boy. When you’re shot you just fall over. You don’t bleed or scream.

When I was older, I graduated from Blyton and Boys’ Own Adventure Annual to CS Lewis and from there to JRR Tolkien. ‘Fellowship of the Ring’ – now there’s an adventure’: travelling enormous distances over magical landscapes of enchanted forests, brooding mountains and miasmic swamps. Pursued by hideous spectres on terrifying black stallions. Dreading the power of the Dark Lord that I know is out there searching for me, growing stronger every day. I wasn’t that keen on the battle scenes – they were too chaotic and repetitive for me – but the struggle against the elements, trying to traverse the Misty Mountains in a blizzard, getting lost in the Mines of Moria, evading the tentacled monster in the black pool, that was the stuff of life! I longed to peek into Mordor, or even just to visit the Misty Mountains.

In later high school I often rode my bicycle out into the countryside. One of the rides was an 80 kilometre circuit past Tidbinbilla, to the West of Canberra in the Australian Capital Territory. There were steep hills and, further to the West, the Brindabella mountains. They were pretty good, and would occasionally get snow in mid-winter, but they were no Misty Mountains. Partly it was the lack of craggy peaks, partly the usual lack of snow, and partly the fact that the surrounding countryside was mostly brown, nothing like the lush green of Tolkien’s Shire.

One winter it rained more than usual, and the foot-hills turned green. I remember looking at them as I rode by and thinking: ‘Now if only they didn’t have those wire fences, and they had snowy peaks in the background, then this would be like the Lord of the Rings!’ There could even be dwarves and barrow-wights in tunnels under the ground.

Perhaps today’s teenagers would instead imagine that it was the countryside near Hogwarts, with dragons and hippogriffs flying overhead.

Later in high school I became more interested in girls and less interested in Tolkien. CS Lewis would have been disappointed in me.

I don’t recall thinking about adventures at all between my mid-teenage years and a few months ago, when I suddenly remembered riding through the Tidbinbilla hills and wishing I could see orcs peeping up above the granite boulders that litter the ground there.

What seems odd to me now is that it never occurred to me that riding my bike on an 80km loop in mostly deserted countryside, with no mobile phone, nobody knowing where I was, and with inexpertly driven cars occasionally whizzing past me at 100kph, was an adventure of its own. Not to mention the occasional attacks of dogs from below and magpies from above.

Nor did it occur to me that there was plenty of danger in the snakes that undoubtedly hid in various parts of the long grass through which I imaginatively snuck in my primary school war games, or the stones that my friends and I would occasionally hurl in one another’s direction, pretending they were grenades (‘oh to have a real live grenade!’).

In those days we had freedom that kids these days can only dream of. We could go wherever we liked, and do what we wanted as long as it wasn’t something likely to raise the ire of our parents or the police, or if it was, then as long as they didn’t find out about it. But we lamented the lack of smugglers and orcs in our lives. Oh, dreary existence that has no such pantomime baddies to liven it up!

Not that there weren’t real baddies. I remember Barry the Bully at primary school (not his real name), a lumbering, brutish lad whose only means of expressing himself seemed to be to thump the daylights out of some unfortunate child of lesser stature who had the misfortune to wander nearby. I vaguely remember him pummelling me one day, surrounded by the usual ring of excited nine-year olds looking on. I suppose I could have considered that an adventure, but somehow I didn’t. Like most of my schoolmates I feared Barry then. Looking back now, I can only feel compassion. I wonder what sort of life he has now, and if he is still alive. I fear he may not be flourishing, but I may be wrong. Barry wasn’t really bad. He was just an inexorable product of his genes and his environment, and I suspect he suffered from his inability to interact with people except through violence, as much as others did.

There were lesser villains too, like the minor antagonists in a pantomime melodrama. The boys from the government school sometimes stole my school bag and tossed it from one to the other, to tease and punish me for being a Roman Catholic and going to the RC school. Then there were the boys at my school who mocked me for having so many patches on my hand-me-down shorts. I remember my mother once tearing down to our school in a rage and excoriating them for their teasing. I can’t remember what led up to that but I remember vividly the verbal tirade she unleashed on them and their quivering, shame-faced silence as they stood there being denounced. I don’t think they teased me any more. I suppose in that episode my mother was as much a hero of the adventure as Galahad or Lancelot, Jupiter Jones or Janet (Secret Seven) ever were.

Then there was the dreaded Mr F at junior high school. He was as violent as Wackford Squeers – another adventure villain that loomed with lurid clarity in my over-excited imagination. The main difference was that, unlike Squeers, Mr F would smile in a broad, friendly manner as he twisted your arm behind your back or lifted you out of your chair by the ears, with his stubby, nicotine-stained fingers. I think he saw this violence as some sort of game, expressing good-natured affection to the students. It was not malicious. Generally I bore him no resentment, and even quite liked him. There was only one occasion when I mentioned to my mother that I thought my arm might be broken because, after a particularly savage twisting, I couldn’t use it properly. It got better. Yet despite the Squeers-like violence (would Severus Snape be a modern-day equivalent?) it never occurred to me that these elements of colour in my life were as good as any Blytonian or Dickensian adventure. I still thought my life was bland.

When I was five we lived in Aberystwyth, Wales and my parents announced that we were going to move to Australia. This set off two fantastic trains of thought in my impressionable young mind.

Firstly, I imagined that Australia was a land covered with thick, dark jungle, and that we would live in a hut in a small clearing. The jungle would be full of snakes and whenever we went outdoors we would have to tread carefully to avoid being bitten.

Secondly, I remember resolving, standing next to the stove while dinner was being prepared, that our arrival in Australia would mark the beginning of a new life for me, and would be an opportunity for me to put my sins behind me and become the good boy that I wanted to be. Inculcation of Catholic Guilt began early in the RC church in those days, at least it did in Wales (those Welsh nuns were well fierce!). I can’t remember whether I ever recalled this resolution once we arrived in Australia. Regardless, the resolution did not seem to be fulfilled. A couple of years later I was as guilt-ridden as every RC boy is expected to be.

One would think that moving to a jungle-filled, snake-infested, primitive land where one seeks to purify one’s soul from its many misdeeds contains many of the elements of a classic adventure. But again I didn’t see it that way then. Snakes and pious aspirations are all very well, but where were the smugglers?

Later teenage years and university have different sources of excitement from boyhood: discovering girls, discovering sex, discovering algebraic topology.

I travelled a lot after leaving school, in a gap year, in university holidays and after leaving uni. I travelled through many lands: Europe, Morocco, India, South-East Asia, Iran, Pakistan. I was mostly on my own and always on a shoe-string budget, sleeping and eating in some very run-down places and encountering many dicey situations – recklessly driven buses careering on two wheels around U-bends on precipitous mountain passes, enduring dysentery and fever in a lonely concrete hotel room, sinister strangers in railway carriages trying to show me pornographic pictures and suggesting mutual exploration of what they depict, crossing the Iranian border with US bank notes hidden in my shoe to avoid the extortionate exchange rate required by the Iranian border controls (and wondering what they’d do to me if they found them). I would have described such things as an experience, but the word adventure never occurred to me. Adventures happen to other people, and usually only in books. Not to me.

When one grows up – whenever that is, some time between the age of 25 and 40 for me – one has other challenging, frightening and exciting experiences. Accompanying one’s partner through the experience of childbirth. Raising a child. Buying a house. Moving across the world to live and work in another country. Most people know what these experiences are like. As a five year old, I would have found the contemplation of such experiences terrifying, yet there I was wishing I could chase smugglers in Cornish caves, or dodge German machine-gun fire as I leaped from foxhole to another.

When we middle-aged people look back over our life to date, there will in most cases be plenty of exciting, surprising, dangerous events, in between the humdrum and routine. Yet in my case at least, I often saw the danger or the challenge in a negative light at the time, wishing it were not there. I have only recently realised how contrary this is to my childhood wish for adventures, a wish that surely some other children must share. The only things I can think of that are missing from real-life experiences, compared to the Secret Seven or Harry Potter, are the presence of magic, and of people trying to kill, or at least imprison you. Yet modern science is far more wonderful, surprising and weird than any tale of magic or myth ever was, and even if people aren’t trying to kill us, we nevertheless live in the constant danger of being accidentally killed by a motor car or attacked by a virus or cancerous cell.

Perhaps if we could re-frame our perception of the vicissitudes of life as an adventure, rather than an imposition or a chore, we would appreciate it more. When we trip while jogging and seriously bark our elbows on concrete, as I did the other day, we can view that as another interesting experience, rather than reacting as ‘woe is me’. Maybe, if one day I have to undergo chemotherapy, or a lingering terminal illness, I will be able to even frame those as new experiences. We shall see. Perhaps even death, as that great philosopher Albus Dumbledore said, is “the next great adventure”.

Andrew Kirk. Bondi Junction, 3 July 2013