The above picture is of Germaine Greer’s plaque on Writer’s Walk, Circular Quay, Sydney. Choosing to write this wasn’t designed to make her popular, I guess. And she hasn’t changed.
This about Steve Irwin’s death at the business end of a stingray;
I had been asked whether I was “surprised” by his death. I answered, “No.” “Grief-stricken?” “No.” “Was it a great loss to the conservation movement?” Again, “No.” “Please explain.” I did. It is my judgment that Irwin made a habit of, and a fortune by, intruding upon the steadily diminishing space available to wild creatures, and that his intention was to demonstrate his power over them, in much the same way as lion-tamers used to do before what they did was recognised as cruelty. Crocodiles, apparently, take longer. Daring to suggest that animals will be better off without Irwin is what some newspapers call “savaging” him.
When I flew to Australia a week later, the orchestrated clamour was still deafening. The premier of Queensland weighed in, announcing that he would treble my taxes, if he could, which gave new heart to those who thought I should be fed to the crocodiles. Lately someone has been throwing food at the windows of my house in England, mostly eggs, sometimes jam doughnuts, once corned beef hash and shaved ham, and, this weekend, two dead rabbits.
Now Greer’s portrait has been removed from the Australian national portrait gallery and replaced by a portrait of . . . you guessed it, Steve Irwin.
Last word then to Germaine:
As Australia gradually morphs into California, it is losing its respect for honesty and directness. Ballyhoo rules, and it’s not OK.
