I so seldom pray, that the cat on the bed was astonished, on the eve of the PM's announcement of his decision on Kevin Rudd, to see me fall to my knees beside the bed and look imploringly Heavenwards.
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This was the first time I had prayed since I asking, in vain, that Zed Seselja not win a place in the Senate.
"Almighty God," I lisped, "we ask thee to vouchsafe thy special blessing on our dear United Nations and make sure that the awful Kevin Rudd never, ever becomes its Secretary General."
"I'm listening," a supernatural voice seemed to boom.
"Now I know I've got your Almighty ear," I continued, "can I also ask you to intervene for our beloved CBR Brave ice-hockey boys in this weekend's double header against the Melbourne Ice?"
"It just so happens," the divine voice seemed to pipe up, "that so many Australians are asking me to thwart Kevin Rudd that I am inclined to intervene for the UN's sake. He sounds like a real swine."
"And, yes, I will usher the CBR Brave through. Oh, and I'm really sorry about Zed Seselja. I was going to intervene on polling day but I got distracted by something. I could kick myself."
We now know that thanks to God and perhaps to reason, Rudd has been thwarted.
At its worst patriotism is so ugly that some of us look at it in horror as if it has three heads. All three of them have reared up, this trifecta of gargoyles, during the Rudd debate.
For example Labor's Tanya Plibersek and Anthony Albanese seemed sincerely astonished by the PMs decision. They argued being an Australian and being the natural nominee in this case should always go together, like love and marriage. Albanese used a sporting analogy, bringing in the Olympics, as if it is as obvious that we should support Rudd going for his ego-gold medal of the Secretary-Generalship as it is that we should support the Aussie boy going for gold in the shot putt.
Perhaps it is unpatriotic of me (I do hope it is) but in this case my first thoughts were not for what might enable an already preening Australia to become a superpreener but were for what might be best for the United Nations. Does true love of Australia require love of all Australians? Why not a better Australian for the job?
Our Nick Kyrgios is not quite ready for such high office. But a former tennis star of great stature, Lleyton Hewitt, has leapt to my mind during this jamboree.
It is not so much that I think that Our Lleyton would be a perfect Secretary-General of the United Nations (although he has developed some statesmanlike qualities over the years).
No, Lleyton has come to mind because once upon a time, when he and his entourage were almost Rudd-like in their obnoxiousness, he created some of the same patriotic dilemmas in good Australian bosoms that Kevin Rudd has just been creating. Should we, can we, put heart and soul into supporting an Australian who is a nasty piece of work?
The imbroglio of the last few days has reminded me of the Australian Open of 2005, at which I was a boy reporter.
The Open's newsroom contained many reporters who had first hand knowledge of the nastiness of Lleyton and his team.
The men's singles final pitted the unpleasant Australian against the pleasant Russian, Marat Safin.
Insufferable Lleyton won the first set. In the newsroom you could have cut the melancholy (as palpable as cake) with a knife. But the personable Russian fought back. Spirits lifted. And when Safin went on to win there was open euphoria among the members of my calling. We had risen above childish (Plibersekesque, Albaneseist) patriotism, and had wanted an adorable foreigner to beat an obnoxious Australian.
We all want to love our country but patriots can pick on vulgar things to feel and express patriotism about. In a better, more grown up Australia, our bosoms would more swelling with pride over our achievement in the arts.
So for example this columnist's bosom swelled (figuratively) to the size of a hot-air balloon (think of SkyWhale) while at last week's performance by the Bangarra Dance Theatre.
It is impossible to imagine anything more uniquely ultra-Australian than what Bangarra does (all of its themes are of Aboriginal matters) and Bangarra brings to this such originality and flair. Nothing is derived or plagiarised. What they do, methought afterwards, as I deflated myself so as to be able to fit through the Canberra Theatre's exits, is so profound that an audience scarcely knows how how to applaud. Mere clapping and cheering don't seem to fit.
Thank goodness this is not the case at the ice hockey where my inner bogan (mingling with the outer bogans of my fellow fans) is free to carry on like a wild, untamed pork chop. And the knowledge that the same God who intervened so judiciously against Rudd has hinted that He will be out on the ice with our boys this weekend puts a spring in this atheist's step.
