Peter Bromhead: No fame, no gain

Illustration / Peter Bromhead

I'm concerned that my slagging of politicians and sundry other officials with my cartoon pen appears to be falling on deaf ears.

Why no retaliatory yelps, I ponder? After 50 years of dishing out vitriol, you'd think somebody would feel wounded enough to protest.

Instead, my subjects tend to return the insult by buying the original drawing - a sure sign that personal vanity appears to be a more powerful elixir than criticism, no matter how contemptuous the cartoon.

Mulling on my failure to ignite controversy, I turned to my lifestyle coach for advice.

"How come a young woman can make off-the-cuff comments at some overseas literary festival and ignite a storm of debate, while my efforts are ignored?" I wailed. "Sean Plunket has never called me a traitor, even when I fled the country for the duration of the last Rugby World Cup."

"Your problem is simple," my lifestyle coach sagely suggested.

"You just aren't famous enough. You're neither a former All Black, nor do you have an international award that's turned you into a tall poppy."

"But what about my media awards?" I protested.

"That's provincial stuff," retorted my coach. "Nobody gives a toss about local awards, not even the media itself. After all, if they're so significant, how come all your awards are matched by your redundancies?"

"So, what's the answer, coach?"

"Well, the best way to open yourself up for criticism is to win some sort of recognition overseas, particularly anything arty-farty."

"You mean like the Booker Prize?"

"Exactly. A highbrow literary award combined with throwing around a few words like 'patronising media critics' and 'we're a nation locked into a culture of anti-intellectualism', is bound to draw a bit of adverse publicity - at least until we get bored and return to more important matters, like the footy."

Heeding my coach's advice, I've been researching international literary awards, determined to turn myself into some sort of literary know-all, as an essential first step to "tall poppy" status.

I've decided to try for the Samuel Johnson Prize, an elite prize for works of non-fiction.

I haven't written anything yet, but I have the subject matter sorted: a scientific review that suggests all New Zealanders undergo a secret lobotomy operation at birth, so they can have their brain tissue replaced with a rugby ball.

Nothing too controversial, you understand, but hopefully containing enough thought-provoking comment to raise a flicker of adverse limelight aimed in my direction.