h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Please keep the goatsucker away from Australia where
they think the Rolf Harris song, Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport
is a love ritual.

Keep Goatsuckers out of Australia...
Stop letting New Zealanders come over here to take our welfare money and abuse our livestock.

El Chupacabra aint an albino kangaroo. Kangaroos are too stupid to avoid detection and capture. The only thing more stupid than a kangaroo is a New Zealander.

Loath as I am to praise one so unrepresentative of Australian sophistication, it was Sir Les Patterson - former Cultural Attaché to the Court of St James - whose native cunning led to Sydney being chosen for the Millennium Games. That, and the careful placing of a brown paper bag crammed with Swiss francs into the pocket of a member of the International Olympic Council. This will explain why the Games were snatched away from more obvious contenders such as Beijing and Manchester.

Sir Les spent five years touring the world first class on Qantas, all at the taxpayers' expense, touting support for Sydney, accompanied by his unsavoury drinking companion, the former Australian trades union official Lance Boyle and a bevy of approachable "research assistants".

If Australia had become a republic there can be little doubt I would have opened the Games myself. The recent discovery in my lineage of Irish-Catholic blood would automatically have projected me to the Presidency of Australia. But it was not to be.

My experiences during the 1956 Olympics in Melbourne, when I accommodated a Latvian shot-putter at our lovely Moonee Ponds home, would have made me uniquely qualified as an Olympic advisor.
In those far-off days, of course, I was just an ordinary housewife and mother of three toddlers. It had been my hope to kindle this symbol of the Games, using my newly patented "Flaming Edna" barbie igniter. My couturier son, Kenny, aided by his live-in partner Clifford Smail, had also designed a special fur bikini - made from a humanely culled kangaroo - for me to wear as I ran a lap of honour around the stadium. But a pushy official chose his own ghastly daughter to perform the honours.

I am not a bitter woman, but I had hoped the Olympics would present an opportunity for a family reunion. We could have occupied the Royal Box for major events - and been together as a real family once again. Sadly this cannot be. Apart from my American commitments, I no longer speak to my daughter, Valmai, who co-operated in Andrew Morton's book, The Real Edna. My pain has also been deepened with the revelation in the Sydney tabloid press that she has gone through a form of marriage ceremony to a retired female Czech tennis player and is now pregnant with a surrogate child.

In addition to the recognised events of track and field, the Sydney Olympics included some uniquely Australian sports, including wombat wrestling, projectile vomiting, emu racing and dwarf-hurling. A special arena was also built for the popular sport of immigrant-bashing. In this event, a bronzed, muscular Australian surfer poured scorn on some hapless immigrant. A Pommie-baiting event was also held. This involved a weedy Englishman wearing a string vest, who was subjected to considerable ridicule.

In the various food outlets around the arena, spectators had a wide choice of such delicacies as Kylie Burgers, meaty Greer Pies, the very filling Clive James Sausage and Lethal Prawns 3 (or Mel Gibsons - as in "chuck a couple of Gibbos on the barbie").

For the health-conscious, my personal chef Donna Bennetts concocted the Edna Platter, a melange of braised kookaburra breasts on a bed of eucalyptus leaves. She has also come up with the Jason Donovan: a puff pastry which is extraordinarily light on the tongue.

It was encouraging that many visitors took in aboriginal culture following my discovery of blood links with our indigenous folk. There had been mystery in our family about the racial origins of my great-great-grandfather but I recently found - at the bottom of an old suitcase - a perished, hand-woven loin cloth which bore the faded outline of an undoubtedly male well-built figure. Carbon-dating revealed what appeared to be a large didgeridoo. Forensic historians consider the Loincloth of Moonee Ponds to he a Down Under version of the Shroud of Turin.

Many have asked why my bridesmaid, Madge Allsop, was not adopted as one of the Olympic Games's mascots, along with Millie (anteater), Syd (platypus) and Olly (a kookaburra). The sad truth is that Madge is a New Zealander, banned from being a mascot.

Next year will see the 2001 Prostate Olympics, which I am attending as patroness-in-chief. These are held in memory of my late husband, who was himself big in the prostate department. They will feature aquatic events and proceeds will go to the Waterfall Home Appeal, Melbourne, Victoria (e-mail: www.slowdrip.co.aus ).