Ever said to someone, “I’d appreciate some honest feedback on this?” Did you mean it? Steve E. took us at our word and has taken us to task on everything from our new name to the number of local pedestrian crossings …

“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare once wrote: “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Well, my dead pantaloon-wearing friend, quite a lot actually. There’s quite a lot of things bound up in a name. And nobody should go around changing the name of things without good reason.

Way back when, this worthy journal was called the King’s Tribune. Then it was the Elwood Tribune. Now it is the King’s Tribune again. When starting out on a plan for world domination, changing the name of the operation repeatedly does not help matters.

“Hey, Von Stauffenberg, how’s operation Valkyrie coming along?”

“What?”

“Valkyrie? How’s it going?”

“What?”

“The blowing-up-Hitler thing you were telling me about. How’s it going?”

“Oh, fine. I’m calling it operation Die Fledermaus now.”

You can see the confusion.

The origin of ‘tribune’ is Roman, and refers to the protector of a city. Back then, the Caesers were either up to their elbows in Gothic blood (the German kind, not mascara-wearing emos) or they were plotting with their gay lovers how best to murder their mothers – or the other way around.

Someone needed to look after the best interests of the city, and the Bat Signal wouldn’t be invented for another two thousand years. So the office of tribune (literally, “he who offers tribute but secretly runs the show”) was invented, to make sure that when fire broke out somebody was actually going to organise the bucket-line while the emperor was busy fiddling with himself.

The office of tribune is independent from the monarchy, which is why early newspapers who styled themselves “guardians of the fourth estate” took it up as the title for their handbills after the invention of the printing press. By definition, “The King’s Tribune” is a contradiction in terms. The King doesn’t need a champion, he already has one. In fact he’s got lots; the palace guards, the Beefeaters, Camilla, seven samurai, the Sheriff of Nottingham, the Royal Navy, Humpty Dumpty, you name it he’s got it. Any loyalty he hasn’t got he can afford to buy. A king doesn’t have a tribune; they have a herald. But that would be a stupid name for a paper.

Yes, yes, I know. The name is in reference to the King of Tonga, liege of a tiny south Pacific archipelago and namesake of the finest winebar this side of the Horsehead Nebula. The real King of Tonga, George Tupou V, has a phalanx of bodyguards who fight for the privilege of being his protector. The King in Tennyson Street has a cohort of loyal staff members who will jump the bar and menace you with a broom if he is even looked at funny.

But on behalf of Melways page 67, I ask: why drop the ‘Elwood’? Granted, I’m an interloper, neither born nor raised in this glorious burb. But, like most of the people you’ll find eating breakfast at the Turtle on Sunday mornings, the place has caught my eye and I now feel comfortable with the old girl. Sure, the house prices are ridiculous and in some places there are so many flashing pedestrian lights in your field of vision that it is likely to induce epilepsy, but what area is without its problems?

Hawthorn plays its home matches at the G. So does Collingwood. You can see where I’m going with this. They retain their suburban origin as part of their history and tradition, even as they develop a fan base across Melbourne. Similarly, Elwood is – and always will be – more than just a place to me.

Elwood is a state of mind.

The King’s Tribune How To Deal With Smart Arses Steering Committee met recently to deal with the question of Steve E’s comments.

In attendance were the cat and both dogs, however none of those three could stop licking their own or each other’s arses long enough to call a vote. The fish was too busy trying to leap out of its tank to take minutes in any logical fashion, and the meeting was called off.

Jane and Justin, as co-chairs, thus called an Extraordinary Management General Meeting, and dissolved the above-mentioned committee.

This still left open the question of what to do about smart arses like Steve E, so a consulting group, comprising whoever was at The King Of Tonga later that night, was hastily thrown together, and the following resolution, upon submissions by said group, was made:

“What? Have you got my lighter? Hey do that impersonation of Doctor Bob again! Call me a taxi please. Okay, you’re a taxi. Ah, good one, dickhead”- Eds

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