I WANT TO play God Only Knows at my wedding. A weird confession perhaps, but when you write books with swear words in the title, are told you hate Baby Boomers and are introduced as though “controversial” is your first name, you take refuge where you can. Even the Beach Boys.

“Generations do exist and they matter,” I wrote in the first page of Please just f* off, it’s our turn now (Pluto Press, 2006). But does anyone care? For every individual inspired by my book, there are another two shaking their heads or poking a voodoo doll. For every young Australian who bought it, ninety-nine didn’t. Most had never heard of it.