Pretty in pink? Farmers maybe, bikies no The Queensland government, under its new anti-bikie legislation, has proposed that club members be forced to wear hot pink jumpsuits while in prison as a way of humiliating them and making them more malleable. It's an idea - oh, how surprising - borrowed from that innovative legal jurisdiction known as Arizona. Pink, apparently, has been scientifically proven to make men more effete. This fact will come as news to most of my farmer friends who have long believed that a pink shirt, when teamed with a pair of clean moleskins and some RM Williams' boots, signifies a manly man spruced up for a night on the town. I also have some hillbilly pals who lurk in the deep gorges of the Wollondilly. They spend their lives spraying for serrated tussock, a council-declared noxious weed, and the dye-marked poison tends to drift onto their boots. They are huge lumbering men, with mullet-hairdos, get-stuffed beards and torn clothing, yet their hot-pink boots always look straight from Priscilla, Queen of Desert. The pink, which can be seen kilometres away, does not appear to have any enfeebling effect on them. I'm not questioning the theory of shame through fashion, just the precise choice of clothing. If the Queensland government wants a source of embarrassing clothes they should come and see me. The television series Rake has spent some time shooting in our neighbourhood, presumably because our housing type signifies the sort of wholesome world against which the program's seedier characters can look seedier still. Since the series began, they've been going from house to house assessing the possibilities. That's how someone from the Rake art department came to be in my bedroom, standing with my wife, assessing whether our bedroom decor would be suitable for the sort of rumpy-pumpy associated with a steamy affair. Alas, our bedroom failed the test. Apparently, office equipment squeezed-in next to the bed, plus a noticeboard festooned with unpaid bills, is not considered all that romantic. Yeah, I know. Go figure. It was on that visit, however, that the designer's eye alighted on my dressing gown, hanging on the back of the bedroom door. It's a kimono bought for me by my wife, when one of her plays was on in Japan. Upon seeing the garment, the Rake lady uttered a small squawk of delight. For her, it represented a problem solved. The following week they were shooting a scene in which one of the podgy suburbanite men decides to throw caution to the wind and come over all sexy. She had to find a piece of clothing that signified a sad middle-aged man's idea of embracing the erotic unknown. I imagine she had flicked through hundreds of options, yet nothing had quite created the feeling they hoped to achieve: hope wrestling with poignant reality, optimism hard-up against the absurd. Nothing, that is, until the moment her eyes alighted on my kimono. She borrowed it the next day and if you watch Rake series two, episode two, you can see Russell Dykstra and my dressing gown supporting each other's performance in a scene of quite heartbreaking tragi-comedy. So, there's my first idea: all bikies forced by law to wear a version of my Japanese kimono, featuring an effete cherry blossom pattern and the sort of long hanging sleeves that make it impossible for me to make a cup of tea in the morning, never mind engage in hand-to-hand conflict. Some, I know, might worry the Japanese theme could lead the bikies to learn karate or judo. Thus I have other garments to offer. What about the pin-striped white suit I bought from Merivale and Mr John in 1976, in the belief it made me look like Elvis? It did, but only in the half-hour prior to his death. I'm doubting even the toughest bikies could have an effective gang war if all parties were made to wear identical Elvis suits. Presumably they'd just sit in their cells, happily singing Jailhouse Rock. Or there's the sarong - the garment which, over the past few years, has become such an unwanted feature of the inner-west barbecue. By what law of nature does the middle-aged Sydneysider - here I include myself - embrace the sarong at the precise moment at which his legs have lost all allure? Not only would a compulsory sarong make the bikies look ridiculous, it would also reduce their criminality: you should try extorting drug money when the knot on your frock keeps slipping. Or the Queensland government could move onto the wardrobes of others. I'd like to see every Hell's Angel dressed in a muumuu of frangipani design. The Finks, by contrast, would be forced by law into a range of floral kaftans. And each Mongol could be kitted out in a paisley body-shirt, with chest-nestling medallion. Humiliation through poorly chosen clothing? I think most of us, if we consult our wardrobes, will be able to make a contribution.