And remembering exactly how you handle hecklers. ‘Let Jesus clean your mouth out, brother,’ he called to some blasphemer on the opposite side of the street. And when the language got worse he flicked on his amplifier and swung into another number. Peace, love, I’ve seen the light so why can’t you – pure Lennon.

I watched a pair of young Aborigines come sidling down Todd Street in riding boots and crumpled jeans – a real swagger they had going – but the moment they heard the word Jesus their whole bearing altered. Shoulders dropped, eyes lost their defiance, hands slid of their own accord behind backs. For all the world they looked like a pair of recaptured truants. Feeble shadows of themselves, they joined the congregation on the grass – babies in the Lord once more.

It was only when it became clear there was to be no tucker at this mission that they faded guiltily away. As indeed – for equally non-spiritual reasons – did we.

I’d heard there was a game of footie on in town that afternoon and thought it might be fun to take in at least the final quarter. I’d become a bit of a fan of Australian Rules Football during my Melbourne years, which meant that I knew the rules and what to look for, but was rather ruined for the provincial version of the game. Once you’d watched Carlton take on Richmond there wasn’t much you could hope for out of Rovers versus Westies, even if Rovers liked to call themselves the Mighty Blues. But it wasn’t so much the contest that was disappointing as the supporters. They lacked ocker authenticity, or rather, since they were authentic, they lacked that counterfeit authenticity which I was used to, which made the real thing look merely ersatz, and which required for its production a solid body of intellectuals in the crowd. Spectatorship – thoroughly engaged spectatorship – is more demanding than it’s often given credit for; in the case of spectatorship of sport, especially in Australia, a further degree is a minimum requirement.

I’m not saying that they didn’t try at Traegar Park. ‘Bounce it – why don’t you bounce it, Squiggie, you . . . you lady!’ I heard. And they had half an ear for referee abuse. ‘Wanker, Smithie! Fifteen yards. Fifteen fucking yards, you mongrel!’ But ultimately they lacked the vocabulary, the spleen, the vehemence, the feel for patois, the sheer pent-up rage and frustration which only academics can bring to footie watching.

The nearest I came to feeling I was back in Melbourne was when a well kitted-out Aborigine sitting on the grass beside me began to feel the sun warming up his blood. ‘How am I going to get a root tonight?’ he asked whoever cared to listen. ‘How am I going to get that root?’