 He lives in Adelaide, Australia and can see the sea from his house. Sometimes he sees a whale swim past and waves and sometimes the whale waves back. Sometimes the waves wave back too. He likes cheesecake and the number 12 and cats. He doesn’t like chicken soup, but he doesn’t mind chickens or soup by themselves. And he writes very funny poems and stories and visits schools and shops and libraries and farms and forests to read to children and animals and trees. The trees are very rude and never applaud. The animals are very rude and go to the toilet whilst he’s reading to them. So he prefers to read to children.
And being mad is what helps him pen his fantastical poems and tell his fabulificent tales. It opens a bright orange door with purple elephant door handles and farting door hinges to a weirdly wild and wonderful world where anything can happen – anything at all.
And then he steps through it. And the things he sees…
 But you’re not mad, I’m sure. You wouldn’t be interested in peeking through that door; in smirking ever so slightly at silly subjects; in sniggering quite sneakily at strange stories; in giggling somewhat disgustedly at ghastly goings on.
Would you?
You would? Oh, my! Oh, I wasn’t expecting that. Not at all.
Well, you know what to do, don’t you? But one last thing: being mad can be catching. You may never be the same again. Now, screw up your brain, stand on one leg, poke out your tongue and (in a squeaky voice)…
“squelkaDoodlebinky!”
Now open your eyes and look around – you’re in.
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