As I was leaving the sweaty Q&A set at the Docklands Studios in Melbourne, a lefty dweeb in the audience fixed me in his stare. Longer and thinner than a streak of piss, his voice as close to a roar as this mollycoddled generation can manage, he shouted: ‘Mr O’Neill, you are a protector of the elite! Stop pretending to be radical!’ Which was weird, since I’d spent my hour on Q&A arguing that judges shouldn’t have the final say on how offensive we’re allowed to be.