I particularly hate immigrants who have forgotten their own recent history. At the moment I hate my brother most of all. I hope it passes soon.

It was the tail end of a family celebration, at a time when booze-induced mellowness turns to belligerence, and siblings fall into old patterns. In our case it is the Dark Ages versus the Enlightenment, at least I like to think so. He sees it as reality versus latte pretentiousness.

Anyhow, the brother said a few disparaging things about people from the Middle East, of which there are very few in the regional town where he lives. It was the usual stuff: they looked different, didn't fit in, made no attempt to fit in, were a danger to society ....

I said that described our family four decades ago.

He wouldn't have it. But I know where his amnesia began.

There is a photo of a three-year-old wearing a tailored suit with pleated trousers and a deer-stalker hat. He is standing among kids that look like street urchins in comparison.

The way our mother dressed him in those first few years must have done something to his brain - that, and the way she'd yell at him to come home for dinner.

In those days little wog kids tried to Anglicise their names, if only to stop having to watch their Aussie mates' tongues twist and faces contort.

However, there was no Johnny or Tommy where mum was concerned. Her standing at the front gate screaming his original name at top note would have sounded as Australian as a muezzin's call to prayer.

As soon as he could the brother became an ocker, more Aussie than a native Aussie.

He also became an immigrant bigot, standing in harsh judgement of newcomers trying to make sense out of an experience the old immigrants had to deal with decades ago, and have chosen to forget.

It is as if the earlier boat people arrived speaking perfect English, their past completely wiped out and already deeply in love with Australia. As if.