KerrieJean.com

*For those who’ve never mooned or met a mooner, it’s an act of provocation whereby a non-thinking person bends over pointing their buttocks in the direction of another person or persons.  Read on…..

And so it was that a family was partaking of what had quickly become - in contemporary times - a traditional Christmas luncheon…

…….Compliments of  Delicious.

…..Prawns in prawn jus, goat’s cheese flan with elderflower garnish, lobster kebabs with wasabi crust, rocket with rocket and kumquats with kumquat inspired kumquat sorbet.

This was an extended Australian family which loved each other despite terrible underlying tensions and gross intolerances.

…..Two nihilstic nephews, three swearing sisters, four Catholic jihadists, five antsy atheists, six Labor loonies, seven National nutbags – and not a peacenik in sight.

The conversation was driven by passion and hard liquor. 

The same unbridegable differences in political orientations, opinions about appropriate hem lengths and same sex/different postcode marriages, remained. 

A teenager at the table could take no more.

[Whose side are you on? Cr: National Archives, Netherlands:flickr]

Excusing herself from the kumquat with kumquat inspired kumquat sorbet she – as if on automatic pilot - got up from the table and – as if in a dream - sashayed outside.

Soon after, our warring Yuletiders fell silent.

Their eyes – as if one big eye - bulged.

Their fists – as if one big fist -thumped the air.

Collective shouts went up:

No, no NO!

Yes, yes YES!

There it was in sharp relief.

The teenager had reappeared, pushed against the sliding doors backgrounding our Christmas luncheon.

Mooning……

The Yuletide Mooning Incident saw the family split even more [if that was possible]

The Free Expressionists went head to head against the Moral Anti-Mooning Majority.

There were no winners.

As for The Mooner, she was frozen out of all family talk and activities for what became known as her Decade In The Mooning Wilderness.

I know she learned a lot there.

For The Mooner was me.

*********************************

To tell you the truth, I still feel bad about what I did that Christmas.

But watching ‘The Slap’ has eased the pain.

‘I just couldn’t help it’ was my defence back then – and it remains so now.

But, whose side are you on?

Was The Mooner justified?

Can Mooning ever be justified?

One thing’s for sure, every Australian family has a ‘The Slap’ like incident in its history.

And it’s about time you came clean about yours.Be brave.
Do it now by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

The Leeton Redlegs Australian Rules Club’s glory period co-incided with my less than glorious adolescence….

I was soooo pathologically nervy, soooooo godamm ‘kookified’ it’s a wonder I’m not writing as the Pacific Rim’s only known survivor of early seventies spontaneous self-combustion.

But……I’m not here [thankfully in one piece] to boast about how a very tortured teenager conquered her fears, eventually exploding onto the highly competitive Riverina dating scene as an audacious, even gleefully obnoxious participant.

No.

I want to speak candidly about a highly charged sports fitness/public/private life debate which always erupted in my hometown whenever a football team of any code resurrected traditional and potent images of masculinity……and made The Finals.

The question?

In the pursuit of maximum testosterone payloads, vital on-field aggression and team coherence should players refrain from conjugal activities the night before The Big Match?

[Coach and team: Pre-grand final training session. Cr: National Library Ireland: flickr]

Everyone had an opinion. Everyone was right. Everyone got cranky.

And, as the big day loomed closer, things got downright ugly.  

The Pre Big Match Abstainer Bloc was made up of sports loving spinsters, clergy, lawn bowlers and 50 percent of club officials. 

They were persistent, mad – and bad.

They even spoke of  kidnapping finals footballers’ wives.

For twenty four hours before The Big Game, they’d be held in camouflaged [dirt covered] caravans in the local Dusty Retreat Van Park and Dirt Slide. 

Their only comforts?

Nine dozen Cadbury Milk Trays and 10 dozen bottles of vintage Porphyry Pearl.

The Pre Big Match match Pro Conjugal Lobby was an unlikely coalition of potential players, players, former players, human rights activists and 50 percent of club officials.

They [many for the first time] spoke of sacred and mysterious relations between man and wife.

And they invoked a breathtaking range of anthropological, literary and scientific sources in support of their argument. 

Those sacred and mysterious relations had served as powerful nerve settlers for sportsmen throughout history -  chariot drivers and gladiators in particular. 

Furthermore, how could you ask brave men to do something which had never – and would NEVER - be asked of young and fit members of a champion netball team?

And so it was that The Big Game would be played – and won or lost.

And I’ll tell you this………

Post The Big Match,  no one ever dared to re-ignite the Coital Conversation whatever the result.   

*About 10 years ago, I was recording a story about the Australian Rules Football Club in the Tasmanian mining town of Queenstown.

It’s a famous club and so it should be.

Games in Queenstown are played on Australia’s only gravel oval. [Mine site 'leftovers']

Anyway, I finally had the chance to ask  a coach of the ‘modern game’ era his view on the ’sacred relations before finals footy’ imbroglio.

He thought, he thought again……he leaned into the mike……..

“There’s tremendous pressure on the blokes in the lead up to Big Games. Tremendous pressure….. 

“My recommendation? ’Don’t change ya routine no matter what it is.’”

…………………………………………………………….

So, is it okay that sports administrators think they have the God given right to go into bedrooms of young Australian sportsmen?

….Or is it just another sign of the ‘win at any cost’ mentality that has taken over our fine sporting traditions?

While I’ve got your attention, many commentators are saying it was very, very disrespectful for the ABC to portray Mr Mathieson and Ms Gillard in an intimate moment under the Southern Cross.

My response?

I think it’s time we got a new flag.

Anything else going on in your life….terrible or terrific?

Do report in…… 

By:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

If more than six people of an obvious gender approach me over a period of at least three days with startling news of an intimate nature I declare it a ‘Trend’………

Never one to blow my own trumpet BUT this methodology has proved far more reliable than all the resources of the Nifty Nielsen Box Ticking Corp combined.

And so it is I am able to report a trend so outrageous, so gobsmackingly audacious, so potentially explosive that for a couple of tense moments I feared my hearing was deteriorating as fast as the elastic sides of a size I6F homebrand bra.

[I'm back!: cr: Library of Congress: flickr]

SURVEY SAMPLE: 

Six women aged 50+: Reasonably presentable. Blood alcohol content, medium range.

Research fields: Three drinks and goats cheese [phew!] and dolmade platter parties.

Demeanour of sample: Flushed, excitable, disconcerting flickering of pupils, copybook post dolmade-ingestion windpipe constriction.

THE NEWS: That after periods ranging from 10 to 25 years, all six women were about to reconnect with their passionate/sensual selves.

HOW?????????????: By both *traditional and *non-traditional means.

*Traditional means included lies and subterfuge. 

[Example: To potential suitor: 'I'm 39 and haven't got a bitter bone in my body.' ]

*Non-traditional means included new lies and new means of subterfuge.

[Example: Posting up to 1200 different profiles on dating sites claiming everything from being a fomer Miss Pacific Rim -  to having the most expensive and well maintained Sealy Posturepedic King Ensemble ever manufactured in the Southern Hemisphere.

WHY???????????

All six women reported the need for a challenge other than the not inconsiderable ones presented by Pilates, delinquent teenage sons and the spectre of  blissfully happy former husbands et al who [10 to 25 years ago] had taken precisely 36 hours to recover from their drawn out, shockingly malevolent separations. 

The women also all reported recent sensations of  ‘veils of bitterness’  mysteriously lifting from their bodies.

CONCLUSION:

Australian rules of sensual relations are about to be re-written in nothing short of explosive terms.

Men of all ages will be fighting for the attentions of a significant cohort of attractive and intelligent women who’ve not been seen on the market since the ‘True Believers’ Federal Election of 1993.

In terms of infrastructure, restaurants, bars and nightclubs will have to meet new and expensive safety regulations to cater for the new cohort.

As it is in all social revolutions, everybody will be thinking differently……….

The lady is a ramp!

**********************************

Isn’t it great?

Even 22-year-olds will be heard on buses saying things like: ‘Gee, I wish I was over 50!’

Please report in on your thoughts and plans. You don’t want to be left behind – it’s a terrible feeling.

Perhaps you’re worried about the new sensual landscape…….why, why, why?

I really can’t see why you would be……..

 [I bet many of you said you'd never get a flat screen telly - and guess what.....guess what?]

Would love to hear from you……do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Dear Australians,

Particularly the 0.7% of you who think the top sort I share my life with is doing a good job…….

There’s lots of chit chat about the national broadcaster’s modest four-parter, ‘At Home With Julia’.

Isn’t it about time I was asked what I think?

Thank you.

Here goes………

I like a good laugh [who doesn't?]

And, trust me, the most important part of a hairdresser’s day is hosing down panic stricken clients [I said bob not swab!] with soothing talk about what’s hot – and what’s not – on telly. 

……I can’t tell you how many hours I spent chair side in Shepparton debating the urgent gender issues raised by ‘Buffy The Vampire Slayer’.

To [sigh] ’At Home With Julia’.

I have been miscast, misread - badly.

I am certainly not feeling superfluous to national – or domestic – requirements.

Quite the opposite.

I have never ever been in the unenviable possie of having to beg for a stupid, self respect draining ’date night’ .    

I adore hanging out in The Lodge. 

[Tim: 'It's more like this.' Cr: State Library Archives, Florida: flickr]

If I’m not flat out with official duties - Patron: National Prostate & Groin Region Festival, Patron: National Colorbond Men’s Shed Cult – I  just kick back……

…..Enjoying sharing Pantene jokes with the help has become a bit of a ritual: 

‘Mr Matheison, your 24 freebies haven’t arrived yet for the AFL Grand Final/Deniliquin Ute Muster/Manuka TAFE Eagles Tribute Night but I’ve been assured they will….’

‘Don’t worry Derek – it won’t happen overnight but it will happen……’ [giggles all around]

On the international front, I adore, simply adore my understated ‘Woolmark coat and Woolmark scarf’ appearances with Julia at the top of the steps of our RAAF jet…whoosh!

Then, I get to inspect lines and lines of welcoming military top brass in their fancy dress uniforms.

If they’re from a regime that I’ve been warned is a bit ‘iffy’ I always do a bit of extra strong eyeballing.  [Until now, I haven't told anyone this, no one......]

Anyway, I could go on and on……….

It is disappointing, even hurtful, to be so misrepresented.

The truth is:

I’m having the time of my life.

And just one more thing.

I’ll keep doing so until that ‘no fun’ Kevin and his missus put a stop to it.

***********************************

Don’t you agree……Mr Mathieson, as portrayed in At Home With Julia, is ‘all wrong’?

How long do you think his lease on The Lodge has got to go?

Will he get his bond back?

Do approval rating from thousands of ‘unknowns’ matter when you’re in love?  Personal experience tells me not at all, not at all.

Do be in touch…….it’d be great. Do it now by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Dear Julia,

I note you are about to turn 50……

…Just before what we all regard as sassy, silly September turns into odious, over-wrought October.

The worst thing you could do is let the the press,  judiciary, caucus, cabinet, opposition, border protectionists, goths, punks, pensioners, nudists [and, for that matter, people who like to rug up] let your current difficulties ruin what is – for all women – a  terrific achievement.

Because you’re so busy I’ve taken it upon myself to suggest what I think would be a fun – and appropriate – way to celebrate.

Venue:

If indeed you are still Prime Minister on September 29th, you’re seemingly spoilt for choice – The Lodge or Kirribilli House. 

I’m recommending neither.  

In a stunning display of access and equality not witnessed since Ben Chifley chose to bunk down in spartan Youth Hostel unisex dormitories during parliamentary sittings your televised fiftieth will be held in the backyard of your modest brick veneer cottage in Melbourne’s Western Suburbs.

Guest list:

One fifty-year-old red headed community-minded woman from every electorate in Australia.

That makes 150 guests.

['Ladies and gentlemen we are crossing to Altona where the PM's 50th birthday party is really hotting up....'
cr: National Library, Wales: flickr]

Google Earth tells me that facilities at Altona will be stretched but everyone should fit if the 150 community minded red-headed women aged 50 are all 100 kilos or less.

This might sound harsh – even discriminatory –  but no one wants their 50th marred by a big hole suddenly opening up in the lounge room or gazebo.     

Catering:

The representative fifty-year-old red heads bring one plate each.

The culinary theme?

Our coat of arms.

I can think of NO better visuals that 150 plates of emu and kangaroo inspired dishes.

To say the symbolism is potent would be an understatement – to wit:

‘It is thought the kangaroo and emu were chosen to symbolise a nation moving forward, reflecting a common belief that neither animal can move backwards easily.’ [ed's note: from Dept of Foreign Affairs website]

Drinks:

NO alcoholic drinks.

Giving hard liquor to 150 hot tempered 50-year-old red headed women [most with very little to lose] would be irresponsible to say the least.

Speakers:

NO speeches.

For what is there to say?

….That things get tricky mortality wise from now on in?

…..That men still find Helen Mirren in a bikini alluring - but not you?

……….That you should look on the bright side because if you’d be born in the 17th Century you’d have been dead long ago?

To reaffirm, NO speeches.

So Julia, what do you get out of my party plan?

Simple…..

The highest rating three hours of live television coverage in our history.

You finally cut through…….

At your historic prime ministerial 50th you stand up [sporting a pair of big red kangaroo ears] and say to the nation:

‘Thanks for comin’ along… all of youse…..’

History records that those seven simple words had a remarkable impact. 

And thus resumed in earnest what proved to be the longest tenure of any Australian Prime Minister – ever.

***********************

Look, I think my plan is great but if you have any better ideas for Julia’s 50th I’m quite happy to hear from you.

Any remarkable memories from your fiftieth?

To tell you the truth mine was pretty low key. A couple of men came along but left early claiming terminal boredom. How rude can people get?

But anyway, let’s keep our levels of optimism up.

Afterall, life is what you make it……

And right now I’m fairly buoyant – expecting to hear any moment from the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet’s protocol officers begging me to expand on my ‘Julia At 50′ proposal.

You?

As usual, feel free to report in.

You are very, very welcome but there’s no need for me to go on and on about it……is there……?

Do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

It’s a terrible loss…

BHP will not be getting my professional services.

I cannot – nor want to - meet its preposterous office etiquette guidelines.

I ask you….

Just what sort of workplace bans open cut egg sandwiches and desk photos of dear old Uncle Fester in cossies……or demands that loud and harassing phone calls to delinquent family members be limited to just ten minutes?

http://www.theaustralian.com.au/business/mining-giant-gets-tough-with-staff-over-manners/story-e6frg8zx-1226120005820

At BHP, I would have been hauled before the Etiquette Committee even before getting the chance to demand with menaces  ’The Thomson Titanium’ company credit card.

…….So dear friends to a day long ago when me and the demands of workplace etiquette clashed in a drama fuelled two hours. 

From minute to minute I knew not where I was headed – and I knew not in what state I’d arrive. 

['Would you like to expand on this doctor's certificate Miss Ross?' cr: State Library, NSW: flickr]

[Warning: do not read on if you're 'queasy averse': adult themes, intimate body references, violence]

I have always sought to extend, to enrich, to frighten myself……

[For what is a job, a date, a diet if not a horror trip with potential perks?] 

And so it was I found myself teaching in a prestigious Department of Journalism at a Choko Bush League regional university: moulding young people into the most ruthless story gathering machines on the Pacific Rim.

I had a winter lecture to give.

Because the place, this place of higher learning had even higher pretensions to much, much higher learning, I arose at dawn to prepare my cutting edge presentation:

‘How to tell the difference between a plain clothes detective and a uniformed police officer at a crime scene’.

Unfortunately, the stresses of last-minute preparation took their grim toll and I’d developed what is sometimes described as an ‘intimate itch’.

Now people close to me [and particularly those a bit further away] know that I’m blind.

In the bathroom that chaotic winter’s morn, I grabbed what I thought was my ‘anti-intimate- itch-cream’.

On application, all hell broke loose. 

It was as if I was burning up – from the inside.

In the ensuing mania, I discovered I’d mistakenly attacked my very core with a wildly unsuitable potion, Nair Hair Removal Creme.  

The pain was unbelievable.

Then I was in a cold bath telling God that if  He would make me whole again I’d go to Africa for free.

My life’s project?

Every village would have a Radio Australia transmitter by 2090.

In a post-trauma state, I stumbled [in much residual pain] into that lecture theatre…….

……..In my favourite ‘bush florals’ flannette pyjamas hidden under a massive coat.

The woolly mammoth had come to speak. 

To my credit, no young news gatherer left the auditorium unable to tell the difference between a uniformed police officer and a plain clothes detective.

I had broken the number one rule of workplace etiquette: dress appropriately.

But I had done my job under supremely difficult conditions.

*A quick visit to a GP that afternoon confirmed that while oversize pyjama pants would provide the most comfortable apparel during a long and sometimes difficult healing process, there was no lasting damage.

***********************************

Thank you for coping with this story……..

It’s very hard to know where to draw the line with very personal information but I’ve always believed most lines are there to be crossed IF matters of good taste are adhered to.

I’d love to know whether you’re well mannered at work and always follow the protocols – no matter how stupid they are.

Perhaps you’ve got no time for workplace manners. How on earth are you surviving in these very regimented times?

Do file a report. It’s easy and fun. Do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.