Back at home, I wash Jocasta’s cereal bowl with an angry flourish. I hate the way she just slings it in there. I was going to let it ride, but not with another 260 years of life to go. If I start my campaign now, she may well reform before we’re much over 190.
Apparently, it’s the new forty.
With a thong in my heart
IN THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
SWIMSTYLE IMPORTS OF THE USA VS KOALA RUBBER OF AUSTRALIA
JUDGE JAMES STUBBS PRESIDING
Opening statement of Mr Tom Smith, attorney for SwimStyle Imports: My client, a swimwear company headquartered in southern California, pursuant to the objectives of the Free Trade Agreement (FTA) with Australia, did order 20,000 items of a product described as ‘a pair of black rubber thongs’. The meaning of the word ‘thong’ is very clear within this jurisdiction. As Your Honour would be aware, it refers to piece of scanty clothing, by way of a G-string and/or other item of revealing swimwear. The fact that these were offered in black rubber, and as part of a two-for-one deal, only added to their allure in the view of the SwimStyle marketing team.
SwimStyle Imports did not see the necessity of checking the product carefully, as it came from a reputable supplier and under the umbrella of the FTA. The thongs were thus received and immediately packaged as lingerie/bikini wear and supplied into the Californian market. Your Honour would be aware of the situation which followed, with thousands of Californian women walking in public—on beaches and boardwalks—clothed in nothing but an item of Australian rubber footwear, which they wore grasped between their upper thighs.
Certainly, the thick rubber sole cut into their legs; and the waddling gait necessary to keep the thong in place caused several back injures. Many women also discovered it was impossible to sit down without the thong dropping to the floor, with a consequent loss of modesty.
And yet Americans are ‘can-do’ people. Given the product was labelled as bikini wear, many women were convinced it was simply the new style—albeit one that was particularly revealing, especially when viewed from above. They were determined to find a way it could be worn with comfort.
It was for this reason that many women tried to heat the thong, believing the thick sole could be bent into a more modest shape, thus providing a little more coverage. Sadly, as has been widely reported, once put in position and heated, the rubber has a tendency to melt. While your honour will appreciate the popularity of the Brazilian wax among Californian beach-goers, there are, in our humble submission, less painful ways to achieve one.
Your honour, I note the submission of Koala Rubber on this point. It says, firstly, that the product was never designed to be heated. And that, secondly, the rubber straps provide a sort of handle with which one can pull the thong free of its entanglements.
It is our submission, Your Honour, that the rubber handles merely led to further injuries. Many women, with the heated thong stuck firmly in place, requested assistance from a husband or other male friend. Typically the male helper would prop the woman up in a chair and begin to exert pressure using the rubber straps or, as they saw them, handles. Typically the rubber would begin to stretch while the melted thong was immovable. Your Honour will be aware of the male desire to be successful when offering assistance in this way. Some men recruited friends, and one would often find a whole conga line of helpers heaving on the fixed object, the rubber straps expanding and expanding and expanding, much like a rubber band or slingshot, the woman braced against a low wall or other anchorage point.
The force built up was, of course, incredible, especially when released by the sudden pulling free of the rubber straps. Whole groups of men would be sent sprawling backwards at enormous speed, the thong still immovable. Given the nature of Californian coastal landscape there were, in many cases, cliffs involved.
The 143 cases of death that have followed, together with the seventy-three cases of back pain, 347 cases of involuntary Brazilian waxing, and thousands of cases of inadvertent nudity, have left SwimStyle the subject of legal actions totalling $7.3 billion dollars. We hereby seek leave to countersue the Australian Government for its failure to harmonise Australian language with that used in the rest of the American empire.
Your Honour may ask whether we attempted to settle this matter outside the court system. The answer is a definite yes. As soon as the issue became apparent, SwimStyle’s managing director, Mr Denis Kazan, put through a call to the Sydney headquarters of Koala Rubber, speaking to Koala’s CEO, Mr Barry Brown. Early in the conversation, Mr Kazan confided that SwimStyle’s entire marketing staff were ‘all pretty pissed’—a phrase which, within this jurisdiction, is properly taken to convey feelings of anger and disappointment. The response from Mr Brown—which was to guffaw and say ‘Well, you all better sober up a little’—leads us to claim supplementary damages of a further $1 billion.
Total damages, Your Honour, amount to the sum of $8.3 billion. We also respectively submit that the FTA be henceforth scrapped until the two countries can at least agree to speak a common language.
Pigsty
I’m sick of these aspirational TV shows in which good-looking hosts in a fever of activity fix up backyards and renovate houses, covering every surface with a rag-rolled finish and every fenceline with a box hedge. Meanwhile, sitting on the couch, you watch as your own house collapses around you. Who needs TV that makes you feel inferior? What about a new show called Pigsty? ‘We take a beautiful new home—and in twenty-four hours make it look like your place.’
I have tried renovation. I have even attempted ‘house-proud’. It doesn’t work. Frankly, you’re better off wallowing in your own filth. Here’s why:
The fancier the finish, the less well it lasts. Why do you think past generations of Australians painted everything in mission brown? Not the most attractive of colours but—cunningly—it starts out as the colour you get after thirty years of handling. Now, that’s foresight.
The more piss-elegant the kitchen benchtop, the more cleaning involved. The previous generation of Australians had a depression to get through, then a war to fight. That’s why, en masse, they installed Laminex’s ‘Baby Chuck’—a subtle combination of grey swirls and tan smudges designed to hide the most slapdash of wipe-downs. Pigsty’s advice: hang onto it. (Visit our website: www.just-do-nothing.com)
Why the vicious attack on the Hills hoist, traditionally planted dead centre of the backyard? On these shows they are constantly ripping them out—a ritual cutting-down of a past army of Australian men and their contribution to the nation’s laundry. Thank God the old buggers have had their revenge: installing each hoist in such a huge ball of cement that generations of younger men have done in their backs shifting them.
On these shows they ring a tradesman and then, a few hours later, he shows up, clean, tidy, on time and ready to work. So how come they call it ‘reality TV’?
What’s the story with ‘opening up the house to the backyard’? That means you can see the backyard. That means you’ve got to fix up the backyard. That means you can’t leave it permanently littered with toys, bikes, engine blocks and part-built cubbies.
Why the obsession with ‘opening up the kitchen to the dining room’? That means you can see the dinner guests. It also means they can see you and what you are doing to their food. Overall point: what do these people have against walls?
On all these TV shows, renovations are achieved in twenty-four hours. In reality they take months. One friend of mine drew the line when, getting up at midnight to breastfeed her twins, she found two neighbourhood dogs fornicating in her lounge room. She blamed this on her husband who had removed the side wall of their home some months before and hadn’t quite got around to rebuilding it. I don’t believe he’s done any DIY since. Or had much opportunity to produce more twins.
Why does every door have to be a sliding one? On these shows they love them. Have they shares in the ball-bearing business? And do they realise all sliding doors fall to pieces after five years, usually tak
ing the marriage with them?
Why, in shows like Backyard Blitz or Renovation Rescue, do they have to install at least three different materials underfoot—a little paving, an area of loose stones and some pressed elephant dung to ‘reflect the owner’s continuing fascination with Africa’? Whatever happened to the notion of concreting the bastard over then painting it green? As in the phrase ‘he came, he saw, he concreted’.
Fashion changes every decade. No sooner will you have levered out the aluminium windows and replaced them with timber than the host will be on screen: ‘Have you considered installing aluminium windows? They’re the latest “must-have”.’
The end is never in sight. You imagine in five years time you’ll be able to rest on your laurels. Or rather, rest on your delightfully modish wicker chairs atop your new tallow-wood deck. Wrong! A more accurate analogy is the painting of the Sydney Harbour Bridge—by the time you’ve painted your way to one end, the other end will already be peeling and rusting. Easier, really, to do nothing.
Any attempt to copy the renovations achieved on the TV will fail anyway, since your tools are not up to the job. I know the modern man is mocked for always blaming his tools; he is compared unfavourably to old Uncle Frank who could achieve anything around the house minutes after the problem was identified. ‘All Auntie Vera had to do was point out the problem.’ Yes, I know. But consider the riches of Uncle Frank’s resources. The man had a shed. With power. The shed had a fridge. He had copies of Australasian Post in there. And his own body weight in high-class chisels. I—we—have the hall cupboard, down the back of which, once you’ve moved the vacuum cleaner to one side and displaced the baby bath, just in case we have another child, which by the way we’re not going to, you’ll find a sad and tangled pile of cheap tools, mostly purchased from the bargain bin outside Clint’s Crazy Bargains. There are chisels that, for want of anything better, you’ve attempted to use as screwdrivers. There are set squares that you’ve used as paint-tin openers. There’s a socket set that you once pressed into service as a hammer. Now, if we only had better tools…
And, finally, whatever they say in these shows, it is impossible to make a house look better through painting or renovating. The lovely job you’ve done on the bedroom walls only serves to draw attention to your battered old wardrobe and threadbare carpet. Last week, they looked fine; now they dominate the room—as visible as a pimple on a fashion model’s chin. You spend more money, purchase new carpet and wardrobes, and the bedrooms look perfect. Which only serves to draw attention to the hallway, which used to look fine, but now…
Well, that’s all from the team at Pigsty for another week. We’ll be back with more will-sapping and life-defeating advice next week.
Not drowning, waiving
Welcome to life. I note that you are a baby, recently born. While your auditory and intellectual processes may not be completely developed, it is nonetheless my duty to present to you certain disclaimers and warranty waivers. Please stop sucking that blanket and listen.
Life in Australia may contain traces of nuts. In fact, there are nuts everywhere. Especially in the legal system. That’s just my little joke. Are you sure you don’t want to take notes? I shall make an annotation that you waived that constitutional right. Your gurgle shall be taken as a note of assent.
Swim between the flags. Don’t get involved in schoolyard fights. Check the pavement ahead as you walk. Don’t smoke in bed. And don’t sit naked on a chair with moving parts. Actually, that one is mainly for the boy babies, but you never know. Also: all hot liquids in Australia may prove to be, well, hot. And before you dive into water, please check the depth.
There’s no need to look at me like that. These days, we have to place warnings on everything, so it’s easier to do them in one go. Straight after birth, which is what I’m doing right now. Dry-clean everything. Or at least hand-wash. Can I be very clear about that? And please stop sucking that blanket. It may have traces of nuts.
Never eat a meal bigger than your own head. Do not attempt to wash the bottom of your feet in the shower while drunk. And never go fly-fishing while wearing a nose ring. People do, you know. And then they sue State Recreation for providing the river in which they were fly-fishing. It’s been most lamentable. But you won’t be able to sue, Baby Number 4305789. You’ve heard the official warning.
What else? Always check for ceiling fans before jumping for joy. If working in the building trade, always get someone else to carry the bag of cement. And don’t try to queue jump in the delicatessen if there are elderly Italian women ahead of you in the queue. Oh, yes, the injuries can be horrific. But the warning has now been given. No suing the Department of Multicultural Affairs for you.
I really would like you to stop sucking that blanket. While the sucking is occurring in front of me—a government official—that fact should in no way be implied as an endorsement of your actions. That is a state hospital blanket. God knows where it has been. I wouldn’t suck it. I think you’re crazy. But it’s your choice. The risk has been disclosed and thus accepted.
What else? Never argue with bouncers. If you find yourself in a restaurant that is revolving, you’ve probably had too much to drink. And before commencing an uncharitable anecdote about a person, always check that the subject of the anecdote is not among those listening.
I could go on, and in fact I will: Don’t wear platform shoes when attempting the Macarena. Roof racks, men and octopus straps make a very unhappy combination. When fixing a gun, don’t stare down the barrel when trying to assess why nothing is coming out when you pull the trigger. And once you turn sixteen, you may wish to store certain unctions and potions in your bedside drawers so they can be readily located in the dark. But do find a different drawer for the Dencorub.
Will you stop fidgeting? We’re nearly there. Never place a rose between your teeth without first removing the thorns. Don’t wear hoop earrings while operating heavy machinery. And never put anything smaller than your elbow into your ear. I know that’s what your grandmother told you but when I say it, it has legal weight. I’m recording this you know. What else? Get an electrician. Get an electrician. Get an electrician.
You’ll find another 5300 warnings in this pamphlet, which I am conveying to you by the act of putting it inside your cot. Don’t suck it. It may contain nuts.
The Cupboard
One of the mysteries of holidays is the way we drive hundreds of kilometres in order to stay somewhere less comfortable than home. Maybe it’s our way of consoling ourselves about the year ahead: sure, we’ll have to go back to work, but at least we’ll get to move back into our normal home.
Until then, it’s a week up the coast with the scratched plastic wine tumblers, the broken banana lounge for which we’ll probably get the blame, the windows with the ripped flywire, and a hot water supply that’s defeated by one shower and a bit of washing up.
Why is it so? Why are all rental houses up the coast the same?
How come they never supply a big pot in which you can boil pasta? Is it a state government rule? ‘There can only be three saucepans—each one smaller than the last.’ Is there a decree that, during all official holidays, the whole population must boil pasta in batches, in tiny saucepans, on whatever hotplates they can goad into life?
Which brings us to the hotplates. Why is it that the back left one never works? It’s like a rule of nature. By what strange practice do they become damaged? Do people leap up and down on them? Or is it some sort of agreement among the estate agents? (‘Oh no, son, you can’t offer a fully working stove. Next thing you know, they’ll all be wanting one.’) And where do they purchase these special electric frypans—the ones that burn a crop-circle into the food by means of a red-hot element which leaves the rest of the pan dead cold?
The TV set, I must admit, generally works, although the remote control is long lost, requiring you to prod at various tiny buttons in the machine’s tummy. I say it’s lost, but more likely it’s in The Cupboard—the locked shr
ine at the heart of any beach rental property.
This is the place in which The Owners put all The Good Stuff, so The Renters can’t wreck it. God knows what is in there, but as a renter it’s always the first thing you spot: the locked cupboard, or occasionally the locked garage. You stare at it, your imagination running wild.
Presumably it’s like Ali Baba’s cave in there—crowded with all the things that would make the house perfect. Ah, yes, there’d be pasta pots aplenty, piled high, jostling for position with a DVD player, a real teapot, an egg slide without a burnt and melted handle, and some curtains that would actually keep out the sun in the morning.
In various houses, I have sat in the baking heat of the late afternoon—a sheen of sweat on my forehead, panting lightly from heat sickness—wondering why, in a house this hot, there are no fans. But, of course, there are plenty of fans: it’s just that they are all locked up in Ali Baba’s Cupboard.
I imagine the owner collecting them, just before he leaves, cackling as he stacks them in The Cupboard: ‘This will stop them using up my electricity; let them sweat it out.’ I imagine him rather like Gollum in The Lord of the Rings—his eyes ablaze as he lifts the Electrolux 240-volt RC-17 Turbo Fan into The Cupboard. ‘Ah, my precious,’ he says, stroking it lasciviously, ‘you rest until my return.’
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