‘So I suppose these don’t belong to either of you?’ says Jocasta, staring grimly at Batboy and me, as we try to wriggle out of the tightening domestic noose.
‘Yeah,’ Batboy stammers finally, showing a most regrettable streak of honesty, ‘the CD is mine.’
Which leaves Jocasta to focus on me: ‘So,’ she says with a wave of the shoes, ‘what about you, Cinderella?’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘actually I was just about to put them away.’
Jocasta is an attractive woman, but perhaps less so when she is letting loose a snort of derision at one’s expense. It’s time to go into major damage control, and I quickly suggest we all hop in.
‘It’ll be fine,’ I say soothingly, speaking as one would to a madman wired with explosive. ‘I’ll take all the stuff out of all the kitchen cupboards and scrub them down, and then I’ll restack and refold everything in the linen cupboard.’
Pretty helpful offer, I think you’ll agree. And yet what do I get? Another snort.
‘That’s typical,’ says Jocasta. ‘You always want to do these major jobs, these show-offy, once-a-year sort of jobs, and you never want to do the ordinary, boring, once-a-week jobs, like cleaning the bathroom.’
My mind grinds and clunks as I wonder exactly why I don’t like doing the ordinary, boring, grungy jobs and suddenly, despite myself, the truth comes tumbling out: ‘Well, I guess nobody does.’
It’s an admission which leaves me, about three minutes later, being loaded-up with cleaning products and a strict instruction to have the entire bathroom spotless by noon.
This poses a problem for the supposedly aware man — how to successfully complete the allotted task without confessing that, in all your forty years, you’ve never actually cleaned a whole bathroom. Certainly, it seems a mistake to ask how it’s done, so I just head in there with anything I can find labelled ‘cleaning product’. If Jif doesn’t do the job, I’ll give it a blast with oven-cleaner.
As it happens, after a while I actually start becoming involved in the job. There are some grey bits in the grouting which I get off with a scratchy pad, and some mess around the water spout which I manage to get off by unscrewing the tap. Then there’s the toilet, which to be cleaned properly needs the whole seat assembly unscrewed and removed, which I find pretty easy, especially using my battery drill, fitted with its screwdriver attachment, and with a little squirt of WD40 on the bolt heads and some bricklayer’s acid on the cement joints.
It is then Jocasta comes in to find me hunched over my tool box — the bathroom a disaster, the taps on the floor, the toilet disassembled — wearing my tool belt and, in order to use the acid, my full-face safety breathing apparatus.
‘I can’t believe,’ said Jocasta, aghast, ‘the way you’ve managed to turn the ultimate ordinary job into a show-off bloke’s job. I suppose you were worried your male appendage would drop off if you actually did it properly?’ (Only she didn’t say ‘male appendage’.)
I could see her argument, but in such circumstances the old marital advice holds true: the best form of defence is attack.
‘Well, I don’t know who’s been trying to clean this bathroom for the past ten years,’ I say, rather gamely, ‘but they haven’t been doing a very thorough job.’
A week later, with the benefit of considerable time on my own for contemplation, I now see this comment was a mistake. A mistake which led directly to Jocasta’s latest idea: the Household Tasks Roster, stuck up there on the fridge door. Revenge, I discover, belongs to she who allocates the jobs.
The new roster, posted yesterday, distributes jobs for the next eight weeks. Eight weeks in which I will be able, in Jocasta’s words, ‘to clean the bathroom to your own high standards — something that should give you enormous personal satisfaction.’
For Batboy and The Space Cadet, the roster affords different opportunities. Opportunities — again in Jocasta’s words — for them to ‘perhaps learn the skills that may make you the world’s first two reasonable men and thus improve the life of some other poor benighted woman.’
And for herself? Jocasta’s new roster counsels eight weeks of ‘quiet hand-watering of the garden’, sufficient time, she says, for her to get over the image of her husband, the tool box, and the bathroom.
Pies de Resistance
The annual Good Food Guide is always full of top-shelf nosheries which attract a very sophisticated and cosmopolitan set. But whatever happened to the establishments attended by the rest of us?
Susan’s Sandwich Bar
This popular city haunt has now reopened after last year’s embarrassing health scare, and manageress-owner Susan declares the whole place is now ‘absolutely’ rodent-free. Customers can enjoy the delicate ambience created by the fusion of city bus fumes and decades of hot-oil frying, all combined with Susan’s own unmistakable personal parfum — ‘a really quite staggering mix’, in the words of one regular.
A display of produce, plucked fresh each morning from Susan’s very own freezer, is presented in a glass-topped counter — much of it completely free of botulism. Customers can choose from an array of traditional sandwich fillings, safe in the knowledge that exotic hints of sardine and salami will be added via Susan’s tongs. Which is not to underrate the more subtle contributions of her chief assistant, Terry, and his garlic breath — giving that unmistakable je ne sais quoi to everything he serves.
Susan’s personal recommendation is her bestselling meat pie — so structurally unsound that it always ends up all over the diner’s shirt. Chuckles Terry with a mischievous grin: ‘Our pies are like Armani suits — all the best people end up wearing them.’
Susan’s is open from 7.30 a.m. until Terry’s feet start hurting, normally about 5.45 p.m.
Barry Chow’s All-You-Can-Eat Chinese Restaurant
The Good Food Guide restaurants may be terrific on quality, but Barry Chow’s the man for pure quantity. It’s the first choice for all those of us who judge a meal principally on its weight.
But Barry also knows the All-You-Can-Eat Restaurant walks a narrow line. If the neon signs outside suggest endless helpings, then it’s up to the food itself to encourage some sort of moderation. And indeed it does — a first serving of Barry’s Mongolian lamb usually being enough to sober up the most enthusiastic of diners. ‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ say the testimonials plastered on Barry’s window — quotes often recorded as customers ran screaming for the door.
‘There’s nothing like my spring rolls,’ says Barry, as he turns up the blinding fluorescent lighting and the 2KY radio call, ‘for ensuring a good flow-through of customers.’
The Factory Canteen
A place so popular that the same customers come day after day, largely because no other food is available within 10 kilometres.
Says head chef, Mike: ‘It’s a lie that all our chefs learned their cooking skills in “the Big House”. At least one could cook before his prison sentence. Besides,’ he adds with a wink, ‘at least they’re used to cooking for a captive market.’
Betty’s Family Restaurant and Steak Bar
Here the word ‘family’ is used in its traditional Australian sense, as in ‘family room’, ‘family holiday’ and ‘family film’. In other words, ‘bloody awful’.
In terms of decor, Betty’s guiding word has been ‘unbreakable’, while in terms of cuisine she says her main influences can be summed up in the words ‘portion control’.
Better still, everything is microwaved. ‘How else could you serve food that’s boiling hot on the outside and ice-cold on the inside?’ asks Betty, as she pours in another bucket of meat-extender. ‘I like to think it lends every dish the glamour and adventure of a bombe Alaska.’
Mum and Dad’s
This establishment remains so popular that many Sydneysiders choose it for their meal every night of the week. On my most recent visit, which was last night, I again chose the lamb chops with mash and Brussels sprouts, while my companion opted for the lamb chops with mash and Br
ussels sprouts.
Meanwhile, our two younger companions toyed with the lamb chops, tried to hide the sprouts under the bones, and cried when they weren’t allowed to watch South Park. Service is unfussy, with a hint of the colourful Latin should patrons decline to take their chairs with speed. The ambience is informal, with patrons encouraged to fetch their own drinks during the course of the meal and, indeed, to wash up afterwards.
Some young diners have complained of the chef’s violent temper, often occasioned by a refusal to consume the Brussels sprouts. Most, however, agree that this is more than made up for by the price.
Mum and Dad’s is free (although, some patrons warn, you’ll be paying for the rest of your life).
The Politically Correct Jokebook
Some people claim that the only funny joke is a politically incorrect one — one that’s racist, or sexist or just plain mean.
Maybe the plain mean part is correct. As to the rest, you’ve just got to pick deserving targets. Welcome to the Politically Correct Jokebook.
Part 1: Bankers
Why do Australian bankers describe themselves as ‘terrific housekeepers’?
– Because if things become messy, they get to keep the house.
Why did the bank customer cross the road?
– To try and find the end of the queue.
Why is a bank customer like a seagull?
– Because you can make 500 deposits on a car, and still not be the one who owns it.
Why is a bank customer like a bank robber?
– Because, if she ever demands money at the counter, she’ll be subject to serious charges.
Why are the Australian banks like the members of an infantry battalion?
– Because, on a secret signal, they all start charging at the same time.
Why are the four major banks like a symphony orchestra?
– Because they are so used to acting in concert.
Why are Australian banks like Cold War spies?
– Because, even under torture, they’ll give nothing away.
Why did the shark off Bondi circle the banker but never attack?
– Professional respect.
Why are Australian banks like the Israeli army?
– Because they both employ counter-terrorists.
What’s the difference between any Australian banker and your teenage son?
– None. Neither has paid you any interest for years.
Why is an Australian banker like a pelican?
– Because the first thing you notice is the enormous size of the bill.
What do call a banker when he’s selling you a new loan?
– Con.
What do you call a bank customer whose got nothing on her bank statement except charges?
– Fiona.
What do you call a banker at a farm repossession?
– Rich.
What do you call a bank customer whose just had his vehicle repossessed?
– Carlos.
Why are bankers like bushrangers?
– Because they’ve holed up in small towns, taken everyone’s money, and then shot through in a hurry.
Banker, banker! Everyone in this bank keeps ignoring me!
– Next please.
Banker, banker! I’ve only got 59 seconds to pay in this cheque, or you get to repossess my farm.
– Hold on a minute, please.
Knock Knock,
Who’s there?
A teller.
A teller who?
Ateller the Hun.
Why are bank-loan officers like grave diggers?
– Because they dig the hole for you, then help you in.
Part 2: Race-card politicians
There’s a point where the politics are so pathetic, and the national shame so great, there’s only one sensible response: create some schoolyard jokes. Thus part two of our Politically Correct Jokebook.
What do you call the Australian Prime Minister when he’s visiting an Aboriginal neighbourhood?
– Lost.
What do you call the Australian Prime Minister when he’s visiting the United Nations?
– The defendant.
Why is the Australian Prime Minister like a drug runner?
– Because he’s afraid to be judged by international customs.
How many Darwin magistrates does it take to change a light bulb?
– They don’t bother. They’ve got no power anyway.
Why is a racist like a drunk?
– Because everything he says ends in a slur.
Why are Australian politicians like Old Sydney Town?
– Both offer a variety of 18th-century views.
What’s the difference between a black child stealing a truck, and a truck arriving to steal a black child?
– Only one’s a crime: the one in which the black child knows where he’s going.
Why is the Northern Territory Chief Minister like an Australian bank?
– Because the rest of the country constantly gives him money, but he never pays any interest.
Why didn’t the racist cross the road?
– Because he didn’t want to see the other side.
Why did the Government gag parliamentary debate on the Northern Territory?
– Because only people in jail should finish their sentences.
Why did the Liberal cross the floor of Parliament?
– Because 98 per cent of her party were giving the rest a bad name.
Why was the Government happy to intervene over Northern Territory’s euthanasia laws, but not over the Territory’s mandatory sentencing laws?
– Because it only wants to encourage suicide among young people.
Why is a bigot like the announcer at Rosehill Racecourse?
– Because they both start shouting the instant they see a new race.
Have you heard about the politician who discovered a new tax that is actually popular?
– It’s attacks on black Australians.
What’s the difference between stealing a black child and stealing a packet of biscuits.
– None. Whichever gets stolen, the black child does the time.
Why does St Vincent’s heart-transplant team only use the hearts of Cabinet ministers?
– They prefer ones that have never been used.
Why did the black child steal correcting fluid.
– Because he saw it was called White Out.
How many Prime Ministers does it take to change a light bulb?
– None. That light bulb worked fine in 1956, so why change it now.
Inviting Trouble
I’m standing at the frypan, pushing around some slabs of steak, while I consider precisely how to put the question. Finally I sing-song it over my shoulder: ‘The office party is on in a couple of weeks; do you think you’ll want to come along?’
I am trying to sound upbeat, positive, like a man who can think of nothing better than to take his partner to his office party. But deep in the back of my head, I can hear a treacherous little voice mumbling: ‘Hope she says no.’
Now this is interesting, because it raises a question: why would a happily-partnered person, especially one armed with The Belly, want to attend his office party without his partner?
And the answer — and I am shocked when I tease it forth from the swamp that is my subconscious — can only be one thing. Women.
Somewhere my brain is harbouring some sort of pathetic fantasy whereby I trundle into the office Christmas party, wearing the fresh polyester shirt, the dab of Blue Stratos behind the ears, and various women will attempt to get into my pants. Which will be pretty amazing, since it’s pretty damn tight in here already.
But men like to maintain hope. However middle-aged, however ungainly in appearance, however happily married, however guilty we know we’d feel … we always want to think it’s at least possible. In theory.
What do we think is actually going to happen? By what bizarre miracle do we think women, who a
s a group have not shown us a second glance for a decade, are suddenly going to overcome their aversion?
The answer — and I think I speak for all men here — is nuclear war. We know that one night — maybe in a year, maybe in fifty — the announcement will be made that the world is about to be destroyed in a nuclear hellfire, and this, we fondly imagine, may cause women everywhere to reach hurriedly for whatever man happens to be handy. And when it happens we want to be the one sitting next to Monica from dispatch.
Which brings the festive season problem: how to stop your partner coming to your office Christmas party (and sitting herself between you and Monica) without actually saying she can’t come. Hence our dinner-time discussion:
Me: ‘So do you want to come to the party?’
Jocasta: ‘Oh, I don’t care. If you want me to, I will.’
Me: ‘Well, I’d love you to; it would be great, although — from your point of view — I guess it will be full of all those, you know, office types.’
Jocasta: ‘You’re trying to talk me out of going, aren’t you?’
Me (sweating): ‘No, honest, no.’
Jocasta (striding towards me, with scissors): ‘You want to go on your own, eh, Don Juan? Just so you can get your mitts on some poor deluded woman. Well, I think it’s pathetic.’
This conversation represents your basic worst-case scenario, whereby your partner instantly cancels all engagements in order to attend your office party and, if possible, also invites her mother.
The problem is that your spouse never believes the truth, which is: all you want to do is flirt. All married people, both men and women, are like this: we want to walk into a party, go up to other married people of the opposite sex, and attempt to create some sexual electricity. Just to see if it can still be done. It’s like turning on an old valve radio. It’s not that you want to listen to the programs; you just want to check if it still goes.
In Bed with Jocasta Page 14