The Book of Bloke

by Ben Pobjie

  Artists are usually quite recognisable in public due to their ragged, avant-garde clothing, carefully unkempt hairstyles, and expressions of deep dissatisfaction with the world. A Bloke with paint-spattered jeans, black thick-framed glasses, or an ill-fitting suit jacket worn over an angry sloganeering T-shirt, is probably an Artist. They are not usually friendly to strangers, and can become quite aggressive if roused, so do not approach one unless you are willing to offer him free alcohol.

  Artists generally stick to urban areas, and, if by unlucky chance they end up born in suburban or rural regions, will head for the city the first chance they get, desperate to find sustenance in the overpriced drinks and Save Live Music petitions of the inner metropolitan regions. Curiously, in the mature stage of their life cycle, the Artist will, if successful in his chosen profession, move back out to the country, where he will sit smugly looking at the trees and bragging about how connected to the land he is.

  Most Artists are not successful, due to the distressingly large supply-demand gap in the Artist world, and so the usual habitat for the species is usually the small, trendy pub, where Artists go to complain about the lack of public funding for the arts, or else in their own home, sobbing quietly. They can also be found working in record stores, or pretending to sketch people in Centrelink.

  The belief that the Artist is just a strain of other Bloke species is understandable when you consider the parallels between him and his closer relations. For instance, like a Snag, most of the time the Artist will express deep sensitivity towards and solidarity with women, and pride himself on his feminist credentials and ability to see the human race in a more enlightened and egalitarian way. Unlike the Snag, however, the Artist will consider this attitude to be mostly theoretical, acknowledging the equality of women in general, but frequently treating actual live women as, essentially, disposable art supplies. Some have described this as ‘cruel’, but it may be unfair to judge the Artist too harshly because, when observing the Artist’s treatment of the opposite sex, it is important to recognise that, unlike other Blokes who mistreat women, at least the Artist may get a nice drawing out of the experience.

  Just as the Artist’s socio-sexual attitudes have something in common with the Snag, there are also strong similarities with the Tunester, as the Artist is passionately committed to an art form, and allows it to utterly consume his life. The main difference is that, unlike most Tunesters, Artists are actually trying to make a living from the art form in question; therefore, while being passionately committed, the Artist will at the same time loathe the art form and secretly wish he’d gone to business school. Of course, it is still entirely possible for him to actually go to business school, but that is the tragedy of the Artist: he wishes his life could take a different course, but that sounds like a lot of work.

  The Artist also has much in common with the Leftite – the two species’ politics often intersect, and Artists are frequently recruited by Leftites to assist in their pointless campaigns. A minority of Artists will also swing the other way, identifying with Rightoid political theory because they think it makes them seem iconoclastic. Many of the internal disputes within Artist society in the past have been caused by ferocious disagreement over which political stance makes one more special.

  The Artist is a unique presence in the Bloke kingdom, wandering about the streets, ghost-like, floating through social structures without ever really becoming a part of them. They do gather in social groups from time to time to discuss art, compare notes, and pretend not to hate each other. Generally, however, they prefer solitude, because it gives them an opportunity to say ‘I prefer solitude’. A major marker of status in Artist society is the ability to brood, with the most highly regarded Artists often able to achieve a Brood Intensity Rating of up to +12, and sustain their brooding for over fourteen hours at a stretch. If you see an Artist brooding in a corner of a bar or on a park bench, keep your distance – or go up to him and tell him how darkly fascinating you think he is: either should make him happy. Don’t expect him to look happy, though: that would kind of defeat the purpose.

  This is not to say that Artists are incapable of joviality or bonhomie. Indeed, Artists often throw the most raucous and ebullient of parties, and do go through phases of gregariousness and merriment. However, these are generally considered counterpoints to the brooding, and it is considered polite to treat them as just further proof of how intense and complex the Artist is. Calling an Artist ‘happy’ is in fact quite a faux pas; it is much better, instead, to refer to the many, many other people who the Artist makes happy by selflessly sharing his creative vision with the world, even at the expense of his own happiness.

  At times, an Artist may produce some art, although this is not essential.

  All Artists are motivated by the same basic urges: to gain respect, to be admired, to have sex, to drink heavily. But the species can be divided into subspecies according to how their urges manifest themselves. Thus, the varieties of Artist include:

  The Brush-Tailed Dauber. This small, easily frightened Artist lives in confined spaces, feeding off his own resentment. With few natural defences against predators, the Dauber, when threatened, will defend himself by talking about colour, light and shade until the predator gets bored and goes away. Colour, light and shade are extremely important to the Dauber, and he will fixate on them to the exclusion of all else for days at a time, breaking concentration only to eat and have nervous breakdowns.

  Motivated greatly by a desire to be remembered after he is dead, the Dauber pursues this aim both by thinking up innovative methods of suicide, and by ‘pushing new boundaries’. Nobody really knows what this means, but many Daubers have been observed in the wild, throwing paint at things, dropping paint on things, and smearing paint on various bodily appendages, which are then rubbed against canvas; it is thought that these are the ‘boundaries’ which the Dauber wishes to push, leading many to claim that ‘pushing boundaries’, in the language of the Brush-Tailed Dauber, can be roughly translated as ‘being a nutjob’. This school of thought has it that if medication could be developed to treat Daubers, they’d stop doing all that weird stuff with paint, settle down and draw caricatures in a shopping centre. The difficulty is capturing Daubers to experiment on, as most Daubers die quickly in captivity, much like the Great White Shark, another species known for feeling unappreciated by the wider world.

  If you see a Dauber it is probably safe to approach him, but be warned that he will certainly try to convince you that the ugly picture of his cat on the wardrobe is meaningful. You may have to lie.

  Speaking of dishonesty, the Conceptualista, a close but perverted cousin of the Dauber, has risen to much prominence in recent years, due to its aggressive breeding strategies and talent for self-promotion. The main difference between a Conceptualista and a Dauber is that a Dauber tends to possess some artistic talent, however wasted it might be. The Conceptualista, on the other hand, possesses no artistic talent whatsoever, and wishes to rub that fact right in your gullible face.

  Recognisable by his wild eyes and hideously garish clothes, the Conceptualista is genetically predisposed to intense self-awareness and a total lack of shame; knowing full well he lacks talent, he seeks to compensate for his handicap through shock tactics and general stupidity. This can take many forms: some Conceptualistas will stack bricks on top of each other; some will freeze-dry water buffalo and place them in erotic poses on the steps of Parliament House; and some will simply wrap everything they can find in plastic, before shouting ‘It’s Art!’ at people, and running away with massive armfuls of cash.

  It is always dangerous to get too close to a Conceptualista, as there is a strong chance he will show you a toilet bowl full of mandarins and demand a large fee. If you refuse to pay him, he will punch you in the face. He’ll then show a video of him punching you in the face in slow motion at a major gallery, and demand a large fee.

  Less likely to demand, receive, or get anywhere near a large fee, the Laugh-o-Met
er is an Artist born without the gene that generates self-esteem, and therefore goes through life suffering from desperate insecurity and powerful self-loathing. Unable to generate any kind of sense of self-worth naturally, the Laugh-o-Meter (or LoM) attempts to synthesise these feelings by inducing laughter in others, off which he then feeds in much the same manner as an addict feeds off heroin. The LoM is essentially unable to function unless he is creating laughter, although in a pinch he can get by just by telling people he is a comedian and not revealing he works at Woolworths stacking shelves.

  Unfortunately, the feelings of validation created when a LoM gets a laugh are relatively short-lived, which tragically means he may attempt to make jokes not just while on stage, but also in social situations with friends, if he has any. Even more unfortunate is the fact that the LoM’s need to gain self-esteem by inducing laughter rarely correlates with his ability to induce said laughter, which leads to unpleasant circumstances for everyone involved. This can be particularly nasty when a LoM attempts to write a book, for example on different varieties of Bloke, which may cause widespread misery among unsuspecting readers.

  Laugh-o-Meters can be easily recognised by the haunted look in their eyes and the Centrelink queue they’re standing in.

  And in that Centrelink queue they may be standing next to a Poet, a shy, sensitive Bloke who seeks to give voice to his artistic muse by deliberately pursuing the least lucrative career path ever devised. The pursuit of poetry promises instead to get them laid every now and then, and allows them to wear long black coats and purple nail polish without a trace of irony.

  The Poet is a creature of agony – the agony of undiscovered genius. The fact nobody seems to realise how brilliant he is, and how much good he is doing for the world, tortures him and drives him to drink, especially if someone else is paying. He generally finds it difficult to relate to other Blokes, particularly those with good muscle tone, and lives his life in a fog of confusion, baffled and frustrated by the fact that people prefer entertainment to poetry.

  Poets can usually be found in small, dark bars, looking angry and occasionally reading their poetry to tiny audiences of other poets, who applaud vigorously whenever anyone says the word ‘fuck’ slightly louder than the other words in a sentence.

  Sharing some of the Poet’s frustrations, but with less overt anger, is the Foot-lit Declaimer, a handsome, confident Bloke who is unemployed and driven by an irresistible need to create heartbreaking performance art and be unemployed. Declaimers, like most Artists, can be found in places where drinks are cheap – often they are the ones serving them, although Declaimers tend not to remain in any job for too long because it interferes with their unemployment.

  The Declaimer’s main pastime is complaining. An Artist with a keen sense of justice, the Declaimer cannot believe so many no-talent hacks are getting parts on TV ahead of him. Luckily, he doesn’t even care though, because the Declaimer is all about the work, not about the money and the fame – although this can potentially change should he come into contact with money or fame.

  Declaimers will sometimes look vaguely familiar to you, but it is unwise to ask one where you know him from, because he might tell you.

  Artists are important Blokes in Australian society, fulfilling a vital role, and not just by waiting tables. They provide the rich cultural pursuits and deep insights into human nature that help prevent Blokes descending into the savage, caveman state that most of them would quite like to descend into. Although many Blokes deride Artists as ‘wankers’ or ‘poofters’ or ‘that dickhead in the beret’, it is important to recognise that without Artists, Blokedom would be a less colourful, modernist-sculpture-free realm, which would be a tragedy that would sadly go unnoticed without Artists to point it out to us.

  BLOKEFACTS!

  Did you know … the word ‘Bloke’ is believed to derive from the Latin ‘Bulokum’, which means ‘he who runs naked across the Colosseum’ – originally it was thought to be a variant of the Sanskrit ‘Billiok’, meaning ‘sixpack’.

  The Veteran

  The Veteran is a hardy and resilient Bloke found most commonly in suburban and regional areas, generally staying out of the city because it’s too loud. Veterans are notable due to the wealth of life experience and wisdom they possess, which they employ mostly for the purpose of complaining at great length and volume about all those younger than themselves. Most varieties of Veteran are intensely angry most of the time, although – fortunately, for the sake of public order – their expressions of anger are limited mainly to letter-writing and other forms of low-level civil protest. The Veteran has much in common with the Bogan in that he tends to be driven by resentment, but whereas the Bogan’s resentment springs from being labelled a Bogan, the Veteran mainly resents the number of computers there are nowadays. As such, Veterans tend to loathe Geeks; then again, most Veterans can find a reason to loathe pretty much anyone. Certainly, they have no great love for Bogans, even if they used to be one – Bogans who drive their cars too fast and play their music too loud are particular bêtes noir of the Veteran. Tunesters are also enemies due to their love of loud music, and Leftites and Snags are regarded with almost limitless loathing and also a good deal of psychosexual terror. For similar reasons, Artists are normally unwelcome in Veteran homes, unless their art is painting portraits of angry old men. However, there is no doubt that, among the ranks of Blokes, Veterans reserve a special level of intense, bestial hatred for Fauxkes. It is when confronted with a Fauxke – especially a Wanksta or Drainpipe – that a Veteran is likely to get most vocal, and, in extreme cases, violent. There are extensive records of vicious Veteran attacks on Fauxkes, including instances of young Fauxkes being tripped with walking sticks and slapped with felt hats. Like a bee that gives up its sting, a Veteran who launches such an attack has most likely doomed himself, however, as the excitement frequently brings on cardiac arrest, and the vast majority of Veterans who attack Fauxkes have ended up either dead or in need of a nice cup of tea.

  The Bloke’s Bloke is the only Bloke variety who tends to get the Veteran’s approval, mainly because most Veterans used to be Bloke’s Blokes, or at least have managed to convince themselves they were. Athletes and Farmers are especially lionised within Veteran society as the apotheosis of what a true Bloke should be, and Veterans will use their example frequently to berate their own offspring to the point where they stop visiting, whereupon the Veteran will start complaining to everyone he meets about how his children won’t visit him. Although the Veteran is a big fan of the Bloke’s Bloke, this does not mean the Bloke’s Bloke is immune to his wrath, and an alpha Veteran will still let loose upon a Bloke’s Bloke if the opportunity arises, particularly if he is mowing his lawn the wrong way.

  Veterans also have a lot in common with Ranters, but will usually deny this. It is suspected that most Veterans actually were Ranters at one point, although attempts to verify this have proven unsuccessful as the Veterans under observation kept swiping their newspapers at anyone who got too close.

  In fact, the whole issue of the origin of Veterans is a vexed one. Some maintain Veterans are merely the mature stage of the life cycle of other varieties of Bloke, while others insist that Veterans arose spontaneously, fully-formed, from hot springs many years ago, the chemicals in the springs having reacted powerfully with naturally occurring corduroy fibres. This theory was supported by a study several years ago in which laboratory mice, when exposed to Veteran DNA, began to move noticeably slower and put on a hat before driving.

  The habits of the Veteran tend to be sedentary and largely predictable, with much of their time spent at home, alone. Although some Veterans do have female partners, many do not, either because their wives got fed up with the moaning, or, according to theories advanced by some Blokeologists and neighbourhood children, because their corpses are stuffed in a barrel under the house. Those Veterans who do have wives tend to spend a lot of time not talking to them. While at home, the Veteran occupies himself by taking notes on
offensive TV shows and writing letters, particularly if the Veteran is a Correspondent (see below). The Veteran’s main diet is tea and biscuits, although when let loose he has the capacity to consume large amounts of alcohol before being carried home. He also likes steak, but can’t eat it because of his teeth. The Veteran also enjoys an obscure activity known as ‘gardening’. This is done in the garden, and, according to the most reliable field observations, involves the Veteran shuffling slowly around his yard, making a constant low growling noise and occasionally poking the ground a bit. This gardening, or ‘pottering’, has been the subject of much study and debate over the years, but as yet nobody has determined the exact purpose of it. The prevailing wisdom at the time of writing is that it is some form of religious ritual – it is thought that the Veteran god is appreciative of his poking of the ground, and will reward a diligent poker with healthy azaleas.

  When outside his natural habitat, the Veteran generally becomes even more irritable, and it is on these occasions that he can pose a threat to people’s physical safety and/or patience. The main social activities of the Veteran are walking slowly in front of others, muttering to themselves, telling incomprehensible stories to strangers, and drinking half-price coffee from McDonald’s. They also sometimes enjoy going into supermarkets and confusing the checkout operators by purchasing surprising items, like a washing basket and a jar of cumin, or a single small tin of cat food that they pay for with a cheque.