My Concerns

This post will canvas a host of concerns, beginning with the pervasive confines of corporate gyms. In order to maintain my health and sauna addiction, I’m a member of one. Always have been. I’ve written extensively about gym culture and the calibre of self-obsessed arsehole it attracts, so I won’t recycle it here. I will point out, however, that there’s another sinister undercurrent to the gym. If it weren’t for the gym, I would quite literally never be exposed to chart music or any of the useless products companies heckle us with. I would happily sully my purity in the ivory tower of intellectual enlightenment within which I live. Perched high on my throne, scornfully mocking the sheep and the ease with which their minds can be contorted and controlled. Instead, I find myself in the dubious position of having teenage-like knowledge of all the latest chart-topping tracks, and have even begun to find some of them catchy. I find myself saying, ‘Oh yeah, I know this track, it’s a good one’, and start bopping my head, eagerly awaiting the chorus. That’s when I pick up the pace of my workout, ‘Oh yeah, I’m feeling it. Might check out a club tonight too, dance the night away!’ My head happily sways from side to side as I chew gum and attempt a PB in my revealing leotard. Life’s great! (Please take a moment to picture that scene). I also know a lot about cars too, as that seems to be Australia’s greatest passion, occupying around 90% of the media space. They’re like fucked up families, everyone seems to have one. When you tell people you don’t own a car, and have no intention of ever buying one, you may as well say you’re a Boat Person too, such is the scorn with which you’re met.

On a general note, I’m concerned about the guys who refuse to converse in normal conversations. Instead, they feel the need to hector you with quips. Really unfunny quips. So unfunny that they’re really annoying. One or two quips in a verbal exchange is acceptable. But when they pound you with an endless assortment of unfunny jokes, it’s like someone is jabbing you in the leg with a scalpel and forcing you to laugh. So you painfully chuckle, ‘Oh I get it, the woman is a Curry, that’s funny’. ‘Oh right, yeah, now you’re speaking in a funny voice, you are funny’. ‘Oh, and another quip, again, it’s really good’. I’d rather stare blankly, as if to say ‘Are you done?’. But society demands that I converse politely. To be honest, I just feel like abruptly slapping him. Or arriving to work with a large sack of mulch and casually pouring it on his desk. And then strapping nipple tassels to his nose before kicking him forcefully on the arse and bursting into a loud, obnoxious laughter as the fat bastard falls over. Now that’s funny. Take notes, bitch.

I’m concerned about males. I’ll begin with police officers and then branch out to a more general critique of the sex. In Melbourne, the enlightened powers that be devised the genius idea of dispatching male police officers to patrol the streets in very large packs. So, that’s large, bulked-up men with egos and too much time on their hands, patrolling the streets in gangs… that’ll work! It’s one of those ideas that you just wish you’d thought of. So simple yet so stupid. Because nothing ever goes wrong when feral animals, operating on instinct rather than thought, prowl streets in packs looking for something to do.

So now whenever there’s the most innocuous incident, you’ll see 15 burly males surrounding a petrified drug addict, homeless person or disaffected teen. All pacing around, hectoring the hapless pleb and anyone who should happen to cast a curious eye on the antics of the Gestapo brigade. They jot down notes in their little books, stuff like, ‘Remember to pick up milk on the way home’. They also like whispering into their little walky-talkies, ‘Yo, I have a 15 year old school kid in uniform, he didn’t have a train ticket, there’s 20 lads here, what do we do? Over’.

One male is tolerable. Put another male in the equation and it’s precarious. Herd up a bunch of the cretins and it’s a recipe for disaster. Because males are herd animals. And generally pretty dumb. Confident and brash with a false sense of entitlement, but dumb. Why do you think football players pack-rape? Why do soldiers burn Afghan farmers? Why do radical Muslims treat woman as caged animals? Because men are the inferior sex. Physically stronger, but vastly inferior. Why do I never read stories about two woman getting in a fist fight at the pub? Why is it never two females splitting each others skulls open in road rage? Why aren’t any woman manipulating children with pedophilia? Males are a plague, I’m certainly a self-hating one. I apologise to my girlfriend everyday. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be a lesbian?’, I ask. ‘I certainly would’. 

Posted in Anecdote, Fiction Post Comment

‘Humour’

Australians tend to think they’re funny, but in reality, they are not. As I write this I hear an Australian dickhead say, ‘Yeah, speak for yourself mate!’ before bursting into hysterical laughter, ‘HA HA HA HA HA!’. ‘Ya big dickhead! HA HA HA HA HA!’.
‘That was good Wazza’.
‘Thanks Shaz. By the way, show us ya tits love. HA HA HA HA HA!’
Shaz diligently complies, and wiggles her little tities.
‘HA HA HA HA HA! Fuck I love Australia. Fuck all cunts, it’s the best fuckin country in the world….. CUNT! HA HA HA HA!’
Meanwhile, the rest of the world looks on with horror.
‘What is wrong with these people?’.
‘You don’t like it?! Well fuck off ya fuckin towel head! HA HA HA!’
And so on.

I first realised how comedically challenged Australians were when I left the country, and started working in English ad agencies. These guys were pros. They would riff all day with witty, subtly crafted humour so dry sometimes it was serious. It made me very anxious. Here I was all these years thinking I was funny, and that the world thought we were a funny nation, only to see us for what we really were. Eventually I’d have to sit back, put my hands in the air and say, ‘Guys, I’m just not up to it. Where I’m from, Aussie ‘larrikin’ humour is funny. We just yell stuff out and laugh. I didn’t know humour needed craft, timing and wit. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m sorry’.
‘It’s ok, we know. We didn’t expect anything from you. You’re Australian. Just sit there and take notes’.
‘Ok’.

For the perfect snapshot into the differences between English and Australian humour, one only has to look at the TV. In Australia, there’s a show called The Project. In Australia, it’s ‘funny’. So I excitedly tuned in and was greeted by really really really blonde woman (no offence to blondes, but this was a new Pantone) who were really really tanned. They had very white teeth. They were covered in so much makeup that I didn’t actually know what they looked like. And there was also a man who looked like an anxious mannequin smiling in pain. Why am I critiquing peoples looks like a Daily Mail journalist? Because it reflected the quality of laughs. Then there’s Exhibit B in England, Have I Got News for You. Firstly, looks are not considered relevant. In fact, you’ll probably gain more credibility if your face looks like an arse. The people are very unattractive, pasty and filled with angst. Their teeth are yellow and broken. Who cares. The humour is crafted, unscripted, witty and funny. Priorities

Now, I understand that what I’m doing – critiquing a facet of Australian culture – is in some quartes a felony. If you’re not blindly subscribing to the militant patriotism of the flag-waving, slut-loving, bogan nationalists, you’re liable to be told, ‘Well fuck back off to pommy land ya snobby little cunt, you’ve changed mate. It’s cunts like you that fuck this nation the fuck fuck shit cunt tits’.
‘Um, What?’.
‘Don’t get smart with me you know-all little cunt or I’ll fucking smash this VB bottle on the fuck fuck abbo abbot titties’.
‘Ok, Your parents are siblings. Got it’.
So I’ll balance it out by saying it’s not all Australians that are comedicly challenged. Or lack subtlety. Many are funny. And I do like Australia very much. I’m certainly grateful I fluked being born here, instead of being born in one of the countries we invade.
‘Watch it you ungrateful little cunt! Go war!!’
It’s just the fuck fuck titty bang bang, gullible, herd-like, inbred bogans who think they are clever, witty and funny, when in reality, they are not.
‘Speak for yourself, cunt! HA HA HA HA!’ And so on.

Posted in Analysis Post Comment