Gold Coast Morning

Breasts, Wendy and Me

I miss Kate, I really do. She made me look forward to weekends. Kate Holden was part of my routine for those days. Her column, in the Age – was always frank, and very, very Melbourne. It was frequently copied and formed an 'inclusion' in my copious missives to mates here, there and everywhere; and were also placed in the pigeon holes of colleagues when I was a working man. I was enamoured of her so I devoured her self-excoriating books ('In My Skin', 'The Romantic') as well. I listened as she launched one of them in a city bookshop, and even had a few words with her afterwards. This only served to make me even more besotted. I hope she has more tomes of similar ilk in her. This Kate, you see, has also seen the seedier side of life, and emerged from that delving onto the depths not completely unscathed, with seemingly still a few demons to subdue. When she left the broadsheet to pursue other options, it was like a nano-death for me - the world wasn't quite the same, if only in a minuscule way. It was much the same after the sad demise of Peter Roebuck. Sure I still had de Brito, Katz, Wright and the irreplaceable Flanagan, but I missed a feminine view that didn't only appeal to 'the sisters'.

 

                                                                       Kate Holden

That's when I discovered Wendy. I am not sure how long she'd been a member of the Age coterie before I noticed her, but one day there she was, I read her and was hooked – but not quite in the same way as Kate. At least, not yet. Kate is incredibly beautiful, but she is all angles and that is reflected in her writing. Wendy is equally alluring, but in a rounder, softer way so her efforts have not so much of the edge. With her, on occasions, I am halfway through and I realise I'm not 'grabbed', so I move on – something that never happened with Ms Holden. Like Kate, Wendy has a book under her belt (The Boy's Club – a novel loosely based her year with the Nine Network) and the promise of another to come. Yes, Wendy is not quite Kate, but I find myself looking out for her by-line in much the same way as I do with the other aforementioned scribes. She helps make my weekend, on most occasions, when she is present in my paper – and I find I am not pining so much for Kate these days. I know, I'm a sad man!

                                                                      Wendy Squires

And this weekend Wendy Squires was on about breasts, a subject that put me on a mini-collision course with my beautiful DLP (Darling Loving Partner).

Firstly, let me state my position on breasts. I have nothing against the female ones, in fact, I am quite the opposite. I adore them – I could look at them bewitched for hours (perhaps I am not such a sad man after all!). They are marvellous - revealed, or tantalisingly hidden, or somewhere in between. I love the shape of them; their variety is constantly drawing my eye. They are part of the reason I love summer, beaches and, in days of yore, Playboy magazine. The only way that I cannot tolerate them is when they have been disfigured to appeal to the presumed male notion of perfection. It's the soft, cushiony natural state I prefer – those tampered ones to me are so not sexy. One of the joys of this sixty plus life is that women possess them and causes me to marvel, just a tad more, about how utterly remarkable the fairer gender are. In innumerable ways I've been next to heaven because of them, and I am not just on about breasts here!

Then that 'boob' Kochie had to stick his oar in, didn't he? I didn't exactly hear/read what he expounded verbatim on the topic; more’s the pity as it turned out. I am not a fan of breakfast television preferring the quietude of the early morning to read, write and ruminate. But whatever it was he said, he got the BFMs (Breast Feeding Mothers) all antsy and antagonised, didn't he – thus causing my collision with DLP. All I was doing, as we drove into the city that morning, was voicing my support for BFMs everywhere in their right to suckle their young in public. After all, it is a normal bodily function I foolishly, and needlessly, informed. Here I was, being such a liberated man of the world, always supporting those hampered going about their normal business by the nannystate brigade. Boy, did I get myself in a pickle!

'How do you feel when you are around, in close proximity, to someone breastfeeding in public?' my DLP quietly asked, knowing full well I have been so quite a bit this past twelve months. DLP knows her man oh so well. I was sprung. I had no where to go. I had to answer honestly. 'I do feel somewhat embarrassed,' I finally stammered, although in truth I do my best to carry on with my normal aplomb.

'Well that's all he's saying', DLP disarmingly went on. 'Like you, he is all for their right to feed babies in public. All he's doing is asking BFMs to use a bit of discretion, a bit of ‘class’, so those sensitive souls around, like you and he, do not have to blush. What's wrong with that?'

DLP had me there, and even more so when she asked, 'Do you urinate or fornicate in open places where you can be spotted?”

That was the killer, there was no way back from there.

It made me think though. Why is it I can look at a topless woman on a beach and I am full of the joys of life, and think how wonderful, delightful, anything but brazen; that she, young or old, is to be so at ease she feels she can expose what is so glorious about her body in public. And yet, if I espy an exposed nipple about to be placed in the mouth of a hungry baby, I come over all funny. I believe Kochie had something to pontificate on that matter too. So here I was, with no difference between me and that bright spark at all.

Which brings me back to Wendy. Her weekend column, about 'bozos and boobs', said it all in a nutshell, and what I find myself doing here is '...what a lot of men of a certain age might express.' if they were game enough to. Although, can I take her to task on the 'certain age' bit? Are younger men immune to any possible embarrassment caused by an inserting nipple? What Wendy goes on to say, though, is certainly correct, and downright worrisome. At some stage this year a known misogynist, the execrable Abbot, may well be our country’s leader. His very hazy take on abortion rights is something to get worked up about far more than this storm in an a-cup. Not only BFMs, but women in all walks of life will really have something to get steamed up about once he starts on with what women can or cannot do with their bodies. Hopefully we will not be unfortunate enough to have this neolith in a position of authority our beautiful women.

So blessed ladies, this far from perfect male will defend till the end your right to naturally feed your little ones in full view of persons unknown to you. And, as long as you are not too overt, I will try and become a man not perturbed in the slightest of way by your actions. And, as my DLP so easily picked through my 'sucking up' to her with my verbal effort to prove my enlightenment, I promise to think through it all a little more in future before I take the high ground. Sorry Kochie!

Wendy Squires' article =  http://www.nationaltimes.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/dont-waste-fury-on-bozos-and-boobs-20130125-2dc32.html

Burnie Beach

Mad Manlove

Now I am ‘coming out.’ I have a serious crush – on a television character. It probably equals the one I’ve had for years on the domestic goddess, Nigella, the most gorgeous woman on tele. It’s a ‘Mad Men’ personage. Now those knowing me would possibly suspect the divinely proportioned Joan (Christina Hendricks), who nonetheless runs Ms Lawson a close second, but they would be wrong. No – dare I say it – it is a ‘man-crush’. I’m in man-love with Don Draper (Jon Hamm). Before you recoil in shock and horror, now that I’m out I can say that I’ve had them before, but not to the same degree I think. Bill Nighy in any movie comes to mind, and then there’s David Duchovny playing Hank Moody in the ‘Californication’ franchise. The first would have been Laura’s original love interest in ‘SeaChange’, David Wenham’s Diver Dan. Richard Roxburgh’s Cleaver Greene in ‘Rake’ is now knocking on the door too.

Of course, none of this is a physical addiction – it’s all cerebral. Are these the men I wish I could be? I really think not – the womanizing and the shambolicness put me off that line of thought. They get into diabolical pickles of the heart with immediate impact on those they love, and if you believe what you read, Duchovny is supposedly quite true to his character.  But I just adore watching these actors play their roles to perfection – they are just so magnetic to me on the screen. And now, for an even bigger revelation.

I’m beginning to think ‘Mad Men’ the best television series ever? I know, that is a huge call for a series still running – and I’ve checked – Series 6 is currently filming. I am somewhat aghast that I would be considering an American show – giving my general dissing of their usually dire efforts, involving all sorts of weaponry, and always bland but stunningly beautiful young women in the most unlikely of heroic roles. For me the best of British, with a few of the homegrown variety thrown in, have always been king of this particular patch.

The other factor in favour of ‘Mad Men’ is that, to date, it hasn’t run out of steam. In fact I would humbly put it out there that Series 5 is the most riveting so far. It had shocks – the suicide of a major character with another, the flawlessly flawed, feisty Peggy Olsen (Elisabeth Moss), a true heroine of the glass shatterers, departing. Pete Campbell (Vincent Kartheiser) becomes even more odious and, as one who has a soft spot for anything with a French accent, Megan Draper’s (Jessica Paré) addition has been the icing on the cake, toning down Don’s proclivity to marital waywardness. Wife No 1, the irritating Betty (January Jones) now, thankfully, has a less pronounced role. The flashbacks to Don’s backstory have also disappeared. For me they detracted from the delicious machinations in the offices of Sterling Cooper Draper Price. And of course there’s Roger, who matches Don in the dalliance stakes. Lucky bugger has even had one with Joan. Roger just keeps on being Roger, except when he’s freaking out on LSD. Then he becomes a very odd beast indeed.

This series, and those before it, mirror back on the ‘60s in the US of A. From the Camelot of the Kennedys to Vietnam and civil rights, from the evils of tobacco and demon drink to the constant misogyny towards womanhood, it hits the button. It is the smokified retro – just peek at the atrocious of-its-time art work on the walls - look of every scene and the attention to detail. Just as well all those fags the cast are sucking in are herbal. This detail is right down to the appropriateness – or otherwise - of every line of script. But standing head and shoulders above it all is my man-crush – Don. With his permanent five o’clock shadow, unshakable belief in his own abilities and trajectory, with just a soupcon of tenderness here and there towards his fellow man – or woman – just when you thought you had him pegged, he is simply delicious. Series 5 also finally hooked my DLP (Darling Loving Partner), a very discerning television critic – even if she has more tolerance of the US product than I. Sadly she is not one for lists, but I am enamoured in working them out. So here it comes – the call.

‘MAN MEN’ IS THE BEST TELEVISION SERIES EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now I have been watching television for nigh on fifty years. Can I do a top ten list of best television shows for over that time period. No, I think that is too hard an ask. If I restrict it to the last 25 years, since 1988, that makes the task more achievable – and it will give that other inveterate list maker in my life, my BTD (Beautiful Talented Daughter) something to ponder and produce as well. I hope she will, as I do anyone else who may by, whatever means, come across this piece.

This timeframe rules out timeless classics such as the ‘Honeymooners’ (1955-1956), ‘Bell Bird’ (1967–1977), ‘Fawlty Towers’ (1975–1979), ‘Dean Martin Show’ (1964–1975), ‘Countdown’ (1974-1987), ‘Red Skelton Show’ (1951-1971), ‘Howards Way’ (1985-1990), ‘Auf Wiedersehen  Pet’ (1983-1986), ‘Rock Follies’ (1976) and  ‘Brideshead Revisited’ (1981) just to list some personal favs.

So the list – not as easy as I thought it would be, but for purposes of discussion, here goes:-

1.       Mad Men (2007- )

2.       Cold Feet (1998-2003)

3.       SeaChange (1998-2000)

4.       Secret Life of Us (2001-2005)

5.       Californication (2007- )

6.       Alley McBeal (1997-2002)

7.       Spicks and Specks (2005-2011, 2013 - )

8.       The Royle Family (1998-2000)

9.       Prime Suspect (1991-2006)

10.   Black Books (2000-2004)

 

There are admittedly some great shows omitted – ‘Cracker’, ‘This Life’, ‘Silent Witness’ (the Sam Ryan years), ‘Men Behaving Badly’, ‘The Street’, ‘House of Cards’ and ‘Father Ted’. ‘Life on Mars’ was mesmeric but Series 2 let it down. There are some current series that I am thoroughly entranced by and they may get a guernsey once they have run their course. These include ‘Boardwalk Empire’, ‘Game of Thrones’, ‘True Blood’ (starting to run out of fresh ideas I think), ‘Weeds’, ‘Downton Abbey’ and ‘Offspring’ – but I have my doubts. What do you reckon BTD – and anyone else – are you game for the challenge???

 

 

Blossom Time

The Eyes of the Tiger

1976

That first night it snowed in Russell Square. The journey from Heathrow to our ‘olde worlde’, or so it seemed to this novice international traveller, hotel on one of London’s double decker red buses, was exciting in itself, despite the atrocious weather. Once in our accommodation our first action was to open the blinds to see snow falling, the second was to turn on the radio. From the latter came Dazza, belting out ‘Howzat’, then racing up the UK charts, reminding me of the sunshiny Oz summer we’d just left.

Once out and about I soon discovered that London in winter looked so dismally grey – the weather was grey, the buildings were grey and that greyness was reflected in the faces of the city’s inhabitants. The service in the shops and cafés was terrible; there was nary a smile to be had. It was just all so gloomy, the population looked beaten down – and Thatcher hadn’t yet arrived into the prime ministership. What I didn’t know at that stage, but found out later when we journeyed to the provinces, was that the rest of the UK was all sweetness and light; we were killed with welcoming kindnesses everywhere we went. Dear me, though, London was dire, and for a time I wondered what I was doing leaving the delights of a home summer for this downtrodden city of short days and sad visage.

It’s all so far back now I don’t remember much of the stay in England’s capital. I do recall sleeping through a West End musical performance so drugged up was I on jet lag. I was underwhelmed by the Elgin Marbles at the British Museum, but loved seeing all the old documents and books such as the Magna Carta and Shakespeare’s First Folio. There were other bright spots too – the food hall at Harrods, the Turners at the Tate, the Beefeaters at the Tower. Once out of London I started to enjoy myself, and by Paris was determined that this would not be my last visit to Europe, and that next time I’d be there for much longer than the six weeks we then had at our disposal.

But there was an event in depressing London that I will never forget as long as I live.

2013

Tigers. No, not that AFL team that always promise so much and then fall in a heap, big time. No – what I am on about is the real McCoy – well sort of in one case, as you will read. These stunning carnivores of the South Asian jungles have had their demise in the wild predicted for most of my adult life, but still they hang on. From the snows of the Amur to the steaming rainforests of Sumatra, these super-cats rule all creatures in their domain, bar one. You can have your lions, leopards, cheetahs etc, etc – none possess the majesty, the beauty, the fierceness or adaptability of this the most fear inducing of felines.

And then there’s Tessa – my gorgeous granddaughter. Her parents call her Tiger. And that name fits her best, even if it is probably sourced from a different sort of tiger than the ones featured here.

I was initially not convinced. It wasn’t on my list of wannasees. My DLP (Darling Loving Partner) was going to view it at her daughter’s urging. I then read a glowing review in the Age and changed my mind. Besides, I adore going to the movies with my beautiful DLP. The ‘Life of Pi’ is a terrific effort by Ang Lee – so skillfully realised onto the screen through the magic of CGI. I was very taken by the whole 127 minutes of it. The beauty of the piece is what most impressed – the gorgeously hued and choreographed opening credits, the meerkat island, the leaping blue whale. At times it was difficult picking up the dialogue with the Indian accents and background goings on, but DLP, ever astute, spotted the deliberate holes in the narrative, so central to understanding the conclusion, well before I did. Unlike me, though, she did not pick up where the drugged tiger was hidden, and it scared the bejesus out of her when it suddenly emerged. The ‘Life of Pi’ shines above the bulk of the Hollywood dross that is served up to us and, in my humble view, it should receive plaudits in this current award season. It is a film to savour and to return to.

And despite being CGI driven, the tiger (Richard Parker) was magnificent in its majesty, beauty, fierceness and adaptability – all adjectives worth repeating – even when half starved, near death. Despite all its privations on the lifeboat, and its dependence on the boy, it still walked into the saving forest without a backward glance – just like your everyday moggie would. If it had been a canine…………

The most breathtaking moment for me in the whole film came early when the boy, on the arrival of Richard at the family zoo, attempted to feed him a morsel of meat. He stares into the primal depths of the tiger’s eyes, and we are privy to what he saw. As the actor simulates the meeting of souls between boy and beast, I had a flashback to a day in London when I had my own encounter with – the eyes of the tiger.

1976

I could be wrong, but I think this all occurred on our very last day in Europe. For some reason we felt it a fine idea to go to the Zoo during that freezing northern winter. Of course, at that time of year, it was a fairly desultory place and therefore almost deserted. Apart from my close call with the hereafter, the only other memory of the visit that has survived the ravages of time is just how bloody big an anaconda actually is! So wandering around, I came upon the tigers’ enclosure. I am not sure how many animals were present in it and, for reasons you will discover as you read on, I was soon in no condition to care. It is only one that counts. Its abode was in two parts – an outside area and an enclosed den. I presume, like lions, tigers have dens? Anyway, there was a viewing tunnel behind the den, which was, for some reason, raised up slightly. This caused the head of the lolling tiger I espied to be at exactly the same level as mine. Between it and the viewer – me – there was a pane of glass.

And that is when I had my brain fade. In a moment of madness, totally uncharacteristic of my normally reserved and timid demeanour, I decided it would be a fine idea to eyeball this impressive beast. I placed my fragile and, on that day, brainless skull also up against the glass, so I could peer directly into – yes, the eyes of the tiger. It was incredible, that nano-second when our pupils met – exhilarating, but chilling. As soon as I saw those pupils dilate, I knew I was in trouble. I realized this wasn’t the brightest move this unsophisticated Aussie bumpkin had ever made. Far from being benign about it all, the huge cat suddenly took umbrage, became affronted – perhaps he/she was responding to the call of the jungle and may have sensed potential dinner. The creature ferociously snarled, leapt to its feet, and loped back to the rear of its den. Then, to my complete horror, it charged – at me! It hit the glass with a resounding and mortifying WHUUUUUUUUUMP, seemingly, with full and not inconsiderable body weight.

I am eternally grateful that the powers to be at London Zoo had foretold that some day some idiot antipodean may, in a manner resembling my actions, infuriate their Bengali guests, and had made the intervening barrier between them and said idiot of a strength to withstand the best efforts of enraged massive furballs to get at their tormentors. It did its job, obviously.

And the effect on me? Well my synapses snapped into action and sent messages to my legs. Unfortunately they were quite confused and went something like this:-

                        Message One   –  Jump high in fright (useless in the situation).

                        Message Two   -  Backpedal (equally useless in the situation).

                        Message Three – Go weak at the knees (beyond useless in the situation)

All this overloading of my nervous system did was to cause me to freeze on the spot. Then my brain suddenly realised I was in no imminent danger of demise as the animal had bounced off the transparent wall. So my shell-shocked mind sent the instruction – ‘You have no need for all that adrenalin; go into recovery mode’. I started to shake like a leaf. It took me a while to regain my composure and go off in search of my travelling partner.

I know not if this event was witnessed and do not recall my wife being around – presumably she was somewhere else observing flamingoes, aardvarks, toucans or some such. But I’ll never forget the day I survived the tiger attack – and what is even more imprinted is that minute amount of time I peered into the depths of those eyes. So, if for that reason only, tigers go up to another dimension for me, on equal footing with eagles – but that’s another story.

Now Tessa, one day you may well read this tale of the foolishness of your Poppy S when he was a much younger man. Although that big striped beastie couldn’t shatter that glass barrier to get at him, I know that you, being of the tiger that you are, will never allow any barrier to stand in your way of getting where you want to be. Go Tiges !


Life of Pi Website = http://www.lifeofpimovie.com/

Gold Coast Morning