Desperate Husbands (10 page)

For a month now, those closest to me have been acting most suspiciously. The government’s anti-terrorist pamphlets have finally come in useful. The pamphlets remind you to look out for suspicious behaviour and suggest a list of purchases—including a radio, torch and latex gloves. I decide to throw myself into the war on terror.

6.15:
With the coiled stealth of a panther I ease my upper body off the mattress and peer beneath the bed. If anybody is under there, they’ll get the shock of their life. Thankfully, the coast appears clear. I check my bedside table. My ‘kit’ is still there in place. The battery-operated radio, the torch and the latex gloves. There’s also my glass of water, across the top of which I’ve placed a strand of hair. With a flood of relief, I see the strand is still in place. We’ve survived another night.

6.17:
I grab the torch and disappear under the doona, making a full visual inspection. Jocasta is asleep beside me, which leaves me wary. It’s very difficult to assess whether someone has become a ‘sleeper’, especially when they are actually asleep. I pounce on her and give her a thorough check, paying especial attention to all possible hiding places. It has not escaped my attention that when I first met her she owned a T-shirt printed with a verse from the
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
Suspicious behaviour indeed, even for 1979.

6.18:
Jocasta awakens and commences to shout, wriggle and even strike me about the face and head. I feel sure this indicates guilt. If a person’s got nothing to hide, why should they object to a search? The alarm clock is about to go off so I disconnect it from the wall and throw it in a bucket of water. Jocasta says I am behaving oddly, which gives me pause to wonder just whose side she’s on.

6.19:
Decide to launch Operation Retrieve Morning Newspaper. Have some concerns about my neighbour who claims to be Irish but appears not to drink. This, I’m sure, is what the government means by a ‘suspicious type’. I disguise myself by turning my dressing gown inside out and wearing a hat.

6.20:
Gather up the paper in one long, crouched run, keeping my head down and the car between myself and my ‘Irish’ neighbour. Notice lack of grog bottles in his recycling. Irish, my arse!

6.21:
I read out sections of the government’s terrorist kit—telling Jocasta she should watch for someone buying large amounts of fertiliser. ‘Perhaps you mean the Prime Minster,’ she says. ‘He’s in possession of vast quantities of bulldust.’ I make a mental note of her disloyalty and resolve to deliver a more thorough frisking.

6.22:
I walk up the hallway armed with my tennis racquet. I pause in front of each door then jump into the room James Bond-style. All goes well, except for my leap into the living room, during which I land feet-first on the dog. The dog gets an appalling fright, as do I. My heart is pounding and I’m feeling strange pains up my left arm.

6.28:
I’ve appointed myself chief warden of our street but have elected to keep the appointment secret from my neighbours (security reasons). I discover that the people next door have closed their venetians in a way that completely blocks my telescope. What are they up to? I decide to bring the whipper-snipper inside from the shed lest I need a weapon.

6.32:
Jocasta appears rather truculent after this morning’s frisking. I consult the fridge magnet for tips on how to handle her. Strangely, it provides no assistance whatsoever. Only when the dog walks past does she speak, inquiring as to why Darcy appears to be limping.

6.35:
Using binoculars I spot my ‘Irish’ neighbour picking up his newspaper. He has recently grown a beard, even though it doesn’t suit him. This strikes me as extra suspicious. His
wife has also taken to wearing pedal-pushers, which are not even in fashion any more. I decide to plug in the whipper-snipper and set it going using a long extension cord.

6.40:
‘It’s all very well for us,’ says Jocasta, studying the government’s anti-terrorist fridge magnet, ‘but what about people with the stainless-steel fridges. The magnets don’t stick to them. Come a terrorist attack and the Smeg-buyers of Woollahra and Toorak will be completely unprotected. It will be a yuppie massacre.’ Her tone is unhelpful and I make another note of her possible disloyalty.

6.41:
Holding the whirring whipper-snipper in one hand, I lean a ladder against the back of the house and climb up in the hope of getting a better look at the ‘Irish’ neighbour and his wife. Naturally, I take the full anti-terror kit—grasping the torch between my teeth, the radio under one arm and wearing the latex gloves. Balancing the spinning whipper-snipper, I manage to train my telescope into my neighbours’ bedroom, at which moment they look up, and spot me. Mine being an unofficial position, I rapidly deploy myself back to the ground, slipping in the process, and tumbling out of control—my terrorism kit flying from my hands.

6.45:
Jocasta runs out to find me lying on the back paving, bleeding. The whipper-snipper is broken, the radio is in pieces and I have landed heavily on the upturned torch, which has inserted itself in a new home: one where the sun does not normally shine.

6.50:
‘Good thing you’ve not become a victim of terror,’ says Jocasta as she attempts to retrieve the torch. ‘Still, I finally understand the need for the latex gloves.’

I make a further note of her unhelpful tone. She really is behaving quite oddly.

Every town in Australia has its rural show—shows such as the Royal Easter in Sydney, the Ekka in Brisbane and the Royal Melbourne. The only trouble with them is the educational side. Frankly, they are all a bit
too
educational. For years I’ve been trying to convince myself that steak comes in a packet from the supermarket and has nothing to do with those cute cows you spot in the distance when driving along the Hume Highway. Similarly, I like to pretend that a chicken burger has nothing to do with actual chooks (although, in the case of chicken nuggets, this may be true).

Then along comes the Show and wrecks everything. Young people ask uncomfortable questions about the next port of call for those sweet little piglets, all our illusions are shattered and everybody ends up in tears.

Since it’s called a show, can’t they put one on? I’d like to see new displays and exhibitions placing a more acceptable
spin on the harsh world of agriculture. Surely a bit of bullshit isn’t too much to expect from our farmers…

Mr Milko’s Cows’ Collective.
At Mr Milko’s we collect milk that has been generously donated from nursing cows keen to maintain their milk supply between calves. Individual cows choose how much to give, and receive certificates which they can later cash in on little luxuries such as molasses and starch. Naturally there is eager competition between cows about how much milk they give, with the winner usually boasting that she’s ‘better than the udder ones’. It’s this sort of happy cow humour that keeps the industry sane—and growing. The milk is then placed in cartons made from recycled newsprint, oxygen-bleached in our factories by disadvantaged youth from struggling country towns.

The Stampede Meats Hoof and Hook Competition.
All the cows employed by Stampede are themselves vegetarians but they understand this is not a choice for everybody. For generations, they’ve given their lives for this industry—but only at the time of their choosing. Our team of exit counsellors, headed by Dr Philip Nitschke, visits each cow in turn to make sure she is ready to go. Naturally some are uncertain and want to talk things over with Dr Nitschke. ‘I haven’t met a cow yet that doesn’t want to chew the cud over the decision,’ says the good doctor, ‘but with my help they usually realise, much like my human patients, that now’s the time to go.’ Certainly, consumers can enjoy a steak or perhaps some sausages safe in the knowledge that a full and ethically sound process has occurred. The meat is packed in
outback villages by refugees from oppressive regimes. It is pesticide-free and dolphin-safe.

Mr Fry-up’s Pig Pen.
The movie
Babe
is responsible for a lot of misconceptions about our industry. Some people, for instance, still believe that pigs are in some way harmed in the manufacture of bacon. Nothing could be further from the truth. Bacon is actually shaved off the animals in a process very similar to shearing. The product is then processed using salts collected on sustainable beaches by nomadic peoples in the Torres Strait Islands. Twenty per cent of all profits go to funding a pig-housing cooperative in the rainforests of Borneo. The product is completely sugar-free and diabetic-safe.

The Woodchop.
Here at The Woodchop we only cut sustainable timbers grown on our own farms and harvested by transgendered stockmen displaced from the cattle industry. We fully accept the role of political debate in determining the future of our industry. That’s why you’ll see a greenie chained to each log in the arena. The axeman—or axewoman—must first approach the greenie and try to explain the sustainable basis of our industry and its role in keeping small towns afloat. Only once he—or she—has convinced the greenie to unchain him- or herself, using the simple force of logic, may the log be cut. This has extended the length of competitions from the old thirty-four seconds to an average three and a half months, but it makes for great suspense at the end. There is no fat or salt in our product. Our employees do not use plastic bags when shopping. Please use wood in moderation.

Showtime Dagwood Dogs.
A vicious whispering campaign has been mounted against the whole dagwood dog industry, suggesting that our product contains meat trimmings swept from the abattoir floor and boiled up in month-old oil. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dagwood dogs are a naturally occurring food, eaten for centuries by the indigenous Conchita tribe in South America. The main part of the dog is an elongated bud from the Porchita tree, which we coat in hand-milled bran fibre. It is then sun-dried by indigenous rainforest tribes and reheated at the Show in our solar-powered ovens. It is GM-free and the stick is high in fibre. Should you wish to regurgitate our product, please do so responsibly.

At the Museum of Contemporary Art there’s a new exhibition featuring two traditional Greek busts, each sitting atop a plinth. A third bust has fallen from its perch and lies smashed on the floor. That’s the idea of the art piece. It’s called ‘The Third Bust’ and, walking from one gallery to the other, you are supposed to pick your way through the broken pieces.

There’s a museum guard sitting nearby and instantly I have this great idea. I approach her with the twitching smile of someone about to unleash a particularly good joke and say: ‘Gee, you haven’t been doing a very good job! Look what’s happened!’ With a sweep of my arm, I indicate the shards of broken statue. She looks up with a gaze of unspeakable weariness. Suddenly I realise: she may have heard this joke before. From the look in her eyes, about forty-seven times and it’s not yet lunchtime.

The union movement spends a lot of time agitating for workplace safety yet there has been no major study of the effect of Repetitive Joke Syndrome (RJS) on employees. Almost every job suffers from at least one Repetitive Joke. In this case I was the perpetrator. I have also been the victim.

Item:
I am twenty-two years old and working as a waiter at the Sydney Hilton function centre. Each night I must serve a platter of fish balls, offering them to each patron in turn. Roughly seventy-three per cent of men and twenty-two per cent of women greet my offer of ‘Would you like a fish ball?’ with the response ‘Pretty big fish’.

Item:
I am twenty-three years old and working at David Jones’ city store during the Christmas rush. I have scored the job operating the old-fashioned lift. Roughly 100 per cent of customers upon getting into the lift look at me and say: ‘Gee, son, this must be a pretty up-and-down sort of job.’

Item:
Psychologically devastated by these two experiences, I get myself a job in radio, whereupon people start greeting me with the phrase: ‘Well, you’ve got a great face for it.’

When will the union movement face up to the damage that is being done? When will Worksafe Australia step in with some laws? Building sites are forced to display notices warning about safety hats and proper boots. What about a sign in the DJ’s lift, or around the waiter’s neck, saying: ‘Hey, I’ve already heard it.’

Consider the state’s police officers. Not only do they have to cope with violence and abuse. They have to cope with the
Repetitive Joke. Every time they go into a takeaway food shop it’s the same: the two lads behind the counter spot the officers, point to each other and shout: ‘He did it, officer. It was him.’ And every time the police officers pause in the street, someone will say: ‘He went that-a-way.’ People wonder why police are leaving the force. It’s not the wage rates. It’s those bloody jokes.

Police are not the only victims. There are the people involved in making and selling bras (‘Must be an uplifting sort of job!’); there are the barmaids (‘I’d like two jugs, love, and have you got any beer as well?’); and there are people employed by councils under the title ‘Noxious Weeds Officer’ (‘Oh, go on mate, you’re not
that
bad!’).

It’s a social crisis that extends beyond the workplace. There are the people who are particularly tall (‘What’s the temperature up there, mate?’); there are people with odd names (‘Mr Youngman? Well, you better grow up a little!’); and there are the people with lots of kids (‘So have you worked out yet what’s causing them?’).

You could even list the world’s most predictable witticisms in some sort of order ranked by the sheer compulsion people have to utter them. Here’s a top ten based on some quick radio polling:

1.
Seeing someone trip: ‘Did you enjoy your trip?’

2.
Seeing your neighbour washing his car or mowing her lawn: ‘You can do mine next.’

3.
Seeing someone in paint-splattered clothes: ‘Did you get any on the walls?’

4.
Meeting someone from a large family: ‘Didn’t your parents have a TV?’

5.
Meeting someone with a name tag saying Pat: ‘Is that a name or an instruction?’

6.
On being asked if you’ve got a hearing problem: ‘Eh?’

7.
On being told someone has just flown in: ‘Gee your arms must be tired!’

8.
Meeting someone with a black eye or arm in a sling: ‘How does the other bloke look?’

9.
Reaching the front of the queue at the bank: ‘Do you give any free samples?’

10.
When a glass breaks at a party or at a pub: ‘Taxi!’

Why is the psychological effect so great? Why does Repetitive Joke Syndrome reduce the most competent person to a seething wreck of resentment, hostility and misanthropy? The least I can do is to return to the Museum of Contemporary Art. I shall visit the security guard sitting next to ‘The Third Bust’. I shall present myself and explain that I work in radio.

‘Well, you’ve got the face for it,’ she’ll say instinctively, and at least we’ll be even.