JUST PASS ME A CHIKO ROLL
Nostalgia is that weird emotion which makes things seem a million times better than they are now.
In times of recession, people tend to hanker for the past. When Channel 10 announced its intention of screening an eight-hour adaptation of Puberty Blues, two reactions occurred to me simultaneously. 1) Ohmygod. I’m so old I’m now considered archival. 2) As they have to cast so many young, gorgeous males in budgie smugglers, do I get to drive around town with a casting couch strapped to my roof racks and test their life saving skills? (Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation seems the only way a woman will ever get to hear heavy breathing again.)
But the 70s was not all beer, well, brandavino and skittles.
It was a decade of social upheaval. A newly elected Gough Whitlam was dragging us out of the beige 50s mentality of Menzies conservatism. Cleo scandalised the Aussie male population by publishing nude male centerfolds. Germaine Greer was compelling women to no longer allow men to walk over us, ensuring that our talents lay not just dormant and doormat.
Yet despite these seismic shifts, in the Australian suburbs sexism and racism remained rife.
The men I grew up with disproved the theory of evolution – they were evolving into apes. Yes, they had serious pecs appeal but they were emotional bonsai – you had to whack the fertiliser to get any feelings out of them.
They also thought ‘sex drive’ meant doing it in the car – possibly because of that little sign in the rear vision mirror which said “Objects in this mirror, may appear larger than they are.”
Women were little more than a life support system to a pair of breasts.
We weren’t allowed to surf. We just lay on beach in teeny weeny bikinis, nervously glancing downwards in case our G-strings had slipped. (Believe me, it gave “bad hair day” a whole new meaning.) We folded the towel, fetched the Chiko rolls and were then devoured sexually, whenever the boys felt hungry.
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