Sort of but not exactly
November 2012
An open letter to the men of Australia
Dear fellas,
Misogynists and sexists, perverts and louts, passive hypocrites and good blokes, straights and gays, metrosexuals and King Gee stylists, we must band together. So far so good: the media, without the slightest prompting, has transformed Julia Gillard’s parliamentary rant into ‘the gender wars’. In the rough and tumble months ahead, remember that there’s nothing like a slogan, a dose of crude salts, to create a diversion … although, that said, let’s postpone all ‘ditch the witch’ chants (if you can’t completely break your addiction, and I know it’s hard, at least confine yourself to the shed).
Surely us blokes can’t lose the gender wars? After all, women go weak at the knees at the sight of blood – except, maybe, Tony Abbott’s blood. How many chicks wandered about Gallipoli? A nurse or two, sure, but (never repeat this aloud) the caring industry – like every other clean-up-the-mess-and-get-underpaid-for-it industry – isn’t where the real action is.
Still, Julia’s speech sure got the global sisterhood screeching – hysterical mob aren’t they – and she even seems to have impressed a few limp-wristed blokes. But we must resist. As Kevin07 would put it, it’s up to all of us to roll up our sleeves and get behind the effort. Poor Kev: if we can’t save him, how can we save ourselves?
But it’s getting harder and harder to fight back. What an awful gig Tony Abbott has, having to explain that Julia is playing ‘the gender card’ (memorise that phrase!) without coming across like a bullyboy. No wonder he’s grumpy.
Tony is the mascot for the emasculated modern man. Despite chiselled shoulders, his identity, his man-spirit, is ebbing. Today he’s Leader of the Opposition but tomorrow he’ll be shuffling along abandoned streets, barefoot, haggard, a flat beer in one hand and a feather duster in the other. ‘Should I scull my schooner or do the dusting?’ he’ll ask himself, but the very question will rip him apart. He’ll shake his feather duster at the heavens. A gigantic black cloud will block out the sun and bring forth an ice age (and the fact that he’ll end up being right about global warming will barely console him).
Tony’s crisis is our crisis. Should I abandon the kitchen to watch the footy at the pub with my mates or should I stay home and make nutritious and delicious meatloaf? While it’s cooking, should I read Zoo Weekly (so-so articles, great pics) or should I seek out my daughters to encourage them to be scientists when they grow up? After I’ve serenaded them to sleep, should I sneak out to the garage to give the ute a kiss and a cuddle or should I settle in for a quiet evening with the missus, reading the latest Naomi Wolf tome aloud to her while massaging her feet?
It’s dire, I know, but there’s hope. We need to get back to basics. First, if you feel obliged to perve at hot young things, use restraint. Don’t let your gaze linger. Don’t dribble. And don’t commit the Peter Slipper error: say whatever you want about women to your mates, but never ever keep a record.
Second, do just enough housework to create the illusion of something approaching a fair share. And be careful: the age of leaving scorch marks on the wife’s favourite blouse to ensure she’ll never again force you to iron a basket of clothes may, I fear, be ending. Fail with finesse: do your chores badly but not observably badly.
In the meantime, talk up your feminist credentials. Ponder the fact that you’ve turned out all equality-minded because strong women raised you. Extol the virtues of the women you love and admire, and who love and admire you, and conclude that you must therefore be a New Man living in a New Australia.
But don’t forget to fret about how boys are falling behind girls at school. This is our secret weapon. The more angst it causes, and the more time and money we invest trying to fix it, the less likely it is we’ll have to explain why all those under-achievers will probably end up earning the big bucks and running the joint, just like their fathers and their father’s fathers.
TAGS patrick allington
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