Tag: country life

It’s testicle size, nothing else matters.

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Today I stumbled upon an exceptionally archaic and exceptionally entertaining dating scene.

It’s a place where testicle size is prized above everything else, even muscle length and skin tone, although those characteristics are not to be snorted at. This dating scene also requires wads of cash to even come through the front gate and there is little choice for the female of the species.

Of course, it’s the local bull sale. And it’s fabulously fun, in an oh-so voyeuristic fashion.

It starts with the graziers roaming around the yards checking out the scores of grumpy bulls up for grabs. Specifically they’re looking at whether their scrotums hang to the left or the right and how many calves its likely to produce. The length of their pizzle is checked out and discussed openly, much to the embarrassment of the beasts on the other side of the fence who get angrier by the minute.

Some farmers want a bull with a big back end. One of the lads kindly informed me that my back end was probably similar to what they’re looking for – healthy. And these big butts, one farmer paid $12,000 for the chance to play cupid with the beasts testes.

The beast’s temperament is also important. You don’t want to be stuck in a ring with a 900kg animal that’s crankier than, well cranky like a hungry, horny bull in a fickle mood.

Watching the behemoths kick back the dirt was terrifying at times. And the blokes had a nice chuckle at me jumping away from the gates. Fear is just hilarious, really.

But it got me thinking about how civilised we humans are, and how complicated we make mating. Imagine putting all the blokes in a pen, naked obviously and parading them around commenting on the size of their scrotum and the tone of their skin. “He puts a bang in your bullet,” the auctioneer would yell.

“The scrotal are like peas in a pod, and good peas they are too,” he’d add.

We could even discuss how hairy they are and whether that’s because it’s been a cold season or whether they’re just a hairy breed.

It’d be a level playing field really and people could buy the bloke that suited them best. The man that suited what they wanted in their progeny. How novel!

Of course it would go beyond the length of size of their testicles and include information about behaviour. Instead of ‘this is a feisty beast’, we’d get ‘this guy is likely to be sullen after a bad day at work’. Let’s face it, a heads up would be nice about these things.

A ring full of naked women would probably be even more fun. “Look at the length on her rack,” they might say.

The biggest issue with this forum is consent, especially for women, but let’s not let that get in the way of a healthy imagination.

But in reality, things are rarely so straightforward. Instead we do a ridiculous cloak and dagger routine that is rarely successful. Fortunately I experienced that cringe worthy experience today too and can draw a few comparisons.

Before the bulls were paraded around I trotted into the arena, scouring the yards for broad-brimmed folk to take pictures of. The local handyman gave me a cheery welcome with dating advice included, free of charge.

“See that bloke on the right,” he nudged me, grinning uncontrollably. “ Single. Two properties. I’ll introduce you,” he said listing off his best attributes.

By the way, I heartily enjoy these forced-intimate awkward situations with older men.
We shake hands and exchange pleasantries. Yes, he was the bloke that nearly ran me over in the street today. A point of common interest – road safety.

But I wasn’t immediately taken with the gentleman. Nothing wrong with him, perhaps he was just a tad too quiet. I’m too fussy again, it seems.

“He’s 49,” I was told, belatedly.

“I’m 25,” I replied, with slight indignation.

“He’s got a pacemaker. We can jumpstart him,” he tells me.

That’s just what I‘m after, I thought, my mind dripping with sarcasm.

I pulled a face that said I was not really interested in marrying this feller, as I could see the handyman was already wondering if he’d be able to walk me down the aisle.
“Oh I’m only jokin’. Or half jokin’ anyway,” he said and strolled off to whisper something in another blokes ear that made all of the lads laugh conspiratorially in my direction.

I couldn’t decide whether it’d be more fun to have had the exchange naked in the ring or fully clothed in work gear, Akubras and inhibitions.

It didn’t matter though, it was all great fun.

Would you like a metaphor with your cuppa?

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Eat some dirt, my mate Annie told her daughter on the phone on Saturday night, after she’d called up, complaining about the flu. “Get out in the cow yard and eat some shit,” she said without an inch of sarcasm. She’s talking about the importance of getting enough germs to keep your immune system kicking, but I see the instruction as the perfect illustration of way country folk adapt the English language.

It’s rare to find a sentence without some form of poetic lyricism injected. Metaphors and similes are bandied about with bull-charging enthusiasm. Long-ish words are shortened, every time. No one would dare call me Penelope here and I’m lucky to get Penny. Most people cut my name to Pen, which I find very affectionate. Conservative becomes conservo.

But a brief explanation will always be extended. You don’t simply fall off your motorbike out here. You go down in a shower of shit. Sometimes you’ll be spitting chips too, whatever that means.

The creativity and humour behind this communication style have me enthralled. Fair enough, sometimes conversations, and I’m particularly referring to pre-footie rouse ups here, lack any meaningful expressions except the most basic swear words. That’s still amusing in my book.

I’ve encountered a swag of different terms out here in the past six weeks. Yesterday the helicopter pilot who was taking me on a quick trip over town explained a few technical points to me in case things went “shit-shaped.” I struggled to grasp what was happening with the clutch but I understood the consequences of an un-flicked switch pretty clearly. “If this one isn’t turned on we’ll go down like a greasy crowbar,” he told me. I imagined a mechanic dropping the tool with a clang and then mimicked the helicopter doing the same. It was a powerful language tool, I reckon.

These are not isolated events.

At the council meeting the other day the CEO was talking about a letter he’d received that he was a bit unhappy about. “All they’re doing is teaching us how to suck eggs,” he said. I think he meant that the writer was pointing out the bleedin’ obvious.

If a bloke thinks he might get lucky with you that’s called jumping into your cot. And of course the g is left off the end of every word possible. There some exceptionally dirty expressions too, but I’ll leave those to your imagination.

The style is as infectious as the laidback lifestyle. Occasionally I catch myself stretching vowels like a fat man straining the joins on a trampoline. I lament the money my parents spent on voice coaching. For now I’m joinin’ in and looking for a creative way to add colour without always relying on cursing. That said, the swearing out here is impressive and my potty mouth is blossoming. But I’m yet to tell anyone that they should eat some shit. I’ll give that a few more weeks.

A country life.

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Birds were trilling outside my window as I woke up in my idyllic new neighbourhood today. Of course, a tractor was humming too, but it was refreshing to breathe in the crisp country air. Such is life beyond the city limits.

I grew up in the country and have always considered myself a bush rat as opposed to a city puppy. It’s a mindset, really, being a Country Girl, and it comes with a learned set of eccentricities.

My heritage was called into question recently when I was escorting an elderly gentleman to an appointment. “You must be from the country to have a car this dirty,” he remarked as he got into my Apollo.

Then, while he scraped bits of toast, pens, carrot stubs and my horse whip from the front seat to spruce it up a little, I basked in the idea that my country inheritance has given me a lifelong excuse to have a filthy car.

However, after living in cities for six years, I have a greater affinity with metro living. I still love the open paddocks that stretch for miles and the silence that is broken only by the wind whistling through the trees and a tractor making hay. For instance, today I was thrilled to wake up and realise I had sporadic phone reception. I loved that my view was not interrupted by an overpass or a tall building.

But my inner-city-theatre-going-latte-swilling side came to the fore as I switched on my laptop and connected to the web. Thank God there is internet out here!

I dragged my espresso machine out of the car and got down to the business of checking news headlines, Facebook and, of course, blogging.

I emailed a few mates then got on the blower and called a few others. Clearly, I’m happy to live in the bush, but less impressed by the idea of going it alone. Or maybe I’m just easing myself into the new way of living.

The best part was that I could be sitting outside, overlooking a succulent crop of hay or lucerne or rice or something like that, and be chatting to my mates about the shenanigans at the party on Friday night. And so the divide between city and country lessens.

It astounds me that when I’m engrossed in my city existence, which I’m already romanticising into a life filled with art gallery visits, top-notch restaurants and non-stop parties, I forget so easily about what’s on offer elsewhere.

I have seen three people so far today. One was on a tractor, another was in a truck and the third in a boring old car. Without prompting, all three waved at me as they passed.

Not an exuberant wave-goodbye-as-i-drive-off-into-the-sunset-and-pop-your-should-from-its-socket type wave, but a laconic subtle wave. Just four fingers coming off the wheel to say ‘you’re here, I’m here and ain’t that great.’

I love that gesture and the sense of community I feel even though I’ve been here for all of five minutes.

Or perhaps I’m being all city about it and over-thinking a wave. Typical.

But, to me, that’s what the country is all about. I find it slightly simpler lifestyle and that’s a good thing. It’s waking up in the morning and not hearing a thousand SUVs rushing to get their kids to school, but instead noting the bus trundling past.

It’s the ease of trotting out to the garden in the morning to grab some lettuce and tomatoes. I have to add here that my father’s vegie garden is prolific. I came across a pumpkin today sitting up with some flowers about a metre above the ground. “That’s not right,” I thought. “Pumpkins grow on the ground.” A closer inspection revealed that, in fact, it was a tomato grown on my dad’s secret compost mix.

It’s all so lovely. Maybe it strikes such a chord because it reminds me of my childhood, sitting in a garden and devouring an entire crop of beans in one sitting.

Anyway I’m not going to question why I love it so much. I’m just going to indulge in one of the delightful pumpkin scones my mum picked up at the Pumpkin Festival yesterday – yes, that’s right, a festival for pumpkins. It was one of the better festivals, according to my dad. It was certainly much better than the Brussels Sprout Festival.

So, I’ll enjoy my scone, but I’ll tell you all about it on the internet. And maybe next time I’m driving through the city I’ll try waving at every passing motorist.