How a businessman made me laugh.

 I know, I know. It was selfish of me. And it probably ruined your holiday. Deepest apologies for the lack of blogs. If you haven’t abandoned my ship while I’ve been parading my voluptuous figure around the campground in children’s cossies, then here is a cheeky little adventure to, hopefully, bring a sneaky smile to your face. And a sneaky challenge to brighten someone’s day.

While strolling down King street, Sydney a few days ago an impeccably dressed businessman flew at me. Literally, he was belting down the pavement on his skateboard which I deduced, in Holmes-like fashion, was an ambitious Christmas present given by a younger, evil sibling. The poor sucker had no idea what to do on a skatie. I admit I am not a kick-flip expert, but I know my rather limited limits.

For starters this dude’s pants were inches from his navel and held up by a belt. So uncool. Then, he had picked a downhill track to try out his new death trap. His tie flapped behind an ironed salmon shirt, collared of course, as he desperately tried to stop the errant deck. The right foot briefly touched the pavement as he tried to stop his progress, speed gathering as quickly as a bloke rushes to a single blonde at the bar. It was futile, the foot movement only added to his perilous death wobbles. Then the left hand shot out and tried to grab a power pole, but the wheels were spinning in a fashion that’d make a Mercedes engineer proud. He let go. For the briefest moment I imagined him knocking down the suit-clad brunette next to me. Perhaps they’d fall in love, I pondered. But no, the salmon-shirted lad had too much self-preservation because he jettisoned himself from the evil present seconds before a love-creating collision. Barely noticing the frightened suit he streaked after the board, but the adrenalin enthusiast had no more luck off the board. The deck went straight under a cab, that jolted to a stop as the humbled man ran in front of it, engrossed with the progress of his wheels. The poor cyclist behind the cabbie was also halted. The anonymous lycra-wearer had a tough time starting to climb again, I noted with sympathetic amusement. Four lanes of traffic slowed and the skater boy ducked between the lanes, scouring the road for his new toy as if he actually wanted to use it again. Fleetingly I wondered if the grey surface would be split in two, but no, that board lived to kick his owner off on another day.

Oh how I chuckled. I laughed as I waited for the green man to flash and then my grin broke again when I missed the bus. It was a rousing performance.

This random guy earned a cocktail of respect from me for his foolhardy, clumsy style. Sure, downhill footpaths in peak hour are hardly forgiving learning grounds for grinds, but at least he was giving it a shot.

My eldest brother Nick, another zealous lad, also mustered some respect when I relayed the tale. Of course when his board shot under a bus when Nick was a 20-something barman it was knocked in half. But I suspect that was for the best because in an earlier unrelated incident, he happily told me, he’d been kicked off the deck after a fatal case of the death wobbles threw him onto the bonnet of a car. When he arrived at work that day the boss kindly donated a taxi fare to the emergency department. Once again, at least he was giving it a go.

So, the point of this tale is not solely to have a giggle at those who attempt skateboarding without low-riding, it’s to consider what foolish pursuits we could take up to spread uninhibited laughter to our faceless companions on the street. Rollerblading is already out for me. Those contraptions bring about a dearth of coordination that would make a toddler laugh in my face. In fact, tennis does that too. Maybe I’ll try squash, or give wakeboarding another shot. Or a unicycle.

And I dare you to give something a go that you wouldn’t usually. I dare you to risk looking like a fool, preferably in public, and have something to laugh about at your next barbeque.

To flash or not to flash, that is the question.

I was minding my own business in the ladies room of the Birdsville pub when Helen rushed in, demanding I lift my shirt with her for the grinning fools at the bar. The exhibitionist inside me screamed for attention. “Get rid of that ugly shirt,’ the voice yelled at me. ‘You look terrible in blue.’

I pondered the possibilities, briefly. The happy faces that would greet me. The knowing smiles. The possibilities of free beer. At $6.50 a can that would almost be worth it, the miser in me thought.

The popularity of a flasher is undeniable. The drunken lads would remember my breasts, surely. And I could make some new friends.

Helen’s face grinned wildly at me, her face flushed with flashing-fuelled adrenalin.

She seemed to be having so much fun. More fun than I was bloody-well having with my shirt, singlet, jacket and chastity belt on.

‘Let me out, let me out,’ my breasts screamed, knowing there was a party outside that would rival the shearers coming to town after a dry season.

I could feel my shirt starting to bust open. The excitement in that dimly lit bathroom was almost too much to handle.

Then suddenly, I collected myself, heaved my camera over my shoulder and realised I was at work. I was a small-town journalist with a (good) reputation to build. Also, I was no longer an insecure 16-year-old that thought the only way to be noticed was to show your rack to the eligible and, let’s face it, less-than-eligible men partying away in the paddock.

Oh yes, that horrible, fun-killing voice of reason does exist in my head. That should please my mother.

But at what cost, I wondered as Helen began handing out ‘Helens melons’ bumper stickers and t-shirts. Yes, she missed the apostrophe, but no one cared and, yes, it is ironic that a flasher was handing out t-shirts. But the fun that lady was having was off any scale I could design with my magic markers.

I firmly believe there are benefits to losing the shirt and I respect Helen for owning the flasher title for one of the wildest weekends I have seen in a few springs. I reckon a quick shirt-lift removes the pressure of thinking up witty banter in conversations with strangers. You can become a sensation regardless of the size of your breasts. Also, you will make the lads smile, and that is as nice as bringing a cup of tea to someone’s swag when they are hungover.

But what does it say about dignity and sharing. What are those selfish fellers giving back? And I’m really not encouraging the guys to get their weapons out at the bar, that’s not classy at all. It’d just be nice if some of the cute farmers had decided to do away with their shirts. In a down-to-earth, innocent way, of course.

The other issue is about impressions. A lady who dispenses with her top as quickly as she can down a can of XXXX is perhaps less likely to find a lad who will take her seriously. Or maybe that is just my experience.

I reckon that a sense of mystique can also create an impression. Then again, no one wants a bumper sticker that says ‘Smiley Penny’.

Despite the banter, at Birdsville, I decided not to flash the crowd.

After all, there’s probably only room for one flasher at a time in the desert. And I’d hate to compete with Helens melons. They were enormous!