Saturday, August 20, 2016

Cockadoodledoo! Richie Strahan & the Man Flu

I confess, I’ve started watching The Bachelor.

But first, let me tell you how this came to be... 

Last week Tim picked Hunter up from preschool, ‘Give me some skin brother!’ he said. Our three year old looked alarmed. If vampires take blood and zombies take brains… what sort of monster takes skin?

Tim hastily demonstrated the special handshake and then, because he’s a Dad he took it one step further and taught Hunter how to spit on his hand to ‘seal’ a handshake.

Tim started showing symptoms of ‘man flu’ within 6hrs of the ‘special handshake’ demonstration. Within 24hrs it had spread through the household - the toxic toddler saliva, plastered into the petri dish of germs on each small sweaty palm had produced an explosion of virulent microbial life. Tom came down with a fever, Charlotte started complaining of stomach cramps, Hunter’s chest sounded like an emphysema ward.

I worried that it would be a repeat of the great stomach flu of 2015, the highlight of which was hosing vomit off bedsheets on the driveway at 2am. Luckily, the epidemic didn’t turn out to be that memorable, but it did result in an awful lot of TV watching - the trashier the better.

And so this is how I came to find The Bachelor on my screen…

“What’s that garbage you’re watching Kate?” Tim asks scornfully. He’s better now, all recovered from the man flu, it’s only me who’s left on the couch, clutching the last remaining box of tissues.

“I’m doing research, for my blog,” I mumble, my head so blocked up I sound like I’m speaking through a gas mask.

I’ve channel swapped my way to The Bachelor by a process of elimination - no cooking shows, no renovating, definitely no weight loss shows… and yet, even without these staple television formats I’m surprised to find that The Bachelor is still a competition. A competition of love!

Suddenly I was transported back to my primary school years when boys made their first bleep on the radar... Dusty memories resurfaced - the time I clumsily let the cake knife touch the bottom and was forced to deliver an awkward kiss to a younger brother amidst a gloating circle of carnivorous girls. Another memory... a bottle spinning on carpet and the resulting wet claustrophobic embrace, shut in a cupboard with a boy, who happened to be the only boy at the party - he spent a lot of time in the cupboard.

That day I found out by a convoluted chain of Chinese whispers that a boy liked me. 
“Do you like him?” I shrugged, giggles and whispers made their way back to the boy - we were going out by morning tea, by lunch time we’d split up. 

A little older and things became more serious, the girls, as cunning as velociraptors, began to hunt in packs, marking out their kill and threatening to scratch the eyes out of anyone that came within a ten foot radius of their prize.

Mesmerised by the television, I watched the show unfold. Ten stunningly beautiful women, each sacrificing their dignity and self respect, blithely throwing candles to the wind of the feminist movement with every utterance of “Will you accept this rose?”.

By the time I was over the flu my romance with the show was waning. I was feeling better, starting to shout and throw things at the television, fed up with the flimsy conversations and formulaic saliva swapping. “Ask each other some REAL questions for fuck’s sake!” I shouted.

The truth is, now I’m well, I’d like to be able to stop watching the show, but I can’t. It’s so awful I can’t tear my eyes away. I’m hooked - line and sinker. I just wish they’d ask each other some REAL QUESTIONS!!

For example…

Ask him if he irons his own shirts!

Ask her what she looks like without make up!

Ask him to recite his times tables!

Ask her if she’s on medication!

Ask him if he
 can name all the parts of the female anatomy!

Ask her if she voted for One Nation!

Ask him what he thinks of off-shore detention!

Ask her if she shoplifts!

Ask him if he’s circumcised!

What questions would you have them ask?

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