The recent sad legal case of Amber Harrison and Channel Seven gives rise to the attention of just what are the risks played when an unsuspecting woman wanders by accident or innocence into the realms of a “boys own” network. There is another current case, I believe, involving the AFL and several married men and one male of the “Brotherhood” (whatever that is).
Whatever the masculine scenario, whatever the antiquity or the integrity, be it class or crass, there is usually but one outcome when the female of the species moves her swishing skirts, hips and general distraction of nature’s natural pheromone aphrodisiac into the range of Alpha-Male radar: trouble.
There has been great debate over the ages that in Da Vinci’s mural of “The Last Supper”, there is near Jesus the presence of a woman. This “affront” to the male bastion of a gathering of the Apostles has simmered down through the ages, as if such a creature would dare to invade the private club of male testosterone. Outrageous! It’d be like a tranny doing strip-tease at the Crazy-Horse Review; unthinkable!
I recall just such a group that gathered at the south-east corner of the old Seacliff Hotel once a week on a Friday, to give salubrious homage to that most liberating of spirits; the amber fluid. But this one night, all went horribly wrong. It went like this:
Getting back to that “Last Supper” thingo, you notice (as have many others) one of the “Apostles” looks remarkably like a woman. Well, that’s because she is! It’s no secret that whenever a group of “alpha-males” gather, there is always one token female allowed into the group. She is there playing the role of the “straight- man” for their confabulations (yes, I looked that up) for their double-entendres, when they say a sexist or vulgar comment and it’s ”present company excepted…,” or ”If,’n you’ll pardon my language,” or; in the company of a lady…,” this generic female may be in a relationship with of one of the men, but it is a given that once the male brings the woman inside the perimeter of the “circle of the club”, she becomes a kind of psychological common property, and her good manners or grace is presumed upon by all as in the above examples.. It’s the only way the Alpha Male can have “uncommitted sexual intent” without any sexual contact at all, and still be plug-ugly!
And here’s the catch; the lady cannot protest such or any vulgarities because if she does, it is then asked why she sought out their company if she didn’t know what to expect (ie; it’s “your problem!”) and if the words are not spoken directly, they certainly are implied. But there are layers upon layers of pathos and insecurity that many women know of concerning the Alpha Males. And the biggest is their fear of failure.
Abbott’s front bench had one female, I believe. I remember in the coterie of the “Seacliff Hotel Sports and Social Club Inc” there was one – they called her “Nan” – which is telling, although she was younger than most of them.
The “Seacliff Hotel Sports and Social Club” used to have a Friday night happy hour fund-raiser w/ meat-tray and chook raffles, called; “The Clang-Bang” (don’t ask!!) and as to what “charity” they were “fund-raising” for, again; don’t ask. But it did eventually come to the attention of many members of the lower social echelon of that erstwhile club, that the proportion of swimming pools to the number of high-office holders was highly disproportionate to the trend of the general population (if you get my drift!). Anyway, the coterie would congregate at one corner of the front bar and make whoopie. Nan (who was a hairdresser by trade), would be in the middle of that attentative group perched (yes, that’s the word to use) on a bar-stool (the “Wheatland St. Madonna”?) sipping her Bacardi’s and … She supported an enormous blonde Farrah-Fawcett bouffant so popular in that era, so you couldn’t miss her there.
All this went well, until one fateful Friday evening, being kept back in her salon tending to a rather demanding ‘blue-rinser’ Nan was late getting to the clang-bang raffle draw for the chook, one of the highlights of the gathering and a prize she coveted as a future achievement. So when her regular number came up, Nan was not there at that moment to claim the prize, BUT, by the rules stated; “no claim, no game”. That is, if you are not there to claim the prize you miss out, although there was a degree of hiatus sympaticus for the person involved as she quite often professed her desire for “something fowl” (bring on the guffaws!) but all debate was silenced by one half-shiggered Jim Tuffin when he took a moment of pause in the conversation to call out slurrily:
“Ahh, fff#ck her! … if she’s not ‘ere, it’s ‘er hard luck” … and of course, he was just voicing the selfish feelings of the majority. It was a big chook! So away with all sentiment and a re-draw!
Nan, did not take this news well when she arrived all flushed from the hurry and keen as mustard for the night …
“Well f#ck you too” was her parting words and she decamped to the Brighton Hotel, never to darken the doors of the Seacliff again. She was soon replaced by another blonde. They called her “Norah? Dorah?” (after that blonde woman in the TV series of the times; “Prisoner”).
In the Alpha-Male world of camaraderie, no-one is in-expendable.