Feeling Blue

What a load of cobblers. For the past three weeks I was told NSW would win Game 2 of the State of Origin. And we did, well they did. “The boys done good”. Nothing else mattered. Sticky Stuart and Smell Mafinga bled blue and maroon blood for the media during the build up, and there were endless one-on-one interviews with various players or bricks with eyes. It was saturation coverage, the clouds rolled into Sydney and it pissed down with footy talk. The streets flooded with superlatives and the game was of national significance, the result bigger than the Mabo decision or Lindy and Michael’s exoneration.

I should win The Voice, for I’ve had enough of this banal agenda which is not just confined to the footy field.

Increasingly, our national broadcaster is guilty of running facile material close to the top of its nightly TV news bulletins. On radio, two giggly girls host its morning program and I can go no further to escape their shrill and nasally babble than Radio National, 576 on the dial, one station north from the south pole. I used to castigate my father for tuning into what I once believed to be a boring wavelength. With age comes wisdom?

Every day we’re served the same drivel via every form of media. From machinations between the most ordinary Australian Prime Minister and hapless leader of the Opposition to the movements of massive mining magnates who lay claim to footy teams, media organizations and the earth under foot, the wide-mouthed, teethy babes and their male side kicks on morning television make it their mission to dumb us all down.

The current agenda is nothing but a dog’s breakfast. 30 odd years after the “Dingow tork ma bybee” we’re being served up this swill again. Do we really care or need to see Lindy with her new squeeze waving a certified death certificate at the cameras. Couldn't we have just said “Sorry ” when we all marched across the Sydney Harbour Bridge in recognition of the stolen generation? We are unable to look forward. Instead we’re treated to Azaria 2. The case that apparently continues to  “grip the nation” as tight as a set of jaws around a jumpsuit. Tragedy hits us all at sometime Lindy, so best not dwell, let’s move on.

I’m craving some good news and given the size of the flotilla that cruised down the Thames last week, I’m tempted to motor my good ship over to London and find some. Thousands of Brits and the odd convict seemed keen to tie-up alongside one Octogenarian whose popularity, as Little Johnny Howard recently said in a roundabout way “a local politician would kill for”.

If Prince William and Kate gazump Charlie boy when QE2 leaves, it could well be a masterful move:  “try time” for the monarchists in Australia and the final siren for Republicans, at least for a few decades. Love her or hate everything she stands for, you can’t argue with the merit bestowed upon hundreds of deserving, non-descript types on the Queen’s Birthday Honour’s List: Professor Ian Frazer for the leadership he showed in the discovery of the human papilloma virus vaccine, Rolf Harris for his part in making the wearing of three legs fashionable and Michael Letch for service to people with a disability through the Disabled Divers Association Victoria. These are just three of thousands of people who have kicked goals and had a dramatic impact, for the better, on peoples’ lives. And when do we hear about these good news stories? One Monday in June.

Inspiration, optimism and buoyancy have been drowned in a fear of contracting cancer, not being able to pay the electricity and gas bills, being mugged in our home and going down the gurgler with Greece, Spain and Portugal.

Last night a croky sounding Seal kicked off proceedings at the footy by singing to a packed house full of blue-rinsed gollywogs. Put me on the stage with an ageing rock star or Grumpy Old Men and I’ll stretch the truth and my vocal cords even further.

PS. Go the Blues! J