The Australia I remember of 40 years ago was a land of decidedly alpha-males. Beautifully tanned and muscle rippled alpha-males as it happens, most pleasing to the young woman’s eye. The skanky, lanky, English specimen I had brought with me didn’t bear comparison, but in the end – once I had discovered that I couldn’t afford a house in Paddington and everything else appeared to have a corrugated iron roof – I erred on the side of practicality, and returned to England with skanky in tow. He didn’t last in England.
I was impressed with the way Australia was organised. A sensible immigration policy – ‘do we need your skills and will you fit in with our lifestyle’ were the priorities; a neat division between those – the men – best suited to grubbing gold out of the baking rock, and those – the women – best suited to rearing the children. God had blessed them with a lid over the country and a most efficient patio heater; there was space for everyone, and some thoughtful person had installed coin operated barbecues on the beaches so you didn’t need to lug your own down there.
I thought it was an excellent place, corrugated roofs notwithstanding, and positively the last place on earth where the fledgling political correctness then appearing in the US and the UK would take hold.
Oi! Bruce! What happened? It certainly wouldn’t have been the alpha-males that chose to change the place, and the women all knew their place in the kitchen, so how could it have occurred?
I was aware that Australia had caught the political correctness bug; the plain packs of cigarettes, the censored Internet, but I hadn’t realised that Bruce had been gelded – with a vengeance. Take your eye off the ball and someone will whip them off. Perhaps we should nickname him Brucette in future.
Not just the alpha-male, but any male, is officially a potential danger to women and children. We have a semblance of the same in the UK, the CRB checks for the window cleaner who must walk through the school corridors to go about his daily business; the banning of photographs of the school sack race in case you go home and salivate over a picture of someone else’s nine-year old encased in hessian; the swimming instructor who cannot enter the water whilst teaching the Kids to swim. We haven’t yet entered the realm of assuming that sitting next to a child could traumatise them for life.
It is now official Quantas policy that unaccompanied males cannot sit next to a child on their internal flights. God knows what you could get up to in full view of the other passengers between Sydney Airport and Perth. Buses and trains cannot be far behind in following this policy – then what? You cannot queue behind a child in your local supermarket? Only gelded fireman can go into the flaming building to rescue that child – God knows what a real man could get up to unseen in that smoke filled environment as you hold your breath praying for your child’s life. A male surgeon in the operating theatre – and there is your child unconscious in front of him? Why your dear little one will be scarred for life as a potential future child abuser before the anesthetic has worn off!
There is only one logical solution to the progress of this policy, and that is to reduce all males to a test tube in the fridge. You’re laughing? I would have fallen off my chair 40 years ago if anyone had told me that Australian males would meekly accept that they have ’potential kiddy fiddler’ tattooed on their foreheads.
The snake hipped and defiantly fey Quantas cabin stewards of old, famed throughout Thailand for their stop over high jinks with small boys, have been replaced by sturdy sensible women, patrolling the aisles of Qauntas flights, requesting any lone male move from the vicinity of an innocent child. And, meekly, doth he move, albeit cringing with embarrassment. Brucette indeed.
I am puzzled that Australia should now be filled with unaccompanied children being posted from one end of the country to the other – has this become such an attraction that they have pedophiles buying airline tickets on the off chance that they might be seated next to one of them for a brief few minutes before they are spotted? It is not just Quantas either, a little research tells me that this is merely the latest incident, both Virgin and Air New Zealand have the same policy. In fact Boris Johnson was once asked to move by British Airways, until his children piped up and pointed out that he was their Father and thus had unfettered access to them outside of flight times!
It has explained why I so loath flying these days; I always seemed to get seated next to some screaming squabbling brat belonging to someone else. Now I know why. It’s my skirt. In future I shall adopt a fake moustache, and leer at said child – it’s the only way to fly.
When are men going to stand up to this Vile Lie Club?