Let's all drink to irony
By
Sheryl-Lee Kerr
Gadzooks, I think the powers that be really do have a sense of humor.
I used to wonder if they were a few frog cakes short of a luncheon
when, a few years back, the boss put me on a train to Melbourne
laden almost entirely with ardent Crows fans. The thing is, I was the only
one on staff with no working understanding of Aussie Rules football.
Or even a non-working one for that matter. It was as though, by virtue of my overwhelming ignorance, I was the perfect choice. Come to think of
it, that is almost exactly how the boss explained it at the time.
“Uhhh, yeah, boss,” I had replied soothingly, backing cautiously towards
the door. “Sure.”
In the intervening years, since my surreal experience on that train
with the 22 Swedish nurses, a veteran lawn bowls team and the
wall-to-wall “ ’Ere we go…” choristers, I have been waiting for
some burly male nurses to pay my boss a visit and show him the finer
points in new-season white coats.
Alas, that day never came. And now I know why. The powers that be are not entirely nuts; just having fun.
I know this now because last week, I, the office non-drinker, found
myself in Perth, covering the Swan River wine cruise. Oh-kayyy . . .
So there I was: surrounded by a dozen tough, female prison guards
from the local women's incarceration facility who were having one feisty
knees-up; a thoroughly imbibed Irish doctor offering her uninhibited
renditions of songs from Grease, and a clutch of Japanese tourists
torn between which of the above they should gape at more.
Personally, I found the prison guards the life of the party, with
anecdotes from their day at the office beating hands down the paperclips vs staples highlights of mine. Interestingly, one guard informed me
that the last party she had attended had, as guests, only Customs
officers, police officers and prison guards. I note these are the three groups in our society legally able to order a strip search.
Must have been some party.
By the end of the cruise, I had come to have a new appreciation for
the limberness of drunk Irish doctors, as ours displayed a real
skill at dodging the tour guide's attempts to wrest the microphone back
off her as she performed karaoke selections. But, best of
all, I learnt the following:
One: Summer Lover sung in drunk Irish actually seems better than the
original, especially when all the lyrics are run together to form
one word approximately 4257 letters long.
Two: I now know the Japanese saying for “A nice chardonnay
with a hint of oak. I will buy two dozen.” Or it may have also been: “Please stop singing now, as my wife is pregnant”.
Three, and most importantly: if you get imprisoned at any Perth
women's prison, be good.
Really, really good.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 13 JUL 1999