The entire photo shoot and show are now a blur, but I do remember that Python drove me back to my youth hostel after the show and as he pulled up outside the front door his hand ran slowly up my stockings. And when I looked at him in shock, he said, ‘Oh, sorry, mate. Do forgive me. I thought that was my leg.’
It was a Miracle
Miraculously our show went on to become a huge hit, and we were allowed to cut our ‘international roadshow’ short, relocate to the city and shoot there for the next nine years. I recall that at the peak of the show’s infamy, at which time I was infamous by association too, the show’s new publicist, who appeared to be about twelve years old, agreed for me to ‘have a chat’ with the most high-profile in-depth interviewer in Australia.
The interviewer’s name was Gazza Fetchup and he got the leg-up into his high-profile in-depth interviewer job because he was caught in an adulterous threesome while playing front-row forward for the national football team. (Interestingly, the two women he was with at the time became social outcasts and have now faded to shamed obscurity living in a mobile home, travelling the country and hosting topless bingo nights for lonely old men in retirement villages.)
I remember the publicist had one of those names that you can never spell correctly. Her parents it seems were of that subculture that somehow believes you can make your child appear to be much more interesting than they really are if you simply give them a Christian name that is splattered with irrelevant extra letters of the alphabet, which cannot be heard when the name is pronounced but can be seen when the name is written. For example, Jaihnnnnne (pronounced Jane).
Anyway, Jaihnnnnne was concerned that Gazza’s questions might be too probing and too hard-hitting and that he might try to ‘crack this thing wide open’, but moments after being introduced to him I began to suspect that the only thing Gazza could crack wide open was a can of beer, and that the only person who might be surprised by what Gazza asked was actually Gazza himself. Or at least that’s what I thought until we were live on air and he suddenly skipped all of the predictable questions about the show’s morality and social responsibility, simply stared me square in the boobs and said, ‘I’m just wondering what your thoughts are on that humiliating reference in a rural tabloid regarding your uneven nipples?’
Apparently the publication had enhanced a close-up of a shot of my bra- and shirt-covered breasts. Their graphics department had pointed an arrow to each invisible nipple, then drawn a dot in the middle of both, joined the nipples with a line, imposed a spirit level above the line, and clearly shown that one nipple was higher than the other. (I immediately denied it, of course, although I must say that I have gone to bed every night since wearing a bra that has one strap pulled slightly tighter than the other in order to correct the alleged imbalance.)
At the end of the interview the producer tried to console me, and while we were talking three children came and formed a queue behind him. I assumed they wanted an autograph, and seeing that they weren’t carrying any paper, I offered the always-popular solution of signing the shirts they were wearing with a permanent marker. They stared at the producer and then shyly obliged as I scrawled my name all over their clothing. It was only later, when the children left with the producer, that I realised the kids didn’t want my autograph at all. They were just waiting for the producer to drive them home because he was their dad.
Great Things about Being Famous
I used to wear sunglasses a lot in the hope that no one would recognise me. Sometimes I’d forget to take them off when I went inside a building and the overwhelming darkness would make me think that I’d gone blind.
But of course there were fun things about being ‘famous’ too. Once on a plane the flight attendant said that he wanted to show me how much he appreciated my work on TV and gave me seven small packets of salted peanuts.
Plus, every day that we spent shooting at the studio, the girl at the local sandwich bar would deliver my sandwich order wrapped like a present with a bow. And whenever I walked past our local bus depot the security guard used to run out and give me a kiss on the cheek. And each time I took a domestic flight I would be greeted at the gate by a flower-holding airline employee (that is until she was ‘relocated to another venue’, i.e. institutionalised).
But more rewarding than anything else, perhaps, was the fact that ‘fame’ introduced me to people whom I wouldn’t normally meet, gave me an insight into lives that I wouldn’t normally see, an ear to stories that I would never normally hear, a bigger awareness of life. As a result of my flit with fame I have met so many who are stigmatised, traumatised and disenfranchised. My luck allowed me to meet the unlucky, to question life, its imbalances and its cruelties, to resolve to do what I could to help.
I’ve met famous rock stars and movie stars and danced on gay Mardi Gras floats.
I’ve debated with great leaders.
I’ve decided some ‘great leaders’ are idiots.
I’ve worn designer clothes.
I’ve raised money for charities.
I’ve drunk crates of champagne.
I’ve been proud of myself.
I’ve made an arse of myself.
I’ve wasted time.
I’ve made the most of my life.
I’ve wished that I knew earlier what I know now.
I realise that I know absolutely nothing … and I’m starting to suspect that it is quite possible that maybe no one else knows anything either.
Gretel is Not My Real Name
My gallivant through fame allowed me to meet the many and varied and it gave me an understanding of just how many of us haven’t got a clue what life is for. It allowed me to learn that the majority of the residents of what is referred to as the developed world have not one iota of an idea about the meaning of life or the reason for life or what the hell you’re meant to do with life, and therefore carry an overwhelming need for reassurance and faith.
So I also learnt that I am not the only one who is looking for a short Precis of Purpose or alternatively a simple all-knowing guru. And despite the fact that I was also looking for a sage, some of these people, during my fifteen minutes of fame, chose to follow me as their guru. After every live show I hosted people would line up for hours, wanting autographs and hugs. I could meet a lady who’d gone into chemo the morning before and had come to the show as a day-after treat, and beside her would be a girl who’d been hit by a car and was now a quadriplegic and really wanted me to sign her hat, and behind her were men who wanted their stomachs and shoes and bottoms and biceps autographed and little kids who just wanted a hug.
I would also receive lots of letters. Letters from people wanting to tell me how much they hated what I wore, people wanting to marry me, people wanting to kill me, people wanting to share their most intimate secrets and fears because they thought of me as a friend.
I am fifteen years old and I self-mutilate. I will be able to tell if dreams come true by whether you write back.
I suffer from anorexia … my doctor says that if I don’t start to put on some weight in the next few weeks, then I will have to go to hospital. I know that I won’t put on weight because I want to lose more and more until I stand on the scales and they say 37 kilos. I want to weigh 37 kilos because that’s how much I weighed when I was popular at school.
I have no idea what to say. I reply with the names and numbers of organisations that might be able to help. I feel so responsible. Why did they write to me? Don’t they have anyone else? I can’t imagine what it would be like to feel you have no one in the world who can help you.
Ah, who am I kidding?
Looking back, I’m possibly beginning to get an inkling of how that aloneness might feel.
Another letter reads:
Dear Gretel,*
Get Fucked.
I’m surprised sometimes at my physical and emotional strength. And I’m surprised sometimes by my mental frailty. Sometimes I’ve wondered how I would cope if I were kidnapped and tortured an
d held in a dark cell for years with nothing to eat but cockroaches and wet oats. If my children were with me, God forbid, then I would be brave and strong for them, but otherwise I can see myself singing Cher’s Greatest Hits and rocking in the corner.
Super Natural
After almost a decade my TV gig no longer exists and gone with it are the overt perks of fame. Suddenly I’m not given the opening-night invitations, the special restaurant seat with the view or the free fifteen-minute eyelash and eyebrow tint, valued perhaps at $20, that I’ve received once a month for the past ten years because the beautician thought it was good for her business to have me seen getting pampered in her salon.
‘Gretel?’ said Nola as she applied the tint to my lashes only days ago.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I’m surprised you’re here after all you’ve been through.’
‘Yes, me too. But I didn’t want to muck you up by cancelling the booking and I also thought it was important for me to keep looking like I was a success even if I didn’t still feel like one.’
‘Oh,’ she murmured as some tint dropped painfully into my eye. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘No problem. What is it?’
‘Um.’
‘Go on, you can tell me. Over all these years we’ve talked about everything.’
‘Um.’
‘Come on. Have I got a ball of snot hanging out my nose? Are you having an affair with your pet fish? Do you think my eyebrows are too thin and make my head look fat?’
‘Oh, no, nothing like that. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve sent you a letter.’
‘Oh. Is it an invitation to your birthday party?’
‘Kind of,’ she replied.
The following day Nola’s letter arrived. I picked it up as I drove past our letterbox and I opened it while stopped at the traffic lights. The paper was pink and smelt like a rose. The message was typed. I thought it looked somewhat formal for a birthday bash but I opened it with enthusiasm, thrilled to bits to have something to look forward to on my momentarily gloomy horizon.
To Whom It May Concern,
I just wanted to let you know that the current economic times have caused me to reassess the benefits to my business of my celebrity client base. I have devised an equation that helps me to determine the time and effort I spend with each free client and the rewards their profile brings me. The current cost of your monthly treatment is approximately $20 ( i.e. five dollars a week) and I can no longer justify this expense now that you are unemployed with no sign of ever having another high-profile position. It is therefore with great sadness and yet economic rationalism that I have had to confront the demise of your career. I had considered you a friend when you were famous, but now that you have peaked, you’ve left me with no choice but to withdraw my services. Further to this I must also ask you not to come to my salon. Normally under these circumstances I imagine that I would allow the celebrity to continue coming to the salon for treatments if they were willing to pay for them. But unfortunately I must insist that you do not come within a ten-metre radius of my salon as it would not be good for my business to have a ‘has-been’ seen in my vicinity.
Please let me know if you do get another job in TV, as I am happy to reassess the situation.
Please also note that should you not observe the ten-metre restraining order, then I will be forced to sue.
Please also note that you may still buy mandarins at the grocer next door even though they come within the metre limit.
Formerly yours,
Nola
I was a little surprised to read this letter and drove into the side of a bus.
Everyone in the bus appeared to not only have mobile phones but to have mobile phones that could take photos. Everyone in the bus also didn’t seem to have cottoned on to the fact that I was not famous any more and they therefore decided to take my photo using their mobile phones.
The driver got out of the bus. He also took my photo, looked at it and then said, ‘Hey, you’re what’s-her-name.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Actually, on second thoughts, no you’re not! You just kind of look like her … but actually you’re a bit fatter.’
‘No, actually I am her.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘No, you’re not, but that doesn’t matter because I never liked her anyway.’
Without a word I got out my mobile phone. I took a photo of the damage to the bus, I took a photo of the damage to my car, I got in the car and as I drove off I took a photo of the bus driver chasing me.
At the first set of red traffic lights I looked at the photos and could see no notable dents. I turned the photos around to check the light and the angle and confirmed with relief that there was no damage. When the lights changed, the car behind drove straight into my rear and I was pushed into the car in front. Remarkably, none of us were hurt, but my car looked like a concertina.
I caught a cab home from the smash repairer. I told the driver my destination and then just sat quietly in the back seat.
‘So you don’t want to talk?’ he asked.
‘No thanks. Not really.’
‘Mmmmmm,’ he said. ‘Most people like to talk. Are you sure you don’t want to talk?’
‘Yes, I’m quite sure thanks.’
‘Mmmm okay,’ he replied and then was silent for a moment until he began to cough. His coughs became louder and more extreme. ‘I hope you don’t catch this terrible cough which I caught in a mysterious way.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied.
He stopped coughing, twiddled his thumbs on the steering wheel, sang what sounded like the Russian national anthem and then said, ‘So, do you want to know how I caught my mysterious cough?’
‘No thank you.’
‘So, would you like to talk about why you don’t want to talk?’
‘Look, thanks for asking. I don’t really feel like talking, but please don’t let me stop you from talking.’
‘Okay. Thank you. So, ask me how was my day.’
‘Oh, so, how was your day?’ I asked.
‘Terrible. First I picked up a guy who made me drive him an hour out of the city to get him home and when we got there he just ran out of the car and didn’t pay me a cent. Then I had to drive for another two hours before I even got another passenger. Then this guy gets in, sits down and vomits in the cab. So when he gets out I have to drive to the depot and take the whole back seat out to hose the inside of the car. Then when I’m back on the road once more, my next fare gets in the back of the cab, and just kind of squats there.’
‘Squats?’
‘Yes, squats. With one hand on the top of each of the front seats.’
‘Oh, my God …’
‘And I don’t know what to say. I’m terrified about what he’s doing back there but he’s absolutely huge. You know, a Pacific Islander! You know how big they are, and he just kept squatting …’
‘Squatting?’
‘Yes, for the whole trip, and then when we arrived at his destination, he just paid the fare … and got out.’
‘And?’
‘And I took a deep breath to turn around and see what he’d done.’
‘Yes …’
‘And I realised that after I stopped at the depot to hose out the car, I’d forgotten to put the seat back in!’
We laughed.
And with it came tumbling all the beauty and irony and
surprise of life.
And then he dropped me home.
And the EFTPOS machine in his cab didn’t work.
And I didn’t have any cash.
And the driver insisted that I must have cash. But I didn’t.
So then we had to drive miles and miles to find an ATM that was working so that I could get some cash.
And when we returned to my place he added the charge to the bill for driving me back and forth to the ATM.
Which was kind of odd, because we
only went to the ATM because his EFTPOS machine wasn’t working.
6
‘Hey, Mum?’
‘Yes, Tadpole.’
‘Your arse is looking like a pair of boulders in a stocking sock.’
‘Why, thank you, Tadpole … and how are you?’
Women-a-Pause
So far I haven’t asked my teenage children for their compassionate advice on curing the ache in my heart … I guess because the ache is so bad that I’ve momentarily lost my sense of humour.
Nevertheless, I’m now considering it, but as soon as I walk into our house my daughter asks me if I can take her for a driving lesson in her brother’s car. Other than digging my eyes out with an ice-cream scoop, this is the last thing that I feel like doing. So I say, ‘Sure, Tadpole. Of course I’ll take you driving, as soon as you’ve cleaned your room.’
I figure this’ll buy me at least a month and I sit in ‘the cat-pee’ chair to think.
I wonder what my daughter will do with her life.
At her age my generation was told to be Superwomen, able to run a global empire, raise a family, jump-start the four-wheel drive, cook a five-course meal for the family, massage the mother-in-law’s green bunions and do the ironing while having Tantric sex.
And many of my generation of girls (and yes, I do use the term loosely) have tried to pursue this goal. The proverbial ‘she’ has followed the feminist footprint, planted in abstract by the female generation before her, and actively pursued the notion of ‘having it all’. She’s ‘had’ the kids, she’s ‘had’ the husband and she’s ‘had’ the high-powered career. But for me this chapter of life’s novel is now reaching its completion. I’ve left the career that I’ve pursued for the past years and years, my son is moving away from home to study and my daughter is about to be liberated through obtaining her driver’s licence (as soon as she can absorb the fact that the purpose of the rear-vision mirror is to enable the driver to look at the traffic, not to perpetually look at oneself).
The Night my Bum Dropped Page 12
