Published in The Clifton Courier, January 18, 2016

Background: This is what I deemed appropriate for my first column in The Clifton Courier, the publication which gave me first front pager and allowed me to cover the sports. I’ll be interjecting in italic from time to time to give you a bit of context, and explain are few things to you blow ins from outta town.

Well hello there, Cliftonites.

For those of you who haven’t been nicking the free On Our Selection News papers from Foodworks, I’m the girl who makes people feel better about their lives by sharing the shame and disappointment that is my existence through weekly columns.

My quality content/mindless dribble was distributed free to mailboxes in the old Cambooya Shire, Westbrook Hodgson Vale and everywhere in between, but now I’m back on my home turf, sullying the pages of this fine, reputable newspaper with the filth that is the inner workings of my mind. And I’m a little bit nervous.

It’s my first column to appear in public in Clifton since I won a poetry competition at the chemist for Mothers’ Day*.

*Wrong, actually, I just remembered the Letter to the Editor I wrote after my going away party, which went into the paper after I’d left. I wanted to say a long, poignant goodbye and I also felt the need to apologise for saying cunt into the microphone at the karaoke night at the Bowling Club, but obviously couldn’t say “cunt” in the copy. I think I referred to it as “colourful language”. 

As I recall, the poem was laminated and displayed on the side door, right next to the town notice board* – a prime location. It doesn’t matter that there probably weren’t a lot of entrants in the competition because kids back then were too busy being outside, active and happy to sit down and write a poem; I felt like a literary god. Plus, the pamper pack prize meant I didn’t have to pay for a gift for Mum that year.

*The noticeboard down the main street gets more hits than a bikini photo on the homepage of the Courier Mail website. It doesn’t matter if the some old firewood for sale notice has been there since 2003, you still look to see what’s happening around town. You never know what kind of barg you could pick up.

That was a good 15 years ago so I can’t remember if the poem was any good, but in my mind it’s a hard act to follow. It’s kind of like when a musician has a ripper first single, raising expectations so high they have to either match that greatness or surpass it with their second single. And after years of Australian Idol and Popstars contestants smashing on to the music scene with a triumphant start only to end up as Uber drivers or being kicked out of strip clubs, I have to admit that I have been struggling with my follow up act.

Plus, when you add on the fact that I grew up annoying most of you people with my loud voice and show pony ways, it adds a bit more pressure. Like, it adds a bit of weight to your shoulders knowing that the librarian who taught me how to type or the guy who did my pap smear* could potentially be reading what I write.

*I’ve never not had a memorable pap smear at Clifton, but that’s a story for another day. I mean, most paps tend to be memorable – it’s hard to forget someone jacking you open like they’re changing a tyre, which is what I always think of. 

In fact, it’s downright scary.

Because I have to completely honest with you, as you’ll be able to smell my BS a mile away (as long as you’re not behind a cattle truck, in which case the smell is probably actual BS).

You’ll be able to see right through me, and will be able to call me out on my crap. Not that I have been completely scandal free since penning this column, with a highly controversial piece about the consumption of hot cross buns* long before Easter ruffling a few feathers out there (I don’t care for your conservative views, I’ll eat a delicious, religious bun as long as its on the market).

*Seriously, I received comments on the street about my hot cross buns views. I’m kind of like Miranda Devine or Alan Jones in that regard. I get people fired up over the big issues. And you know what? I don’t care about the haters. I had a hot cross bun on News Year’s Eve, so put that in the microwave and smear butter on it. And in case it wasn’t clear, that was a “shove that in your pipe and smoke it” adapted for bun-related purposes.

I don’t want to cheese you people off*. Clifton will always be home for me, and I love those rare weekends when I do get back to these fine acres of opportunity and rediscover what it’s like to live in a town full of aunties and loveable, but sometimes crass, uncles. Clifton is the only place I know of with three Colleens and a tree filled with cement** – it’s essentially paradise.

* “Cheesed off” is one of of Mum’s alternatives to “pissed off”. Swearing’s not really her thing. For years we would say “sugar honey ice and tea” instead of shit. One time Mum was telling us about someone going absolutely nuts and she says, in a horrified tone, “they said the K word”. It was perhaps the most endearing thing in the world. 

** I want to explain it to you now, but I feel this gem needs its own dedicated post to do it justice. 

So even though you thought you were finally rid of me when I crossed the border into cockroach territory, you haven’t escaped me yet.*

* I’m like a loveable coldsore, I just keep coming back.  

But in the interest of avoiding awkwardness in the fenced off drinking area at the showgrounds*, I’ll do my best not to annoy you too much.

* The only place to be after sundown at show time, after the Downs Polo Tournament and any Wattles home  game. Seriously. The bitters are like five bucks a tinnie and the company is always top shelf.