Bendigo Boys.

Hot, humid evening. Aurora Australis lighting the horizon disperses the solar wind,

saturates the air with ionic plasma. Charging them up. Party-animals parade in all their magnificent

finery along the Mall. Androgynous  golden manes are shaken,risks taken, sobriety forsaken, revelry 

rules, OK? But nothing stirs the blood more than novelty. A pair of snowdrops in a field of

sunflowers, lambs amongst the tigers.

Pale, northern ladies, jetlagged and stunned by the force of the New World, raw, rough energy,

unfettered and real.

Sultry, southern hemisphere night calls them out to play, to play with the big boys, the farmers and

golfers, and  dropper-outers. Make no mistake, those boys are on the make, to take advantage, try

their luck. Shy northern ladies, beware of the ruck that awaits you.

Nervously entering the Star Bar, testosterone hangs heavily in the gloom of the dimly-lit club, filling

their senses with its boldness. Antipodean antennae twitching, keen eyes  following, appreciating

their every move, their Old World newness.

Ordering Polar Bears at a Bendigo bar certainly raised a few eyebrows;  not for long.

Macho males from virile Victoria, all dressed the same, cut-off jeans, hair like straw, drunk as skunks,

pursuing the game, brandishing libidos like a flame in the steaming night-club fog.

Up and down; a full body scan by twenty pairs of piercing eyes rakes through her thin brown dress;

She passes the test, more or less.

“Can I buy you a drink?” “Do you want to dance?”

No such niceties from these chopsy chaps. The drink is bought, thrust to her  lips,

her waist is grabbed, and then her hips are likewise assaulted. In the nicest possible way.

Timid Welsh wife.

Lardy, heavy bodied and minded; hardly causing a flicker at home, put-down, let-down by her stone

cold husband. Astounded by the super-trouper laser beams of attention,  from the pack of wolves

who grin and wink, and sweat and think she is one hot Sheila.

She loves it, blossoms and  sparkles, basks in the heat of this animal chase.

And why not?  Let her enjoy her moment of glorious glamour,queen for a day; hell, she may

even forget to go home.... stay with the red-necks, hillbilly crackers,run off with the bouncers, the

hippy back-packers.

Look at her. Hair like a halo of blondeness and all shyness

a thing of the past. Smiling and laughing, for once she is being the woman she really is.

Let’s leave this murky and masculine den, quit the Aussie rules that make these men

hunt her down. Not that she complains.

No, let’s run for shelter, run to the Shamrock Hotel, secure, safe and sound, away from the feral

fellows that  fancy their chances. Deserting our friend.

She did not complain, at all.