The German comedian Henning Wehn once told an anecdote about how when he went to live in England he tried to slot into the British social class. It involved piddled pants, fish and chip shops and being drunk, and it was hilarious. The English audience, against whom the tale was told, laughed themselves silly and fell off their seats at the hearing of it. The joke was about finding your tribe, not being an outcast, fitting in with the norm.
I have the same problem with the great tribe known as Collingwood. Despite cluttering my house with Magpie memorabilia, I have never quite felt entirely secure in the world of Pie-land. Heaven knows, there’s been no lack of effort on my part. Black and white ribbons. Hoodie with Magpie motif. Big, big, woolly scarf. Trackies.
Letter to the Editor
An assortment of Pie-appropriate T-shirts. Playing cards, bottle openers, key rings, beanies and biros (yes, Magpies can write). I’ve got ‘em all, Even the tatty remains of a plush Magpie toy the dogs got at which now sports stuck on paper eyes, a stitched-up head, shredded shorts, a tail with no stuffing and half his beak chewed to bits.
Was a time, back in the day, when I could even recite the names of players in great half-back lines. Our father took no prisoners when it came to things like that. Collingwood we were born and Collingwood we’d bloody-well stay. Is it any wonder that as a grown – nay, senior – woman I was tacking pictures of Peter Daicos (bend knee, invoke the great man’s name) on the office wall.
But still. But still. Where was that one over-riding feature that defined me as part of the tribe. It was all very well to ponce about in Magpie clobber but some essential part of being a true Collingwood person was missing.
Then, many moons ago, I was out bush walking with one of the many beagles we seem to have acquired over the years. The dog got stuck on a ledge, I reached down to help him, he jumped up and bang, kapow, he caught me right under the chin. This had consequences far beyond merely seeing stars and having a wobbly jaw. Despite trips to Hobart to have dental treatment at a cost equivalent to a business class flight to Rome and flossing my fangs every five minutes, I had to have a tooth yanked out. On the bottom jaw. Right in front. The gap could not be more prominent if I got a red marking pen and drew an arrow underneath it. No hiding this one.
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But, every cloud has a silver lining. I might look like I’m screen-testing for a toothless hag role in Mad Max but I can now count myself among the Collingwood faithful. I’m out and proud. No wrapping the big scarf around the gob, no lurking at the back of the pack for me. I can open wide and loudly lisp the Magpie anthem.
Thide by thide we’ll thtick together.
