#bridgetbythebridge

#deartony

 

Dear Tony,

Yesterday, our fellow human beings of this earth, those kooky Americans, legally agreed that a man can marry a man, a woman can marry a woman and a man can still marry a woman, even if that woman is a Kardashian. Americans think that pumpkin can be a dessert, they shoot inanimate objects for shits and giggles, and they think the laugh track on a sitcom is actual people laughing at an actual joke. They also have a collective obsessive belief in their constitution, a page or seventy written by some old white guys in suits a few centuries back. That constitution upholds a rule of law; laws, rules, regulations and agreements that the people of America recognise and uphold. 83% of America also identify as Christian. #ohsaycanyouseemypoint

 

Dear Tony,

In the United Kingdom, a country that eats a sheep’s stomach stuffed with blood and guts (more than once in a lifetime and not ironically), Marriage Equality was passed as law in 2013, that’s way back when ISIS was just the Labrador in Downton and about 6 months before your personal reign as the King of Australia was inflicted upon the good munchkins of Oz. In the UK, a country so conservative that people apologise more often than they pee, a country where a very old lady is in charge, so in charge that she’s even the boss of the God Bothering Band 60% of the population all believe in, a country where you were born Tony, yes in the UK, boys can be brides if they want to. #godsavedthequeens

 

Dear Tony,

In Ireland, the world’s greenest butt of every joke, in Ireland, the place with more priests than people, in Ireland, the home of vindictive Catholic nuns and backyard abortions and bloody Westlife, yes that bad. In Ireland, the people of Ireland voted to allow marriage equality because the Taoiseach gave the decision to the people and the people, who have blood like you and skin like you and a brain like you realised that in the grand scheme of things, who gets married is no ones business but theirs, and there will still be Guinness and whiskey so all is well...to be sure to be sure. #youcanevenmarryleprechauns

 

 

Dear Tony,

As a heterosexual woman, who loves all the people, even the 3 men who didn’t love me back, as a woman with ovaries and uneven breasts and scarlet ruby crimson periods and softness and bright red lips and a brain… I do my own taxes (in three effing countries) and I built my own Malm, Klakke and Mikke and I buy all the shit I want myself and I buy a lot of shit for residents of your sweaty realm too because you’ve reduced their welfare to a pittance and I don’t think that a 57 year old white dude in a suit is the right person to represent women like me as the minister for goddamn women’s affairs. #notunlessyougetyourperiodtoo

 

Dear Tony,

As someone who recognises the traditional owners of the land over which you reign as Lord Commander of the Watch, I’m equally unsure if a white dude in a grey suit is the right person to be the Minister for Indigenous Affairs. Tony, are you jealous? Are you worried about missing out on all of the fun that the women and indigenous people are having? Are you so bored with your book about the dude who turned water into wine that you want to drink actual wine and dance in the dark with the ladies and the Koori? Are you sick of being a middle-aged white dude, typically the most privileged demographic in society that you want to slum it with us?

 

 

Dear Tony,

We know that isn’t really true, because when poor beggars and bastards and bludgers and brown people and black people beg for entry into your own personal King’s Landing, you send them back from whence they came, so you aren’t really that into poor people are you? #ididntfuckingthinkso

 

 

Dear Tony,

When I was a little girl, every day after school, I ran home to watch Playschool and that was made by the ABC. When I was a bigger girl, I used to run home to watch Kath & Kim, Spicks & Specks and The Late Show. They’re all ABC shows too. Tony I remember, from way back when I was very little, that the A in ABC stands for Australia, not Abbott. So when a broadcasting corporation is for people in Australia, I don’t think you can get your Murdoch on and play with it likes it’s yours to do with as you wish. I don’t always like all of the shows on the ABC, and I really didn’t like it when they stopped having Bettina on Playschool, but I didn’t go full Ramsay Bolton at the telly, and shoot it with a crossbow, because then I wouldn’t have any telly at all would I?

 

Dear Tony,

I know that a lot of people really really really like you, people also like the Kardashians. You both occupy a space in the general ether of my life that doesn’t really compute. I don’t get why anyone, who has kids like you do, would want to leave the place they built worse for wear. My sister has a kid, and I don’t think she has cleaned her house since you became PM, but she has created a home for that little kid to thrive, and draw, and run, and even sing Elsa songs so long as her mum is in the shower. My brother has kids too, and he’s taught them to ride bikes, to sing Metallica and to quote the Family Guy. I don’t always like what my brother and sister do, but if I did the equation, they are giving more, creating more and leaving more than they’ve taken.

 

Dear Tony,

Did you do the maths in your equation? If you take everything out of the ground, what wealth will your daughters have? If you spread so much hatred, how will your daughters, or the sons, or the people who stay behind after you’ve been, ever know love? Tony, money is bloody great, I love having it too, but I can’t hug it, kiss it or eat it. When will you see that the moral welfare of your castle is declining with every nasty thing you say and nasty thing you do?

 

 

Dear Tony,

Last night I was at the pub with my mates, just like you might have been. Last night, a man from Germany (once the most despised nation of earth) described my beautiful sunburnt country as ‘backward’. Tony, I was ashamed, I was embarrassed and I was lost for words. Even I, smartypantsgirlymouth have run out of wisecracks or witty remarks to defend you on this.

 

 

Dear Tony,

Australia is a country of people and places as diverse Lego bricks. There’s the little ones that sting like fuck when you tread on them, red ones, blue ones and ones shaped like trees and when you put it all together it makes a beautiful permanent home for all the different little Lego people. Tony, Australia is not your personal plaything to shape in your own image. You are not God. You are not fair. You are not a loving King. Tony, despite all your new knighted grey-suited mates, you are not a King. #noteveninwesteros

 

 

Dear Tony,

When this episode of Game of Abbott ends, I pray there are enough of us left to rebuild the Lego house that you, like an indignant toddler, stepped on. The average Australian is 37 years old. So there are more of us young’uns than there are of your old white-dude grey-suited mates. I’ve got three bags of Lego under my bed waiting to see the sun down south after you’ve gone.

 

 

All my love, rainbow queer straight and sassy love,

#bridgetbythebridge at Tower Bridge missing her Harbour Bridge

 

#bloodsweatandtears

 

 

I’ve joined a gym three times in my life. Three very different gyms, in three different cities, for three completely different reasons. 

The first time was in Sydney, many, many moons ago, when I joined a gym in the basement of the Sydney Hilton. I would wake up every morning at 5.30am, bus into town, work out, sweat and then swim. I did that for about a year, the year before I left Australia for a new life in Europe. The reason I joined, upon reflection, is somewhat hysterical. I had stopped taking the pill, I had quit smoking, and I was getting my female form fit and ready to welcome a little person. I joined a gym so I could have a baby.

So there is no baby, that boyfriend and I parted ways when I left Sydney, but I really did love that gym. It was so prohibitively expensive; the place was empty most mornings. The finely honed baby carrying form that boarded a 747 to London would be soft with cheese and wine after barely 6 months in Paris.

Don’t join a gym for someone else.

Skinless Drumstick

 

 

 

The second time I joined, I was in Paris. I found a gym with a pool, two Metros and 40 minutes from my front door. I would wake up at 6, train it across Paris, sweat and swim, before training it all the way back to the office. I had again, quit smoking, I was on a mission to turn my body into the most delectable of treats. I was angry, I was sad, I was a weeping emotional mess most days, and the gym was my revenge strategy against the man that broke me.

After many hours watching French women wash, rather than having a baby, I spent my mornings observing where French babies came from. Life took over, I was travelling more often than not, and the increasing cost and my decreasing motivation saw a quick end to that year of fitness. A year with more time spent in early morning public transport than actually exercising anything at all.

I should also mention that Giovanni, the ‘trainer’, was a self-obsessed bicep-kissing wanker. Giovanni, like any good Personal Trainer, inspired me. Unfortunately, he did not inspire me to get fit, but he did inspire violent fantasies of me messing the lines on his fake tan.

Do not join a gym that is farther away from your house than the pub.

 

 

On this most recent occasion, I joined the gym on a whim. Whims work well for me. Putting too much thought into planning and preparation is wasted. I’m now in London, I’m smoking (again) and I work harder than ever. One evening, while staring into the sky, I contemplated. I was probably drunk; I tend to contemplate to fill the time between holding the glass and raising it to my lips. Anyway, after a few months of family touristing, after too long spent lying in on Saturdays nursing another hangover, after a stint in Ballroom Dancing Lessons with another wanker-teacher-self-obsessed-Narcissus, I examined the softening mess that carried my bones and my brains. If I was going to carry anything heavier than a wine bottle and a bag of crisps, it was time for a change. 

There is no baby, not even a remote chance of one. I have no designs to give up the fags, not the nicotine ones anyway. My goal is not to shrink or give up the drink. My goal is singular, I want to be happy. 

Join a gym because you want to.

Stings like a bee

 

 

 

So now I’m two months in. I’m writing this on a Sunday morning after running to Westminster and back, the longest I’ve ever gone without stopping. 4 of my 8 knuckles are grazed and my right kneecap is currently sans skin. In the past week I’ve made one trip to hospital for a sports related injury, one trip to NikeTown for new tights and seven trips to the gym. #yeseveryday #yesivebecomeTHATperson

It’s really all about Bear (as in Grylls). 

Bear is a man a handful of years beyond my own. He is an ex-Army, martial arts guru and expert on all things muscular, digestive and vascular. Our relationship is very much a give and take. He takes my money. I give him the full force of two fists in his chest. After decades of being beaten down by very nasty men, I figure it is high time for me to get my own back.

Boxing has, for me, been a fucking revelation.

Despite my foul mouth, I’ve never considered myself to be especially violent. I’m a bit scared of everything really; heights, spiders, most people who aren’t my mother, meeting new people at large gatherings, failure, being naked, falling over, the list could tattoo both of my thighs…in fine print. So it was a genuine revelation the first time Bear let me wear his gloves and punch at him. #40yrsoffrustration

Bear is 6 foot of solid muscle with kind eyes and a gentle tone. He stands behind me while I lift, push and pull, while I grunt, while I cry (twice so far) and groan.  The first time we met, he asked me what I liked and what I didn’t like. He knows I hate that my face goes red, so we train before the gym has opened to the public. He knows I hate looking at myself in the mirror, but he still makes me do it, as it should prevent me falling over. #notlikely

After 2 months, I can now jab, cross, uppercut and hook. I’m on my way to becoming a lean mean fighting machine and I can feel the tiny little punch muscles poking through my bingo wings. I couldn’t really care less about how this is affecting me physically, although I do enjoy feeling stronger. Mostly, I feel happy.

Happy that there is a man on earth who can boss me about for good reason. Happy that I have found something in my life that is just for me. Happy that I can stand up straight. Happy that I punch like a girl. Happy that I run like a girl. Happy that with each flying fist, a little piece of the sadness, the anger or the fear leaves me and lands on the bag.

 

Happy.