Firstly, let me welcome you to Australia. I hear you’ve been to Melbourne and Brisbane already. Hopefully you’ve had a chance to have a bit of a poke around at some of the sights that we boast about to the rest of the world.
By now I’m sure you’ve realised that we are a pretty laid back bunch. We don’t march to the frantic pace of some of the cities in the States such as New York or Chicago, even LA for that matter.
We’re pretty relaxed about time here. If I were to invite you over for a Sunday barbie at around 12-ish, and you rocked up at 2.30 it would be totally cool. I’d probably say, “Hey, glad you made it. Pull up a stump and grab a glass of wine. There’s ice in the esky and some left over snags. The kids haven’t demolished all of the pavlova yet, so knock yourself out”.
Madonna’s son David is certainly making the most of Australian hospitality…
But I’m not writing to you to talk about a typical Sunday barbie at my house. I want to talk about your concert.
You see, if we’ve paid money to see you, and you keep us waiting for nearly three hours, it feels like you’re taking us for granted.
It’s what we refer to as “taking the piss”.
We’re pretty straightforward. If we are pissed off about something or someone, we say so. If we don’t like the way things are being handled, we speak out. You can’t really rest on your laurels here, because if there is someone else in the background with a bit of what my mother refers to as “gumption”, then we’ll more than likely give them a chance. Bloody hell, we’re on our fifth prime minister in five years.
Sure, we don’t always get it right. Our government’s stance on global warming is woeful, and let’s not talk about our refugee debacle for now. But that aside, we’re prepared to have a fair crack of the whip. We like to give everyone a “fair go”.
I can understand that for your first concert in Melbourne you were late. Maybe it was technical issues, or a wardrobe malfunction. I don’t profess to know what goes on behind the scenes in putting together such a lavish production, but I understand that things don’t always go to plan. Surely though you’d think by the second run you’d have sorted out any issues?
If I’ve paid for a ticket to a concert, and the start time says 8pm, well that’s when I’d be expecting it to start.
Chances are I’ve probably forked out a hell of a lot more money than the ticket price.
Check out Madonna before her Tears of a Clown show in Melbourne. Post continues after video…
For instance, I’d be paying for a babysitter by the hour. As it’s not really acceptable these days to ask a 13-year-old neighbourhood kid to accept five dollars and a pizza to watch the kids sleep, I’m probably paying an arm and a leg for a suitably qualified child carer with an advanced first aid certificate and a degree in early childhood learning.
No doubt I’d already spent a stressful hour trying to find a carpark that I don’t have to pay for, because we all know how much they sting you for parking at those big entertainment centres. And seeing as though I’ve had to park ten blocks away and walk, the ankle boots that I put on because at the time I thought looked “hip”, are now giving me a massive blister on my bunion.
Sadly, my pilates regime seems to have gone out the window of late, and as a consequence, my pelvic floor muscles are not what they were pre-children. By about the second hour of waiting I would probably no longer be able to ignore my desperate need to queue for the porta-loos. Have you been inside those rancid cubicles of bacteria recently? Let me tell you, it’s not pleasant.
After two and a half hours there is no way I’d be able to stifle the yawns, and my spandex granny knickers holding everything together underneath my skinny jeans would have morphed into cranky pants. I’d be cursing and wishing my head was on my soft latex pillow dreaming about the day Channing Tatum professes his undying love.
Sure, I have no doubt that when you make it on stage you will deliver the most amazing performance I’ve ever seen, and the euphoria of witnessing you live in action will take my mind off my throbbing blister as I walk barefoot back to the car. But when I finally make it back home and jostle for room between the little bodies blissfully strewn across my bed, reality will set in that it’s only going to be a matter of hours before my youngest is awake to the dawn chorus.
The next morning there will not be enough coffee in this world that will appease a sleep deprived mum with sore feet trying to explain to a four year old why he has to wear underpants to the breakfast table.
So it would be greatly appreciated if you are able to be a little more mindful of the time for your future performances in Sydney. Especially on a school night. Us mums with weak pelvic floor muscles would be very thankful.
Oh, and have you got any plans on Sunday? Want to come around for a barbie?