By HOLLY WAINWRIGHT
I don’t want to shock you. But. There was a stripper at the Grand Final yesterday.
Not a streaker – the kind of nudity we’re happy to laugh of as harmless hijinks – but a woman apparently paid to take her clothes off for a corporate crowd in a fancy box.
Because those boxes are, you know, see-through (so you can see the FOOTBALL from them), everyone copped an eyeful of Heather McCartney as she lost her Hawthorn garb and flashed the crowd.
I know. Yawn.
All the people in the box, and who own the box, are now scrapping over who paid Heather to undress, but either way. Yawn.
Every year, around this time, the festival of Australian blokeiness reaches an epic, vomiting crescendo in two massive weekends – the AFL Grand Final, and the NRL Grand Final.
And every year we are reminded that no matter how far we’ve come, when it comes to how a certain type of bloke behaves when he is in the company of other certain types of blokes, fuelled by 27 beers and the common cause of football, there’s a large part of the male culture that is just – douchey.
A stripper for the football final seems like a great idea. Ditto getting into a bit of biffo. Dressing up as Rolf Harris with schoolgirls. Soggy biscuits. Weeing in their own mouths for that epic selfie moment (which you can view here).
This man told Network Ten News that he picked up the Grand Final stripper’s g-string because, “It’s a collectors’ item.” Just sayin’.
You know, that kind of thing.
I am not suggesting for one moment that all sportsmen, or the men who love to watch them, are these kinds of douches. They most certainly are not. There are many, many footballers and football fans who are great men, hardworking, women-loving, great-mate-to-have-at-your-back kind of men.
I love those guys. I have kids with one of those guys.
But there’s no denying the douche element. And, as a culture, our tolerance of it. Our willingness to label male misadventure as “a bit of fun”.