From Purple People Eaters to MelonGate

Most evenings, if the weather is kind, I sit outside in the garden with a glass of something and watch the change of shift.

First come the corellas.

They stream overhead in noisy, squawking groups, calling to one another as they head off to wherever they spend the night. I have no idea what they’re saying, but it sounds very much like a lengthy series of goodnights.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t forget we’re meeting near the big gum tree.”

“Has anyone seen Kevin?”

Some of them even squawk a ‘goodnight’ to me. I always wave.

Then dusk deepens and the night shift appears.

The fruit bats slip overhead, dark shapes against the fading sky, silent as whispers as they head out to forage. The contrast always makes me smile. The corellas announce their departure to half the district. The bats simply get on with it.

And while I was sitting there the other evening, my mind wandered, as minds do, and for some reason it wandered into the strange world of novelty songs.

Remember those?

Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.

It inspired the Doncaster council to name one of its new gritter machines “Gritsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Anti-Slip Machiney” . You sang it, didn’t you?

My Boomerang Won’t Come Back.

“I’ve waved the thing all over the place, practised til I was black in the face…”

I think this one would probably be considered politically incorrect these days. By some people.

The Purple People Eater.

“Well bless my soul, rock and roll, flyin’ purple people eater
Pigeon-toed, undergrowed, flyin’ purple people eater
I like short shorts
Flyin’ purple people eater”

The Little Blue Man.

“One morning when I was out shopping
Though you’ll find it hard to believe
A little blue man came out of the crowd
And timidly tugged at my sleeve
‘I wuv you! I wuv you!’ said the little blue man
‘I wuv you! I wuv you to bits.’

Right Said Fred.

And, of course, A Pub With No Beer.

Apologies for any earworms. Actually, I’m not sorry. If I have to put up with them, why shouldn’t you?

Some of them date back to the fifties, others to the sixties, but they shared one important quality. They were completely ridiculous.

And people loved them.

Even worse, more than fifty years later I can still remember an alarming proportion of the words.

I can forget why I’ve walked into a room, but apparently there is permanent storage space in my brain reserved for a one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater.

There doesn’t seem to be much room for that sort of nonsense in popular music these days. Perhaps novelty songs still exist somewhere in the depths of the internet, but once upon a time they became hits. Everybody knew them. Kids sang them. Adults sang them. Radio stations played them endlessly.

They were silly, cheerful and harmless.

Which brings me, by a route even I wasn’t expecting when I started writing this, to melons.

Not just any melons. MelonGate.

During a comedy podcast, Australia’s Prime Minister Anthony Albanese was talking about two highly prized Japanese melons given to him by Japan’s female Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi. He demonstrated the gift by holding his hands in front of his chest. The podcast host then made a Pamela Anderson joke. Albanese has rejected the suggestion that his gesture was intended as a crude reference to Takaichi, and he has refused demands to apologise.

The Japanese government has played the incident down and stressed the good relationship between the two leaders. That’s diplomatic language doing exactly what diplomatic language is supposed to do. But the fact is what Albo did would be considered deeply offensive in Japan.

And to many people in Australia.

Personally, I don’t care whether Japan wants to turn it into a diplomatic incident. I care that the Prime Minister of Australia thought behaving like a thirteen-year-old schoolboy while talking about a gift from a female head of government was acceptable.

And I care that, instead of simply saying, “That was stupid. I’m sorry,” he’s dug in.

Even more depressing has been watching women in his government make excuses for him. We’re constantly told that standards matter. Respect for women matters. Behaviour matters. Apparently there are qualifications.

Sometimes an apology isn’t an admission of some enormous moral failing. Sometimes it simply means you recognise that you’ve behaved like an idiot.

Novelty songs were supposed to be ridiculous. Prime ministers aren’t.

I’d quite happily go back to worrying about whether my boomerang will come back.

Oh, by the way, my latest contribution to the reading public has just hit the virtual shelves. It’s called A Simple Favor and it’s a Morgan Selwood short story/novella. Needless to say the simple favour turns about to be a bit more complicated than she had expected. She tends to be a bit impulsive when confronting anything but a string of data.

You’ll find it here.