Half-naked wage slaves and other disturbing Victoriana

Ah, the joys of working in an legal job near Melbourne’s Flagstaff Gardens in un-busy January. Joys, now sadly fading, like the memory of days with urban air uncluttered by the bushfire smoke haze now clotting city skylines. Now the Courts have opened once more, and justice, or at least the legal profession, is waking from its slumber.

Chief among the pleasures of that Elysian, receding month, was being able to round up a lad or two from the token “team male“ contingent at my highly feminised workplace, grab a frisbee and slip down to Flagstaff Gardens for a brief bit of a game punctually after work with no-one chained to their desk by pressing business.

Much healthier than stopping in at the pub on the way home.

In Flagstaff Gardens, though, I’ve noted a disturbing lunch-time trend: male office workers getting their gear off. Lads in business wear just stripping off their shirts and flaking out on the grass.

I clearly missed the memo. I have removed my shirt once in the presence of work colleagues (not counting anything involving a swimming pool) and that was during a rest break at the end of the uphill portion of a 10 km hike with packs. One other member of team male got down to it before me: we were hot, our shirts were disgusting, we wanted them drier before walking the “easy“ bit.

But when did office workers, with no sweat, no packs, no excuse, cross this line? At what point did we become as sun-desperate as the British? Why have I NEVER seen it in Canberra or Sydney? Why has allegedly conservative Melbourne lead the charge in male semi-nudity as lunchtime business-wear?

For the record: it’s not for me. The world is not clamouring for my abs and pecs. I am happier with my own shape than I’ve ever been, but a quick trip to Sydney’s Coogee beach the other weekend with Madness Boy and his flatmates did nothing to dispel the impression there’s a good bit between me and a modelling contract. The death of 30 - 50% of the western world’s men to start with, followed by radically increased gym attendance and gaining 15 kilos in muscle. Minimum.

What I found most interesting was that the one time I encountered this Flagstaff Gardens phenomenon with ladies present, was that the practice drew a good deal of derision. Admittedly, most of that may have been due to the fact that one of the young men in question was trying too hard to pass as a roue Calvin Klein model: his salmon pink shirt unbuttoned down the front, and artfully slipping from just the one shoulder. Sleek Ray Bans firmly in place, naturellement.

Imagine the following from oestrogen-charged sports commentators at a distance from the scene that only just qualified as discreet:

“Is he going to go the other shoulder?“

“Nah!“

“I think he is!“

“It’s slipping! It’s slipping!“

“With a wiggle he frees himself!“

“Arms out! It’s gold for Australia!“

“Yeah! Whoo, whoo, whoo!“

“Come on guys“ (this to the men present), “when’re you going to get it off?“

Strangely, we declined the invitation, and retired to our desks - pallid, possibly, but with dignity intact.

Other things that weird me out about Melbourne, in a good or a bad way:

1. Cheerful yellow and green trams. Trams rock. Hopeless for commuting but brilliant for weekends, tourists and getting home when you can’t find your car let alone drive it. (Canberra would vastly benefit from trams.)

2. The way every freaking thing closes down from Christmas day until January 6 - the day you’re officially allowed to take your Christmas tree down. I kid thee not: ’tis murder to find a watering hole in the holiday season.

3. “Melbourne Weather“ is a synonym elsewhere in the country for four seasons in one day, provided all seasons contain intermittent drizzle. That may have been the case on my arrival in October, but as the drought progresses I’m remembering the other thing about Melbourne - long, dry, hot summers regularly reaching 40 degrees Centigrade.

4. The genuinely vibrant café culture here, particularly in the city alleyways -wonderful to leave the office to a civic centre where people are drinking and eating, not a dead heart in a concrete canyon. (Shame so few suburban cafes open on Sunday afternoons, though.)

5. I have gotta get out to more live music. Sydney manages to support maybe two really top-notch jazz venues (and one of has had to start Saturday night dance music to make a buck). Melbourne has four or five, minimum, one of which is easily world-standard. I’ve only visited two, dammit, two! In three months here! What am I doing?