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Tapping into board game culture

Tapping into board game culture

'While on Grumpy Grandpa child-minding duty recently and playing the board game Monopoly Dogs with my four-year-old grandson, watching him count out the play-money got me wondering,' notes (geddit?) Neville Pleffer of Rooty Hill. 'Will future Monopoly games come with charge cards, EFTPOS machines and the encroaching card surcharge? Or has it already happened? Oh, the joy of counting those paper notes.'
'My Baby Book (C8) had a space for quaint sayings,' says Robyn Lewis of Raglan. 'I remember asking my mother why the page had no quotes. She explained there was not enough space to write 'all the interesting things' I said to the family or her friends.'
'Please tell me the practice of eating brains (C8) ceased with the advent of publicity about Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease (CJD)?' implores Jo Rainbow of Orange. 'Only zombies like brains.'
Rhonda Ellis' yarn on air-rifle combat (C8) certainly got Tony Winton of Mosman fired up: 'At Sirius Cove in the late 1940s, the kids on the western side had Daisy air rifles, and on the eastern side we had German-made Diane air rifles, which were brought from Germany after WWII. There were lots and lots of bangs and nobody was ever hurt, except me, who received a dart to my right thigh. All this friendly action was to stop when the Mosman police arrived and we all disappeared. Even as kids we thought that our shooting fun had better stop.'
'My brother, when about 10, organised and held the inaugural BB gun championship of suburban Bexley in the 1960s,' recalls Janice Creenaune of Austinmer. 'He painted one pellet gold as the prize and encased it in a little container. Sharing armoury was essential, and practice minimal, but serious backyard shooting ruled (if maybe not legal). A winner was eventually found and little Ralphie went home quite chuffed.'
'So when a bird flies into an engine at the new Nancy Bird Walton Airport, the headlines will read 'Bird stops bird on Bird'?' asks George Zivkovic of Northmead.
'The Australian government is this year distributing the highest amount of free money ever (in the form of welfare payments),' notes Bill Leigh of West Pennant Hills. 'Meanwhile, the National Parks and Wildlife Service ask us, 'Please Do Not Feed the Animals'. The stated reason being 'the animals will grow dependent on handouts and will not learn to take care of themselves'. Funny how that works.'
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We're a nation of oversharers, but no one needs to know this about you
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Aussies are world-famous for our stoicism, ironic understatement and wry, dry self-deprecation. A limb could be dangling by one sinew, or a crocodile nibbling on your nether regions, and the reply to 'Are you OK?' would be 'She'll be right' or 'No worries, mate'. Especially the blokes. It used to be the only way to know what was going on inside your average Aussie fella was to do open-heart surgery. But of late, I've noticed, we seem to have become a nation of oversharers. For example, I was happily chatting to a woman in the doctor's waiting room about her love of riding, how it relaxed and thrilled her but could cause chafing. Five minutes later I realised she meant blokes, not horses. Clearly 'equine therapy' for middle-aged women means finding a man who is hung like one. And that's not an isolated incident. Female friends have always traded confessions over smashed avo brunches – but not to the current extent. One gal pal recently shared explicit details about the way she eats strawberries from her lover's body. (At least she's getting one of her 'five a day'.) I'm also privy to which high-powered female executive got down and dirty with the bartender. (Dignity is the only thing alcohol doesn't preserve.) And which circuit judge likes to pick up blokes in the park. (Which explains why she's started dyeing her hair blonde – so men can find her in the dark.) And the fellas are at it, too. Blokes who previously wouldn't even say 'I love you' to the woman who bore their children are suddenly getting down to their emotional undies in a psychological striptease that reveals all. I blame Harry, Meghan, Gwyneth Paltrow and all the other self-obsessed celebs who like to 'sit in their truth'. Previously reserved male pals have taken to confiding their boudoir peccadilloes. A swim-team chum, renowned for his taciturn toughness, recently confessed how much he likes wearing his wife's underwear. I now also know which of my male friends likes to talk dirty (and I don't mean sorting the compost and recycling bins) and those with a penchant for S&M. The thought makes my toes curl; I don't like to be beaten, not even at Monopoly. Surely handcuffs are only acceptable for an undercover police officer? And it's not just friends confessing all. Like the woman I encountered at the doctor, complete strangers are suddenly haemorrhaging every detail of their emotional lives and medical ailments. Apropos of nothing, I've been shown photos of my florist's foot fungus and my barista's armpit boil. I can't even relax at yoga because the instructor keeps divulging details about her 'arousal disorder'. (I don't think she has an arousal disorder; what she has is a job, two kids and a lazy spouse.)

We're a nation of oversharers, but no one needs to know this about you
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Sydney Morning Herald

time6 days ago

  • Sydney Morning Herald

We're a nation of oversharers, but no one needs to know this about you

Aussies are world-famous for our stoicism, ironic understatement and wry, dry self-deprecation. A limb could be dangling by one sinew, or a crocodile nibbling on your nether regions, and the reply to 'Are you OK?' would be 'She'll be right' or 'No worries, mate'. Especially the blokes. It used to be the only way to know what was going on inside your average Aussie fella was to do open-heart surgery. But of late, I've noticed, we seem to have become a nation of oversharers. For example, I was happily chatting to a woman in the doctor's waiting room about her love of riding, how it relaxed and thrilled her but could cause chafing. Five minutes later I realised she meant blokes, not horses. Clearly 'equine therapy' for middle-aged women means finding a man who is hung like one. And that's not an isolated incident. Female friends have always traded confessions over smashed avo brunches – but not to the current extent. One gal pal recently shared explicit details about the way she eats strawberries from her lover's body. (At least she's getting one of her 'five a day'.) I'm also privy to which high-powered female executive got down and dirty with the bartender. (Dignity is the only thing alcohol doesn't preserve.) And which circuit judge likes to pick up blokes in the park. (Which explains why she's started dyeing her hair blonde – so men can find her in the dark.) And the fellas are at it, too. Blokes who previously wouldn't even say 'I love you' to the woman who bore their children are suddenly getting down to their emotional undies in a psychological striptease that reveals all. I blame Harry, Meghan, Gwyneth Paltrow and all the other self-obsessed celebs who like to 'sit in their truth'. Previously reserved male pals have taken to confiding their boudoir peccadilloes. A swim-team chum, renowned for his taciturn toughness, recently confessed how much he likes wearing his wife's underwear. I now also know which of my male friends likes to talk dirty (and I don't mean sorting the compost and recycling bins) and those with a penchant for S&M. The thought makes my toes curl; I don't like to be beaten, not even at Monopoly. Surely handcuffs are only acceptable for an undercover police officer? And it's not just friends confessing all. Like the woman I encountered at the doctor, complete strangers are suddenly haemorrhaging every detail of their emotional lives and medical ailments. Apropos of nothing, I've been shown photos of my florist's foot fungus and my barista's armpit boil. I can't even relax at yoga because the instructor keeps divulging details about her 'arousal disorder'. (I don't think she has an arousal disorder; what she has is a job, two kids and a lazy spouse.)

We're a nation of over-sharers, but no one needs to know this about you
We're a nation of over-sharers, but no one needs to know this about you

Sydney Morning Herald

time6 days ago

  • Sydney Morning Herald

We're a nation of over-sharers, but no one needs to know this about you

Aussies are world-famous for our stoicism, ironic understatement and wry, dry self-deprecation. A limb could be dangling by one sinew, or a crocodile nibbling on your nether regions, and the reply to 'Are you OK?' would be 'She'll be right' or 'No worries, mate'. Especially the blokes. It used to be the only way to know what was going on inside your average Aussie fella was to do open-heart surgery. But of late, I've noticed, we seem to have become a nation of over-sharers. For example, I was happily chatting to a woman in the doctor's waiting room about her love of riding, how it relaxed and thrilled her but could cause chafing. Five minutes later I realised she meant blokes, not horses. Clearly 'equine therapy' for middle-aged women means finding a man who is hung like one. And that's not an isolated incident. Female friends have always traded confessions over smashed avo brunches – but not to the current extent. One gal pal recently shared explicit details about the way she eats strawberries from her lover's body. (At least she's getting one of her 'five a day'.) I'm also privy to which high-powered female executive got down and dirty with the bartender. (Dignity is the only thing alcohol doesn't preserve.) And which circuit judge likes to pick up blokes in the park. (Which explains why she's started dyeing her hair blonde – so men can find her in the dark.) And the fellas are at it, too. Blokes who previously wouldn't even say 'I love you' to the woman who bore their children are suddenly getting down to their emotional undies in a psychological striptease that reveals all. I blame Harry, Meghan, Gwyneth Paltrow and all the other self-obsessed celebs who like to 'sit in their truth'. Previously reserved male pals have taken to confiding their boudoir peccadilloes. A swim-team chum, renowned for his taciturn toughness, recently confessed how much he likes wearing his wife's underwear. I now also know which of my male friends likes to talk dirty (and I don't mean sorting the compost and recycling bins) and those with a penchant for S&M. The thought makes my toes curl; I don't like to be beaten, not even at Monopoly. Surely handcuffs are only acceptable for an undercover police officer? And it's not just friends confessing all. Like the woman I encountered at the doctor, complete strangers are suddenly haemorrhaging every detail of their emotional lives and medical ailments. Apropos of nothing, I've been shown photos of my florist's foot fungus and my barista's armpit boil. I can't even relax at yoga because the instructor keeps divulging details about her 'arousal disorder'. (I don't think she has an arousal disorder; what she has is a job, two kids and a lazy spouse.)

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