“It’s of­fi­cial, so­ci­ety has lost its sense of hu­mour”

Sunday Herald Sun - Stellar - - Front Page -

As that great fore­mother of hi­lar­i­ous news­pa­per col­umns Erma Bombeck once ob­served: “When hu­mour goes, there goes civil­i­sa­tion.”

Well, guess what, peo­ple? Civil­i­sa­tion has gone. Let the loot­ing be­gin. So­ci­ety has of­fi­cially y lost its sense of hu­mour.

And be­cause use mar­tial law now ex­ists in this waste­land eland of wit, from this day for­ward I will ill now write JOKE in cap­i­tal let­ters rs and paren­the­sis, af­ter each joke, so o that the more lit­eral among you will know when to laugh (just like ike they do for those Amer­i­can-canned-laugh­ter anned-laugh­ter stu­dio TV au­di­ences). udi­ences).

So here we go… Ear­lier this month, I wrote what I thought was as a bril­liant (JOKE), hi­lar­i­ous ious (not a JOKE) col­umn for Stel­lar on how no-one is per­fect er­fect and we all have to love what we are.

Mid flow, I ex­plained if you don’t think ink I’m beau­ti­ful (with all the e TV hair and make-up and d lights) you were en­ti­tled to your our opin­ion. But that you’d be e wrong. (JOKE! JOKE! JOKE! E! JOKE! One more time for the dum­mies – that was a JOKE!)

As with most of what I say in life, my tongue was firmly in my cheek.

Well. The e en­su­ing out­rage could only have been beaten by the beat­ing given to Bert or Barn­aby. En­tire news­pa­per pages were ded­i­cated to my break­ing of the golden rule for women: to NEVER ad­mit you’re beau­ti­ful. (I was ac­tu­ally not aware that was a rule.) I thought when so­ci­ety told us to be con­fi­dent, love what we’re bl blessed with (and hide the scary bits) we w were ac­tu­ally meant to be, and love and hid hide. Whoops! The out­rage com­men­tato com­men­ta­tors also kindly (JOKE) shared wit with me what the burn­ing fires of hell (aka the on­line “com­ments” sec sec­tion for ar­ti­cles) were spew­ing up from the anony­mous und un­der­world of those vile and ugly ugl haters. (Not a JOKE.) I was “over the hill”, shou should “work on ra­dio” and and, my favourite, “no “not all that”. Well, guess what, id­iot? I AM all that. (N (Not a JOKE.) (FYI: I NEVER read rea the com­ments sec­tions as I have bet­ter things to do, l like slam my hand in a car doo door 15 times.) Ex­as­per­ated didn didn’t even be­gin to de­scribe it. it Silly me, I’ve al­ways en­joyed the funny, out­ra­geous peo­ple in so­ci­ety, and tried to avoid the ones who con­sider Kath & Kim a doc­u­men­tary. “Isn’t laugh­ter t the best medicine?” I wailed to my mother (a for­mer regi reg­is­tered nurse). “No, Sa­man­tha Sa­man­tha. Medicine is the best medicine,” she replied, dead­pan. (The haters will be pleased to know that in ad­di­tion to be­ing hideously ugly and ridicu­lously un­funny, I still reg­u­larly and with great gusto whinge to my mother about bul­lies and id­iots.)

I re­flected if I was to blame for cre­at­ing this out­rage (JOKE). It’s true, I DO rely on the laugh­ing-cry­ing emoji too much, but is that a sin pun­ish­able by death? Per­haps.

And then my mother called me back and said, “Write a col­umn about how stupid and lack­ing in hu­mour peo­ple can be these days.” And I whined, “Jeez Mum, I haven’t got time to­day to im­prove so­ci­ety.”

But I’ve al­ways prided my­self on my self-dep­re­cat­ing hu­mour, de­spite mak­ing my liv­ing from the TV in­dus­try. And I never shy away from a fight (as I make my liv­ing from the TV in­dus­try).

So, like the tena­cious (not a JOKE), try-hard co­me­dian I am (JOKE), I be­gan to write. And here ’tis.

If you don’t think I’m funny, you’re en­ti­tled to your opin­ion.

But you’d be wrong. Sa­man­tha co-hosts Sun­rise, 5.30am week­days, on the Seven Net­work.

Con­grat­u­la­tions on bag­ging your sec­ond Lo­gie this year. Did you think you were a shoo-in on the night? Look, I wouldn’t have backed my­self with some­body else’s money. That’s how sure I was that Rodger [Corser] was go­ing to win the cat­e­gory. It was a to­tal shock, a to­tal sur­prise and very nice since it had been a fair while since the Gold in 2010. It’s also been a fair while since you joined Home And Away – 30 years. Did you ever ex­pect to still be in Sum­mer Bay at age 74? When I was first of­fered the part it was a two-year con­tract and I said, “No, no… I don’t want to be tied down that long.” They said, “Would you do a year?” I said, “No, I couldn’t pos­si­bly!” But then, it’s shot in Syd­ney and I thought it might be nice to be at home at the end of the day. So I said, “I’ll do six months.” Then you get a bit se­duced by be­ing able to sleep in your own bed. It’s not like you haven’t plied your trade else­where. You did a cou­ple of stints on Lon­don’s West End in Priscilla Queen Of The Desert The Mu­si­cal. Pretty good for a rug­by­play­ing bloke from the bush who can’t sing or dance. So how did you get your start in show­biz? A cou­ple of guys in the rugby club told me the ama­teur the­atre in town needed a few more blokes. I wasn’t keen but when they got parts, they came back and said, “Lis­ten, there’s not a lot of com­pe­ti­tion for the girls.” And that was that. Have you made your peace with fans de­mand­ing self­ies, or does it ever ran­kle? That’s some­thing that does go with the ter­ri­tory. You get the oc­ca­sional ya­hoo scream­ing “Stone the crows” or “You flamin’ mon­grel” out the car win­dow, but usu­ally peo­ple are re­ally nice about it – they just want to talk about the show. My at­ti­tude is, if you’ve been burst­ing into peo­ple’s lounge rooms un­in­vited for 30 years, they’ve got ev­ery right. Aside from act­ing, you have a brand of hot sauce. What made you pick that condi­ment? Grow­ing up in the bush, I’d go mus­ter­ing with my el­dest brother and in the mid­dle of the day, you’d sit down, boil the billy some­where and have a mut­ton sand­wich – I’d like to say lamb but some of the old girls were def­i­nitely more on the mut­ton side. Two slabs of bread, slice of tomato if you were lucky… which made for a bit of a dry mouth­ful. Worces­ter­shire sauce would come to the res­cue. I would slather it on. I got hooked, so when I started think­ing about what to do, it felt like there was a bit of a blood­line there. You have part­nered with in­ter­net com­pany Godaddy, which has a web­site builder for small busi­nesses, to sell the sauce. How are your IT skills? Lack of my IT skills is a bet­ter way to put it. Small busi­nesses are the lifeblood of this coun­try but more than half don’t have web­sites. They need all the help they can get; I fig­ure if I can do it, any­one can. And now all the pro­ceeds from your sales will go to char­ity? I al­ways wanted my share to go to Cure Cancer, but Godaddy said, “No, let’s put ev­ery dol­lar that way.” A de­ci­sion like that re­stores your faith in hu­man­ity. It’s in­spir­ing and in­vig­o­rat­ing. Do you reckon even Alf could take his bait shop on­line? What do you think of www.alf­s­tackle.com? I reckon he needs to.

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