The Doust Files – Albany Advertiser 15/3/2011

Every so often I have a cup of tea with my old mate, Pete. But before I tell you about our last conversation, which got pretty low down and dirty, let me tell you about Pete.

Pete’s a Noongar and he’s crawled through a few mills in his time and been dragged through a couple as well.

There’s a lot I like about the old bugger, but, in particular, as is common with most of my friends, he has an over active sense of humour.

In his day he was a fine footballer, boxer, and charmer. He would, of course, still lay claim to at least the last.

Anyway, when Pete and I chat, we don’t beat around the bush, we get straight to it, whatever it is and this time it was about our health.

Earlier in the day I had spotted Len, another of my old mates, a retired farmer from Bruce Rock, but he didn’t want to talk. To be fair, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk, rather he didn’t want to talk about what I wanted to talk about – men’s business.

The thing was, that very day I was due a visit to the Big Clinic, you know the one along Stirling Terrace opposite the Police Station.

I suppose I shouldn’t have walked right up to Len and said: “Hey, Len, you ever had the ultra sound run over your private parts? Or your head examined?”

Frightened the hell out of him and he made a dash for the sand hills, with me yelling out at him: “What about a colonoscopy?” A lot of blokes are like that, like to keep that sort of thing to themselves. Not me and Pete.

We ordered our tea, had to be tea, we’re off coffee and sat back in what little sun was left in the day.

“So,” said Pete, “You’ve had your scrotum squeezed?”

See what I mean, he gets right to it.

I have to tell you, when we parted I felt a whole lot better, because Pete has also had the full range of men’s probes and both of us agreed it all came as a bit of a shock to hit the Big 50, because up until then we thought all the probing and squeezing belonged to women’s business.

As blokes we’d had it easy, right up to that first day when the doctor asked us to set a position on the table we had never set before and before we could say “Jack Thomson” the man you thought was your friend and confidant was invading your very being.

“I nearly hit him,” said Pete.

“What stopped you?” I asked.

“He was the footy club doctor and I took it all thinking I was doing it for the team. I was, but not for the Kangas, it was for us, manhood. I decided that from then on I would insist all my mates got the same treatment.”

Len, are you listening? It’s for the Man Team, all of us, not just you. So make an appointment, you grumpy old bugger.

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