‘Harmless’ slap and tickle

‘Harmless’ slap and tickle
The West Australian
Ros Thomas
Published: Saturday June 23, 2012
Section: Opinion

More bosses have asked me to take my top off than I care to remember.

Back in the 80’s. Actually, it was the 90’s aswell.

Radio then was loose and fast and a hotbed of lascivious ego. Lotharios stalked the corridors (the best ones were in advertising) and were good at brushing up against you as you passed them in doorways. Men old enough to be your granddad offered up their laps if there weren’t enough chairs round the IBM to sub your story. The kitchen was a dangerous place to be after an executive lunch, and the gent’s toilet door was often left ajar to give you a tantalizing glimpse of what you were missing. Perhaps disinfectant.

If you had a nice bum it got pinched, if you didn’t, a smile might win you one anyway. In their wanton eyes, it must have been a glorious time to be female. I got my first job answering the phones and making tea. I was so good at it they asked me to accompany my cups of tea into the studio and be the ditzy barrel girl for competitions. I was so bad at it they asked me to try on the new station t-shirts. Without a bra.

I’m not sure what let me down, my assets, or my resistance, but either way, they asked someone else do the publicity titbits and let me do work experience in the newsroom. I was 20, naïve and unworldly but keen as mustard. Now this was right up my alley. I became a cadet. And the sexual politics of my first job in journalism lay spread-eagled before me.

It made for hysterical drinks with girlfriends after work on a Friday night.

There was the one gentleman who took me to lunch at a posh restaurant by the river to celebrate a ratings win, only to expect dessert in the bulrushes afterwards. Or the Don Juan who would pay for my drinks at office parties and then demand to settle the bill at the motel room he’d pre-booked across the road.

Best of all was the visiting American disc jockey who locked me in the music library so I could share his hot dog. There was no shortage of yankee  doodle in his establishment – apparently.

He was married. Come to think of it, they all were. The young single guys were the safe ones. They were trying, like me, to work their way up the ladder with all they had. Hopefully talent. The older married ones had career superiority and deep radio voices and wore the pants. With their fly undone.

I never once thought of dobbing on anyone. Career suicide.  And they knew it. Sexual harassment was sport and they were self deluded enough to think deep down we loved it. The one in the bulrushes? All he scored that day was an own goal. But he didn’t speak to me for weeks afterwards. He even wrote me a poison pen letter asking did my mother know what a tease I was?

It wasn’t just me of course. I was the late bloomer in the office so god knows what the pretty girls had to cope with.

I discovered years after leaving one job that a girlfriend who later worked in the same office office had a bulrushes story of her own, identical to mine. We got our own back by swapping notes on his ridiculous modus operandi and laughing long and loud using our little fingers as props.

Sexual harassment was then a disease that pervaded certainly my industry, and I’m sure plenty of others. It worked its lecherous fingers into any office where men had power and women didn’t. And it cared little for being caught, because power gave you immunity against any salacious dirt that some girl might dig up because she was riddled with vindictiveness, or needed a shrink.

We didn’t need a shrink, all we needed was the sisterhood to do what it did best. Take the sting out, giggle uncontrollably, exchange stories, empathise. It was harassment pure and simple, and if you caved in they got to brag about it. I never heard of anyone in my line of work who was physically assaulted or hurt. At least those Casanovas were smart enough to beg for consent.

But that doesn’t excuse it, does it? Or does it? In the 80’s I don’t recall any protection, of the legal sort. It was Mad Men circa 1988. With big hair and stretch ski pants instead of coifs and twin sets. But the pearl of wisdom I received at the time from a much loved older (female) colleague was not to take offence, but negotiate the treacherous path of unwanted sexual advances with cheekiness. My smart mouth saved me every time. And saved my relationship with the men who really were very good at their job of teaching me. If only they’d concentrated on it hard enough.

As I got older and wiser, they became more manipulative. In Sydney, the long  90’s lunch was like quicksand – how deftly could you make your escape before you got dragged under by the cocktails they plied you with and the expensive red wine that was working its magic on them under the table.

But for every groping buffoon there were a dozen others who were a joy to work with. Colleagues and bosses throughout radio and television who were decent and professional and served as the best and most inspiring of mentors. Those who still knew how to have a good time. With their wives.

Whatever happened to the yankee and his pals? I expect they had long and fruitful careers, and in retirement can look back fondly. On their fondles. I heard one is now calling sumo contests in Japan. Good luck propositioning one of them.

I now have a small daughter  and two sons. The boys hopefully will have a good moral compass to guide them in the workplace. I hope my daughter never has to tell my kind of stories. Funny as they are, they’re also a dirty scourge on the heyday of media in this country. And now I’m at home with 3 children I’m free to try on any promotional t-shirts. As long as they come with a built-in bra.