Read it with your morning coffee.......😂💕 𝗔𝗡 𝗢𝗙𝗙𝗜𝗖𝗜𝗔𝗟 𝗣𝗨𝗕𝗟𝗜𝗖 𝗔𝗡𝗡𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗢𝗡 𝗕𝗘𝗛𝗔𝗟𝗙 𝗔𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗚𝗘𝗡 𝗫. Especially those of us who grew up in Australia during the 70s, 80s and early 90s. If you see us sitting at home on a Saturday night, wearing trackie dacks, watching the footy and looking like we’ve completely given up on life, understand one thing. 𝗪𝗘’𝗩𝗘 𝗔𝗟𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗬 𝗗𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘, 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗗𝗦. 😆 We haven’t forgotten how to party. We’ve simply partied enough to qualify for a government pension. You see, Australian Gen X didn’t grow up with smartphones, helicopter parents, location tracking or someone asking whether we’d had enough water. We grew up in an era where your parents told you to piss off outside, be home when the streetlights came on and don’t bring the police home. That was the entire parenting manual. 𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗞𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗦 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗔𝗕𝗦𝗢𝗟𝗨𝗧𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗗𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗦. We went to parties in houses where nobody knew who actually lived there. Someone would say, “There’s a party at Dazza’s.” Who’s Dazza? “No idea, but his oldies are away.” SOLD. By 10 pm there were 80 people in the backyard, someone had dragged out a stereo, somebody else was spewing behind the Hills Hoist and a bloke called Mick was trying to jump over the swimming pool. Nobody had a camera. Nobody had a plan. And nobody had the slightest idea where the bloody night would end. 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗦 𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗡𝗘𝗗 𝗨𝗣. 🚓 And mate, you RAN. Through backyards, over fences, across footy ovals and occasionally straight into somebody’s washing line. There was no Uber. No Find My iPhone. No ringing Mum for a lift. You just kept running until you couldn’t hear sirens anymore. Then walked six kilometres home in your best going-out jeans. 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦? They had absolutely no bloody idea where we were. “Mum, I’m staying at Shane’s.” Shane told his mum he was staying at yours. Meanwhile, both of you were drinking warm VB behind the local cricket club with 30 other idiots. The perfect crime. 𝗪𝗘 𝗗𝗜𝗗𝗡’𝗧 𝗛𝗔𝗩𝗘 𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗣 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗧𝗦. Plans were made on a Thursday. “Meet at the pub at seven Saturday.” And everyone just bloody turned up. No reminders. No shared locations. No 47 messages asking who’s coming. If someone didn’t arrive, you assumed they’d either got lucky, got arrested or fallen asleep. You’d find out Monday. 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗥𝗧 𝗪𝗔𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗟𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗟 𝗢𝗙 𝗦𝗧𝗨𝗣𝗜𝗗. Eight people crammed into a Holden Commodore. Someone sitting on someone’s lap. Three blokes squashed in the back. A slab of beer taking up half the boot. And the driver confidently announcing, “I know a shortcut.” He didn’t. We ended up in bloody Wanneroo. But nobody complained because petrol was cheap and the cassette player was pumping Cold Chisel. 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗜𝗖! 🎸 AC/DC. Cold Chisel. INXS. Australian Crawl. Midnight Oil. The Angels. Barnsey screaming through speakers that were worth more than the car. We didn’t need Spotify. We had mixtapes recorded off the radio, with some idiot DJ talking over the last ten seconds of every song. And if the cassette got chewed? Out came the trusty Bic pen. Fixed. 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗖𝗟𝗨𝗕𝗦. Sticky carpets. Flashing lights. Cigarette smoke so thick you could barely see the bar. Blokes wearing tucked-in shirts and enough Brut 33 to fumigate a small suburb. Girls with enormous hair, shoulder pads and enough hairspray to destroy the ozone layer. We danced for hours. Not because we were fit. Because we were young, stupid and absolutely convinced we were irresistible. Then the lights came on. Jesus Christ. People you’d been dancing with suddenly looked like they’d been dug up during a police investigation. 𝗕𝗨𝗧 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘’𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧. 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗡𝗢 𝗖𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗔 𝗣𝗛𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦. 🙏 Not one. No Facebook. No Instagram. No TikTok. No Snapchat. No bloody livestreams. If you made an absolute goose of yourself on Saturday night, by Tuesday the evidence had usually disappeared. Unless your mate brought a Kodak Instamatic. And even then, half the photos were blurry, somebody had their thumb over the lens and you had to wait a week to get them developed. There are things Australian Gen X did in the 80s that would get people cancelled, sacked or featured on A Current Affair today. Thankfully, the only witnesses are now in their 50s and 60s, and half of them can’t remember why they walked into the kitchen. 𝗪𝗘 𝗔𝗟𝗦𝗢 𝗦𝗨𝗥𝗩𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗟𝗗𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗔 𝗦𝗔𝗙𝗘𝗧𝗬 𝗗𝗘𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧. We rode pushbikes without helmets. Drank water from the garden hose. Played cricket in the street. Built jumps out of bricks and bits of plywood. Sat in the back of utes. Went swimming in rivers nobody had tested. And disappeared for entire days with nothing but a BMX, two dollars and a packet of mixed lollies. If you fell off your bike, your mate didn’t call an ambulance. He laughed so hard he nearly wet himself. Then helped you up. Maybe. 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦? There were no wellness retreats. No hydration supplements. No $18 green smoothies. You woke up on someone’s couch, ate a meat pie, drank a Masters iced coffee or a Brownes choc milk and somehow made it to your shift at work. Your boss didn’t ask about your mental wellbeing. He asked why you were five minutes late. 𝗡𝗢𝗪 𝗙𝗔𝗦𝗧-𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗗 𝟯𝟱 𝗬𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦. We’re sitting at home on Saturday night. The dog’s asleep. The footy’s on. Dinner was at 5:30. The dishwasher’s loaded. And someone suggests going out. “Yeah mate, sounds good.” Meanwhile, we’re silently praying they cancel. Because the thought of getting dressed, finding parking and paying $15 for a beer sounds like a punishment handed down by a magistrate. At 9:30 pm, we’re not looking for a nightclub. We’re looking for the remote control. And if someone rings after 10 pm, somebody had better be dead. 𝗦𝗢 𝗧𝗢 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗥 𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡… When you see your Gen X parents sitting quietly on the couch, don’t mistake it for being boring. You’re looking at a couple of retired absolute weapons. People who survived the 80s. Survived the 90s. Survived the pub, the nightclub, the backyard parties, the dodgy cars, the questionable haircuts and the worst hangovers known to mankind. We didn’t need likes. We didn’t need followers. We didn’t need to film ourselves having fun to prove it happened. 𝗪𝗘 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘, 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗕𝗨𝗚𝗚𝗘𝗥𝗦. And if our knees, backs and livers could talk, they’d probably demand compensation. So yes, we’re staying home tonight. Yes, we’re wearing trackies. And yes, there’s a very good chance we’ll be asleep before the late news. 𝗕𝗘𝗖𝗔𝗨𝗦𝗘 𝗪𝗘’𝗥𝗘 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗕𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚. 𝗪𝗘’𝗥𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗟𝗘𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗦. 🇦🇺🍻 And the greatest achievement of Australian Gen X? **𝗪𝗘 𝗛𝗔𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗬 𝗟𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗦 𝗕𝗘𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗘𝗧 𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗗 𝗞𝗘𝗘𝗣 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗘𝗩𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘. 𝗡𝗢𝗪 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧’𝗦 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗖𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗟𝗜𝗩𝗜𝗡𝗚.