Not this time. The telly had just announced that Friday is National Barramundi Day, and The Boss was frothing at the mouth, which is normally my department.
The Boss loves barra fishing and he’s done his share of it, usually heading north to warmer climes for a week and leaving me to mind the house. Officially, I stay home because of the crocodiles. Unofficially, he fears I’d retrieve the barra before he’d finished playing it.
He regards it as a proper fish. A fighting beast that sucks in a lure with a resounding “boof”, then erupts from the water, shaking its head in fury to throw the hook. And the big ones usually do. The Boss has the sad stories of all the monsters that beat him — and no photographs.
So he thinks they’re a magnificent fish and worthy of respect.
Yet according to the telly, National Barramundi Day isn’t about mist over the mangroves at low tide, or the thrill of tricking a lurking barra out of an unlikely muddy drain to woof down a lure. It’s about flogging vacuum-sealed fillets at 15 bucks a pop, with a free sachet of tartare sauce.
It isn’t a celebration. It’s a boardroom promotion dreamed up by blokes who think roughing it means dining outdoors without a patio heater. If you’re going to honour the king of the estuary, you don’t do it with a printed cardboard collar on a bottle of dry white.
It got me thinking, between naps, about the endless parade of these improbable national days.
A bloke in a suit invents a Tuesday, sticks ‘International’ in front of it and expects the world to applaud. I’ve heard them rabbiting on about World Gin Day, International Hamburger Day and Something On A Stick Day. I ask you: who lobbies for Something On A Stick Day? Not to mention National Ramen Noodle Day.
Mind you, some have genuine merit. International Bacon Day is a sacred occasion, to be observed with sunrise vigils and generous handouts beneath the kitchen table. International Dumpling Day also commands my deepest theological respect, provided the offerings are dropped accidentally from waist height.
World Vegan Day, on the other hand, is an unmitigated tragedy: 24 hours of utter desolation in which nobody even pretends to scrape a sausage skin into the scrap bucket.
If the calendar is going to be carved up into manufactured tributes, I reckon it’s high time the species with the superior moral compass took over the scheduling. Away with the retail gimmicks — I propose public holidays that speak to the soul.
First, National Dropped Crust Day. Mandated by federal law, it’s the one day of the year when human fingers turn to butter and perfectly good toast tumbles carpet-ward, strictly butter-side down, into the jaws of a vigilant retriever.
Secondly, National Cat Pursuit Day, conducted under strict rules of engagement: the cat must be outside, the cat must be running, and the cat must not, under any circumstances, turn around.
And thirdly, World Dead-Thing-in-the-Long-Grass Appreciation Day. Forget your French perfumes and lavender diffusers. True culture lies in finding an unidentifiable, week-old carcass down the paddock and shimmying one’s back along it — for a broad, generous coating.
It’s an art form. It deserves a long weekend, which is roughly how long The Boss stops speaking to me afterwards. Woof!
