You may have missed the story, but back in May it was revealed NSW government ministers were told during a ‘Respect At Work’ training session they should cease using the word ‘mate’ in the office.
Apparently those who ran the training course believed the most dinky-di of Aussie terms could be offensive to some people. Naturally there was a collective outcry at the ‘PC insanity’ that caused one MP to complain in the Daily Telegraph, “I use ‘mate’ all the time – it’s as Australian as you can get! How can it be offensive?”
‘How indeed?’ I agreed.
The story sank without a trace the following day because obviously no one was ever going to take such a stupid directive seriously, let alone implement and enforce it. ‘Maaate’ lives on in all its true-blue glory, unhindered by political correctness in a world gone mad.
I gave it no more thought.
A few weeks later however, I was standing in the self-checkout line at Woolies. I was looking at my phone and failed to notice one of the machines was free.
“Hey, mate!” a reedy voice piped up from behind me. I turned around and clocked a local schoolboy of 14 or 15 motioning at the empty checkout with his index finger. “You’re up, mate!” he said.
Now, the kid had every right to let me know a checkout was free and I was holding up everyone else in the line by gawking at my phone. But what sort of smart-arsed upstart teenage punk thinks it’s okay to call someone four times his age ‘mate’? Twice!
I bristled but let it slide because, you know, he was a kid and, really, who gives a shit? But by the time I got back to my car I realised I had most definitely been offended by being called ‘mate’ in that context.
On the drive home I recalled a time in the 1980s when, as an 18-year-old copyboy on a Sydney newspaper, I was called to the editor’s office. Back then journalists and executives only had to holler “Copy!” and one of half a dozen teenage hopefuls would appear to fulfil their needs, be it fetching files from the library, collecting pictures from the photographic department, making coffee or getting their lunch.
When the editor called out ‘Copy!’ on this occasion he’d wanted someone get him a pack of smokes from the shop across the street. I was the one who answered the call. I scurried over to his office, stuck my head inside and said, “Yes, mate?”
I might as well have summoned Satan.
“What in the fuck did you just say to me?” he bellowed as the blood drained from my face. “I’m not your fucking mate, boyo! You can call me Mr Allen, and if you can’t manage that you can address me as ‘sir’. Call me mate again and you can look for another career.”
The entire newsroom heard it and I slunk out to buy his durries feeling two feet tall.
Mr Allen had been downright offended by a harmless little ‘mate’ and it was then I realised you can’t just go around deploying the m-word whenever and to whomever you like. I wondered if the MP who whined to the Telegraph would be cool with office juniors calling him ‘mate’.
When I got home from Woolies I thought I’d test the waters of mateship with my wife, Lizzy.
“Here ya go, mate,” I said, plonking the groceries on the kitchen counter.
She looked at me with a bemused smile for a few long seconds before speaking. “Why are you talking to me like that?” she asked, a hint of hurt in her voice.
“Like what?” I replied, feigning surprise.
“Why am I ‘mate’ all of a sudden?”
“We’re Australians Lizzy! It’s actually the most Aussie thing I can call you. Why, are you offended?”
Her smile faded, replaced by a look you’d give someone who’d shat in their pants. “What’s gotten into you?” she said and left the room.
Just like me and Mr Allen, my lovely missus can clearly have her nose put out of joint by being called ‘mate’.
Look, I’m not saying mate isn’t great. Christ, I use it 50 times a day, like most blokes, I suspect. And I certainly prefer being called ‘mate’ over ‘dude’ or ‘man’ as quite a few young hipsters running the cafes in my town are wont to do.
All I’m saying is that the m-word – just like our flesh-and-blood mates – can sometimes be better in small doses, and certainly at the right time and place. If I were to ever meet Queen Elizabeth, for example, I doubt I’d call her ‘mate’ and justify it by saying, “It’s as Australian as you can get!” like the Liberal MP did. After all, I’ve tried it out on my own Queen Lizzy with no joy.
Having said all that, I hope you and I can still be mates.