Lucky me. Last week I got to attend a cocktail function at one of the most exclusive clubs in inner city Sydney. This meant the usual array of indulgences, from women wearing next to nothing and the nice smelling chaps in $200 ties ogling them, to Master Chef-worthy canapes and all the free booze one could pour down ones’ gullet. Our host for the evening, a well known radio identity with an even better known saggy left eye, kept things rolling along at a pleasent pace, but not before he did something that is so der rigour these days it seems almost impossible to have a night on free piss at a hot club with out it – he started by ‘acknowledging the traditional owners of the land’ on which we stood.
Is he serious? Can it get any more insulting? I mean, sure, getting acknowledgment from a $1500 an hour host whose struggling to be heard above a crowd of half-pissed media suits chasing down finger food and a root is terrific, but you know what’s even better? An invite. A little bit of “hey, since it’s your land, how about coming on in?” Or some rent, perhaps? Not a lot; just a night’s worth. Or what about permission to actually host a $100,000 party in a place that you are freely accepting belongs to someone else? Or does placing the word “traditional” before “ownership” nullify that idea?
A little disingenuous, wouldn’t you say? Or is that dis-indigenous? I can never quite remember.