Five Early 90s Female Pop Songs You Didn't Realise You Needed to Hear Again

....or indeed for the first time, for the young (re: uneducated) people out there.

The 1990s was a golden era for solo female pop. The Spice Girls, Girls Aloud and Destiny's Child heralded a new era of pop girl bands from the mid-to-late 90s, before the rise of Britney and Christina once again secured pop music for the solo femmes.

Of course, Madonna was doing her thing throughout all of this, but Madonna's just so far ahead of the pack she should comprise every Top X List of Everything Ever.

Here are five tracks that demonstrate what a young girl might be exposed to musically as her teenage years approached.

5. One of Us by Joan Osborne

OK, so its 1995 release date technically puts it out of the early 90s. But in tone, timbre and intent, it belongs in this list. Most people would probably now know this song as the loving duet Dr Evil and Mini-Me sing in Austin Powers 2, or as the theme for the TV show Joan of Arcadia.

But before that it was a massive hit. It was everywhere, you couldn't escape it. That riff, that yearning voice, that nostril ring she wears in the video clip - it all made Joan Osborne a star. For about five minutes.

Songwriter Eric Bazilian supposedly dashed off the song quickly to impress hit future wife, and offered it to Joan Osborne while working on her album. Her raw vocals turned the "wacky" song about faith and Jesus and the saints and all the prophets into an endearing search for meaning. Despite his hopes, Eric didn't win a Grammy, but he's no doubt made a Bazilian dollars in royalties.

4. Boy in the Moon by Margaret Urlich

You've probably sung along to Margaret Urlich dozens of times and never realised it. The New Zealand-born singer provided the backing vocals in Darryl Braithwaite's 1990 mega hit The Horses. Since then, countless karaoke nights have included some tomfool maxing out the reverb with a "Beeeeeee, little darling!" Sometimes it's not even me.

But Urlich chose not to appear in Dazzer's film clip for The Horses, because she was trying to establish herself as a soloist. 1992's The Boy in the Moon was possibly her biggest hit, a cheerful love ballad supported by an artsy video clip that really highlights the importance of the choker to early 90s fashion. My god, the chokers. They were like an albatross around your neck. 

3. Cry by Lisa Edwards

What did I just tell you about chokers?

I remember getting the CD single of this song from my aunt. I think she'd won it or something and didn't want it. I had that CD for years, just sitting in a rack under Madonna's Erotica and Michael Jackson's Dangerous. I can't remember if I even played it much, just that I felt it boosted my meagre collection.

But who was Lisa Edwards? John Farnham's backing singer, that's who. An experienced session and back-up singer, she somehow managed to score a Top 5 hit with this splendidly dramatic ode to heartbreak, before going back on the road with Whispering Jack about eleventy billion times. 

Researching this post has led me to uncover the fact that this song was actually a cover. English duo Godley and Creme wrote Cry in 1985, and the video shows how New Wave-y it originally was. It also starts out with a pudgy dude crying awkwardly, so I think Edwards deserves points for her theatrical glam black-and-white clip. The tradition of pop stars rolling around on beds was not a new one, but 90s femmes really took it to a new level.

2. Love...Thy Will Be Done by Martika

What did I just tell you about rolling around on beds?

This is the tune that inspired this post. It just randomly popped into my head a few days ago, and I was struck by a deep frission of nostalgic energy. I loved this song in 1991. It was soft, melodic, philosophical and it didn't have a chorus. It was more hymn than song and it always took my breath away 

And it was co-written by Prince! The small, purple-wearing musical genius who's pretty much written everything for everyone. Once you know this fact, you can really hear his guiding hand over the orchestration - the random backing cries ("Satisfied!") and the tumbling, cascading way lyrics would run over each other ("Even when there's no peace outside my window there's peace inside and that's why I can not longer run"). It's magic.

Despite this song doing well in the US and hitting number 1 for ages in Australia, it didn't really help Martika in the long run. After starting so promisingly with the brilliant Toy Soliders back in 1988, dropped out of the limelight after the Martika's Kitchen album was released. Naming an album after a room in your house was probably the reason. Even if I was a brilliant singer, I can't imagine anyone forking out the folding stuff for a copy of Natalie's Bathroom.

1. Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover by Sophie B. Hawkins.

I remember dancing so hard to this song at Tanya Packer's 12th birthday party. That was the party we managed to get a bra off another sleeping girl and hang it off a ceiling light. I know, right? Off the hook. Actually, Tanya Packer was really a bully and the "bad girl" of the school and I'd once gotten in trouble after she wrote me and Melita Grace a letter filled with swear words just because she thought it was cool. My peer-pressure-induced reply (yes, I was weak, I remain weak) was discovered by someone (A teacher? My mother?) and it became an Issue With The Principal. I didn't even have Tanya's original letter to show them because I clearly remember riding my red bike out to the bins (we had a long driveway) to personally dispose of it before anyone could see it. But I tell you, I learned a valuable fucking lesson about language after that whole affair. 

Where was I? Oh yes, Tanya Packer. We parted ways at the end of primary school. I assume she hit adulthood, got knocked up several times by different fellas and now lives a flea-bitten existence somewhere on Brisbane's northside with more children than teeth. I realise that's cruel, but let's face it, she was going that way. You don't know what a head job is at age 10 without certain paths drawing you towards them. Yes, that was how I learned what a head job was. I've never recovered.

I'll admit something though - for a good part of the 1990s, I thought Sophie B. Hawkins and Sarah Jessica Parker were the same person. I'm sure you can understand the confusion - big blonde curly hair, pointy faces, unnecessary middle names/initials. It was only really after Sex and the City began that it dawned on me that SJP probably wouldn't be seen dead in grungy flannel, even in the early 90s.

Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover was a proper rock ballad by a bonafide good singer. SBH had a pleasant raspy richness to her voice, which no doubt inspired the dingy basement setting of the video clip. While this song is no doubt entirely of the early 90s, it retains a certain sense of timelessness. Perhaps it's that deep two-note signature riff, or the way Sophie's soft verses build into the explosive "Damn!" of the chorus. Watch the clip, and I'm fairly certain it will get into your head. But unlike so many other earworms, it's not a wholly unpleasant experience.

Remember November: Freers

This is probably quite a Brisbane-focused Remember November entry, because I'm not sure how far and wide the tuckshop spread of Freers crisps was.

It's very difficult to find any photographic evidence of the once-beloved snackfood company through image searches. As memory serves, Freers folded sometime in the late 90s, before the internet's true purpose as a nostalgia attic came to the fore. And being as how its products were delicious, but wrappings disposable, it's understandable why no packaging has survived to be snapped, suitable filtered and uploaded.

So I've resorted to drawing a dodgy paintshop-style picture of my favourite Freers product:

Freers Cheese Popcorn (40g).

Ahhhh, you can sense the memories coagulating in the drool seeping from the corner of my mouth.

Freers made a few popcorn varieties, but cheese was the only one I ever went for. There's something about the cheesiness of cheese popcorn that comparable cheese snacks (Twisties, Cheezels, Cheetos) can't actually replicate. I'm not sure if it was a particular type of chemical they put in the seasoning, but boy. That shit was like catnip to primary-school-aged Girl Clumsy.

Our tuckshop stocked 40g bags of Freers popcorn for 40 cents. 40 CENTS. My peak Freers-gorging period was 1991/1992, so this wasn't that long ago. As I recall, Mars Bars were about 80 cents at the time, so even for a chocolate-lover like me, Freers popcorn represented the best possible use of the occasional dollar my mother would give me for a tuckshop treat.

I'd saunter up from the Year 6/Year 7 lunch area once, maybe twice a week, shiny gold dollar clenched in my sweaty, nail-bitten hand. I'd purchase two bags of Freers cheese popcorn, and use the remaining 20 cents for a Funny Face icy pole. I'd down the Funny Face first while the ice was still sharp and full of cola or raspberry flavour. Then I'd bust open the delightfully light yet full Freers bag, drinking in the scent of all that virgin cheese popcorn goodness.

The contents would disappear rather quickly after that.

I'd save the second bag for after school, or eat later at home, secretly in my bedroom, or out for a walk, somewhere no one else could find me and demand some. I didn't like to share.

Sadly my primary school days came to an end, and with them my ready access to cheap delicious Freers popcorn. My high school tuckshop did have deep fried chicken-and-corn bars, but they could never inspire the same sort of devotion.

Freers could occasionally be sourced at Franklins supermarkets, but the popcorn varieties seemed to be discontinued; and then the company wound up, forever dashing my hopes of a cheese popcorn revival.

America seems to have dozens of cheese popcorn options available, but for some reason Australia hasn't embraced that particular form of junk food. The only place I can source it now is from Kernels Popcorn at Chermside, and it's relatively expensive. Certainly no 40 cents, that's for sure. And it's still like catnip for me; I really have to ration out my visits lest I wind up on A Current Affair as some sort of demented popcorn hoarder, sitting Smorg-like on my own increasing body weight of air-popped snacks, batting off nutritionists and sensible people with tubby lard arms.

So it's probably for the best that Freers wound up. But still, I mourn them.

Remember November: Covering Copybooks

Caution: this image could prompt the viewer to break out in cold sweats.

At the start of each school year, rolls of this substance - clear Contact - would be purchased, with the express purpose of extending the lifespan of a textbook or copybook cover.

The last few days of school holidays would be spent allocating blue-lined 64 page copybooks to each forthcoming subject, and embarking on an adventure in measuring, scissoring, peeling, sticking and smoothing out air bubbles.

Air bubbles were the enemy.

By Year Twelve, my Contacting skills were sufficiently polished to deal with my ego's demands for more complicated, prettier designs. I was no artist; but geez I was dab hand with brown paper and a gluestick:

This cover is all that remains of my Year 12 maths copybook. Certainly the workings within were not worthy of being saved all these years, but my James Bond-themed pictorial tribute still impresses me. The Contacted topcoat kept the cover from tearing; even today, shoved in a storage folder in my flat, it remains in excellent condition. I should frame it.

I had others - I remember Marilyn Monroe in particular for an English book - but the James Bond one is the only one I've kept for sentimental reasons.

Now I understand that for many parents, the reality of covering school textbooks and copybooks is not something to be looked back fondly on; rather, it is a yearly trial of patience and skill.

But it's still a real and present challenge to all of us - well, at the very least to those of us who wish to extend the life of our smartphones and tablet computers. The act of placing plastic adhesive covers onto gorilla glass screens requires the same concentration and exact positioning as copybooks did all those years ago.

And air bubbles remain the enemy.

Nice?

I fell asleep last night thinking of regrets, and woke up this morning remembering Nick Niceguy.

He was a year above me at high school. He was in a reasonably nerdy, but not wholly unsociable group of friends. They once invited my friend Clare and I to a party in Nick's rumpus room. I remember being a bit uncertain going in, but then we ended up all telling funny stories about Mr Braiden the Manual Arts teacher (nicknamed "Band-Aid" because of his cavalier attitude towards healing shop-inflicted wounds), and playing air guitar to Killing in the Name. It was the first time I'd head Rage Against the Machine.


Ah, Thich Quang Duc. Your protest resonated more strongly
when accompanied by the thumping riffs of Tom Morello.

At some point somebody told me Nick had a crush on me.

Remember November: Schoolies

Last Friday I attended a media conference about a joint AFP/Customs operation targeting drugs being sent through the post. All sorts of creative smuggling efforts had been valiantly attempted - as my little montage demonstrates.

Officials believed most had been destined for Schoolies, the annual end-of-school booze fest that's now taken over the Gold Coast for what will no doubt be another week featuring unsmiling police officers, preening youths and tipsy girls who can't go two words without inserting "like" as an all-purpose descriptor.

I finished high school back in 1997. Our end-of-year song was The Sunscreen Song, which indicates how all-pervasive that goddamned Baz Luhrmann Romeo and Juliet film had been. Although Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) by Green Day was also doing the rounds, which is a little bit more credible.

My parents had always hated the idea of me going to Schoolies Week, but they didn't really have to "ban" me, as I'd never been very interested myself. Remember, this is Natalie the non-drinker, and I was as boring and square in high school as I am today. Seven days in a pit of alcohol, hormones and carelessness never really appealed.

I'd had vague plans of going on a cruise with some friends. Those friends eventually said they weren't interested, and it was only a few days before the end of school that I discovered they'd gone and organised their own trip to the Whitsundays and not invited me. Just last year one of those same "friends" defriended me from Facebook for no discernable reason that I could gather. Hell, maybe I am still the same awful person to be around they took me for in high school.

Anyway, it was no massive hassle. Turns out I had something to do during Schoolies Week after all - learning how to work a check-out. Yep, my first job, at Coles. In between I was more than happy to veg out in the air-conditioned TV room at our house with icy poles and a bagful of Red Dwarf and Doug Anthony All Stars tapes.

"You can't NOT go to Schoolies, at least for a bit," said a nice classmate named Bec, when I told her of my Schoolies plans instead of studying for my final maths exam.

"Well, I haven't got anything arranged, and I'm not a drinker, and I don't have any money, so it's OK," I replied.

Bec refused to take no for an answer. Turns out her mother lived at Maroochydore, so she hadn't arranged anything special either - she was just going to spend the week at her Mum's, and cruise around the various units/holiday homes that fellow classmates had rented (most kids at my school went up to the Sunshine Coast rather than down to Surfers Paradise).  She invited me to come up on the first Saturday, stay a couple of nights, then head back Monday morning in time for work on Tuesday.

Some careful pleading with my parents was required to get the A-OK for this plan. I don't think my parents lacked trust in me - despite all their efforts I'd refused to touch alcohol, and I was hardly staring down the barrel of dozens of slobbering would-be suitors looking to steal my innocence without thought for my reputation or aversion to catching genital warts. I think their main concern was driving. I'd only got my licence a month before school ended, and I think they feared drunken teenage hooligans in Ford Escorts more than anything else. So once I agreed to the condition that Dad would drive me there and pick me up on Monday, they said yes.

As it turns out, a licenced, non-drinking person is an absolute boon for your average Schoolie to have around. I spent a fair amount of time that weekend driving - not just Bec's Mazda 121, but various other vehicles owned by over-the-limit partygoers. Which was fine, really, I was happy to be useful. We zipped from Caloundra to Mooloolaba to Noosa dropping in on people, then made our way back to Bec's Mum's large house with lovely clean bathrooms each morning for rest.

My clearest memory of Schoolies is sitting on worn pea-green carpet in the living room of this ramshackle beach house owned by the parents of one male classmate, a charming chap named Matthew whom I'd always had a slight crush on. Another girl, Bec (different Bec), was next to me, and a Ford Escort driving cross-eyed lad named Cameron was in an EasyBoy recliner behind us.

(To divert for a moment: Cameron was not a bright lad. This hit home for me during the after-party for our school formal, held at our house. My parents had hired two police officers to keep out potential gatecrashers. I was clear to everyone that they weren't going to arrest them for drinking, but Cameron was a bit paranoid. He came up to me and asked that I accompany him to where he'd "hidden" his carton of beers, just in case the cops busted him. Sure, I said. I was rather confused by Cameron's "hiding" spot - it was in the dead centre of our backyard. A carton, just sitting there. Not even behind a tree.)

Bill Clinton was on the TV at the time, doing an address from the White House direct to Saddam Hussein, urging him to stop being a naughty boy for some reason or another. Another boy, Ibby, kept repeating "There's going to be a war. I just know there's going to be a war." The general feeling was one of 2am foreboding.

Except for Cameron. He was busy using his feet to massage Bec's shoulders, a "favour" she was not all that keen on receiving. So Cameron drew his feet away, paused, then declared to the room: "I think I've got a semi!"

Stay classy, school leavers.

Remember November: Secret Valley

ABC's late 80s before-school children's TV programming was always gold. There was a particular anime-style show about Dorothy and her adventures in Oz that I loved, and you'd also get those brilliant La Linea and AEIOU cartoons.

But heads above the rest was Secret Valley, an Australian-made Grundy show about a summer camp resort-type thing for kiddies. It was a rustic bush setting, with a former gold-mine town as the kids' big playground. Who could forget the sight of that bell being run, summoning all the kids for dinner, or a camp meeting?

I would have liked nothing better than to go to Secret Valley. You know, hang out with fellow plucky teenagers, help animals, ride BMXs, and stop the machinations of the EVIL! That's right, EVIL! Spider McGlurk* and his villainous teenage henchmen of "Spider Cave". The fashion item I most desired as an 8-year-old was one of the brilliant navy blue raglan cut camp t-shirts with "Secret Valley" emblazoned upon them in bright yellow.

I often wonder if such a thing as Secret Valley would work in real life. Forget boring organised activities for kids -  actually pay a few actor types to run round pretending to be dodgy prospectors or real estate developers, leaving clues for the kids to solve. Resolve the whole thing with a massive flour or paint bomb fight, before a few fake coppers turn up to "nick" the bad guys. Repeat every day for two weeks, chucking in a bit of quad-biking and koala-feeding for good measure, then send 'em home as young adventurers. Hell, I'd be up for a camp like that myself - I'd love to be a dabble in knot-tying and improvised explosives.


*A rumour surfaced some years back that Spider was played by a young Russell Crowe. This is sadly incorrect. I think around 1984, Crowe was deep in his New Zealand punk star phase, when he changed his name to Russ le Roq and cut a single. I wish I was joking.

Remember November: Perkins Paste

Three items were compulsory in an Australian primary school pencil case in the late 1980s. 1) HB pencils. Generally red-coloured with a black end; 2) Erasers. Generally dingy green, with tapered ends, that smelled of fire when you scrubbed them too hard against paper; and 3) A tub of Perkins Paste, a delightfully clumpy sort-of glue, best known for its bright pink containers, white lids, and completely impractical flat stick applicator.

Sadly a Google image search could only turn up the label:

The apex of my Perkins Paste use was in Year 3, in Mrs Simmonds' class. Mrs Simmonds always seemed to like me, giving me A marks for many of my finer social studies or English projects. Of course, such projects - generally mounted on posterboard paper - required a decent amount of Perkins pasting. Mrs Simmonds then retired, but came back for a visit when I was in Year 7. She had no recollection of me at all, and by then I had no Perkins Pasted boards filled with detailed descriptions of the planets to jog her memory.

Sadly even I can no longer remember the smell of Perkins Paste, but I do recall it being far more palatable than the chemical scent of Clag, the big-bottomed gluepot that took over adhesive duties in my later primary years. Certainly daring classmates to eat Perkins Paste was a regular event, even a tad enjoyable. But you wouldn't eat Clag. No, not unless the dare involved a LOT of money. Fifty cents to a dollar, at least.

Remember November: Culottes

Combining the femininity of a skirt with the practicality of shorts, the modern culotte enjoyed a big revival in the 80s. Originally culottes referred to knee-breaches European toffs wore back in the 1800s. But of course, they were bound at the knee, not let to flow loosely a la the late 20th century version. Culottes as we know them began life as divided skirts, designed to make riding horses less revealing. By the 80s, they came in varying lengths.

I recall having a deep, abiding love for a pair of short culottes, circa 1990. They were navy blue, with tiny, brightly coloured stars on them, and a thick black elastic band. I teamed them with a yellow t-shirt, and looked totes amazing, long before "totes" was ever a word.

Culottes shouldn't be confused with the skort, although there is some crossover. Literally. Skorts had a flap of material across the front to hide the short element beneath. For high school that couldn't bear the idea of their young female students showing a hint of masculinity in their wardrobes ("How will we tell them apart from the boys?!?!"), skorts were the ideal compromise. They would be teamed with what my mother used to call "Gripper Knickers", or in some sectors, "Scungies" - basically, massive lycra underpants designed to keep your modesty intact on sports day.

Recently I was delighted to pick up a pair of culottes in a little discount clothes store in the Myer Centre. They fit like a dream, but I was sadly disillusioned by how big they made my backside look, so returned them to the rack. But I am still in the hunt for a pair of culottes for spring/summer 10/11.

No Head for Figures

It is a truth universally acknowledged that if I stand behind, beside or in the general vicinity of a politician during a media conference - I will end up on the TV news that night looking a bit bored.

The Year Nine Incident

I know a few teachers, and teachers-in-training. It seems to be a truth universally acknowledged that Year Nine students are the Worst People in the World. The way teachers talk, Year Nine students sound about as evil as low-level dictators, but without the charm.

It's a sad thing for me to hear personally, because for me, Year Nine was an unparallelled year of academic and creative achievement. I scored a tiny speaking role as a maid in our school musical, The Three Musketeers (Milady deWinter backslapped me across the face), and I became, wait for it...

Festival & Festivities

The Brisbane Festival has two nights left, and I really want to urge those of you who live in or near Brisbane -  particularly those looking for some Friday or Saturday night entertainment - to get down to The Carnival's Edge at Southbank.

My Superman

1994 was a good year. I was cast in my school's musical in a highly-sought-after "speaking" role; Madonna released her Bedtime Stories album; Frontline began on Australian television; and I was eventually named Dux of Year Nine (oh yes, my friends, top marks for everything, even maths).

But nothing takes me back to '94 than a particular TV show. A TV show that would not only cement my love of all things "journalism", but fuel the fire of what would become a fairly geeky fangirl-ish nature.

That TV show?

My Sporting Life, Part Two

As the dust settles within the sprawling bohemoth that is Telstra Stadium, and as Melbourne celebrates its NRL victory with beers, and as Manly commiserates its loss with....well, beers, I guess - thoughts once again turn to the team sporting achievements of my own youth.

VOLLEYBALL

The only sport I played through the entirety of my five years at high school was volleyball. I still adore volleyball, even though I haven't played for years. I could never serve, nor spike at any great speed, but I was a dab hand at a dig and set quite daintily. Besides, there were six players on a reasonably small court, so I figured if I missed there'd be someone close enough by to fix my errors.

Trouble was, the coaches seemed to notice my errors, and it was with great pride I ended up on the Open C volleyball team in Year 12. This was the third-string team, expected by all accounts to fail miserably. However, we perserved, and ending up winning the premiership. I like to put it down to skill and enthusiasm, but the truth is we were just slightly less crap than our opponents. That's the true key to victory.

I particularly remember one game, where, all of a sudden, when we were a few points behind in a crucial game, I was suddenly blessed with the ability to serve. Unlike my brother, who mastered the high-speed, high-impact jump-and-smash-the-shit-out-of-the-ball style of serving more commonly seen at the Olympics, I had not even managed to get my arm around the underarm serve. I'll punt the ball with all the strength my puny pecs could manage, but it would still flop embarrassingly short of my side of the net, or my terrible aim would see it shoot off at a 90-degree angle. Either way my turn at serving would never last very long. But this one day I booted across over ten successful serves. It absolutely turned the game around for us, and I've never been so impressed with myself.

At least, that is, until I took up what would be my final team sport at St Paul's School for Miscreant Boys and Oh Yeah, Now Girls As Well.

SOCCER

I mentioned in my previous post about the sad decline of our powerhouse hockey team. I played in Year 10 in the Open B team. Come Year 11, I made it back onto the Open A with many of the same girls from that double-premiership winning side. However, the competition was much tougher, and our coach insisted we have fitness training at 7am twice a week. It required a lot more work to do less well in competition, and stopped being as fun as it had been in previous years.

It was lucky then, in my final year, St Paul's finally introduced soccer for girls. Many of us hockey girls defected to soccer because a) it was virtually the same game, only no sticks b) our coach was one of our male classmates and c) it just looked like a barrel of laughs. And with more important things that sport weighing on my mind (like whether or not I should even bother trying to pass Maths B), it was just what the doctor ordered. Our soccer season began as a debacle and finished a triumph of carefree gaiety over skill and discipline.

We wound up being given the boys' old team jerseys, because - can you believe this - they didn't LIKE them and had ordered new ones. Yup, that's what it was like being a girl at a male-dominated school. We had to bring our own white shorts, which are always fun for girls to wear, which we teamed with these bright red-and-white checked jerseys. We didn't really care that much, come to think of it. At least we looked the part, all lined up in our uniforms. And it gave us the edge on the opposition - they had to wait until we started playing to discover we were all shit.

That's not strictly true. There were good sportswomen on the team. But the season was a very late addition, we only had three games, and we'd had very little practice time. Again, I tried to make up for my athletic Asperger's by jumping around and shouting at the top of my lungs. My friend Briony and I, bored one Maths B lesson, came up with a team name: the St Paul's Streakers. We then proceeded to piss off the entire First XV rugby squad by bastardising their non-official team song and turning it into our own:

We're St Paul's little Streakers, loved by everyone
We love to play our soccer, and go on naked runs!
Singing la la la la, ladies are the best
St Paul's little Streakers, we're better than the rest!

We took great pride in yelling that at the top of our lungs at any opportunity. You can't say we're not a classy bunch, us private school girls.

Somehow we managed to score a victory in one match, but lost the other two. I remember our coach Will, who had the patience of a saint, later thanked me for turning football into a "combination of ballet and Xena". To this day, that remains one of the best compliments I have ever had.

Sadly, organised sport hasn't been a part of my life since those heady school days. I did circuit gym classes for a while, if that counts. Also, I got pulled in as a ringer on an indoor netball team a couple of times (I was still crap, and wound up playing - you guessed it, Goal Keeper). The closest I come to team sports these days is ironically on the Nintendo Wii.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to kick someone's arse at tennis again...

My Sporting Life, Part One

So.

Sport.

Good ol' sport. Grrrr, sport. True blue, fair dinkum, green & gold, up your cazaly, howszat, who's your daddy, Aussie Aussie Aussie oy oy oy... sport.

It's a big sporting weekend - Geelong has today smashed Port Adelaide by a grand final record of 119 points to win its first AFL premiership since 1963. And tomorrow, rugby league fans will get behind Melbourne to win the NRL grand final - for no better reason than apparently Manly sucks.

Let it be known from the outset that these days I am generally indifferent to most sport. The only team I support is the Brisbane Lions, and I'm honest enough to admit I hitched my wagon to that club's rising star around the three-peat premiership years. However, I continue to be a supporter in this time of "re-building", because I know they'll be on top again someday soon. Also because ruckman Jamie Charman is simply gorgeous.

...

...But enough drooling over Jamie Charman. My own history of team sporting involvement is a chequered board of loss and ineptness, married with a great sense of enthusiasm. There's a good reason why I always won the "Best Team Spirit" award, but never the "Best Team Player" gong. And that reason is because while I could bellow the school anthem or team war-cry, run up and down the field hurling abuse at opposition and cheering on my teammates - I couldn't actually hit a ball to save my life.

NETBALL

My first memory of getting a right royal shaft was in Year 6 netball. Miss Williams, the bosomy spinster Year 4 teacher-come-netball coach, had divided us into an A Team and a B Team. I found myself, amazingly, in the Goal Attack vest for the A Team. Oh, I love it when a plan comes together! After a couple of practices, where the A Team usually ran rings around the B Team, Miss Williams decided to swap me out with Nicole Buckley. All of a sudden, I went from a sweet gig on the top team - to Goal Keeper of the B Team. For those of you unfamiliar with the sport Goal Keeper is like the Jar Jar Binks of netball. Sure, George Lucas might reckon you're important to the game, but really you're just a big irritating Space Jamaican that nobody likes. It made sense to me though, as I hated running (still do). So I spent two years up one end of the court in a constant defence position, right arm and left leg in the air, trying to defend balls that would inevitably get in the net. Yup, I was a shit netballer.

HOCKEY

That didn't stop me trying out for netball come Year 8 and high school. Fate intervened however, in the shape of the St Paul's Year 8 hockey team. The school had only just begun accepting girls the year I started, and there were only 25 in my year. Only ten of those girls wanted to play hockey - and you need 11 in a run-on side. I jokingly suggested that if they couldn't find anyone by the day before their first game, I would play for them.

The day before the game, the two Year 12 boys who'd signed on to be the team coaches appeared in the door of my Japanese classroom, begging me to play. I told them I'd really been joking as I hadn't ever played hockey ever, and really wouldn't know how. They told me not to worry, as they'd give me a quick demo the next morning before the game. All I had to do was buy some shinpads and a mouth guard.

It was no problem with the netball coach - she already had more than she needed for a team and was quite happy for me to go (must've heard about my primary school netballing years). So the next Saturday morning, I turned up at the opposing school's oval. I'd borrowed my brother's soccer shinpads, which, as I was to find out, are not really up to the task of handling hockey stick blows. And my Mum and I had completely screwed up the instructions on the shop-bought mouthguard. We hadn't melted it enough for it to properly mould, so I basically had a harsh strip of plastic wedged into my face for 60 minutes. Joy.

The coaches gave me a stick, showed me the basic techniques, and briefed me on the need-to-know rules - which mainly involved not slamming someone else in the head. With that, we were off, 10 girls with prior experience of hockey, and one with absolutely no freaking idea. They'd slotted me in as "right inner", running between the centre and right wing. All I had to do, they said, was move the ball up if I got it, and pass it to either one of those positions.

At half time, I was still confused, and the score was nil-all. That was actually an achievement, as all girls' sports so far that first year had suffered from the lack of numbers. There had been very few wins in basketball and swimming. But all that was about to change.

Little Diana Ratcliffe, who'd been hidden in goalie gear for the first half, came out to take over the centre position. The second half, for me at least, passed in a blur. Diana was a speed demon, and I, even then, was in no condition to keep up. Diana didn't need me at all, if she passed at all she went straight across to the wings. She scored three times, and along with the rest of the girls worked excellently in defence. The result at the full-time whistle was a 3-nil win for St Paul's.

Shock. Awe. Excitement. An actual win!

From then on, I was a hockey girl. I invested in another mouthguard, and some proper shinpads. Eventually I bought my own purple hockey stick (how I loved that stick!). We kept on winning, primarily due to Dinie's brilliance, but helped in no short measure by the nine other girls - talented and dedicated to the team. I like to think I helped; I certainly know I got better as the season went on. And of course, I was the loud one, yelling and singing the war cry like a crazy person. "Green and red, we are strong! Loyalty, can't go wrong! S-T-P-A-U-L-S, St Paul's!"

As our winning streak extended, the school began to pay attention. We were doing better than any other team - not even the First XV rugby boys' had our success. Eventually, we got about a hundred onlookers at our "grand final" - although having won every match, we'd already stitched up the premiership before the sticks had even clashed. Premiers! I got a pennant and everything. For the first time in my life, I was on a WINNING TEAM. It was a great feeling.

The next year, when we were all in Year 9, the same eleven girls returned to defend the championship. Again, Diana led the way, and again, we were victorious. Undefeated premiers for two years running. On top of it all, at the end of term sports awards, I won the trophy for Best Team Spirit. Sure, I couldn't run to save my life, and when I thwacked my stick I got mostly grass, and only sometimes ball. But damnit if I didn't make up for that with cheering and sledging. That, my friends, is my natural sporting talent.

But those halcyon years of 1993 and 1994 were sadly not to continue. The next year would see us reach the "Open" level of competition, putting us in the selection ring with increasing numbers of Year 11 and 12 girls. Our new coach, the ironically-named Mr Broom, would divide us, and the best - like Diana - would be rushed into Open A, while the dodgy (yours truly) would be shunted back to Open B. The team dynamic would never be the same. And St Paul's would never win a hockey pennant again (at least not for the next three years while I was there; I haven't cared enough to inquire whether it's happened since I left).

Tomorrow, Girl Clumsy's Sporting Life continues with tales of victory in third-tier volleyball, and the rise and joy of girls' soccer. Stay tuned!