Bucket already half full

I’m not sure if my latest impulse buy is confirmation that I have a bucket list or that I am indeed, part bogan.

Firstly, let me qualify a couple of things. I get BOGANS – Bold, Ostracised, Generous, Aussie, No-nonsense Shit-stirrers. They are comfortable in their own skin, make no apologies for it and believe in living for the moment, regardless of how it looks to others. All while wearing black skinny jeans, a flanny shirt and Ugg boots even if it is 40 degrees – not my chosen uniform, but I do love slumming it in a pair of tracky dacks, gymboots and a sloppy jumper come winter.

Of course, it may also be relevant that I grew up watching Bon Scott on Countdown in a Pilbara mining town before living in a suburb known as Armadale-by-the-sea for a couple of decades, and then moving up in the world (in my language, this simply means closer to Fremantle) to a former market gardening suburb where HSVs are commonplace.

But I had no idea I even had a bucket list. Until I bought myself a ticket to AC/DC. Then it really sunk in. I had given in to a long held desire to let there be rock.

Yep, little old me. Former journalist of 30 years, fulltime newspaper Editor for five, lover of gender fluid funkster Prince and the Revolution, green tea, antique chairs, Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, period dramas, burgeoning book cases, a 20-year-old book club habit and a heavenly clutch of bookish bosom buddies to go with it.

At this point I feel you urging me to explain the bloody awesomely liberating act of buying a ticket to see Australia’s international rock legends, and I will in due course, but first I must tackle the largest land mammal with a prehensile trunk in the room – the bucket list.

I can remember being baffled by what one was, until someone explained the bleedin’ obvious – it’s a list of things we really want to do before we kick the bucket.

Ohhh, that. How maudlin. When the Jack Nicholson/Morgan Freeman movie (which I still haven’t seen) of the same name came out in 2007 I felt the phrase was a trendy Americanism that I needed to shun. Research suggests that may be the case, although its idiom was used as a totally unrelated computer programing term since the 60s. You really needed to know that!

If we think about the retrospective concept of a bucket list, we all started kicking goals off it years ago – I have flown to Brisbane especially to see Prince, I’ve climbed the Eiffel Tower and Uluru, explored Karijini, done a tandem skydive, skinny dipped at Cable Beach, been on an exotic overseas Club Med holiday, ridden on camels and elephants (the latter now a regret), cuddled a baby tiger, driven across the Nullarbor, sailed the high seas aboard a Bark and scaled its 33m main mast, swum with dolphins, interviewed the first female Prime Minister of Australia and managed to keep two incredible daughters alive until (near) adulthood.

And now I get to see those fathers of rock, Acca Dacca, after years of threatening to make do with seeing a tribute band – the suggestion of either option irking even the thickest of my thieves.

And while I am stoked, if not a little (shit) scared, I can’t wait to be one of those about to rock while being saluted by the makers of a music brand that has the kind of primal, driving, addictive beat only a nest of Sunnis in Fallujah would avoid. There are reports that US troops blasted enemy snipers with Hell’s Bells via loudspeakers during the Iraq War in 2004.

I hope the no doubt diehard folk in the seats next to me can embrace my bookish appreciation as this problem child shakes all night long to some high voltage rock and roll, come November.