“Are you the next Moo?”

When I was a lad, blowsy women used to slander their blowsy neighbours by calling them “a silly moo”, a euphemism – but only just – for calling them a cow.

Wars would start. Men with beery breath and cloth caps would be called in to defend the honour of their blowsy wives.

I guess those days are over. I note that an advertisement has appeared in the Townsville Bulletin asking: “Are you the next Moo?”

There’s something eager about the tone. It’s not a question that’s been asked nervously, as if the questioner expected, moments later, to collect a knuckle sandwich.

It appears to have been asked almost with pride.

It goes on to ask the readers “Do you fancy yourself as a black and white mascot with hoofed feet, a pink belly and somewhat resembling a ‘cow’.. Does this sound like you??”

Well, no actually. It sounds like a cow. But clearly I’m not their target audience. I note from the advert that they’re looking for someone who’s “18 years old, reliable and motivated.”

Motivated? To be a cow?

I bet they don’t get any replies from girls.
That only leaves blokes, and how many blokes, when asked what they do for a living, will want to respond: “I’m a cow.”

Even “I’m a bull” would be better. But the problem is that the local team isn’t called the Bullboys; it’s called the Cowboys, and they’re looking for a Cow.

One that can be flexible with working hours (early morning milking is such a pain) and “able to perform skills such as cartwheels and summersaults.” (sic).

I’m trying to visualise it, but it’s not working for me.

The advert is coy about what the job is, but seeing that it mentions Cowboys and Australia’s leading dairy company in almost the same breath one must assume it’s about rugby league and our Cowboys’ leading sponsor: Dairy Farmers. Hence the business about mooing, hoofed feet and pink bellies.

But is that enough? I ask myself.

If I were 18 and I could turn cartwheels like a wagon running down Castle Hill; if I were energetic and motivated and could handle flexible working hours would I be in the queue (or possibly the herd) for a job as a cow?

Especially for a team of red-blooded rugby league players. You wouldn’t want to mention pink bellies too late in the evening, when the match was over and the victory party had begun. Anything could happen!

I note, too, that this energetic, flexible, athletic and 18-year-old cow will need a blue card, to enable it to work with children. There’s no mention of certification to prove the successful applicant is free of tuberculosis or brucellosis, but I expect there’d be a medical.

There’s no mention either of mad cow disease, but I’d have thought that would be mandatory.

Come to think of it there’s no mention of artificial insemination; or the other kind, but you never know your luck.

I’m sceptical, but that’s probably because I’m old and I’d as soon be a cow as I would a dinosaur (which is happening even without me trying). Even so, I can’t help wondering how many applications they’ll get.

I’m sure it’ll be a bundle of laughs if the Cowboys are on form; but what if it’s a bad season? It won’t just be the players who’ll be sent to the knackers yard.

The dictionary, by the way, mentions that “knackered” refers not only to the slaughter of old, tired livestock, but also to exhaustion after sexual intercourse.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.