Mary Had a Little Problem

The recent revelation by Jamie Dunn, the man whose hand and voice animated and amplified the loud mouthed and uncouth Logie award winning bathmat “Aggro”, that he’d been the  victim of serious stalking took me back to a time when an AVO was a relatively unknown  tool to deal with a “pest” or a “nutter”.  A less enlightened time when “Basic Instinct” was just a twinkle in the eye of a Hollywood  Executive Producer.

Mercifully, unlike Jamie Dunn’s real and damaging two years of persecution at the hands of an obsessed tormentor, my experience was vastly less traumatic. It was just very frustrating and sometimes humorous.

Mary was a “Mary Mother of God” freak who relentlessly tormented me with phone calls, letters and “visits” over an 18 month period. The internet was years off.

Mary’s stalker “shtick” lacked any real imagination and creativity though. She was, as they mostly seem to be, on a mission from GOD.  A Sixty something “devout” Catholic mother to a large brood of netballing girls, she insisted we were to conceive twins, a boy and a girl. This specific command came from the Almighty Himself.

How Mary’s campaign to copulate and conceive with a non- consenting thirty something disc Jockey, who daily struggled to churn out crisp, clean GOOD TIMES AND GREAT ROCK AND ROLL, simultaneously, competently delivering cleverly crafted commentary on Current Affairs, was going to come together was inconceivable.

My infatuated listener also freely shared strong opinions as to why the world was as it was. On top of the list was the “pill”. She was convinced the contraceptive pill had made women savage man haters and she was obligated to step up, in between netball training and being an absolute bloody nuisance, and repair the damage done to  men by these hard bitches. To give Mary due credit this was a novel excuse for bags of guilt free sex.  A Vatican endorsed dispensation for shagging anyone you please  in the name of natural family planning.

On a weekly basis I would receive a hefty envelope containing ten or a dozen pages of rambling essay scribbled in smudgy blue biro, ranging from complaints about her husband and his repressed homosexuality to the local Parish priest who would “molest” her, if he could

Ignoring her failed. Pleading with her failed. Yelling obscenities down the phone actually spurred her on.

And there was, for part of the time, something I didn’t know. Almost everywhere I went Mary was sure to go. Station management was aware of her attending the numerous OBs (outside broadcasts) the radio station conducted but didn’t share the INTEL with me.

Prior to “Playing Misty” for Mary my stalking credit consisted mostly of a young girl who pestered me and any other Radio Announcer named Mike. She even turned up at the local hospital with a baby gift for my wife. Only problem , my wife wasn’t yet fully dilated at that stage. And how did she know?

Another woman showered me with tea towels featuring a collage of Melbourne trams.

And only once did I feel anything like the “Welsh Wailer” Tom Jones. A pair of red lacy knickers arrived in the mail. Once.

Neither Police nor Priest could do much about Mary. Just as I was beginning to become more concerned for our safety she dropped off just as suddenly as she appeared.

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