The distinctive breed of Australian women we should be proud of

Wendy Whiteley is a new goddess to add to the pantheon, writes Nikki Gemmell. Picture: John Appleyard

Saw Wendy Whiteley on a festival stage recently. Strop it up, girlfriend. She was magnificent. Big Keating Energy; that delicious 80-something vibe of “I’m telling it like it is so you lot, just listen up”. She was cranky and blunt and vividly honest and I could have sat there all day and soaked up the audacity. This is what 82 years old looks like, in all its glory. Plus, well, hair, or lack thereof, because that headscarf thing she’s got going on covers a multitude of things that do not need to be seen; greying/thinning/bald or perhaps none of the above but oh my goodness, the convenience of that piece of winding cloth. I’m taking notes. For future fabulousness, if I’m so lucky. She’s a new goddess to add to the pantheon.

It’s a particular iteration of Aussie woman I missed terribly in my years overseas; there’s nothing quite like them. She is, quite simply, a Cack. “If you can get the 51 per cent, the other 49 can get lost,” she declared to a rapt audience. Count me firmly in that 51 per cent. “Addiction – you’re just a slave to it. Doesn’t help you create anything.” So true, and she speaks from experience. “My life seems to be 98 per cent maintenance now.” Yep, on the way with that one. “I wish I could live without owning anything.” Ah, the cry of anguish as we age; the urge to simplify our lives. “Board meetings are deathly but I usually make them entertaining.” I bet you do, madam. Bet they’re terrified of you. The fearless truth-telling.

Whiteley is refreshingly self-aware and funny. “I feel quite cross. I can be a bit forthright.” You don’t say. There’s also a healthy dose of humour in there; the twinkle in the eye of someone now liberated from worrying about what anyone else thinks of them. It is joy. Impish fun. She’s waging a war on earnestness and bring it on, I say; may she never entirely grow up. She explained she was part of an arty little crowd at school, always in trouble for redesigning the uniform, etc etc, and there’s something of the naughty schoolgirl still in her.

It feels like a distinctive breed of Aussie female and our nation should be damned proud of brewing them. Loud of voice, cheeky, handy with a spanner while blazing glorious style and fearless bravery – yet there’s a seam of vulnerability in their courage too; they can break our hearts. It’s JuJu in Seven Little Australians, early Germaine, Dawn Fraser, Charmion Clift, Marcia Langton, Judy Davis, Gwen Harwood, Chrissie Amphlett, Eva Cox and bohemian rebel Bea Miles, who would sit in a bank smoking cigarettes under a sign reading “Gentlemen Will Refrain From Smoking.” Bring them on. Their cackly bluntness. The joy of their disquieting, disrupting existence.

For women of a certain age it’s bracing to see examples of these Wendys of the world. Because the falterings of the peri-menopause years – the lack of confidence, the self-doubt – can be like a great thumb of bewilderment bearing down on us. It’s like you’re trying to stand on a tinny in rough water – wooah, what’s happening. But Wendy and her ilk are beyond that, standing firm on solid ground with their honesty and confidence. They don’t give a toss anymore and it’s glorious.

“Ladies, never let anyone tell you you’re past your prime,” Michelle Yeoh instructed as she accepted her recent Oscar. Precisely. Wendy is in her bolshy prime, demonstrating the prickly glory of the female who’s meant to be fading into invisibility but resolutely isn’t. I’m looking forward to that upward trajectory, into magnificence. She has a new book out with Ashleigh Wilson called A Year With Wendy Whiteley. It’s fabulous, but I’d now like to see a Christmas book of her sayings too; a delicious package of ferocious little Wendyisms we nod our heads at while cackling away. Germaine, where are you? All our truth-seekers of blazing womanhood, I bow before you, and can never quite get enough.