A woman’s work is never done, but a clothesline this size certainly makes things easier! Hills Hoists – a type of spinning, adjustable contraption for drying tunics and underpants – are ubiquitous throughout Australia and an integral part of the country’s cultural psyche. That makes them a perfect candidate for getting the Bigs treatment!
For decades Hills Hoists were manufactured in the beachside suburb of O’Sullivan Beach, half-an-hour south of Adelaide. As the legend goes, one bright afternoon an apprentice mixed up his metrics and imperial measurements and knocked together a clothesline of epic proportions. Hopefully his superiors didn’t hang him out to dry!
The wonderful washing line was popped on permanent display in the workshop’s car park, as a tribute to the ingenuity of South Australians. Apparently it proved particularly popular for Goon of Fortune at work Christmas parties – although nobody seems to remember much about them.
The factory was shuttered in 2019 and production of these Aussie icons relocated to China. Oh well, I guess they need somewhere to hang their Mao suits and his-and-hers matching panda T-shirts.
The boys from Orrcon Steel moved in shortly afterwards, and currently spend their smoke breaks gazing in open-mouthed wonder at the Big Hills Hoist. Whilst somewhat dilapidated these days, it can be admired through a chainlink fence, leading to a similarly disengaged experience to visiting The Big Orange.
Just don’t get too close – as I was posing for these photos a burly foreman stormed over and offered me a job. Imagine that, the inimitable Bigs Bardot working in a steel factory!
When it comes to manual labour, I’m every bit a 50s housewife.
The Hoistus with the moistus
As the crisp South Australian afternoon drew to a close, a furry little hand slapped me on my bottom. I turned, shocked, to see a hairy alien leering at me beneath the towering Hills Hoist.
“Hey toots,” Gordon slurred, taking another gulp from his canister of Emu Bitter. “When you’re finished hanging out my work shirts, get inside and make me a birria and roast duck quesadilla. And snap to it, babydoll, the fellas are comin’ round soon to watch the footy.”
Shocked by his repulsive display of toxic masculinity, I dropped my washing basket and slapped Gordon across his ruggedly handsome face.
“How very dare you,” I snapped. “Whilst there is something wholesome and nostalgic about regressing to stereotypically gendered domestic mantles, the manner in which you’ve conducted yourself only serves to derail the non-binary movement and blockade the discourse required to move forward as a more welcoming society. Put your manners back in.”
The tears in Gordon’s chocolatey eyes said it all. His muscular shoulders slumped. He cradled his head in his hands. He wept openly. A small group of steel workers, sweat dripping down their robust torsos, surrounded us, ensuring I was alright and threatening Gordon with a severe beating should he continue on his rocky trail of domestic abuse.
“Bigs,” he sniffed. “I was so overcome by the sentimental, whimsical nature of The Big Hills Hoist that I regressed to a cliched and, frankly, rather insulting stereotype of a 1950s alpha male. My own ego impacted your happiness, your sense of worth, and for that I am deeply apologetic. I love, respect and support you.”
The petite alien and I embraced, as silvery tears drew pale white streaks down grimy steel workers’ cheeks.
Clothes encounters of the third line
“You’re forgiven, Gordon, and I understand what you’re dealing with,” I purred, ruffling his hair. “I did, after all, sport a kilt and bagpipes for several weeks after interacting with Scotty the Big Scotsman. And I was inspired to swim through the ocean as a crustacean after a date with The Big Lobster. We’ve all been there.”
The steel workers, each reduced to a blubbering mess, carried themselves back to the foundry. Each would remark later that they’d finally discovered the true meaning of love and dignity. And it all happened in the shadows of The Big Hills Hoist.
Gordon, tired yet happy, held the door of the Bigsmobile open for me, then we rolled off into the Adelaide Hills.
“But, seriously,” he yawned, stroking my hand, “I would like that birria and roast duck quesadilla, please. As long as I can help you cook it.”
“With extra cilantro?”
“With extra cilantro.”
