World peace, and such...

Bears are all about inclusivity. This time last year I sat in my wrestling singlet tuning my ukulele in the dressing room of the Oxford Hotel, crammed into the tiny space with four other wonderful guys in various states of undress and nerves. Mr Harbour City Bears 2012 competition was in full swing. 

It’s a hard thing sometimes to be yourself. Some people struggle with it their whole lives. I have certainly had my battles with authenticity. That night all five of us were just that – ourselves. Naked on stage, if you will, whether or not we were actually wearing clothes (which was debatable at various stages during the evening as those in the audience can testify). Strange that it should somehow be easier to be yourself in front of a beary, beery, crowd of 200 plus. Or that it should be a strangely personal thing.

Some people complain that the Mr Bear comp is nothing more than a beauty pageant. I’m immensely flattered. (Having won, do they seriously expect me to disagree?) 

So have I achieved world peace? No. Why would anyone expect that? Has the world changed? Yes. Not in a way that history will really remember, but in quiet, important ways. In hundreds of small conversations with other average blokes like me, struggling at times with being themselves. In deep conversations with friends in the midst of depression or addiction. And in interactions, laughs and the occasional pash with acquaintances. And I hope that for a whole heap of strangers, or “friends I haven’t met” as Bert and Ernie would sing, something very important: someone they might not know but might recognise, an ageing bloke, with some grey in his beard and a few extra kilos, proving that old dogs can learn new tricks. And if they are struggling 
with being themselves, like I was, they can see options, and maybe a brighter future. 

Because there is nothing like that feeling of belonging you get from turning the corner into Oxford Street on Mardi Gras evening, with 140 of your mates in the Harbour City Bears float, and seeing the streets packed with cheering spectators; from opening the text message from your mum and dad, wishing you a “great parade and an awesome afterparty”; and when your son tells you the next week, when you pick him up from 
primary school, that his friends told him they were at the parade, and saw “your dad, the Bear King”. If I were to try and condense all of that into a single thought, it might be that even with the benefit of hindsight – ahh, hindsight – if you’ve taken a few wrong turns here and there, and missed a few miles of road you should’ve seen, it’s never too late. You’re not alone. And you have friends and a community. 

Like US presidents, former Mr Bears retain the title for life. Just ask George or Jason or the other one (love your work, Justin). There’s plenty more to do, personally and for the community, so it won’t be the last you’ll see of me. Clearly world peace takes longer than just one year. But as the outgoing PM sings in Keating! The Musical “...though it seems like half an hour since I stumbled into power, it’s time for me to say goodnight”. Maybe it’s time to bust out that number on the uke. 

It’s been a blast, fellas, and I can’t thank you enough for a truly amazing year. In a couple more months I’ll hand over the Mr Australasia title, but for now: the Bear King of Sydney is dead — long live the Bear King!