Matt Lygoe

About Matt Lygoe

Raised somewhere between Dubbo and Bourke NSW, somewhere between low and middle-class household. A butcher by trade (it was that or sheep shearing at Year 10’s end), before turning my hand to commercial radio (as butchers so often do). In 22 years, I have been kicked off the air, reported on stranded whales and written comedy skits, in between producing roughly 50,000 radio ads, a tally to which I’m still adding. One cute child, one partner (hoping for more) who has two bigger, much uglier, but lovely, teenage offspring.

Toughen up team, or no Santa for you…
In the home stretch for Christmas, you’re all probably struggling a bit to get past the finishing post into the waiting arms of Santa, so Matt Lygoe is here to rev you up in true Aussie sporting slang style.

My job is not a blue collar job and is most definitely not white collar. It’s a “no collar” job site (unless T-shirt is a colour)?

I work in an office. A no frills, open plan, no grand view, (no windows even, unless you’re a bit important) office. I’m so not complaining (aided much by Mum’s constant tip that “The world needs them too.”)

I don’t dig ditches…but I don’t do accounts either.

I work with characters who range from the always considerate and cute, “need money now” sales folk, to the assumptive uni marketing grads answering the phone at reception.

I work out the back, somewhere in between the blinkered and the expectant like a gazillion other people in Australia, I reckon. All banging their heads against an easily reconfigured, aluminium partition, in a factory of sorts.

We all do our best in there.

Sometimes, our best includes having to find relative analogies, colloquialisms and other casually acquired language, just to communicate with that indifferent mob around us.

Where we often find ourselves having to come up with say…football references, in an attempt to make a point to the boss.
Or is it just me? “If we try and play dry weather footy in wet conditions, we’ll not only lose, we’ll get booed off the park,” was one of my recent, desperate attempts at making a point.

Even more recently, I’ve taken to mixing Christmas and sporting references around the office, as the end of season stress starts to affect even the most chilled.

Santa is on his way, but the siren hasn’t gone,” is one that I deliver to those who I perceive to be hindering my sprint to the finish (no reference to “fat ladies holding a tune”, just chubby mythical giftologists, that had me spending 20 bucks on a photo and an overblown set of expectations for my 7 year old today).

At this time of year, any workplace can be littered with unseen bruises, breaks and tears, hopefully without the more obvious missing teeth and blood. Still, we’ve made it.

Almost.

In December, we are defending our line with sheer desperation. We’ve turned for home. Stretching out for the tape. Digging in, trying to get to stumps. To touch the wall.

Ready for Mad Monday. Ready for the Christmas break in play.

Special mention goes to those on the bench working over the end of season socials.  For the rest of the playing group, I wish you a fast tapering off to relaxation, and a statiscally lazy summer. You’ve earned it. It’s what you play for. Now is not the time to test the open market, but to look back at what you do and the reason you do it.

Taste the beer, the prawns and the oranges. Bask in the silent applause of your family and friends. Shit really gets real now…in the best way, because that’s the trophy. The winners cheque.

After all, “It’s not if you win or lose…it’s what Santa brings.”

Remembering, that you are Santa and you get to decide the prize, no matter what language you’ve had to use to get yourself to this point.

Back yourself in next season, Champ. Get on a good thing.

Now hit the showers!

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