Newsreader, journalist and commentator Tracey Spicer’s battle with Channel Ten has been well-documented. In 2006, after 14 years with the network, Spicer was sacked after returning from maternity leave with her second child. She did not go quietly.

Ten denied Spicer’s public allegations of discrimination, saying she was not fired due to her age or her gender — but when Spicer threatened to take the network to Federal Court they offered a $250,000 settlement instead. Spicer has spent the time since then helping build networks to support women in media, getting Australia talking about how women can help each other in the workplace, and telling some most excellent yarns at a variety of public events.

Last week, at Ben Jenkins’ and Zoe Norton Lodge’s Story Club night — which is held each month at Sydney’s Giant Dwarf Theatre, the same venue that unearthed the tale of Spicer’s horrific handjob debut — she read out the following poem. Which may or may not be related to the above two paragraphs.

Due to some technical woes, Story Club may not be able to release it as one of their podcasts — so she’s let us publish it here instead. [UPDATE: They do have the audio! It’s embedded below.]

A Poem by Tracey Spicer

Story Club — Monday September 8

This story I tell you is really quite vexed.

The antagonist remains somewhat perplexed.

It’s about the time I was, effectively, de-sexed.

(My lawyer says I should refer to him as ‘Rex’.)


There is an irony, I must impress

That sex got me into this sticky mess.

(Minds out of the gutter: I’ve already ‘confessed’.)

It was with a child that we were blessed.


But this was TV in the early noughties

And I was approaching my early 40s.

For women, this meant our careers were short(ies). 

So I prepared the troops for some well-aimed sorties.


“You’ll want to be home with the baby!” Rex said.

“Shouldn’t your husband be winning the bread?”

“You’re too long in the tooth,” shaking his head.

“We’ll get someone younger to stand in your stead.”


I knew my once bountiful beautiful breasts

Had flopped, like puppy ears, I attest.

But our value as women should not be assessed,

On perkiness pertaining to flesh on our chest.


You see, this had happened so often before.

I was told by one boss, “Stick your tits out more”. 

Another, I should have knocked to the floor

When he grabbed my buttocks, exclaiming “Corr!”


When I was sacked, by email, it is true

Weeks after popping out baby number two

It was time to finally say, “Screw you”,

And begin what became an almighty blue.


Thanks to my powers of prognostication

I’d researched state and federal legislation,

Which I subsequently placed, with great deliberation

Onto his desk, causing tectonic vibration.


This sound was so big and so deep and so loud,

At that moment, I solemnly vowed

To puff out my chest – in a way that was proud:

My head unbowed; I would not be cowed. 


What followed, you could call a media stunt.

My plight was plastered on news pages, front.

The message was exceedingly blunt.  

Because, let’s face it, this man was a… not-very-nice-person.


Of course, that wasn’t the only reason.

Every movement has its season.

Women shouldn’t be treated like lesions:

New wave feminism is ever-so pleasin’.


The verdict in the court of public opinion

Was unanimous upon exposition:

The workplace should not be man’s dominion.

Still, I wanted a different jurisdiction.


My dream, such as it was, to an extent,

Was to set a legal precedent,

To reduce the next woman’s torment:

Even if it cost every last cent.


But the odds were against me, so it seemed.

My lawyer said, as my enemies schemed,

A vexatious litigant, I could be deemed.

Frankly, I tell you, I could have screamed:




I admit, it was a tough time to get through;

A fug of depression, mastitis, and the flu.

I fought the law, but then withdrew.

The next part I will perform in Haiku.


Outside, falling leaves.

The empty courthouse whispers,

“The law won, sucker”.

I really should give you a happy ending.

(Minds out of the gutter, unless you’re spending.)

This case was, ultimately, worth defending,

For the old order required upending.


No longer do men in carpeted corridors

Grab the breasts of women they later call “whores”.

And being a mother is less likely to cause

Unemployment, under new workplace mores.


Other outcomes are known as karma.

That bloke didn’t survive the drama.

I love the Buddhist concept of dharma:

He was banished to Naraka (or Adelaide. Same thing.)


As for women of a certain age,

Our time has come: we’re all the rage.

Mothers, sought after, as some kind of sage: 

Brains bosses now seek to engage.


Thanks for tolerating my terrible rhyme.

(I really didn’t have that much time.)

At 48, I’m finally in my prime!

That career ladder I continue to climb.


I’ve thoroughly enjoyed putting ‘Rex’ down.

He thought he was such a man about town.

Now everyone knows he’s just a clown:

His body, undoubtedly, buried face down.