SATURDAY? What a ride! The kids were beside themselves. Every morning for months I’ve been woken at some ungodly hour with “Mum! Mum! How many sleeps until the council elections. Is it 87? Are we there yet? Stuff Christmas. We’re gagging to find out who’ll be elected councillor for the North-West Ward. If we’re good, will you read us the campaign pamphlets? The independent candidate’s proposed innovation to the current animal registration system and the maintenance of footpaths are fully sick!”

How about that Robert Doyle? Old Popeye is King of Melbourne. I can’t imagine how honoured he must be that the people have spoken and what they’ve said is, “You’re the only name we recognised on the ballot. Didn’t you used to play for Carlton?” I was thrilled to hear a middle-aged, middle-class rich bloke in a suit won the mayoral bling. There just aren’t enough of them in highly paid ceremonial roles that consist of hand-shaking, ribbon-cutting and posing for photographs with visiting local dignitaries.

Doyle is proof of the impossible. That someone is more pompous, soporific and uninspiring than Ted Baillieu. The Liberal Party leadership handover from Robert to Ted was the Born to Rule dream-team; White and Whiter; 100% charisma-free, idea-resistant and void of all traces of originality or your MCC membership back!

Becoming lord mayor is the consolation prize for power-trippers with ambition but no talent. The gig’s made all the more cushy by virtue of the fact that you have no real responsibility whatsoever. The council’s only recent idea has been to put a beach on the Yarra. Like the city doesn’t have enough syringes. Sure Melbourne has the Paris end of Collins Street. But we also have the Congo end of King Street. How about tackling that or at least changing the name of the strip club Spearmint Rhino to something not about bad breath and fat people?

Robert Doyle failed as opposition leader not just because he led the Liberal Party to its worst-ever defeat, but because he’s devoid of any original ideas, insight, leadership skills or warmth and he has no connection with the needs of anyone other than his mates from Geelong College. I’m looking forward to watching him fail at being mayor. Which will be pretty astonishing considering the job’s such a joke that no mayor has ever failed or succeeded at it. All you have to do is show up and not kill anyone and you’re referred to as “The Honorable”.

Doyle wants to reopen Swanston Street to cars, ban bad buskers and stop the city being a bogan magnet. Firstly, Swanston Street and the cars. Where do I start? You’re an idiot, Doyle. Secondly, bad buskers? They’re all bad. That’s their charm. If they were any good, they wouldn’t be busking. As far as stopping the city being a bogan magnet, what’s your plan? Bogans have to get out and about. If they don’t, they’ll breed. How about a bogan-proof fence that redirects bogans to Hawthorn! Watch out Sally and Jonathan, lock up your Southern Comfort.

It seems Doyle wants to turn the clock back to 1959, when Ava Gardner was wrongly reported as saying, “On the Beach is a story about the end of the world, and Melbourne is the right place to film it.” Next thing you know, the six o’clock swill will be back, babies will be taken away from unmarried mothers and doctors will again smoke on their ward rounds.

The only mayor we’ll ever remember is John So, because he was cute and he talked funny. He was so adorable I had a fluffy toy of him hanging from my rear-vision mirror. When I pressed its tummy, it sang John So, He’s Our Bro. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice guy. But let’s face it, potato-cake munching, tram-riding, pot-swilling, hook-turning, cantaloupe-buying, latte-sipping, bathers-wearing friends, he was more a mascot than a mayor.

I’ll miss his TV ads with Livinia Nixon. It was like a confused Asian businessman being led around Melbourne by his translator. As Livinia spoke on his behalf, John So looked like he just wanted to hit the casino, play golf and buy opals.

John So then Robert Doyle. If that doesn’t prove Melbourne is Australia’s comedy capital, I don’t know what does. I’m looking forward to lots of laughs. This is the best joke since more than 70,000 people put their religion down on the census as Jedi.

And you might want to read this.

I’m not sure if it’s true but the story goes that when the announcement of the first gay marriage was made on October 1, 1989, one of the editors at this newspaper said, “I’ve got the headline. With This Ring . . .”

Go on. Laugh. It’s funny. OK. Gay marriage. Can you explain that to me please? Same sex couples have had the guts to follow their hearts and their genitals, to defy “convention” and stereotypes and live boldly, freely, proudly and authentically. They have stood tall, gay and rebellious despite the wrath and the disdain of the uptight white honkies, the religious fundamentalists, the idiots, the conservatives and the right-wing political extremists. So why on earth would they want to get married?

Sure, they should be able to get married but why would they want to? Why would these glorious public unions that have said “stuff you, this is who I am, like it or join the Young Liberals” buy into an institution that has regarded their love as everything from wrong to degenerate to evil? Why would they want to buy into this antiquated system? This is an institution historically based on inequality, racism, ownership of human beings and sexual and financial control of women and children. Then reinforced by romantic notions fed and fuelled by marketing and the media.

Even the straights are walking away from marriage in droves. You reckon the 7.15 from Dandenong to Flinders Street is chockers? You should check out the 8.05 from Outmoded Expectations to Living In Sin.

Gays, lesbians, queers and homosexuals should be able to get married if that’s what turns them on. But they should not have to purely for the relationship to be legally ratified for the purposes of superannuation, pensions, taxation and to have legal status as the parents of their own children. It makes me ashamed to live in a society that denies this fundamental right to human beings.

Gay people don’t need to be accepted by this institution that will never fully embrace them. F—‘ em. Do your own thing. Don’t be like us boring old straights and child-obsessed breeders. I saw a postcard the other day. It had an image of a 1950s bride with the words: “Why do I have to get married? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

That is why the movement by the Melbourne City Council to set up a Relationships Declaration Register is a move in the right direction. Registering a same-sex relationship will not give them the same rights as married couples but this documented evidence could help in legal proceedings involving inheritances and the division of property. One small step for man love and woman love. One giant step for us all.

STOP! The weasel words, corporate speak and subterfuge are doing all of our heads in. These treacherous economic times are tough enough but the lack of straight talk is ringing alarm bells. And it’s everywhere. Chronic overuse of what appears to be conversational time savers — but are actually fact-warpers — means people are diverting to a cliche generator and truth diluter.

Let’s face it, when it comes to cold, hard truth often the best option is lying.

In these harsh times of economic rationalism (sacking) restructuring (sacking) and merit-assessed and incentive-based liquidation and redirecting of human resources (sacking) the bulldust detector is invaluable.

Don’t listen to what they’re saying. Listen to what they’re not saying. That’s where the truth is. And the truth will set you free. Well, that’s according to John 8:32. Look it up. I’m a Bible-quoting atheist.

The words synergise, incentivise, monitise, optimise and virtualise cannot be trusted (and yes they are real words, look them up). And anyone who knows what “disintermediate” means should throw themselves into the nearest pit of boiling lava. The terms that comprise the axis of bulldust are mission statement, core values and client-focused. If you hear all three in any one meeting jump on the table and scream, “Say what you mean you slimy, gutless corporate maggots”.

You can’t handle the truth? Just try me. This is the conversation I’d like to hear:

“Come in to my office, Buchanan. You’ve been here for years, are very good at your job and are paid what you think is a decent wage but had you decided to walk away this time last year we would have doubled it. We’re the only ones who know your value and we’re not going to tell you because our job is to pay the lowest price we can because we’re a business.

“The new board is scared witless of you because you know more than they do and you’re not afraid to say it. And sure, you and I both know they’re just a bunch of jumped-up electricians and rich plumbers but they think they’re intellectuals, visionaries and worse still, creative. Yeah, I know, I have to go along with it because I’ve got kids in private schools and it’s simply a matter of time before I’m going to need a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, a 30-metre yacht or be banging a 21-year-old personal assistant to fill that gaping hole inside me.

“As you know I’ve been given a promotion to recognise the relentless sucking up I’ve done over the past 10 years to make up for my lack of ability. If you’ve seen me in action you’d agree that what I actually deserve is a medal as big as a dartboard. I’m not sure it’s worth it either but here I am. Check out the view.

“So, the more costs I cut the bigger bonus I get. The board is leaning on me because the more money I save them, the heftier their pay cheques because the juicier the shareholders’ dividends. You know that saying ‘kill one, scare millions’? Firing you will keep everyone in a state of fear, which means we can pay them whatever we want and treat them however we like. Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.

“We’ll be replacing you with someone half the price who is enthusiastic but has no experience so we can mould them to fit our New Regime. They’ll feel eternally grateful to have a job in this stormy economic climate. Mmmm, smell that unpaid overtime!

“Fear’s a great motivator. If it doesn’t work out the board members will just activate their golden parachutes and I’ll eject to safety with a cushy package if I haven’t died of a brain aneurysm, heart attack or stroke already. Something stress-related but slightly poetic.

“That talk about the company being a family? Sucked in. All crap. So too the waffle about a variety of voices and passionate individuals. We just said that to keep you all here so things chugged along nicely.

“I bet you thought the Christmas party was us being generous and that it was a thank you for a job well done. It was a simple financial decision. Tax deductible and recommended by the number crunchers to save money on retraining new staff. So anyway, you’re fired.

“You’ll have no problem moving on to bigger and better things because quite frankly you’re bigger and better than all of us. And if you don’t, I couldn’t give a rats. A small part if me wishes I were you. But the rest of me will be driving home in my new $100,000 Mercedes- Benz to my $3.5-million house and having the board members over for a $200-a-head barbie at the weekend.

“Here’s your cheque, close the door and on your way out send in Middleton.”

I WOULD like to sincerely apologise for the comments I made about four-wheel-drives in last week’s column.

Due to a limitation on the number of words, I was unable to say everything I wanted about these dangerous and obnoxious monster trucks being driven by people selfish at best and ignorant at worst.

And not just shame on you for driving these anti-social, arrogant four-wheeled bullies. Shame on the car companies for appealing to your insecurity by sucking you in with slogans like “Give way — not” (Jeep), “Get in or get out of the way” (Toyota HiLux) or the “class-kicking” HiLux 4WD utility with its “intimidating styling”, “aggressive bonnet scoop” and “dominating moulded front bumpers”. YEAH! What next? “Kill everyone and destroy the planet NOW WITH FREE AIR!” Suck up that free air, baby, because soon we’ll be paying for it.

When I discovered that the word Pajero really is Spanish for wanker, I thought to myself: “It must be my birthday!”

And just so we are clear, bush folk, people towing horse floats and the like, you’re off the hook. I’m talking about the people driving tanks to do the shopping and drop their kids off at school.

I can’t be fagged unpacking the arrogance of the space they take up on the road, which is the equivalent of taking up eight seats at the cinema and wearing a refrigerator as a hat. And I’m not going to get into their environmental impact, as there must be at least one 4WD that is greener than the lowered Commodores with mags that fang down my street blowing blue smoke. But you’d have to be an idiot not to put together the basic larger-vehicle-equals-more-fuel-necessary-particularly-on-city-roads equation.

Need the space? Try a station wagon, roof racks or a little inconvenience. So your kids have long legs? Where are these kids with the two-metre legs? The only place I’ve ever seen them is in the Moomba parade and I thought they were actually normal-sized people on stilts.

So let’s get this party started and crack open an icy-cold can of facts, shall we? Let’s slip into something a little more uncomfortable with the 4WD safety myth.

Research conducted by the Monash University Accident Research Centre has concluded that 4WDs are almost twice as likely to roll than a car, resulting in their drivers being 3.4 times more likely to be killed due to crushed cabin space.

The centre has pointed out that 4WDs “are not subject to the full range of design rules applicable to passenger cars and their derivatives”.

A team from Imperial College London and University of Queensland found, after a study of more than 40,000 vehicles, that “4WD drivers were almost four times more likely than car drivers to be using a mobile phone and 26 per cent more likely not to wear a seatbelt”. The researchers concluded that 4WD owners take more risks because they feel safer.

The Australian Transport Safety Bureau found that half the 36 children killed in driveway deaths between 1996 and 1998 were struck by large 4WDs. They have also found: “The proportion of alcohol intoxication amongst 4WD drivers involved in fatal crashes (29 per cent) was higher than for all other types of vehicle.” And: “In 4WD crashes involving multiple vehicles, passenger car occupants accounted for the largest proportion of fatalities (64 per cent). 4WD occupants accounted for 18 per cent.”

Children are at risk because they are little and these vehicles are high. As far as proximity sensors are concerned, they do bugger all to protect children. According to NRMA Insurance’s Robert McDonald: “They only work about a metre from the car, unless you are travelling extremely slowly. Your reaction time is not going to be quick enough to at least not knock someone over before even realising they are there.”

In 2005, NSW’s senior deputy state coroner, Jacqueline Milledge, recommended that 4WDs weighing two tonnes or more be banned from school grounds and within 200 metres of schools. She also recommended that the drivers be required to hold special licences after five-year-old Bethany Holder was run over by the driver of a Nissan Patrol with a bullbar.

Due to their weight and the bullbars being positioned at perfect head and chest height, drivers of vehicles hit side-on by 4WDs are 26 times more likely to be killed or suffer serious injury than if they had been hit by a standard-sized passenger vehicle, according to ABC’s Catalyst program.

But apparently they’re fashionable. If pick-up at your school is a procession of kids being collected from school in a car the size of a three-bedroom house, you may want to consider the values of that school.

Will it take a 4WD to back over the child of another 4WD owner for these status-obsessed fashion slaves to realise that these vehicles are potential killers?

Here’s a cheaper alternative to buying a 4WD. Just buy a normal-sized car and put a sticker on the back that reads: “I DON’T GIVE A STUFF ABOUT YOU AND I VOTE.”

HOW about that Grand Prix, eh? One look at the racing fans is all it takes for me to realise that some suburbs should have fences around them. Knuckle-dragging petrol-heads, anorexic bottle blondes marinated in fake tan and middle-aged blokes with man boobs and pimples on their arses paying exorbitant money to watch cars go fast. What a disgrace. It’s no wonder I drink.

I’m sure the parents of terminally ill children suffering rare diseases that there is no funding for researching will take comfort in the fact that the State Government has probably spent $30 million on loud, polluting cars while their child dies. They’ll be at peace knowing that Bernie Ecclestone has pocketed a $20 million licensing fee. There goes my chance of ever being a grid girl.

Don’t start banging on about all the revenue that it supposedly (and I stress the word supposedly) creates. You could get a far better long-term return by putting that money into science, education or health.

Why is it that many of the flag wavers who are the keenest for these events so they can “show off” to bring tourists into our town are the ones that least want to share it. If you need to have a Grand Prix looting, marauding and corroding our town to feel “proud”, please kill yourself at your earliest possible convenience. And take your “I’m Another Australian Against Further Immigration” T-shirt with you.

It’s festival fever here in our beautiful Melbourne and I am part of the festivities in my role hosting the Sydney Road Bakery Tours as part of the Melbourne Food and Wine Festival.

This is not a thinly veiled or heavy-handed plug because this alleged left-wing rag sponsors this festival of feeding. Don’t call, they’re booked out.

Last week and again this week, I’ll show folks around Sydney Road and take them into a handful of the many Middle Eastern bakeries along this lively and cosmopolitan strip of bridal boutiques, multicultural food, funky cafes, factory outlets and rampant tolerance.

It’s a gift to take the Loafers into a bakery owned by Iraqis, and after they have met the hard-working and generous couple and their sweet well-mannered children, and eaten their delicious food, tell them that these people are asylum seekers from Iraq. The same people that John Howard is leaving stranded on boats or letting rot on Pacific islands.

At our next stop, I introduce them to Houssam with the twinkling eyes, beaming smile and Osama bin Laden beard. He displays kindness, hospitality and warmth and also cooks Lebanese pastries so delicious they bring tears to your eyes. Let’s hope it dilutes the widely held belief that all Lebanese men are rapists.

Next stop is Jenny the Turkish mother of five who makes gozleme (stuffed pastries). She arrived from Turkey 37 years ago, first landing in the Northern Territory. The blackfellas told her that they ate white people (having her terrified for weeks) and then taught her English, “bad words first”.

“I feel like I am in another country,” the wide-eyed Loafers say as they openly gawk at the young girls wearing the hijab and tight jeans SMSing and drinking Coke. It should be called the Meet Your First Muslim tour. Don’t be alert, don’t be alarmed, shake their hands, eat their food and enjoy the hospitality they extend. Marvel at the warmth they radiate despite (or possibly because of) the horrors they have seen and the hours they spend building a better life in what they hope is a decent and tolerant society.

My favourite moment of each tour is as we cross Sydney Road and I hold up a stick with a loaf of bread on it and stop the traffic. Not just any traffic but; I tell them all to look out for a 4WD. As the 4WD approaches I walk onto the road and hold up my stick ushering the Loafers across with the words: “Sorry this is an emergency. These people have not eaten for three minutes. You are not a local, please take the next right, which will take you to South Yarra.”

One of the Loafers said: “I’m from Brighton, dear, and if you did that where I’m from you’d be run down.”

“Yes,” I replied, “That’s why I live here.”

Unless you need to tow a horse float or you are the Bush Tucker man, you don’t need a 4WD. When I walk along High Street, Malvern, and see rows of four-wheel-drives that have spent even less time in the bush than Telstra, I want to pull out my key and scratch into their pristine duco BUY A SMALLER CAR YOU GREEDY SELFISH —- Or ride a bike and save on the lipo.

Give me pide, gozleme and baklava, not circuses.

THERE’S nothing more glorious than Melbourne in March. Our beautiful city becomes so alive it shimmers. The nights get cooler and darker, the kids are in bed by 8pm and we get reacquainted with our Doona, our risotto recipes and our winter coats.

The loveliness of March in Melbourne takes me by surprise every year. But we’re always guaranteed the odd scorcher during March to remind us that we live on a tropical island. Or in the case of this week, a ball-tearing heatwave. Welcome to Melbourne. The slogan on our licence plates shouldn’t be “On The Move”. It should be “Bring Bathers. And a Jumper”. It’s not all picnics and icy poles though. March is the month of the revolting, corrosive, environmental and cultural vandalism that is the Grand Prix. Don’t get me started. Point made. This was meant to be a happy piece.

Blame it on the madness of the March weather but I found myself at Moomba twice last weekend despite my general reluctance to drag myself out to events such as the Royal Melbourne Show, Moomba or the Melbourne Cup for fear of finding myself wrangling three kids in a soup of bogans, grumpy families and drunks.

I took a mate down to the festivities on Saturday night. He’s in his 60s, born abroad, and has been a resident of our fair city for only seven years. We laughed at the bloke with the jock rock announcer voice commentating on the water-skiing who turned the term “ladies and gentlemen” into one word and punctuated every sentence with it. As we wandered through the garish-coloured rides, the intoxicating smelling crap food, the fireworks and the sideshows run by people with bad teeth my companion said, “This could be anywhere. I feel as if I’m overseas.” I replied, “You are.”

On Sunday, I fulfilled one of my childhood dreams and finally made it to the Birdman Rally. Sure, I went to the parade as a little tacker and I waved like a loony at Zig and Zag despite finding them slightly creepy, but I never made it to the Birdman Rally. Now I can die a happy woman. Why I don’t feel the need to get stroppy about the name Birdman, not Birdperson, I can’t explain despite the fact women too dress up and jump off all in the name of “because I can”.

As I watched most of the competitors make no attempt at aeronautical ingenuity despite elaborate costumes, I thought, “This is just dickheads jumping into the water to take the piss.” And I loved them for it. When I say “dickheads”, I mean that in a good way. In the same way when I say Channel Nine executives I mean that in a bad way. To the man in the cardboard Messerschmidt, the turquoise alien and the bloke with the pink wings flying the even pinker giant fluffy unicorn, I’d like to say thank you. Thank you for taking the piss.

I don’t know what being an Australian is, but what I do know is that taking the piss is such a crucial element of who we are. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t take the piss. The worst thing you can call an Australian is uptight or up themselves. At the Birdman Rally I watched an assortment of yahoos, wags and loonies prepared to make total dickheads of themselves purely in the name of taking the piss — appropriately, too, when reminded of the story about the origins of the name Moomba meaning “Up your bum white man”. I don’t care if that story is true or false, it’s just too good to let fact contaminate it.

When my son Charlie was four I attempted to impress him with a dog responding to commands. “Max, sit,” I said. And the dog sat. “Max, shake,” I said. And the dog shook. Charlie looked at the dog and said, “Max, fly”. And as anyone who understands the limitless imagination of a four-year-old will know, Charlie quite expected Max to fly. You know that thing about people only going to the car racing hoping to see a crash? Watching the Birdman Rally I realised that everyone there actually hoped to see someone fly.

Community festivals such as Moomba are integral to the fabric of our society. They get us out of our little biospheres in search of joy. We check out people from other tribes and are reminded that we live, not just in a society, but in a community. “Community” seems such an empty word at times. Festivals make you feel what a community is and be embraced by it. And like making a dickhead of yourself at the Birdman Rally next year.