I THOUGHT it was a joke. A talk radio station with Steve Price (a man, according to Wikipedia, widely known as the Poisoned Dwarf), Jason Akermanis (footballer, half man, half punchline), Andrew Bolt (right-wing tabloid hack), Sam Newman (Melbourne’s favourite misogynist and bully), Chris Smith (serial creep and ugly drunk from 2GB) and Steve Vizard (who, despite his extraordinary cultural contribution and his corporate crimes being dwarfed by the daily social atrocities committed by every second corporate maggot on King Street, is now known as ”disgraced businessman”) is starting up. In Melbourne. Yeah, right.

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Note this moment. Because there’ll be a day when you’re asked, ”Where were you when you first heard of vajazzling?”

I thought if I alerted you to the existence of vajazzling here in the privacy of our one-on-one reading communion, the damage would be contained. It would mean your shock-induced coughing fit resulting in latte spraying out of your nose would occur here, preventing you the public humiliation of spitting your drink into someone’s face when the conversation turned to vajazzling and you innocently asked, ”What’s that?”

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The why do kids get their dad’s surname article was one I was umming and ahhing about for ages. It seemed to cover a lot of similar territory, delusion, self-deception, convenient excuses etc as the famous Why Do Women Change Their Names When They Get Married article.

(By the way Jana has since divorced and is now back to Pitman).

Followed up by the article to the article.

Which lead to this research on name changing and kids names.

It’ll be another case of me flushing the nutters, Nazis, fucktards and closet misogynists out. Had 3000 words and only as space of 700 so much was chopped out. Here’s my p.s.

The surname thing is something I am passionate about. The married name thing was about changing or not where as the children’s surname was about reinforcing a patrilinial tradition steeped in ownership. Not so much the outcome but the lack of honesty about what is informing the choice is what interests me. And the touchiness surrounding the discussion. And what’s really and truly behind the touchiness.

My children’s father was happy for our offspring to be Deveny and so was I.

As the pregnancy progressed as wrong as it had always felt all these people having just their father’s name it felt odd my our child just having mine.

So they the kids are hyphenated. My name first. No dramas. Perfect decision for us. They are told they can drop a name or change at any stage.

I remember around the time of the women changing their name article I was off to do a radio interview about it. My son asked where I was going. I explained I was off to the radio and explained the whole women changing their surname business. I said “Some people say ‘Well if we’re all hyphenated then if they have children what surname do they end up with?’” Dom replied “One name from each making a new name.” I thought, “If a nine year old dyslexic can work it out why can’t all these fuckwits.” Lightbulb. They have a vested interest keeping the status quo. So much so this issue is labeled ‘unimportant’ ,‘difficult’ or ‘both’.

Being born with an opinion and a vagina is misfortunate enough. When teamed with no fear of letting people down because they are already crushed with disappointed by ‘the way I ‘turned out’ well I’m just a walking ‘mouthy’ ‘feisty’ and ‘bitter’ bomb thrower waiting to happen. Sit back and enjoy the show!

Three years ago I innocently asked the readers of The Age, the broadsheet of Melbourne; one of the most engaged, sophisticated and socially progressive cities in the world, birthplace of Germaine Greer, Barry Humphries and Barry Jones and a UNESCO city of literature, “Why are women still taking their husbands surnames?” And I’m still having jam tins thrown at me for having the audacity to even ask the question. And worse still, to have the temerity to question the furious, irrational and non-sensical responses. Made by angry, annoyed and irritated people who either lack the intellectual capacity or refuse to apply it to reveal their true motivation to why they are angry, annoyed and irritated. Let alone to answer the question.

For every one uptight white honky who believes I am the only person who thinks the practice is sad, misogynist, archaic, insecure and unnecessary. There is a 1000 who have said ‘Thanks for voicing my thoughts. Now I can just shove this article under my conservative friends noses and you can take the rap!’

It’s so amazing all these women saying their surnames were horrible and that’s why they went with the husbands. I bet their brothers happily handed that same surname on. And if they were so horrible why hadn’t they changed their names by deed poll already?

The ‘easier’ argument and the ‘family needs one surname’ argument are just dodgy reason disguised patriarchy employed by people with no insight into their own medieval, divisive and views.

And the “family tree” argument thing just shows how easily they have swallowed the dodgy reason-disguised patriarchy and the strength of the invisible electric fences to keep it like that. HELLO. WE HAVE THE INTERNET AND SOPHISTOCATED GOVERNENT OFFICES FOR GENEOLOGY. It shows how blind people are to the misogyny when you here them talking about the family tree in solely patriarchal terms.

And has far as the ‘historically argument’ goes, see tradition and convention in today’s argument. It’s not ‘just your father’s surname’ it’s yours.

As far as ‘there are more important things to deal with.’ Oh yeah? And what are you doing about them? And by the way, we don’t do one thing at a time. Hopefully they are all being dealt with but this is just vain hope to distract from the importance of this issue.

One of the most interesting conversations I had last week was with a mate who ended up hyphenating she said, “I really didn’t care. And he said he didn’t either. So I said fine, let’s just go with my surname. And suddenly he went from I don’t really care to I’m not happy about that at all. Which is why I pushed for the hyphenated.” Get thee to a watercooler, a lunch room or online forum. If people get offended, just blame it on me.

The only explanation I have for my overwhelming urge to go to Calder Park Drags last Friday was because I’d spent a disproportionate amount of the previous fortnight in Mount Martha, or as I call it, Midsomer Murders Bay. You know that English mystery telly show where it’s all chutney, hedges and avuncular parsons at the village fair until the kindly widow who breeds hounds finally snaps and decapitates the tavern keeper in his sleep for bending over the corners of the hymn book? Well it’s like that but by the sea. Mount Martha is the only place in the world you’ll find authentic ersatz 16^th century Tudor architecture with a view of jet skis.

There are more uptight white honkies in the Portsea end of Frankston than you can shake Maggie Beer rolled in quince paste at. The morning after bin night I received a petition from the neighbors. Apparently my rubbish ‘wasn’t clean enough’. A mate’s parents have lived in Mount Honky for 40 years. “I didn’t know people from other countries existed until I was 14. The only Asian I ever saw growing up in Mount Martha was in the word Caucasian. I suppose it could have been worse,” she added, “It could have been in Sorrento, where you can be arrested for not blow drying your hair and you get ten years hard yakka for not wearing moleskins.”

What have I been doing in Caucasia? Squatting in an empty house because I, like hundreds of other Melbourne show offs, attention seekers and narcissists with self esteem issues am writing a show for the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. And no, that is not a veiled attempt at advertising my show God Is Bullshit, That’s The Good News. When I tweeted “And when I say ‘writing’ I mean googling myself and wanking.” my mate and fellow comedian Geraldine Hickey replied, “it appears we have the same method for writing shows. I also include eating toasted cheese sandwiches.”

Mount Martha’s Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice has since informed me that onanism is illegal in their jurisdiction. The only form of physical pleasure permitted other than doubles tennis and brisk sudoku is hitting yourself in the sternum with a first edition copy of Stephanie Alexander’s The Cook’s Companion.

The only antidote for my White Dog, White Shoe, Emotionally Constipated, Self Funded Retiree fatigue was recalibratation via a bogan enema. Which resulted in a bunch of little boys in skeleton suits and I taking off down the Calder on an odyssey. The Thunderdome for a night of legal street drags on what is apparently the fastest drag strip in the world.

I say ‘apparently’ because how could you prove it? Years ago I worked in Tokyo as a prostitu…. I mean English teacher. I fancied writing a memoir of my escapades and calling it Give Head, Lose Face. Anyway out with a couple of mates in a Japanese restaurant last week one asked if I was fluent. “Can either of you speak Japanese?” I asked, “No,” they replied. “Then yes. I’m fully bilingual.”

I pulled up to Hoons Haven behind a lowered Commodore with tinted windows, mags all round, a license plate H8ER79 and a bumper sticker that read Fuck Off We’re Full. And a crucifix hanging from the rear view mirror. Because Who Would Jesus Hate? I explained to the boys that H8ER79 meant the driver hated not only 79 but all prime numbers and as far as being full went, well, he was full of shit. But probably best not to tell him that. Unless they wanted their heads punched in. In the name of God.

Entering the carpark a bloke with a face like a slapped arse, the mouth of a corpse and the personality of a very angry war criminal with a personality disorder and a toothache gave me a ticket he’d written my licence plate number on. Parking fee I assumed. Or maybe some car key party where you get to have a stab at someone else’s car for the night. No, the ticket was so I could prove I was the owner of my own car on the way out. Or that’s what Ivan Milat’s brother said. If the ticket and the license plate didn’t match I was pretty sure I would have been raped. For all I knew the black sheep of the Milat family may not have even worked there. He just showed up every Friday night with his official looking tickets to meet people. Before dismembering them.

Entering the temple to petrol, testosterone and rubber I was overcome with 70s flashbacks. Mullets, Winfield Reds, panel vans, blokes called Daz and 3XY. As I entered The Dome, the dirt bowl carved from paddock in Diggers Rest (under 18s free! Under 12, don’t get too pissed you may have to drive mummy and daddy home) I was greeted by the roar of hotted up engines, the smell of global warming and the sight of, no it can’t be, yes is was, an espresso coffee stand. So much for pie, smoke or beer? Now its, soy latte, chai or mochachino? At the Calder Park drags. Only in Melbourne. Bunch of poofs. With taste. And anger management issues.

At least back in the days you could buy a girl a beer you were in with the chance of a root. These days you buy her a caffe latte and the best you can hope for is a conversation.

Great crowd. I didn’t realize it was a theme night. It was either Inbred and Sex Offender Friday, or a Moe Singles Night. I pulled out a texta to write my mobile phone number on the little boys arms in case they got lost. Then I thought maybe I should write their blood types down as well. Or a message JUST BRING THE KID BACK SAFE AND I’LL GIVE YOU MY PHONE, MY WALLET AND WHAT EVER ELSE YOU WANT.

The truth is I trust bogans far more than middle class people. The harder people try to act normal the less normal they actually are.

The little boys and I sorted ourselves a posse and the crowd was very friendly. It was a like a bogan Noah’s Arc. Two of every kind. Short fat bogans whose heads joined directly onto their bodies and tall skinny ones whose heads appeared to be connected to their body by a stalk, ones that looked as if they’d bite if you touched their ears, and others wearing beanies that screamed Special Needs Group. And stacks of families. I particularly enjoyed seeing the fagging mums in tracky dacks tipping Coke into baby bottles and handing it to toddlers in prams pushed flush up against the cyclone fence next to men wearing ear muffs commonly worn by operators of jack hammers.

The little boys were mad for the speed, noise and particularly the smell of burning rubber. “You can get the best smoke here Mum. Suck it up and hold your breath. It’s sick as!” Sick as? Hello Cancer! “And if you boys close your eyes while you inhale you can wish for where you want your tumor to metastasize from!” My kids were doing the drawback with tyre smoke. Not surprising, considering they’re half wog, half bogan. And considering I’m what the boys call WWM. World’s Worst Mother. Which is a refereshing change from ‘fat maggot’, ‘hell in a skin suit’ and ‘a cross between the grim reaper and a weirdo.’

I can’t explain how I find burning rubber, exhaust fumes and 140-decibel noise relaxing. I suppose you can take the girl our of Reservoir but you can’t take the psychic mechanism to escape emotional chaos via outside distractions out of the hysteric with repressed rage and abandonment issues.

In the current climate of panic and fear about the impact of greenhouse gas emission and our preoccupation with our personal responsibility for reversing the devastating and far reaching consequences of global warming there’s something comforting and liberating about being amongst people who consider environmental vandalism a sport. “Who gives a stuff about carbon footprints? Shove your Prius. Go hard or go home. Not my fault the environment’s fucked. Game on.”

We met a lovely kid with a skinhead and rats tail called Scott. He was one of those aggressively friendly baby bogans who, due to benign neglect had the survival instinct to identify and bond with any adult with a full set of teeth and access to a car not up on blocks in an attempt to ingratiate his way up the food chain. “So who are you here with Scott?”

“Me dad. And me bruvver Efan. Drags give mum the shits. So she’s gone boozin’. Sometimes me Nan comes. But she’s in jail at the moment.”

“How old are you darling?”

“Five. In April.”

“Can I by you a Coke Scott?”

“Na. I’d rather a dim sim but. Give us $20 and I’ll buy us all some.” Gave him $20. He nicked off didn’t he and that was the last I saw of him.

The highlight of the night for me was a 1962 FB Holden dropping her guts and dragging off a C63 Mercedes Benz. It’s not every day you get to see a merchant banker from Hawthorn get their arse whipped by a panel beater from St. Albans. Mount Martha to Calder Park. Seeing how the other half live. Top night.

THIS COLUMN WAS PUBLISHED AUGUST 2009

Are you fucking serious? They’re bringing back Hey Hey it’s Saturday? If that’s not a blatant attempt by Channel Nine to attract my attention I don’t know what is.

Where do I start? Bump off Leunig and give me a whole page for this one.

What are they thinking? When I say they, I mean my friends at Channel Nine. And when I say friends I mean blokes who would gladly kill and rape me as half time entertainment at the Grand Final. Or any occasion, event or gathering. For a laugh. And similcast it with Eddie Maguire in the studio and Steve Jacobs on the ground. “Yeah Eddie, the crowd down here is electric. Traditionally what happens on the footy trip stays on the footy trip but this year Nine has a World First Premiere. Who needs Carols By Candlelight when we’ve got Deveny on a spit after a night with the State Of Origin All Codes dream pack sex team, After the break, Livinia with the weather….”

But seriously, it’s about time someone exhumed and resuscitated the festering corpse of Hey Hey. Something had to be done about the staggering deficit of blokey, cobbled up, camp concert style content on television and the shortage of middle aged, white men with relevance deprivation on our screens.

Hey Hey ran for 27 years. Haven’t we suffered enough? Apparently a Facebook page calling for the show’s return has 197,000 followers. Which may sound impressive until you realize they’re all Daryl Somers, Hey Hey’s host. Host as in organism that is invaded by a virus on which parasites thrive. The show was axed in 1999 despite the noisy protest of Daryl’s mum.

Hey Hey was fine for what it was. An alternative to having a conversation with your family. But it was even dated back in 1999 when it was axed. Anything could happen and generally didn’t. The words “improvised”, “unscripted” and “flying by the seat of their pants” were used as code for “sloppy”, “cheap” and “Why prepare, research, rehearse and plan when you can just throw starving egos into a studio and let their delusion of talent do the work being fuelled by the promise of a Logie, being called a legend over a Crownie after the show or a hand job from one of the make-up girls.”

Dead Eyed Daryl will be joined by Red being a sarcastic prick, Wilbur being a smartarse, Molly sucking up to anything with a whiff of next big thing, Shane Bourne doing jokes beginning with the line “A couple of sheilas walked into a bar” and John Blackman making us think what happened in the 70s should stay in the 70. Mrs. McGillicuddy anybody?

Well at least the mediocrity of the performers made the Red Faces contestants look good. So too segments with like What Cheeses Me Off and personalities like Plucka Duck. Plucka? Get it? Sounds a bit like…which reminds me, I wonder if Jacky McDonald is still alive? Hey Hey It’s The Token Woman! Livinia Nixon! Denise Drysdale! Jo Beth Taylor! The occasional presence of any women on Hey Hey was amplified by their unashamed absence. What does it say when Dickie Knee – a hat and wig on a stick got more air time than any performer with a vagina on Australia’s longest running light entertainment show.

Light entertainment is what you call comedy when the jokes don’t work. Variety is what you call a programme when you’re not sure what it is and family entertainment the genre it’s labelled if you want to sell station wagons, nappies and lawn mowers. How do I know? I wrote for IMT with Frankie J Holden, All Star Squares and The Wedge. I’m not proud of it, I had to pay the car rego.

If these ‘reunion shows’ (Look who’s just popped in! It’s Peter Russell Clarke, Colette Mann and the blokes from The Curiosity Show! You thought they were dead didn’t you? Well after 30 seconds you’ll wish they were!) rate Hey, Hey will be back on our screens permanently. You have been warned. This isn’t nostalgia. It’s creative paralysis and corporate cannibalism.