Category Archives: COLUMNS

Debutante Ball

COLUMNS

MARCH 8 is International Women’s Day, a day when middle-class women, like myself, squat over mirrors and reflect on how far the sisterhood has come and what challenges lie ahead. My two cents worth? It’s 2008 and we still have debutante balls. How wrong is that? And on how many levels? The answers are a) very b) stacks.

Debutante balls, the tribe has voted, and it’s time to go. OK, the tribe hasn’t voted, it’s another case of what I reckon. Let’s remind ourselves that this page is called Opinion. In that respect I believe in democracy; all voices should be heard. But as far as deb balls go, I say shove your civil liberty and personal choice. Ban debutante balls. Yes, Aunty Funbuster is on the job this week. Don’t like it? Tough. Read sport.

Allow me to get you up to speed on this one. Debutante balls were traditionally a coming-out rite of passage for “young ladies”. The concept originated in England just after the Industrial Revolution. It was an opportunity for the affluent middle-class to eat their way up the food chain by shacking up with aristocracy, and for the aristocracy to shag the new money and stop inbreeding by slumming it with the plebs. Got to hand it to those Poms, they can’t cook but they sure knew how to create an empire.

Let’s unpack shall we? When girls reached maturity (read: were considered old enough to put out) they were paraded around like cattle in wedding gowns to be judged by prospective husbands and their families.

Imagine the muttering at the tables as the young ripe visions of loveliness glided around to the Viennese Waltz. “That Lilith has a face like a hound but some jolly good breeding hips what!” “Not good enough for our Gordon though, he’s 678th in line to the throne. Jocelyn appears fetching but not lively. We can’t be having lively. Lively can lead to feisty. Put a red sticker on Jocelyn.” I don’t know if they poked the girls with sticks or looked in their mouths; if they didn’t I’m sure they would’ve liked to.

Here on Planet 2008 this bizarre and demeaning ritual has 16-year-old girls volunteering to be reduced to nothing more than gender stereotypes and sex objects judged on their looks, not their brains, creativity or ability. The debs frock up in white wedding dresses, carry bouquets and even have pageboys and flower girls. It all smacks of “here’s one we prepared earlier”. This is what she’ll look like when she’s a bride, just add the veil. You like? You buy.

The debs of today are still “escorted into society” by a young male and presented to an old, middle-class white male to give his approval (!), more often than not with his wordless wife at his side looking more than slightly mother of the bride. Then you know what the girls do? They curtsy.

That’s right. Curtsy. Handshake? Nup. Bow? Not very lady like. That’s another thing that needs to go. The curtsy. And if I have to explain why I suggest you go back to Gender Studies 101. The only difference between debutante balls then and now is fake tan, tart fuel and tiaras. Yes, my friends, for those who think I’m joking about the tiaras, I wish I was.

In the world of the debutante there’s no room for the ugly, the fat, the poor or the gay. Well, there is room: room to point and laugh and yet again be the last one picked for the team. Another case of “Am I Not Pretty Enough?” Frankly no. Or rich enough, thin enough or straight enough.

For those of you who roll your eyes and say “It’s just a good reason for a party”, I say have the party. Just party like it’s 1999, not 1783.

By all means frock up, just drop the anachronistic, degrading image of females as wordless princesses needing to be escorted by young men, approved of by old men and judged on their looks.

And no. I didn’t do my deb. At the time I proclaimed to anyone who would listen that it was nothing more than a meat market. Truth be told I didn’t think any bloke would partner me. Thank God for my teenage angst and poor self-confidence. If I were 16 today I’d be an Emo.

Deb balls are a mole on the face of the progress of equality. Do these kids really understand what kind of a cultural celebration they are taking part in? Sure, it’s a link with the past. But so, too, would be foot binding and witch burning. This is not a link with the past we should be keeping.

It’s time the fat lady sang on debutante balls. And if she doesn’t, I will. And the song I’ll be singing is Aretha Franklin’s Respect.

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Politicians Wives from Kevin O7 election

COLUMNS

I’VE HAD a few good laughs this week. One of them was driving through Malvern and seeing large photos of Peter Costello’s face in people’s front yards. “Well, that’s an effective way to deter intruders,” I thought. But I wondered why people would spend all that money on landscaping, an automatic watering system and a gardener just to go and spoil it all with a picture of The Smirking Gun.

John Howard’s coming over a bit Sir Joh at the moment, so it was refreshing to see the face of The Man Least Likely. Poor old Pete. The last time I caught a glimpse of him was during the worm poll dancing debate. The camera would occasionally cut to him in the audience and Pete would strap on the fake smile faster than you could say, “You should have gone straight for the jugular when you had that chance”. I did think it was fabulous that Costello managed to chew through his restraints and escape from his cage for the night. I’m sure they upped the sedation after that.

As I jog round the People’s Republic of Moreland puffing and wheezing in my Kevin07 T-shirt, I do enjoy the delicious irony that every front yard with a Greens placard in it is overgrown, unkempt and knee high in thistles. It’s a case of, “Sure we’re into the environment, we just can’t be stuffed mowing. We’re flat out weaving.” And it seems you can’t put up a Vote Labor board unless you have the obligatory Tibetan prayer flags flying from the veranda and a recycle bin overflowing with Coopers Red stubbies.

The Socialist Alliance may be short of money, but they’re certainly high on effort. Power poles are plastered with black and white A4 photocopies of their team, which includes a man with a goatee wearing a hood. The Honourable Member For Utopia I assume. And I thought I saw a Democrats bumper sticker the other day. But it just said “Magic Happens”. Here’s hoping.

Placards in people’s front yards are one thing. But receiving a personally addressed letter from the spouse of a candidate is hilarious, outrageous, tragic and appalling on so many levels – which leads me to the other good laugh I had this week.

Malcolm Turnbull’s wife, Lucy, (Turnbull of course, Mrs, thank you very much) wrote a personally addressed letter to the constituents of Wentworth. All 90,000 of them. She wrote because, “I thought it was important for you to have the opportunity to hear about the Malcolm I know and love”. Why? What’s with this guy? Does he get his mum to ring up work when he’s taking a day off sick as well?

Mrs Turnbull goes on to attempt to dispel the myth that he comes from a privileged background by explaining that as a child, Malcolm’s family hit rock bottom and had to move from Vaucluse to Double Bay and – shock, horror – lived in a flat. The shame. Family values. Supported my career choice. Our kids our greatest achievement.

Reading the letter smacks of “never mind how he presents, he’s actually a good bloke. Never mind the born-to-rule accent, the deep sense of entitlement and the patriarchal walk. And the nuclear reactors.” Political spouses should be not seen and not heard. Can you imagine getting a letter from Kevin Rudd’s wife, Therese Rein? “This is an automatically generated response. I have my own life and he has his. If you see him, give him my best. T.”

Or a postcard from Bob Brown’s partner? As the two of them shuffle about in their sarongs and mandals cleaning up after a big night on the tofu, does Bob’s partner think it’s his place to tell voters what Bob’s really like?

I’d love a letter on flowery paper from Janette. “Dear Mrs (insert husband’s surname here),

“Let me introduce myself. My name is Mrs John Howard, or as my husband calls me, Mother. I’d like to tell you about the man I have been sleeping in a single bed next to for more than 30 years.

“Contrary to common belief he’s not old-fashioned. His favourite band is the Seekers and he once had a conversation with a woman whose daughter had a child out of wedlock. And he’s not racist. We have many friends from overseas. Well two, George Bush and his wife, Mrs Bush. Even though they talk funny and don’t know who Don Bradman is, we treat them just like normal people.

“Despite my supportive wordless wife routine, let me assure you, I’m the one who wears the fawn slacks round here. We’ve never disagreed on anything because if we did, things may become unpleasant. And we couldn’t have that.

“Your husband should tell you to vote for my husband. If he hasn’t already you’re probably poor. Or foreign.

Yours forever cardigan clutching,

Mrs Howard.”

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Erotic Fan Fiction Clementine Ford and Catherine Deveny by Canbebitter

COLUMNS, , ,

I was sitting round a table at Albert Food and Wine with Clementine Ford, Stella Young, Emilie Zoey Baker and my boyfriend last night lsitening to Benjamin Law do a live reading of the Erotic Fan Fiction he had just done involving Corey Bernadi and a large dog at the Wheeler Centre.

Clem and I then talked about the Erotic Fan Fiction we had read at the previous event with Andrew Denton and Declan Greene.  (Mine involved Tony Abbott, Cardinal Geroge Pell, Gina Rinehart and a dildo in the shape of Rose Hancock).

At that VERY moment a fan had sent both Clem and I an email with an Erotic Fan Fiction she had written about us!

I thought it was fabulous and Canbebitter generously allowed me to post it.  Enjoy….

525841_10151824944290453_924813602_n 2Clementine Ford rolled her head back and moaned loudly.

“Gnnnnnnaarrghhhhgggggghhhh. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

She looked down between her creamy thighs and studied Catherine Deveny’s dark wavy mane as it bobbed up and down behind her own elegantly groomed pubic hair. How did this happen?!, Clementine wondered as she took another sip of red wine out of a Brunswick-issue jam jar. Catherine’s perfectly pink tongue flicked her clitoris again. Oh, who the hell cares, Ms Ford revised, as orgasmic waves crashed over her.

It had actually started out, as these things often do for Northside feminist writers, on Twitter. A little calling out sexism here, a few #qanda tweets there, and before they knew it, Clementine Ford and Catherine Deveny had cultivated Twitter followings comprising most of the feminists (and their trolls) in Melbourne. Naturally, they’d SlutWalked together, Reclaimed the Night and eventually developed a friendship offline. In June 2012, they were each delighted to find that they were both asked to read at the same Erotic Fan Fiction event at the Wheeler Centre. In July 2012, Clementine had called Catherine in a panic.

“Dev! Erotic Fan Fiction is on tomorrow and I haven’t written anything yet.”

“Oh Clem, this is so typically you. As soon as I heard, I got home and wrote this amazing piece about Tony Abbott and George Pell. And Andrew Bolt. And Gina Rinehart.”

“And that is so typically you. But I don’t have time for your gloating. What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to have a glass of wine, calm the fuck down, and write something filthy. It’s not hard.” To Clementine, Dev sounded as if she’d already had a glass or two herself. The advice wasn’t helpful.

“I don’t think I can do it. I’m freaking out, Catherine.”

“How about I come over and we can do it together? Maybe if you had some help, you’d feel more confident. You’re so adorable when you panic.”

Clementine knew that even just the company of the older woman would steel her nerves. “Thank you,” she whimpered into the phone.

“I’ll cycle over. See you in five,” Catherine replied.

Clementine opened the door to a slightly flushed Dev, dressed in a deep green dress, with a low cut scoop neck. She must have gotten dressed in a hurry, because she wasn’t wearing a bra, and Clementine could see every curve of her bountiful breasts. She’d skipped stockings too. Clementine looked down at her own attire. She was wearing a cream lace vintage nightgown. Her blue Bonds briefs were clearly visible under the flimsy material, but she figured Dev would forgive the oversight.

“What you need, is some inspiration,” Catherine said in her typically forthright manner. She went into the kitchen and poured out two very large jam jars of red wine, and two shots of tequila.

“I know,” Clem agreed. “I’ve been trawling the news and skimming children’s books, but nothing is coming to me. I even read some Literotica, but then I got distracted, and you know…” She gestured at her crotch. “I wasn’t very productive. Who are those for?”

“The wine is for the both of us, the tequila is just for you,” Catherine replied, her eyes glinting cheekily. Clementine opened her mouth, but Dev continued. “Don’t argue, just slam it back.”

Clementine did so. Oh god, she was in her 30s and far too old to be shotting tequila. She woozily stood back from the bench to find Catherine’s hands between her thighs.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” she spat out.

Catherine looked sheepish, but kept her hand on Clementine’s inner thigh. “I just wanted to check how distracted you’d been from Literotica. And I wondered if maybe I’d be better at inspiring you?” she added hopefully.

The tequila going to her head, Clementine grabbed Dev’s hand and plunged it inside her briefs. Her moat had suddenly become flooded, and she wanted more than anything for Catherine to know that she was the cause of it. With her free hand, she grabbed a jar of wine and took another gulp.

“Kiss me.” Catherine did so, and pushed Clementine against the bench. Dev’s stiff nipples pushed through the green fabric and brushed against Ford’s. Clementine felt Catherine’s fingers search deeper into her sex, the heel of her hand expertly massaging her clit.

“Oh God,” Clementine offered involuntarily.

“There’ll be no talk of God here,” Catherine snapped, ever the atheist. “I’m going to punish you for that.” She pushed Clementine’s head to her unstockinged mound.

Instinctively, Clementine knew what was expected of her. She peeled away Catherine’s black French briefs and ran her tongue over her hot slit. Reaching up one hand to grasp Dev’s famous bosom, she used her other hand to get a firm hold of her ample, fleshy arse. She licked blindly, feeling for Dev’s pleasure button with her tongue. A few guttural sounds told Clementine she had found the right place. Licking faster and faster, Clementine felt her own briefs get wetter and wetter. She removed her hand from Catherine’s behind and plunged them deep into Dev’s slippery cave. Clem knew there’d be no attention for her until Catherine was satisfied.

The experienced older woman came quickly and heavily, releasing delicious juices into Clementine’s willing mouth. The younger woman swilled some more wine, removed her nightgown and Bonds, and sat down on her favourite chair.

“Now me.”

Catherine took her place at the foot of the chair, posed as if in prayer. While she didn’t care for the church, the cult of pussy was something she could get behind.

“You’re soaking,” she murmured. Catherine inserted an exploratory index finger into her crevice, feeling for Clementine’s raised G-spot.

Clementine breathed in sharply as Catherine found it. She sipped at her wine and felt two more fingers enter her. She ran her hands over her own torso, taking in her feminine curves, eventually resting on her swollen breasts. Clementine tugged gently at the stiff nubs of her nipples, heightening the sensation. She rolled her head back.

Ms Ford then felt Catherine apply her tongue to the place she needed her most. Combined with the now methodical in-and-out motion of Dev’s long fingers, Clementine began to feel pleasure unlike anything her boyfriend or faithful vibrator had ever been able to give her. She spread her legs further, pressing her warm vulva hard up against Catherine’s enthusiastic face.

Clementine’s breath got hot and heavy. Catherine continued to flick her tongue expertly, and faster now. Her fingers slipped in and out easily, and at speed. While focusing intently on the wavy hair in front of her, Ford lost all control and reason.

As the climax tingled through Clementine’s body, she brought Catherine’s head to meet hers and kissed her, tasting her own meaty sex on her lips. “Stay with me,” she whispered, as post-coital exhaustion set in.

Hungover, with red wine stained lips, Clementine awoke the next day to find Catherine gone. “Shit, it’s 3pm,” she said to no one. She quickly rushed off some erotic fiction, substituting the characters of Jesus and Satan for Clementine and the devilish Dev. Her pussy pulsated with delight as she committed the previous night’s depravity to paper.

Suddenly it was 7pm. Clementine Ford cycled madly to the Wheeler Centre, all the while worrying what Catherine would think of her story. Eddie Sharpe introduced her, and Clementine stepped up to the podium. It was her moment of truth, and the way she saw it, there was only three ways the reading could go. Badly, with Catherine never speaking to her, let alone tweeting at her, again; mediocre, with Dev tweeting at her but never touching her again; or very well, with the two of them getting a room straight after. Clutching at her throat, Clementine felt her own erect nipple graze her arm. She nervously began reading.

As she returned from the lectern to her seat, Clementine glanced back to see Dev with a wicked look in her eyes, running a pink tongue around the edge of her crimson lips. The moistening in Clementine’s crotch told her she’d be seeing that tongue again very soon…

 

Want more?  Come see Clem, Dev and Nelly Thomas LIVE Sunday November 4th 3pm Bella Union Bar. And this is also a DO NOT MISS. Tuesday October 9th Too Much Information. I went last week and was GOBSMACKED!!!

 

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Jill Meagher. I thought my information was inconsequential

COLUMNS

It was not an attack, or a near rape or an attempted abduction. Well it certainly didn’t seem like it at the time. Just a nuisance. 

In July. I thought nothing of it. I mentioned it to my boyfriend a day or two later in passing. We shrugged. I’m a big girl, I live in the city, I travel alone late at night, these things happen all the time. No biggie.  I wasn’t scared. 

It was only after the constant calls to report anything, ANYTHING, no matter how small, to Crimestoppers to help Jill Meagher that this little incident began to amplify.

I did not want to seem like a bandwagon jumper, a time waster, an alarmist or a wuss but I called Crimestoppers yesterday morning after yet another tweet urging people to call. I’d discussed the incident to my boyfriend and housemates the night before and they’d encouraged me too. 

So the call to Crimestoppers went something like this;

“Look I’m really sorry, this is probably a waste of time and not helpful and I’m sure you’re really busy but they keep saying to report anything that may help find Jill Meagher and something happened to me in July. I was riding home along Sydney Road 1am Sunday morning. I don’t drink so alcohol was not a factor. I was near the corner of Albion Street and Sydney Road. A guy on the footpath said, “Excuse me”.  I took one look at him. He seemed slight and non descript but there was something a little menacing about him. Usually blokes at that time of night are loud, pissed, abusive, suggestive or in groups. I kept riding. As I did he walked off the footpath and on to the road and lunged at my bike trying to grab the pack rack/mudguard. I kept riding.”

“What did he look like?” asked Crimestoppers.

“Early thirties, sandy hair, jeans, blue hoodie. Norwegian/Finnish looking. Scandinavian.’

“Any accent?”

“No. Sorry. This is probably no help at all and sorry for wasting your time”

Crimestoppers were appreciative and thanked me for my call.

After I called Crimestoppers I tweeted to others thinking perhaps I could encourage someone out there who like me didn’t want to make a fuss, be accused of making something out of nothing or someone not wanting to feel or appear as a wuss who had useful information to give police a part of the puzzle. I did not think mine was. But one of the main reasons I called was to help awareness and accurate stats. 

About 6pm I arrived home and had a look at the footage just released in relation to Jill’s disappearance. In it there was a man who looked like the man who was a nuisance to me weeks before. I was shocked. I was not expecting that at all. Exactly like him. 

All I know is the man who hassled me looked just like the man in the CCTV  footage and was wearing the same clothes. I do not know for sure if he is the same man. Or if he had anything to do with the disappearance of Jill Meagher.

One of the other reasons I didn’t think to report the nuisance weeks or days before was that I assumed if a woman was taken from the street it would involve a car, being down a lane or involving some heavy looking fellas. Not a lone nondescript guy on the street who looked like an IT guy. Alone and on foot. With the opening line ‘excuse me.’ 

Like all of us I am deeply disturbed by the disappearance of Jill Meagher. It’s very close to home on many levels. The thing in the report that really resonated is as she left the bar her male work colleague asked if he could walk her home. She said no. Repeatedly.

Which would have been pretty much what I would have said.  Actually my response would have been more like, “Fuck off. Walk me home? Like you could protect me. I walk these streets all the time. Thanks sunshine. I grew up in Reservoir. I can look after myself.”

Anyone who wonders why I and people like me did not report it earlier do not realize how much unwanted attention women and girls get all the time. And how often when it is reported it’s dismissed. 

Steve Price and Andrew Bolt accused me of being responsible for Jill’s death LISTEN HERE for not reporting the minor nusiance.  So I suppose I’ll be in the slammer with this Brunswick woman was threatened by man with uncannily similarities to Jill Meagher’s killer.  Twice. She went to the police. No details of the incident were recorded.

This from Bek “How sad that each of us probably has dozens of these unreported incidents (the boy who touched me on the way up the waterside ladder at the local pool, the man who pinched my bottom as I walked between Myer stores in the city, the piano examiner who touched my breast while I played for my piano exam in Year 10, etc, etc…). If all this stopped, we might have less trouble spotting the really dangerous guys.”

If women reported every drunk, creep, loony or fuckwit who hassled them the cops would have to multiply their numbers by a thousand and still be flat out. 

I ride all over Melbourne. I never feel scared and I experience unwanted attention from dickheads and creeps in EVERY suburb. I find Brunswick and particularly well-lit busy Sydney road one of the places I deal with the least amount of bullshit. 

This morning I was inundated by calls and door knocks from media maggots wanting to ‘make content’ from the disappearance of Jill Meagher. Sickening.

I am happy to help Jill Meagher, her family, Vic Police and trusted associates. I am NOT happy to enable media vultures veiling content as ‘concern’. Mainstream media, particularly tabloids, talk back radio and A Current Affair thrives on the horror, grotesque and sensationalist.

My considerations are these. How can I help? How can I encourage people to speak out? How can I make sure the emphasis stays on the investigation and not on anything else?

Who do I trust to not use this terrible situation to whip up fear, accusations or ratings? 

Not you 3AW (Neil Mitchell referred, to Jill as a ‘party girl’ who may have gone partying)  Channel Seven, Today Tonight or the Herald Sun. 

I spoke to The Age, Chrissie Swann and Jon Faine. Because I trust them.

If you would like to be informed and not emotionally manipulated may I suggest you consume your media from ABC. 

What has happened to Jill Meagher is horrible but not common. Keep in mind the most dangerous place for a girl or woman is not on the street late at night but IN HER OWN HOME. She is most likely to be killed or injured by not only by a man she knows but one she is related to.

My tips for women wanting to feel safe. Buy a bike, use main roads and learn self-defence. You cannot rely on ‘a man walking you home’. Nor should you want to. Your city sister. Walk wherever you like. 

Women, men and children should be able to walk the street when they want, where they want wearlng whatever they want.

Men are far more likely to cop violence on the street. So why is no one telling them not to walk alone?

Don’t tell me not to walk alone at night. Tell people not to rape and kill.

If like me you thought your information was inconsequential please call Crimestoppers 1800 333 000

Colette sent me this, which explains why we don’t report these frequent occurrences. She generously allowed me to publish it. Thanks Colette. 

Hi Catherine,

In the past couple of days I have heard a senior policeman say that women should report incidents to the Police when they happen and it got me thinking about some of the ‘incidents’ that have happened to me over the years. What if all women reported these ‘incidents’ throughout our lives, where would we start and where would we stop. 

Should I start with my grade 2 school excursion where the boys pulled me into their compartment, blocked the door, tossed me from side to side of the compartment, pulled my dress up and pulled my pants down till I screamed and cried enough for them to let me go.  I didn’t tell anyone about that.

What about when I was about 10 years old and out riding my bike with my friend, you know back when it was safe to let your kids go off and ride their bikes all day. There we were riding along the footpath and when crossing over a creek a guy called out and we looked down and saw him lying on the creek bank with his pants down and masturbating… “Come over” he said… we didn’t tell anyone about that.

What about when I was 15 and working Saturday mornings in a supermarket and the boss would trap me in the bench seat of the break room and rub his hands up and down my legs.  I told my workmate about that and she said he did it to her too.

What about when this same boss would get me in a big bear hug so that his arm went all the way around my body and his hand cupped my breast, yes I was not alone there either.

What about when a male teacher threw a girl against the door of the classroom breaking the window in the door… good catholic girls school, I’m pretty sure our principal (Sister Patricia) was told about that but he was still there when I left 3 years later.

What about when I went on holidays with 2 girlfriends at the age of 18 and we were lying in the botanic gardens in Adelaide reading books and a man came up and lay down on his side facing us and started masturbating… oh actually we did report that one.  We were at the beach in Glenelg the following day and we saw him and so we went to the Police Station and told them and they laughed at us.

What about when I was travelling at the age of 21 through Europe with a girlfriend.  We were on a night train and she got up to go to the toilet and I saw a man follow her down the train carriageway so I got up to see if she was all right.  She wasn’t alright, this man had my friend pinned up against the wall of the train with his hand at her throat and my appearance and yelling at him sent him running back along the passage.  We didn’t tell anyone about that.

I can’t imagine being taken seriously if I had reported any of these ‘incidences’, and that is part of the problem, it should all be taken seriously because it is all serious and disturbing and heartbreaking terribly terribly common. 

 Crimestoppers 1800 333 000

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Cunt. It’s an intelligence test

COLUMNS

Cunt is a homophone. Like rose and rose, root and root, tacky and tacky and tender and tender.

Language changes.

Hilary has one. Trump is one. Got it? Good.

It’s just a word. Like cabbage, carrot or faggot.  And you all know it. Stop being uptight white honky offence sniffer pigs in an attempt to look virtuous. It just makes you look dumb, boring and pedestrian.

Great people do things, average people talk about doing things and small people find fault with things others are doing.

Stop acting like cunts and trying to getting your little moment on the attention sun lounge by something other than pointing and telling the teacher that ‘(insert name of person who threatens you because they refuse to massage your prejudices here) used a rude word.’

What are you? The word police?

You’re as bad as Cory Bernardi. You heard me.

I am so bored by this ‘I find your use of the word cunt offensive’ well fine. Fuck off and sit at the kid’s table.

Or ‘cunts are beautiful’. No they aren’t and they don’t have to be.

Or ‘cunts are beautiful. Not like men’s thingies they’re disgusting.’ Really? WOW! Double standards. I happen to think cocks are gorgeous.

Worse still are the cunt agnostics. The ‘c bomb’ people. “Whoah! That Catherine Deveny sure like’s the ‘c bomb’. What are you trying to do? Half say it? Grow the  fuck up.

Screen Shot 2016-03-22 at 9.35.05 am

 

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Leadbeater’s Possum. YOU. ME. CARPARK. NOW! From Melbourne Zoo Debate

COLUMNS, , , , ,

Last night I did a Comedy Debate to celebrate the 150th birthday of Melbourne Zoo 

To be honest I wasn’t thrilled to get the Leadbeater’s Possum.

I thought to myself,  “How the hell is Melbourne’s noisiest atheist going to convince a bunch of inner city, latte drinking, Monthly reading, sarong wearing, ’let’s go out to a debate on a Wednesday night for a bit of culture’ audience to vote for a rat that eats their passionfruit, pees on their wisteria and makes sexy noises in their roof when they are trying to sleep to get a spot on some imaginary arc?”

At least I could comfort myself by with the knowledge at least I didn’t get the Baw Baw frog. Which is what Rusty Berther did. Now he’s not just scared and weird but spewing heaps.

In the spirit of full disclosure I must tell you I am related to such a marsupial. I have a possum cousin. Well his real name is Glenn but we call him Possum because he eats roots and leaves. He’s not a Leadbeater’s possum. More a panel beater’s possum.

So why should the Leadbeater’s possum get a spot on the arc?

Look I could say,

1. The Leadbeater’s possums’ extinction is so inevitable the top scientific authority on the endangered marsupial David Lindenmayer recently quit from a team trying to save it, in protest over forestry policies that will guarantee the animal’s extinction.

2. The Leadbeater’s possum is so endangered there are only 100 of them left. You know Ted Baillieu?  Close the Tafes, open more jails, I hate poor people Ted Baillieu? Not only does Ted Baillieu hate poor people, but he also clearly hates Leadbeater’s possums by allowing the logging of Toolangi state forest, the last remaining habitat of the Leadbeater’s possum.

3. They also go by the common name of fairy possum. ‘Marriage is a mistake everyone has the right to make’ AM I RIGHT?

4. The Leadbeater’s possum is Victoria’s animal emblem.

Which are all adequate reasons why this little creature should be saved a spot on the arc. But the Leadbeater’s possum should not only get a spot on the arc but the first spot.

Why?

The possum lives in a matriarchal society.

The male and female bond after they have first given each other a 69.

They are highly energetic, aggressive, territorial and constantly fight with their neighbors.

They sleep for six months a year and when they wake they are incredibly promiscuous, between punch-ups and eating they have children as early as possible.

The Leadbeater’s Possum is the animal equivalent of the Collingwood Supporter.

That’s right. The unfairly maligned, badly treated butt of all Victorian jokes.  I am not a Collingwood supporter but not only do my siblings go for the Pies, so too does my partner making me a sexually transmitted Collingwood supporter.

The Leadbeater’s Possum will chase humans away if they come near their territory. They have no concept of fear. That’s right. NO FEAR.

Collingwood Supporters have No Fear Stickers on their cars.

Leadbeater’s Possums live on Mountain Ash, Alpine Ash and Shining Gum.

Collingwood Supporters also live on fags and chewies.

Like Collingwood supporters, the Leadbeater’s natural enemies are Hawks, Cats, Eagles, and Bulldogs.

The senior female  is the main defender: she is more active in expelling outsiders, and attacks her daughters when they reach sexual maturity, forcing them to disperse earlier than male children. Which proves Kath Pettingill and Judy Moran are both Collingwood Supporters.

The Leadbeater’s Possum is not only so endangered it’s probably lost half it’s population since tonight’s debate began it represents all oppressed minorities brave enough to live a sexy, passionate, vibrant life despite ‘social convention’ or in the case of Collingwood supporters ‘intervention orders’.

Look, I can’t force you to give the Leadbeater’s Possum a place on the arc. But what I will say is if they do get left behind don’t blame me if Chopper Read rocks up to your joint. Not only does he barrack for Collingwood but he really likes Leadbeaters possums. Or perhaps he’s just wants to stay in their good books.

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‘Defending Deveny’ by Chrys Stevenson on QandA with Peter Jenson

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The stereotyping of atheists as ‘militant’ has now become so common it’s even used as a 534276_10151231804886340_2091495849_nperjorative by atheists against other atheists.

“No, I don’t believe the state should fund religious schools,” I said at a recent meeting of the Sunshine Coast Atheists.

“Oh, so you’re a militant atheist, then?” responded one of our more elderly members as I sat before him with my fluffy blonde hair and blingy earrings, sipping mildly on a glass of white wine.

Militant? Moi?

As my friend Warren Bonett notes in The Australian Book of Atheism(Bonnett, ed. 2010, p. 328),  think of a religious militant and you’ll most likely picture someone wielding a gun. Think of a militant atheist and you’re likely to conjure up an image of Richard Dawkins with a bit of colour in his cheeks.

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Raising Emotionally Articulate Boys

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Catherine Deveny has been busy of late, featuring in the recent SBS series Go Back to Where you Came From, and appearing on ABC Television’s Q&A program this week. She’s also preparing to have her first novel ‘The Happiness Show’ released in November.

In this piece for Sheilas, Deveny looks at the processes involved in raising emotionally articulate boys – a topic she’s quite an expert on, with three sons of her own. 

Living in an all male household has its ups and its downs. Upside? You feel like a princess. Downside? Your toilet smells like an animal enclosure. And I’m getting a t-shirt printed that says, “Where have you looked?”

With three boys and a trampoline the most important thing I’ve learnt is to call an ambulance when I hear the words, “Watch this, guys.”

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Birthing. Don’t upset the doctors!

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Mothers and babies are dying  in childbirth for reasons that could be prevented.

WHEN I mentioned to people that I was going to write an article  on the large number of unnecessary caesareans, I was amused and alarmed by  the extraordinary number of first responses that were, “You know that  you’re really going to upset the doctors.”

Well, I had better not say  anything then.

Other people described me as “brave”. Should I be  worried that a gang of obstetricians will drive round in their BMWs, tilt  their heads, look over their glasses at me and then burn down my  house?

Good question. Who do I think I am? A consumer. An interested  observer. A person who has heard hundreds of birth stories and experienced  my own. A plain girl, not that clever, grew up on Struggle Street and  constantly questioned anything labelled “the done thing”. I found, more  often than not, that behind these “done things” were people who had a  vested interest in misleading, controlling and manipulating for their own  personal gain.

For me to even question let alone challenge the process,  culture or practices of the medical profession was met with: “How very dare  you? Who do you think you are, young lady?” But for every member of the medical profession prepared to go on the record defending the current rate  of caesareans and interventions, others have contacted me privately,  encouraging me as being right on the money.

And how about that term  “doctor-bashing”? How is doctor-questioning doctor-bashing? The medical  and scientific community is an amazingly creative organic world full of  curious people constantly questioning, researching and striving for better  outcomes. It seems that you can’t contribute to the debate unless you’re  in the club. But with birth, pregnancy and human lives, we’re all in the  club.

Even in my own article, I used quotes from doctors to fortify my  own argument. Had I used terms such as wisdom, confidence, experience,  spiritual journey, rite of passage, anecdotes and “the general vibe”, I  would have been disregarded as a mad, tree-hugging hippie.

Caesareans  are like 4WDs. People who need to have them can’t understand why anyone  would choose to have them. Despite statistics and proof, some people will  make a choice because they feel safer. Feeling safe is not always the same  thing as being safe.

The culture of fear is not simply a fad. Human  beings’ brains are hardwired to feel fear more keenly than reason. It’s a  primal response that kept us alive in the highland plains of East Africa  in 100,000BC. In his essay The Psychology of Security Bruce Schneier says  a brain hardwired to feel fear strongly “works great if you’re a lizard or  a lion. Some scary things are not really as risky as they seem, and others  are better handled by staying in the scary situation to set up a more  advantageous future response. This means there’s an evolutionary advantage  to being able to hold off the reflexive fight-or-flight response while you  work out a more sophisticated analysis of the situation and your options  for handling it.”

There is also the culture of cash. Many people feel  that the more they pay for something the more superior it is. The births  of my three children cost $18, $14 and $8. That money was spent on  parking. The care I received and the births I experienced were  wonderful.

The Government needs to bankroll midwives’ insurance and  give them a Medicare provider number. Women will be able to choose  one-on-one midwife care and then the idea of birthing without a doctor  will not be seen as radical, alternative or weird, but mainstream. If the  pregnancy becomes high-risk, the midwife can refer the woman to an  obstetrician. The statistics will get better and the culture will  change.

The bottom line is not nice but it’s true. Babies and mothers  will continue to die during childbirth. We need to ensure the safest  practices possible.

The infant and maternal death rate in Australia has  basically remained unchanged, yet the rate of caesareans has skyrocketed  and caesareans have a higher rate of maternal and infant deaths. Babies  and mothers are now dying for different reasons. Reasons that could be  prevented.

I wrote last week’s article for those women who had placed  faith in their birthing choices and then felt sucked in, ripped off and  angry by the outcome. Women who were told that they were too small, too  old, too slow labouring or that their babies were too big, too small, had  funny shaped heads, were in the wrong position, were overdue, were upside  down or were multiples and told that they had no other choice. Then  finding out later that they did have other choices.

A movie due out  later this year called Pregnant in America is poised to be the Fahrenheit  9/11, An Inconvenient Truth and Super Size Me of birthing practices. The  culture is changing and about bloody time.

 

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