Pobjie Poetry Month Day One Title courtesy of @Dom_Innate

Sausages

And it's true they said
You never want to see how sausages or relationships are made
You don't want to see what goes into them
The grinding and mutilation you need
To make everything smooth at the end

You don't want to see the stinking offal
Mangled to palatibility by the need to be needed
You don't want to see where the meat comes from
That fills up the casing
You need to forget what it is you're eating

You don't want to see the disguise laid
On the offcuts that were left when the quality was all used up
You don't want to see how you've been made to believe
This meal was worth buying
Worth wanting

You don't want to see just how bad it is for you
You don't want to know how it got here
Because when you do, you'll toss it
Right where it belonged from the start
Where it won't catch in anyone else's throat, where it can't stick between anyone else's teeth

It's true
You don't want to see how sausages or relationships are made
It'll only depress you if you find out
You've been eating a lie
All this time

How #PobjiePoetryMonth Works

How Pobjie Poetry Month Works

1. Every day in September I will put the call out to find a topic for that day's poem.

2. My loyal minions will respond, and the first response will be chosen as the topic.

3. I will write a poem inspired by that topic.

4. I will post that poem on this blog.

5. Readers will reel with wonder and delight.

6. Poetry will flow throughout the land.

7. Hooray!

That is how Pobjie Poetry Month will work. Here is a picture of Nien Nunb.

An Opinion So To Speak

So I am writing about Andy Blume now for some reason. Well, for a particular reason, obviously. But anyway I am.

I don't like Andy Blume. I don't think he's funny. I think he's nasty. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me. But I decided to write about him because I have an opinion and I thought it was right for me to voice it, because I can't make a claim to integrity if I restrict my protests about unfairness to people I like.

Like I said, I don't like him. I hardly think the fruits of his creative desires have been a net improvement for the internet. But...

But the guy's lost his job. That story I linked to says "sacked for offensive web postings", but that's actually, I think it's pretty obvious, untrue. He wasn't sacked for offensive web postings. He was sacked because the Herald Sun ran a campaign against him. With prominent stories, and photos, and editorials calling for his dismissal.

And no matter what I think of Andy Blume and his postings, I just can't see that this is right. I can't see that the comedic web activities of a tram driver, however tasteless, are deserving of the sack, and more particularly I can't see they're deserving of tabloid persecution. It's not right.

And I'm not going on an anti-Herald Sun rant. Everyone knows I'm not a big fan of certain of their columnists, but there are also people working at the paper, and elsewhere in News Ltd, who I know, and like, and respect. I'm not looking to tear the Herald Sun to shreds.

But this is bad behaviour. This is not news. This is not reportage. This is a vendetta. This is someone at a powerful media organisation deciding a powerless individual has got on their bad side and needs to be punished. Not by alerting his employer to inappropriate behaviour. And certainly not by baldly reporting the facts - the facts, as they stand, aren't even close to being worthy of being placed in the pages of a capital city daily newspaper.

The punishment, instead, is that this man must lose his job. Not just lose his job, but be humiliated, become a figure of public hatred, and have the circumstances that led to his sacking placed in the mass media to sit there forever as a warning to future employers that this man is a Public Enemy Of Dubious Character. The punishment, in essence, is to ruin the guy's life. And it's not right.

Think about what Andy Blume did. Some think he's hilarious. Some think he's appalling. But on either extreme, does anyone really think he deserved this? This campaign of revenge and personal destruction? Is this what the media's for?

It shouldn't be. This is not the way the media should be working, this deformed journalism that sees the press's role not to serve public interest, not to seek the truth, not even to inform, educate or entertain, but to pursue and crush anyone who finds themselves on your wrong side with all the power at your disposal, without mercy, and with the most devastating and vicious consequences possible for those unfortunates who find themselves in that position. It is news as weapon. It is the reporter as assassin. It is the media as Inquisition. And it is a debasement of what could be, should be, and can be, I believe, a genuinely noble profession.

I don't like Andy Blume. But I've never disliked anyone enough to want to take away his job. I've never disliked anyone enough to want to destroy his life. It's not right. The Herald Sun is capable of being better than that, and it should be. It must be.

WEEKEND HOROSCOPES! 20/8/11

ARIES: Last night's lobster will haunt your dreams for many years to come. Therapy is recommended, but will be useless.

TAURUS: You can relax: you actually ARE a fundamentally bad person.

GEMINI: This will be a big week for you, as you will find a large quantity of drugs in your home, and be able to live the life you always wanted to.

CANCER: This week will be the week where you finally understand how powerful the love between a man and a dingo can be. Also you should wear blue. You'll understand when it happens.

LEO: You will meet a tall and charming man, but sabotage your relationship with him due to a persistent paranoid concern that he might be a malevolent insect-god in human form. That'll be Monday. The rest of the week you will spend using a hand-mirror to peer into your intimate crevices.

VIRGO: You're so fat. Why are you so fat?

LIBRA: Everyone worries about the future sometimes. Except you. You might have a brain injury.

SCORPIO: Tonight you will die. Painfully and slowly. There is literally no way you can avoid this. All you can do is wait with growing dread for your horrific demise. Your lucky number is 18.

SAGITTARIUS: An unexpected financial transaction will lead to a nasty case of shingles. What will shock you most will be the part played by former child star Gaby Hoffman in the affair.

CAPRICORN: A distant relative will come to stay with you and use all your towels. This will be much less interesting than it sounds.

AQUARIUS: It's probably time to clear up some long-unresolved issues in your life. Start with returning those ill-fitting shoes, and then work your way up to the dead hooker.

PISCES: At some point in the coming week your face will be torn off by industrial machinery. Try to act surprised when it happens.

The Great Astor Tweet

What is the Great Astor Tweet? It is an opportunity for Twitterati of good will and friendly mien to gather at the Astor Theatre in darkest Melbourne and celebrate both the cinematic art, and the twittermatic art.

What this means is that on Monday, August 22, at 7.30pm, the Astor will screen a double feature of classic cult films - first Withnail and I, then Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Downstairs in the stalls will be a hardy band of tweeters, providing running social media commentary on the films in whatever way takes their fancy.

So what should you do to take part in this grand experiment? Easy:

1. Go to the Astor Theatre in the evening of Monday August 22.

2. Buy a ticket, and possibly some popcorn.

3. Make your way to the stalls (this is a designated tweeting area - do not mingle with non-tweeters, or as we call them "muggles", for fear the glow of your smartphone will enrage them).

4. Put your phone on SILENT. This is important - we have a designated area in the stalls so that our lights don't infuriate others, but we will really make ourselves unpopular if we become the source of constant beeping and ringing. In fact, we'll become unpopular with ourselves.

5. Relax.

6. Tweet in a thoughtful and/or hilarious manner for the duration of the double feature, or until you want to go home, whichever comes first. While tweeting, use the hashtag #AstorTweet to ensure you are participating fully in the community spirit.

7. Hurrah!

If you can't make it to the theatre, chime in yourself with your thoughts about the movie, or don't. I mean those are two fairly broad options you have there. But if you're a lover of the films in question, or just someone who likes a larf, you're welcome to join our merry troupe even if you're not physically present. Come one, come all, to the Great Astor Tweet!

And so we will soon all be having as much fun as this guy:




In order to bring you the finest tweets available to humanity, we acknowledge the generous assistance, support and affection of the Astor, Popcorn Cinema, and Owen Vandenberg of TweetFilm . Together we bring you this marvel out of the goodness of our own hearts.

Do join us, it'll be a blast!

Update on a fractured mind

I'm pissed off.

I'm pissed off by people, pissed off by the world, pissed off by the bigotry, the stupidity, the hatred and the selfishness. I'm pissed off by the fact that I know how guilty I can be of these things. I'm pissed off with myself for not fighting harder against them. And I'm tired of caring and I'm pissed off that I'm tired.

And I'm pissed off most of all by the fact that I'm pissed off. I'm pissed off that I'm depressed and hurt and insulted and I'm pissed off that I'm in a terrible headspace today and I know that that's the only reason I'm letting everything get to me and I'm pissed off that I've allowed myself to fall victim to my own emotions.

What it boils down to is: I'm pissed off, because I'm just not the person I want to be, and I never will be. And I the fact that I know I should accept myself the way I am makes me dislike myself even more, and accept myself even less.

So I'm pissed off. At everything. Especially myself. And I have no idea how not to be, nor any hope that I ever will.

I apologise for this post.

My Night With The Faceless Men - A Special BPWWOO Investigation

It’s a cold night on Sussex Street. I pull my collar close up around my neck in a futile attempt to shield myself from the freezing, driving rain, one of those peculiarly Sydney downpours, the kind of rain that says, “Yes we have abundant natural beauty, but many people find us more frenetic and materialistic than is strictly necessary”. It’s strange how water falling out of the sky can be so articulate, but then, a lot is strange on this dark winter’s evening, as I head towards a mysterious assignation, with no guarantee I will return.

My shoes squelch in the puddles as I approach the enormous, forbidding oak doors, a squelch that seems to speak of superficiality and petty power struggles, but also of cultural and societal bankruptcy. I stand before those doors, where so many great men – Whitlam, Keating, Fitzgibbon – have stood before, and I hesitate. Do I dare to enter the belly of the beast? Do I dare even refer to it as “the beast” in these troubled times when there is a shell-like ear hiding in every waistcoat? When even our Twitter accounts are not immune to hacking and trickery?

Yes, I must. For journalism. I was employed to shine a light on the practices of the ruling class, and light-shine I will. Summoning up every scrap of courage, I reach for the enormous demons’ head doorknocker and knock, as instructed, three times. The knocks boom and echo through the dark night, attracting odd looks from passing prostitutes and pie-carts. I wait a moment, hardly daring to breathe.

As I wait, I reflect on the path that has brought me to this point. The idea of writing a feature examining the internal workings of the Labor Party. The email to the party executive. The raven arriving on my windowsill in the dead of night, with a cryptic message tied to its leg: “Be at Minto KFC at 11”. The mobile phone slipped surreptitiously into my pocket. The brief conversation with the man who would identify himself only as “Mr Labor”. The instructions to come to Sussex Street, tonight, carrying only a pen, a notepad, and some jam sandwiches. The interminable train ride into the heart of the city, due to trackwork at Westmead. The homeless woman vomiting on my shoes – what connection did she have to all this anyway? It was a tangled web indeed.

As the echoes of the knocker died away, I heard heavy, slow footsteps from within, coming closer, like the beating of some infernal centre-left drum. I waited, distracting myself by reading the engraving on the door. In huge Gothic lettering, it read “PER PATIENTIA, CONSENTIO”. “Through suffering, consensus”. Ah, yes. I felt a shiver run down my spine, as if a salamander were in my shirt. I was just about ready to turn tail and run, when the door suddenly swung open and a tall, pale, emaciated man in a dusty tuxedo was peering at me.

“Yes?” his voice creaked like a mausoleum door.

“Hello,” I stammered. “I…I…” I was at a loss. I had forgotten who I was, why I was there, how I got so wet. Desperate, I thrust my press identification card at him. He studied it intently.

“Ah yes,” he creaked. “They are expecting you. Walk this way.” I followed the pallid retainer, and suddenly found myself walking down a long, narrow corridor, luxuriantly appointed with thick crimson carpet and adorned down its length, on both sides, with foreboding portraits of great Labor luminaries. As I glanced from side to side, I felt almost oppressed by the stern gazes of these giants of the past. Hawke seemed to scold me as his famous eyebrows arched formidably from the canvas. Jack Lang’s bald head took on a disturbingly reproachful air. By the time I came to the final portrait, depicting Bob Ellis energetically coupling with Lenin, I was already wrung out. My emotional turmoil did not take a turn for the better when a bag was suddenly thrust over my head and I felt myself being spun around in circles for what seemed like hours. Finally the rotation stopped, and I was shoved violently from behind, apparently through a door into a new room, where the smell of incense and Belgian chocolate hung thick in the air. I could feel eyes on me, and felt I should say something, but didn’t know what. I shuffled my feet awkwardly. This was a social situation which, as a hard-hitting investigative journalist, I was rarely thrust into. It reminded me a lot of the time I broke one of Gaddafi’s teacups and hid the pieces in my pocket.

Finally the silence was broken. “Take off the bag,” a deep voice intoned. Suddenly I could see, though as I turned my head I couldn’t see hide nor hair of whoever had removed my mask.

I was in a small, smoky chamber, surrounded by antique furniture, enormous clocks, and the stuffed heads of African game. Before me, in an enormous leather armchair, sat a man in a dark suit, head wreathed in shadow and cigar smoke. That deep, gravelly voice rumbled at me once more.

“Sit down.”

I looked around. I couldn’t see another chair. Should I sit on the sideboard? The rhino’s head? I looked back at the shadowy figure and shrugged helplessly. “There’s no chair.”

There was a pause, followed by a throaty chuckle. “Well done. You passed the test.” Suddenly the man rose, and swept past me. “Follow,” he barked, and I turned and hurried out the door with him, into another corridor, panting as I trotted after the back of his rapidly-receding, smoke-encircled head.

This hallway was different. Less extravagant, it was floored with large stone slabs, and instead of portraits of Labor figures covering the walls, we were instead watched over by the bulging eyes of a cornucopia of historical figures. Here was Cleopatra, signing the Accord. Here was Alexander the Great, nationalising the banks. And perhaps most poignantly, here was William the Conqueror, implementing GroceryChoice.

As I hurried to keep up, I flipped open my pad, hoping to get some insights into the inner workings of the machine I had entered. “Where exactly are we?” was my first question – always a good place to start for a journalist in any situation.

“You’re in the headquarters of the most efficient, effective, and ruthless political organisation the world has ever known,” he replied, without turning. “You are heading towards the nerve centre of the engine room of the inner sanctum of the brains trust of the entire country, and by extension, the world.”

“So this is where the decisions get made?” I gasped, cigar smoke streaming into my nostrils.

“This is where everything gets made,” he growled. “Decisions, policy, lamingtons – EVERYthing comes out of here. Without authorisation from us, no Labor Party branch dares breathe.”

“And with authorisation?”

“Well they do dare breath, obviously”. We walked on for a while in a slightly awkward silence. As turned a corner and the smell of ammonia filled the air, I managed another question.

“Why is the ALP so secretive?”

“Wouldn’t you be secretive, if you knew how determined your enemies were to destroy you?” came the barked response. “Wouldn’t you hide yourself away in a secure fortress, if you knew that the minute you stick your head outside it’d be sliced off, by the Liberals, by the Nationals, by the Greens, by the unions?”

“But the unions are on your side,” I protested, for which I received a short, sharp laugh and what sounded like a spitting noise. I tried again: “So you stay bunkered in here out of fear?”

“Yes! Fear that we shall be forestalled, that the great Labor project will be stymied by the forces arrayed against us.”

“And what is the great Labor project?” I asked, wading through the stagnant water we had somehow found ourselves up to our knees in.

“It’s the Light on the Hill!” he cried. “Justice! Equality! Social cohesion! A fairer future for our children!”

“So you – ” I began, but he was in full flight, puffing from his cigar even as he bellowed and expectorated and leapt lightly from crocodile to crocodile.

“Equitable workplace relations arrangements!” he roared. “Quality education and healthcare for all! Sustainable economic growth! Free trade! Small business! Open markets! Secure borders!”

“I’m not sure – ”

“Family values! Equitable religion for all! Sustainable censorship! Deregulation! Red tape! Green energy! Yellow perils! Fear! Misery! Desolation! ALL SHALL DIE!” He came to a solid steel door, and knocked eight times in a sort of calypso rhythm. “That, Mr Pobjie, is the Labor project. No less than the very re-structuring of society itself into something resembling extremely closely what we already have, but with more solar water heaters. Oh yes, you may call it Utopian, but we believe it is attainable, with a bit of elbow grease.”

There was another awkward pause, and then the steel door swung open, and we stepped into…

A pleasant pastel-hued lounge room, filled with the scent of pine needles and the sound of soft jazz piano coming from a small iPod dock in one corner. On the couch sat three men in long brown robes, hoods hiding their faces. One of them beckoned to me to take a seat on a nearby ottoman. I did so, relieved to be able to rest my feet and to no longer have to shake turtles off my trouser legs.

One of the hooded figures spoke. “We understand you have some questions,” he hissed, in a voice that sounded like a man hissing. I felt a strange emotion I was unfamiliar with, a sort of terror mixed with arousal mixed with overwhelming sadness mixed with a deep respect for party conferences.

“Yes, sir,” I said, opening my pad again. “I want to know why the Labor Party lost its way. When did it stop speaking for the people, and start speaking for a dark cabal of secretive overlords making decisions on behalf of membership without consultation or accountability? When did being a member of the ALP become a pointless exercise? When did the party become less about sharing wealth and opportunity more widely, and more about concentrating as much power as possible in the hands of the unelected and unqualified backroom powerbrokers? When did policy become secondary to the relentless obeisance to focus groups? How is it that a party founded on principles of fairness and social justice has been degraded to an ineffectual rump of political timeservers and careerist machine men, interested only in numbers, internecine squabbling, and consolidating narrow power bases within an insular, delusional party administration without the slightest inkling of, or interest in, the goings-on in the real world beyond their adaptability for purposes of political power-retention, the detachment from reality having exceeded reasonable bounds to such an extent that even possessing control of government now seemingly comes second to possessing control of the tiny minority of citizens still blind or cynical enough to call themselves ‘Labor Party members’” I took a breath. “How, sir, did this happen?”

There was silence for a moment. The jazz seemed even louder, even more relaxing. A small butler offered me a spinach puff. The hooded men seemed to be stroking their chins. Then the middle one stood, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“These are all good questions,” he said quietly, “but they come from a place of ignorance. If you knew anything of the reality of politics, you wouldn’t need to ask these questions. You would know how things work. You would know the way of the world.”

I gazed up at the hood, and suddenly felt an overwhelming urge, such as I had not felt for many years: an urge to actually learn about politics. “Tell me more, sir,” I said, munching on my puff.

“I will,” he said, “but be warned, your life will never be the same again.”

“So what’s the catch?” I asked, chuckling heartily. The butler joined in, but nobody else did.

“What you have to understand,” began one of the seated hoods, “is that this country is not run by the government, nor by the corporations, nor even – despite appearances – by the Greens. This country is run here, by us, in this room. Here, let us show you.” And with that he reached over the arm of the couch and took hold of the lamp sitting on the small occasional table. He gave the lamp an almighty yank, and suddenly the enormous photo of Stalin that covered one wall swung back, revealing a huge and complex control panel, covered with flashing lights, levers and dials. “Here is where the country is run!”

I stood and walked closer, peering at the controls on the wall. Each button and lever was labelled, with things like “monetary policy settings”, “border security”, “fluoride release”, “law-abiding citizen disarmament” and so on.

“You see,” said the third hood, “we need to keep the Labor Party in a constant state of turmoil, engaging in endless civil war, tearing itself apart with impotent disputation, stumbling from PR catastrophe to policy brain-spasm like a wounded elephant, constantly promising renewal and reform and constantly disappointing, perennially commissioning reviews, and most of all, obsessing interminably about the merits of the factional system; in order that nobody learns that the entire nation is controlled on one vaguely retro-styled wall in a stylish modern lounge room by three men in hoods.”

I was, to be honest, surprised. Although I had long suspected that “something was going on” in this country, I had always assumed it had something to do with Ray Martin. This development was, in about 55% of its details, unexpected. “But…but why?” I sputtered. “Would it really be so disastrous if the electorate knew that democracy was a complete sham and their lives were at the mercy of creepy sort-of-monk guys? I think they mostly suspect that anyway.”

“NO!” shouted the standing man. “They can never know. The result would be anarchy, disorder and tragedy, if the people were to ever discover…who is really in power.”

“Who is really in power,” his colleagues repeated, rising from the couch and taking their places either side of their comrade. They lifted their hands to their hoods. “Prepare yourself,” they droned, in unison, and threw back their cowls.

I stared for a second, and then screamed, the scream of the truly damned. For before stood three ordinary, nondescript men, wearing robes…with no faces. Beneath their conservatively styled hair, the fronts of their heads were utterly smooth and bereft of features.

Still screaming at the horror of it all, suddenly I felt a rough hand on my shoulder, and turned to see my guide from earlier, his face no longer wreathed in smoke. And I screamed again, as I beheld his visage, for his entire head was an enormous nose.

“The interview is over,” snarled one massive nostril, and everything went black.

When I awoke, I was stripped to the waist, bathed in sweat, and lying by the pool on the deck of the cruise ship Dawn Princess. Beside me was a poorly-typed copy of the story you have just read, and yet of which I had no recollection beyond some deep bite marks on both ankles and certain vague ideas about Cheryl Kernot.

Was it a dream? I’ll never be certain one way or another. But still, the story had to be told, and I will leave the Australian people to make up their own minds, about the Faceless Men of Sussex Street.

A Matter Of Concern

I am concerned. One might even say worried. That's not such an unusual statement, of course: in this world there are many things to be concerned about, such as the government, the actions of the government, the individual members of the government, the malicious intentions of the government, et al. But there are times when, believe it or not, I can manage to divert my mind from the impending socio-cultural rape of the nation by Bob Brown and find a way to worry about other, more specific and pressing matters.

In particular, today I am worried about Fred Nile.

Now don't get me wrong - I have nothing against Mr Nile. I realise there are those who would dub him a creepy liver-spotted hobgoblin whose diseased mind is fixated purely on the goal of making others as miserable as his own decayed psyche has caused him to become; but I do not condemn in this way. I say live and let live, irrespective of whether you are an ethically deranged half-man half-toad with as much moral sensibility as a pubic louse and all the capacity for compassion of a paedophiliac vulture. I pride myself on my willingness to tolerate and accept the lifestyle choices of all my fellow citizens, and if (I say IF) Mr Nile's personal preference is to live his life as a shrivel-hearted, wither-witted, soul-stunted bible-frotter with a strength of belief in his own dogmatic ideology of anti-human hatred that is matched only by the intensity of mania which he brings to his perverted obsession with his own hopelessly malformed view of the sexual behaviour of complete strangers - well, that's no skin off my nose. I pass no judgment. That's for Our Lord to do.

But what worries me is when people try to promulgate their own particular lifestyle choices into the public sphere. I am rather afraid that Fred Nile, by wilfully being Fred Nile right out in public where everyone can see him, may be sending a message to our society that being Fred Nile is somehow acceptable. After all, it is one thing to be Fred Nile in the privacy of one's own home; it is quite another to be Fred Nile where impressionable children can see you.

And it is, as always, the children who I am concerned about. Is it really fair to a child, at an age when their values and opinions are not yet fully-formed and they are extremely susceptible to suggestion from adults and the mass media, to expose them to the Fred Nile lifestyle? The danger is that they may absorb the idea that being Fred Nile is perfectly normal, that it is, in fact, a natural thing to be. Is that the sort of thing we want to teach our children? Shouldn't we wait until they are fully grown and let them make up their own minds whether being Fred Nile is a good thing?

I mean, look, I am no prude. I am no wowser. I am no, for want of a better word, Celia from Home and Away. I think that Fred Nile should be free to live his life without harassment, and even to marry and have children if that's what he wants for himself. I just object to him shoving himself down our throats. There is such a thing as decency, and I think it betrays a shocking decline in the standards of civilised western society that in our once decorous and respectful community, we now barely bat an eyelid at the sight of someone blatantly and shamelessly being Fred Nile, in broad daylight!

I can remember a time when being Fred Nile was purely a matter for consenting adults behind closed doors. Now it seems Fred Nile is everywhere, on our TV screens, in our newspapers, even in our churches - surely the one place one would have thought one could rely on for an upholding of community standards. The danger we face is that this saturation of Fred Nile, forever being rammed into our faces, will result in a situation where being Fred Nile becomes fashionable, or "cool".

I just worry that if this trend continues, if we keep on sending the message to our youth that being Fred Nile is not only normal, but also, somehow, admirable, we run the risk that they will grow up wanting to be Fred Nile themselves. And is that what we really want? Is that the future we want for our kids?

Look, I'm a realist. I know it's the 21st century and there are some concessions we must make to the modern world. But surely, even while accepting there are certain social phenomena that will always be with us, we can stand up for deceny and moral rectitude? Surely we can fight to keep those less desirable aspects of modernity in their proper place, quarantined from the activities of upright citizens?

That's all I'm saying - I don't want to ban Fred Nile, I just want to make sure that if people want to be Fred Nile, they keep it in the right and proper place - their own homes, and parliament.

Let's keep pushing for the Australia we all want to live in. Don't let YOUR children get sucked in by Nile-ist propaganda.


If you'd like to know more about the Movement For The Insulation Of Children From Fred Nile, contact NSW Premier Barry O'Farrell for a nice chat.

I AM AT THIS THING ON SATURDAY

Why not come on down and laugh your emissions off?

Who Likes Beauty?

Perhaps you have become aware in recent times of a bit of a "to-do" about the issue of child beauty pageants, sparked by such cultural phenomena as hit TV show Toddlers and Tiaras, as well as a recent such pageant held in Australia, and of course moralising do-gooders who for some reason want all our children to be ugly. I mean who would not LOVE a child like US pageant star Eden Wood?




Mmmm...cute.

Anyway I wrote on the subject for New Matilda:

It's Time To Let Kids Be Adults

As did visiting British journalist, libertarian and two-legged mouth Brendan O'Neill, in even more strident and convincing mien:

Well done pageant-haters

That O'Neill piece is filled with gorgeous lines and gentle wisdom, but probably my favourite bit is this:

"These children are absolutely being put in harm's way", declared child psychotherapist Collet Smart, who somehow, by osmosis maybe, seems to know better than parents themselves what is good for their children.

Yes indeed. How the HELL does this child psychotherapist claim to have any IDEA what's good for children? What on EARTH would a child psychotherapist know about children's welfare? Why in GOD'S NAME would you ever go to a child psychotherapist for advice about children? I mean, what sort of QUALIFICATIONS does a child psychotherapist have in this area? Shouldn't a child psychotherapist stick to her area of EXPERTISE, rather than shooting her MOUTH off about things she is NOT TRAINED to express an opinion on, such as children?

Child psychotherapists - the true enemy.