Ben Pobjie's Wonderful World Of Objects

Thinking a Bit More

2012-01-29T21:15:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking a bit more about Margaret Court. Now, Margaret Court doesn't really matter, being as she is a mad old bat with no more sense of reality in the 21st century than a time-travelling Neanderthal, who thinks it's reasonable to cite the number of Wimbledons won as proof of the correctness one's views on homosexuality. However, I think it does matter how we think of said mad old bat.

Because the thing is, Margaret Court is a bad person. She's not just a loveable daffy old goose who's not quite "up to date". She's not a great Australian who deserves respect despite somewhat "un-PC" views. She's not your grandma. She's nasty and she's hateful and she wants to ruin the lives of perfectly nice, decent human beings purely to satisfy her superstitions. She is a bad person, and it's important we remember this.

And it's important that we remember that in remembering this, we do not get sidetracked by red herrings about "freedom of speech", as those who get a kick out of being as nasty and hateful as Court is try to convince us that disagreeing with her, and calling her out for what she is, is "censorship". It's important to not give ground to those who claim, when a person is given a public platform in Australia's most-read newspaper to spread vicious, senseless hatred, that the "real issue" is whether she's entitled to her opinion. Everyone already knows she's entitled to her opinion, and we're entitled to ours. Which is that her opinion is repellent.

It's important to remember this because this is a matter of progress. The fact is, if Margaret Court had written a column about how, as a 3-time Wimbledon champion, she is absolutely certain that blacks and Asians are disobeying god's law and were an abomination to good Christians, nobody would be wringing their hands about the mean lefties who won't leave poor old Margaret alone. They'd just call her a racist bitch, and rightly so. That's because consensus is that blacks and Asians are people. It would seem that we're not quite there with gay people. It would seem that we still believe that any rights we grant them are our "favour" to the gays. Because gays don't actually deserve any rights or privileges or respect - we're just nice enough to give them a few if we're feeling magnanimous. So if they complain, they're just being whiny. If they object to being labelled evil, or a lesser form of life, they're being ungrateful, or just mean to our great national treasure Courty. We apparently have not progressed to the point where we're willing to say, those folks who like sexytimes with members of their own genital persuasion merit the same rights as any of us purely by virtue of the fact they exist as human beings. They don't need to earn it, they don't need to play nice, or pipe down and smile politely - they just need to be treated the same as everyone else, because that's what they are.

But we're not there yet. And that's why Margaret Court can vomit up the trash that she does, and that's why she can be defended by her fellow bigots hiding behind the skimpy veil of free speech. And that's why we've got to slash that veil to ribbons and tell the bigots that bigots they are, and that they will be left behind while we move on.

And move on we will, and move on we are. Margaret Court and her cohorts lash out like this, because they know we're winning. We're winning and they're losing and every time they scream about immorality or redefining marriage it's nothing but the strangled yelp of a battered old dog that knows it's never going to win this fight. We're winning. They're losing. Our world will move on. Our species will skip happily into the future, and our enemies will be left in the past, whimpering. Margaret Court knows it. They all do. That's why they scream so loud, and cry so pitifully about bullying and censorship when their screaming is treated with the contempt it deserves.

The history of the human race is the long, slow, painful story of society trying to catch up to decency. We're closer than ever, but there's still so far to go. But we're going to get there. We'll reach that peak. As long as we know, when confronted by the bigots and hatemongers who want to drag us backwards, to shout aloud, to call them what they are, take them head-on, swat them aside like the petty mosquitoes they are, and leave them in the dust where they can't hinder us any more.

That's why it's important what we think of an unimportance like Margaret Court. And it's important to say what we think. Because every time we tell the truth about these people, we move that tiniest bit further forward.

To the victory that both sides know is coming.

A Helpful Guide To identifying Important Opinions From Sporting Champions

2012-01-24T21:38:00.000-08:00

Is is easy to see how people could get confused by today's article in the Herald Sun by Margaret Court, in which the tennis legend points out that if we keep letting people put their bits wherever they want to, our children will go blind and nobody will win at tennis anymore. Not that they would be confused by the content, per se: it's all good, commonsense advice for the modern generation and an important message for those hedonists among us who would rather have donkey-orgies than get beaten by a nun.

But it does raise a problematic issue: obviously we know that famous sportspeople are a lot more "on the ball" than the regular chap or lass, and their opinions hold far greater value than yours or mine. But how do we identify which sporting champion to listen to, and if two different sporting champions express conflicting opinions, how do we know who's right? I mean, if Greg Norman writes a column tomorrow telling us all to make bottom-whoopee every night, what are we to think?

It is to resolve this problem that I have embarked on a study of sporting prowess and how it relates to social and political opinion. This is the Pobjie Scale of Sportsperson Rightness.

On this scale, sporting achievements carry a certain value, which contributes to how correct the sportsperson in question will be on any given subject. Margaret Court will always be VERY correct, because she won 24 grand slam tournaments. On the other hand, Pat Rafter and Lleyton Hewitt have only won 2 each, so they are 1/12 as authoritative about things as Court. Even if they make a joint statement it only carries a sixth as much weight as Court. So if you ever see an article written by Rafter and Hewitt advocating gay marriage, you can be sure that gay marriage is six times wronger than non-gay marriage, in tennis terms. Steffi Graf won 21 grand slams, so she's almost as correct as Court, but in a face-off, Court still wins. So should Steffi offer an opinion on how to resolve the Eurozone crisis, it will be a good one, but if Margaret Court disagrees, you have to go with the Aussie. Rod Laver of course won only 11 majors, but did complete the Grand Slam twice, which has a multiplier effect. Then again, so did Court, which cancels that out, but the multiplier does mean Laver outpoints, say, Pete Sampras, should they disagree on issues of social and/or monetary policy.

OK, so far, so simple, you say, but what about non-tennis players? How can we compare them? Here it gets a bit more complicated. Allan Border hit 11,174 test runs, which means his opinion is very valuable, but is it more valuable than 24 tennis majors? And what about Heather McKay/Jack Brabham?

Well now we must implement a points system, whereby each sportsperson's achievements receive a weighted score according to difficulty, prominence of their chosen sport, and ability to get their opinions into the paper. Utilising this "Pobjie Scale", we can see that Border's test runs add up to 46 points, or "dinkums", whereas Court's grand slam victories add up to 51. So Court beats Border. What Allan Border's views on gay marriage are I don't know, but if they clash with Court's, he will, sadly, be incorrect.

Shane Warne, though, is a very different matter. His 708 test wickets and 3000+ test runs add up to a monumental 59 dinkums, meaning he is a true opinion leader, or "SuperMargaret". Therefore, if it turns out that Warne is in favour of marriage between consenting sexual unconventionalists, Margaret Court will be rendered incorrect, and must either adjust her views or come out of retirement and win Wimbledon again if she wants to be taken seriously.

Mark Webber, on the other hand, has only 7 dinkums, and can therefore be ignored about everything.

So, next time you see a sporting legend opining on vital matters pertaining to our society, our government, our economy, or our eternal souls, simply refer to the below chart to judge whether you should listen to them or not. In order of opinionistic correctitude, Australian sportspeople run thus:

Shane Warne - 59
Margaret Court - 51
Cadel Evans - 48
Allan Border - 46
Steve Waugh - 46
David Campese - 45
John Eales - 43
Layne Beachley - 40
Dennis Lillee - 35
Ian Thorpe - 33
Dawn Fraser - 31
Greg Norman - 28
Ron Barassi - 25
Makybe Diva - 22
Jeff Fenech - 19
Sam Stosur - 15
Sally Pearson - 12
Mark Webber - 7
Mark "Jacko" Jackson - 2

Armed with the Pobjie Scale, all Australians should know what to think about everything in no time!

In Defence of Racism

2012-01-24T14:48:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is Australia Day, and we all know what that means.

OR DO WE?

Of course, if most of us were asked the question, "What is your favourite thing about Australia Day?" we would, if we were honest, answer, "the racism". But there's the rub - if we were honest. Yet who among us can truly say that he or she is honest, given modern society's kneejerk antipathy to racists of all kinds?

Yes it is true - racism is frowned upon in today's society. The honest old-fashioned racist is hounded and harassed, bullied into hiding his racism. Why, these days you can't even say in public, "I am a racist", without being painted as some sort of bigot.

And yet, what are we really afraid of? Are we afraid that if racism is let out in the open, different races will be discriminated against? Well, yes, we probably are: in fact it's hard to imagine what else we could possibly be afraid of.

The question is, is this fear fair? Is it justified? Today we preach tolerance of different races, different creeds, different lifestyles; yet somehow the poor old racist gets left out in the cold, walking sadly down lonely, rainy streets, unable to find a place to rest his head thanks to that dread sign hanging outside every inn: "NO RACISTS ALLOWED". Is this really the way we want our society to function?

Let us be frank: anti-racist prejudice is the worst kind of prejudice at all. It denies freedom of expression; it denies freedom of conscience; and most heinous of all, it denies courage.

Yes, courage. For what braver act is there to stand up for what you believe in and speak out against the prevailing wisdom? It takes guts to do that, and our harsh anti-racism stance is telling our young people that guts aren't worth a damn anymore. Oh yes, we might say to our children, "Speak your mind, stay true to your beliefs, have the courage of your convictions", and yet if those convictions are that Asians should go home, or that Aborigines smell funny, suddenly we want our kids to shut up and cave to peer pressure. Somehow, if all the "cool kids" want your child to smoke a cigarette, we fly into a panic; yet if those same "cool kids" are pushing your child to treat all races with respect and dignity, for some reason that's "OK". What kind of message are we sending to our youngsters in the end? Be assured, we are raising a generation of lily-livered poltroons, who will be unable to resist the impending tide of rampant invasions by nations that had the good sense to encourage their young people's natural racism, rather than suppress it. Although I suppose saying that almost every other country in the world wants to invade us due to their inherently animalistic natures is probably "taboo" now too - ye gods, where will it end?

And on Australia Day, the day when we should be feeling the greatest pride and joy in our great nation, this horrid pall of repression hangs all the heavier on us. For as we listlessly poke our sausages and flip our burgers, and mumble hesitantly, "I love Australia", what we WANT to be doing is shouting it to the rooftops. "I LOVE AUSTRALIA," we wish we could cry, "BECAUSE IT'S BETTER THAN ALL THOSE OTHER DIRTY COUNTRIES!" But we can't, because we know the insidious secret police of the PC junta are listening, and we will be shamed and berated for expressing our own natural, healthy Aussie opinions.

And so we hide our racism. We wrap ourselves in flags, stick more flags on our cars, and get Southern Cross tattoos, and cravenly claim it's because of "patriotism". Patriotism? As Samuel Johnson said, patriotism is the last refuge of the guy who doesn't have the balls to be racist. We frantically refute any suggestion that our swathing ourselves in the trappings of Australiana is motivated by racism - "no no, it's just because I love Australia," we wheedle. "I have nothing against other races". But inside, screaming for freedom, is the truth - that every flag we wear as a cape, and every starry tattoo, is just a proxy for the racial hatred that dare not speak its name. And as a result, millions of Australians are made miserable - persecuted for their beliefs, and silenced by militant tolerantists who hate nothing more than free speech and honest self-expression.

And yet this CAN change - and we are the ones who can change it. This Australia Day, don't hide your racism under a bushel. Stand proudly beside your barbecue, take a deep breath, and cry, "I am an Australian, and I hate all races besides my own!" You will feel much better, and you will have struck a blow for freedom.

Being racist is what Australia is all about. Don't let the fascist socialist gay feminist nanny-staters stop you from being as Australian as you want to be.

They're probably all Jews anyway.

A Note On Interpretation

2012-01-21T19:57:00.000-08:00

It is one of my strongly-held principles, when perusing articles on the internet, to always read the comments. For how else can I discover the mindset of the common man?

And a common theme, when I look through the multitude of cris de coeur at the bottom of these tracts, is that the readers feel that the author believes he or she is somehow "better" than them. That these opinionistas suffer from a superiority complex, and their purpose in writing a given article is to show just how far above the common crowd they are and put the readers in their place.

And unsurprisingly, the readers appear to resent this. I don't blame them, having gained the impression that the writer thinks they're better than them, for feeling aggrieved. So I would like to take the opportunity to send a message to the reading community:

It's all true. Yes, I think I'm better than you. I'm smarter than you, I'm better-informed about the issue at hand, I'm more reasonable in my argumentation, more logical in my thought processes, and morally superior in my worldview in regard to my fellow humans. I'm also far more talented than you, better able to skilfully convey my point of view, more adept at swaying my audience to my way of thinking, and vastly superior to you in my capacity for infusing my perspective with humour. In writing I am better than you, in thinking I am better than you, and in spelling and grammar I am better than you. What's more, I am inherently a better person, and my existence on this planet is of infinitely greater benefit to the human race than yours.

That is why I write these articles. Why else would I? Why would I take the time and effort to craft these masterpieces of reason and wit, if not to ensure that you all get the message of your inferiority loud and clear? Not to mention the wonderful boost to my own self-esteem.

So when you're next reading an opinion piece, and wondering if the author considers themselves better than you, put your mind at ease: they do. And they're right.

Writers: we are better than you, and we know it.

Sliding Doors...

2012-01-20T19:35:00.000-08:00

Ashley Mallett asks what if Warne had played Bradman? And his answer is as elegant and enthralling as any piece which asks what if something that didn't happen did happen and then makes a bunch of stuff up could be. It's just a shame he didn't explore the other possibilities, of which there are many. Such as:

- maybe Bradman would have been caught by Hayden, not Ponting.

- Maybe Bradman would have scored 48, not 49

- or maybe he would have scored 189

- or 257

- 0r 0

- maybe Warne would have pulled a hamstring in his run-up and been unable to bowl to him

- maybe Bradman would have refused to bat due to a sponsorship dispute

- maybe Bradman would have hit the first ball back at Warne's face, killing him instantly

- maybe Indonesia would have invaded at that moment, abruptly ending the match

- maybe the paradoxes of time travel would have caused a rip in the fabric of spacetime, destroying everyone at the ground

- maybe a dinosaur would have eaten them both

- or maybe Bradman would have scored 52

It's fun to imagine things!

An email what I got

2012-01-08T14:30:00.000-08:00

A sad reflection...

on the state of Australian society, that a newspaper (Saturday Age) would publish the vile blasphemy of your writing. I do not attend any films, only view those on TV that date back forty years or more, because the modern ones appear to be laden with the sort of blasphemy contained in the article I read. Do not be under any illusion, Mr Pobjie. Blashemers will be punished. In the Ten Commanments, only one carries an extra threat: 'Do not use God's name carelessly, because the Lord will not lightly acquit those who misuse His name' (loose translation of third Commandment). Australia never was, is not now, a Christian country, but all the good things about Australia have come from the Christian influence that was more evident in past centuries.

If you have any moral character at all, Mr Pobjie, I sugest a printed apology would be appropriate, if you ever get to write for The Age again

Athur Comer

Fine

2012-01-05T22:58:00.000-08:00

1. No, I have not quit Twitter. But I have felt very much like it on numerous occasions, and vacillated over whether I should or not. Probably if I did my mental health would improve. I have not quit because I enjoy Twitter, and going there to make jokes, find out new things, and chat to friends is fun. This is quite important: I use Twitter for fun. I don't use it to toughen my hdie against attack, and I don't use it as a forum to hurl abuse, and have it hurled at me. I like to go to Twitter to feel good, not to feel bad.

I have a full-time job. Not writing: an actual, 9-to-5, five day a week office job completely unrelated to my writing or my comedy. Forty hours of every week is spent at work. Around fifteen hours a week is spent travelling to and from work. Everything you read that I write, in The Age, New Matilda, King's Tribune, The Drum, Crikey, in my books, on this blog or anywhere else, was written in my personal time outside work. Any time you saw me speak or perform anywhere was my spare time, not my working day - these days I've probably come straight from work: until July last year I would have been going TO work after the gig, as I worked night shift for five years. Time for sleep and to spend with my wife, my six-year-old son and two-year-old twin daughters, is on top of this. What I'm saying is, I don't have a hell of a lot of free time. To spend any of it at all going online to absorb a torrent of abuse from complete strangers would be terribly inefficient.

2. When you tweet to me, you tweet to me. Please keep in mind that what has been grinding me down has not been people talking about me - I don't much mind what people say about me, and even if I did I wouldn't deny anyone's right to say it. But when you tweet TO me, it's addressed to me. You're not talking about me, you're talking to me, and I take it as such. If you are the kind to send abusive letters or make obscene phone calls to strangers, or walk up to people in the street and swear in their faces, then please do keep on tweeting "@benpobjie you are shit". If you are not that kind of person, then please do bear in mind mind that when you tweet that stuff, that's exactly what you're doing, and I'm going to treat you like the rude bastard you are. Talk about me all you like, but please do not expect me to take kindly to people who I don't even know talking rudely TO me. Of course a lot of people will tell me it goes with the territory, but almost all of them will be people who don't have to listen to strangers calling them a misogynist cunt on an hourly basis.

3. This whole storm is NOT about people criticising my work. The debate that sprang up about the word "hysteria" was not sparked by anything I wrote. It was a friend of mine, not I, who wrote the article referring to hysteria. I joined the conversation to defend him and put forward my belief that it was not a sexist remark and not an invalid criticism to make. I still believe that, and presumably so do the many, many people of both sexes who made exactly the same argument that I did. My opinion of what "hysteria" means is, incidentally, based on my experience of the way it's actually used, and the dictionary. Other people differ, and that is fine and I will continue to think they're absurdly wrong and they will continue to think the same of me. But I feel it is quite important to note that this controversy is not based on my own article in the King's Tribune about porn, but on somebody else's article and the furore around one single word used in that article.

4. Anyone wishing to make a point about the article I DID write should note that it is, like most things I write, comedy. This is not a defence against charges of offensiveness, but it is a defence against charges of literally meaning the absurdist jokes within it. If you're going to engage with it, you have to engage with it as comedy, or else you are, frankly, an idiot.

5. Mainly this is all because I said "fuck you" to a beloved Twitter feminist. This was not because I reject the idea of male privilege, because I don't. Male privilege is real, and it is significant, and it is an interesting area of discussion. And I don't need it explain to me, because I've had it explained to me in the past, and I've never once denied its reality and its very real effect on society. But it is not a golden snitch in arguments - you can't produce it and claim victory by default. "You couldn't possibly understand because of male privilege" may or may not, in any given situation, be true, but it is not an argument: it is what you say when you can't be bothered making an argument. Because even if it's male privilege that causes somebody to be wrong, you still have to be able to explain why they're wrong: otherwise you're just copping out (and for one thing, if it's just a case of male privilege, what have you got up your sleeve to shoot down the ten women saying exactly the same thing as me?). I have never, ever, tried to win an argument by telling my opponent, "As a woman you are incapable of understanding". For somebody else to tell me I am incapable of understanding because I am a man, thereby invalidating any opinion I might have on the basis of my gender, is not a serious attempt at debate: it is an attempt to shut the debate down and declare victory by one vagina to nil. Frankly, anyone who does that to me - especially on the end of a conversation in which I've been patronised, condescended to and told that I was letting the world down by not cimply agreeing with what I'm told - is saying "fuck you" to me: and I prefer to just say "fuck you" straight out rather than dance around it that way. Anyone telling me I have no right to an opinion because I'm a man will get the same response every time.

6. I am a feminist. I am not a feminist because feminism needs male allies or because I've decided it's a cool club to join. I'm a feminist because I can't help being one: the way I view the world is simply a feminist one and I can't change that without changing almost every opinion I hold. This doesn't mean I'm always right about gender issues: I don't know anyone who I think is always right about gender issues, so I can't see how it'd be possible for me to be. And the aforementioned male privilege means my worldview is always coloured and I do have to take extra care in examining and testing my own views.

But I am sincere, and I am dedicated, and I am going to keep being a feminist, keep expressing feminist opinions and keep acting in the feminist cause, because it is very important, it is right, it is just, and it is a far bigger deal than my hurt feelings. I've found as a male feminist that you tend to get much more abuse from other feminists than from sexists, but that's life. I may not like it, but feminism matters much more than I do.

I'm also going to keep on disagreeing with other feminists and saying "fuck you" to anyone who disrespects and patronises me - especially if they are going to accuse me of sexism or misogyny. I think I've nailed my colours to the mast with my work. Nobody who knows me personally could think I'm anti-feminist. Nobody who knows my body of work could think I'm anti-feminist. Anyone who does think so is either ignorant, misinformed or just plain stupid. And I freely admit that being accused of bigotry of any kind riles me up something fierce.

7. I am by no means famous, but I am to a certain extent a public figure, and a lot of people know who I am even though I don't know who they are. And I'm still figuring out how to negotiate that, and not get too caught up with the bad stuff. Learning on the job, so to speak. I try to be pretty open and friendly, and engage with the people who read my stuff, because I'm grateful to them and I like the fact my work allows me to meet interesting new people and converse with them. Twitter is great for that, and I don't want to end up with my tweets being reduced to carefully crafted zingers and links to my columns and nothing else, never replying to people or opening up to the public. I want Joe Hildebrand's job, but I don't want to be Joe Hildebrand. I'd rather be able to keep being me for as long as possible. I beg your forgiveness and patience for the fact that being me is often really quite annoying for everyone.

8. Whatever else you think, you can't deny King's Tribune gets people talking. Go subscribe.

9. I suffer from depression and anxiety. This means I sometimes overreact to things, and get more upset than I should. I know this. I apologise for it. I don't want to make excuses, and I'm working on improving in this regard. I don't want people to cut me slack for it - it's just an explanation.

10. I didn't want to write this, and I wish I wasn't, but it seems the affair refuses to die because some people just want to keep it going. Please bear in mind: all that happened was that some people you don't know disagreed with each other about one word, and then one of those people was rude to another one in one sentence on the internet. It's unbelievably stupid that people are still talking about it: it just doesn't freaking matter, people. I'm desperately hoping that by laying all this out I can put a full-stop on it. Henceforth anyone wishing to rekindle the argument will be blocked, mocked, and have their parentage called severely into question. Because I'm sick of it, and almost everything on earth is more important. OK? I'd love to get back to joking about the Biggest Loser and inserting the word penis into movie titles now if it's all the same to you.

11. Thank you for listening. Please enjoy this picture of Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe in the Avonlea schoolhouse.

Bob and Dave at Home

2012-01-01T15:33:00.000-08:00

The front door slammed shut as Bob Ellis, man about town and politico-literary guerilla, announced his homeward return with a hearty, "I have returned! And so it goes!" Placing his ivory-handled umbrella in the stand and doing up his zipper, he went in search of his housemate and best friend.

"I'm in the study," called Dave, "exposing the pretensions of the middle-class!"

Ellis lumbered portentously to the study, where he stood in the doorway, wiping his lips in the manner of man who had written speeches for Whitlam and was a close personal friend of Rodney Cavalier. "What are you working on, Dave, my old friend and sparring partner, man of peculiar talents and even more peculiar flaws, who has profited so mightily from the Australian public even while disdaining them, like a cat insulting the milk it drinks?"

"It's a play!" cried Dave, turning from his brand-new iMac bourgeoisie-processor, eyebrows practically perming themselves with enthusiasm. "It's about how young people don't understand things!"

"Excellent, excellent," murmured Bob, withdrawing a flask of cognac from his hip pocket and taking a long draught.

"Have you had a good day?" asked Dave. "I hope you didn't meet any young people."

"I had an excellent day. I lunched with Bryan and Rachel, then went for ice-cream with Della Bosca and had sex up a tree with someone who may or may not have been Jacki Weaver - I'm not sure, the ice-cream was taking its toll by then."

"Jacki's wonderful," said Dave. "I loved her in that thing I wrote."

"I had a haircut too, do you like it?"

"It's all right, I suppose."

"Robert De Niro said it was the best haircut he'd ever seen. But perhaps you disagree."

Dave sighed. "Come clean, Bob. We all know what this is about. You've always been jealous of my beautiful, thick hair."

Bob scoffed, as he pulled a bottle of Merlot from his jacket and sucked it down. "I would hardly be jealous of that hair, Dave - it's lowest common denominator hair. Your showy, obvious hair has for decades been holding back younger, more vibrant hair. I'm quite happy with my own hair - Jack Thompson likes it for one, as does Sigrid Thornton, and Bruce Spence, Ray Barrett, John Wood, Robyn Nevin, and Rolf de Heer. Who likes your hair?"

"EVERYONE likes my hair!" Dave exploded, leaping from his chair and brandishing a rolled-up Quarterly Essay threateningly. "My hair has embodied the hopes and dreams of middle-Australian barbers for forty years!"

There was a tense moment, as Bob swigged from a jar of rum and Dave absent-mindedly wrote on the wallpaper, "Idea for play - uni students: idiots?" The tension was broken as Bob burped nobly, and announced, in that thunderous voice that spoke of a man who once had tapas with Neil Kinnock:

"It's time for dinner!"

Dave, jolted out of a reverie in which he had been mentally constructing a scene in which some teenagers failed to appreciate the importance of famous writers, nodded. "Yes - I made spaghetti."

"Spaghetti?" spat Bob with the kind of disgust only possible in a man who had written many award-winning films. "Why on earth would you do that? I don't like spaghetti. It speaks to me of nights alone in Pisa, staring up the leaning tower and wondering, when will people learn? When will they learn that capitalism is nothing but a con-job? When will they learn that this pasta they crave is just the device of wicked men in love with their own avarice? When will they realise that while we eat spaghetti, millions of Hazara peasants die simply because of our own failure to pay independent filmmakers enough to ensure we can make films about Hazara peasants dying? Spaghetti? Spaghetti is representative of the whole dirty, corrupt, money-hungry, pestilent, rotting, award-winning filmmaker-hating husk of modern democracy. And it's a pity."

Dave stood, hands on hips, petulant as the youth who still didn't know how smart he was. "Well, spaghetti was in the cupboard, Bob. What was I to do?"

Bob paused mid-sip of vodka. "You could have done many things. You could have run down the fish and chip shop for some blue grenadier. You could have got some Chinese. You could have called Domino's and had pizza sped to our door like Phillippides's message of old. You could have made a shepherd's pie, ignoring the plutocratic lure of nouveau cuisine. You could have whipped up a chicken curry, like my old friend Don Chipp did the night we found ourselves lost at sea after a drunken carouse with Louis Nowra led to a perhaps ill-conceived plan to sail to Canberra and punch Ros Kelly in the face. You could have written more plays about good, wholesome working man's fare like pies and chips, breaking the stranglehold of Mediterranean culinary entropy that has this whole nation in its grip, even to the point of allowing this snivelling eurotrash harpy Gillard to impose her sniffy big-nosed chicanery on us all. You could have done all, but you did not. And it's a pity."

But Dave was already gone, to the dining room, where he sat beneath the enormous portrait of Ben Chifley giving Arthur Calwell a piggyback ride, weeping into his bolognese. Bob found him there, and sat across from him, sullenly digging a fork into his bowl, even as he drank deeply from a box of warm riesling that he had found in his shirt pocket.

After a while Dave could stand it no longer. "Bob!" he ejaculated. "I will stop making spaghetti when people stop eating it! I don't claim to be a great chef, Bob, but people eat my food, and they seem to enjoy it, and that's not my fault Bob. I don't make spaghetti for you, Bob, but for those little people out there who gain nourishment and enjoyment and a sense of soft-left superiority from it, and I'll be damned if I stop making spaghetti simply because bitter old lefties like you need to vent their spleen at those whose spaghetti always came out better-seasoned than their own. You know full well you'd never even have made spaghetti without a grant from the Spaghetti Council."

"And why not?" Bob roared. "Maybe if the government put more money into funding innovative spaghetti auteurs and less money into drowning brown babies at sea, we'd be in better shape. But I suppose if it were up to you, we'd be eating this bland suburban spaghetti until the day we die, swallowed by an enormous ginger vagina."

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. After dinner, both men sank deeply into the Jason recliners with satisfied-yet-regretful sighs. The TV was blaring, and for a few minutes they watched in silence.

"This is rubbish," said Dave.

Bob nodded. "It's very poorly written. They should have gotten a marvellous writer in, like Phillip Adams."

Dave nodded. "There is no witty, sparkling dialogue in this programme. It completely fails to show up the hypocrisy of the aspirational classes. Where are the McMansions?"

"This is nothing like the Wharf Revue," said Bob. "Modern television has nothing closely resembling the Wharf Revue, and it's a pity. I watched an entire episode of The Wire the other day, and not once did anyone do a Bob Brown impression. It's disgraceful. Fucking Gillard."

Dave nodded. Bob nodded. They both nodded. They stared at each other. Bob took another sip of the Viktor and Rolf cologne he'd found stuck down the side of the chair. David quickly wrote a play about non-goverment organisation office politics. A commercial for erectile dysfunction came on. They copied down the number. They nodded some more.

"Dave..." said Bob.

"Bob..." said Dave.

"Dave, I find your tired, unrealistic, cliched characters unbearable..."

"Bob, your bloated, self-obsessed polemics have become intolerable..."

"Dave, your contempt for the artistic community is revolting..."

"Bob, your insistence upon your own significance in matters of history is appalling..."

The world held its breath for a moment, and then...they were upon each other, grappling mightily in each other's arms, lips and tongues urgently exploring each other in a conflagration of burning leftist passion. Shirts were rent asunder, pants tugged at with the desperation of second-wave feminists clinging to outdated conceptions of women's place in political discourse.

"Bob..." Dave whispered.

"Dave..." Bob hissed, the desire carried aloft on fragrant bourbon fumes.

"Comrade..." they breathed in unison, as their progressive, influential bellies gyrated against each other, flesh slapping on flesh, and body mingling with body, till finally, they were no longer Bob and Dave, but simply Dob, or Bave, and they became one, coupling and uniting like the perfect synthesis of the Great Man theory of history and Keating-nomics, and their great literary bellows echoed throughout the night until, spent, they collapsed in a pool of sweat and socialism on the fireside rug, gazing into each other's eyes and panting with lust and exhaustion and angina.

"Dave," murmured Bob, caressing his old sparring partner's eyebrows, "do you think they'll ever understand?"

"No," Dave returned, making finger-circles in Bob's grey chest hair and tracing the outline of the tattoo of Kim Beazley's face that resided there. "They never will."

"Ah, me," Bob sighed, "it is hard indeed that in this day and age we find ourselves beholden to such minor, diminutive folk, who fail to appreciate the importance of a good political insult, or a book of essays, or a little-known movie. Hard it is to tolerate being ruled by the petty and the small-minded and the female who do not understand the burden we bear."

"The burden of history."

"The burden of genius."

"The burden of sociological perspicacity."

"The burden of enjoying blow jobs from pretty young women."

Dave stared into the fire, a single tear rolling down his cheek. "Things have changed, Bob."

"Indeed. The world no longer knows how wonderful we are."

"Oh well, what can we do, but keep on complaining?" Dave looked down. "Ready to go again?"

"In a minute," replied Bob, furiously poring over his autographed Kristina Keneally calendar. "In a minute, Comrade."

And so it went.

Rolling Over

2011-12-28T20:19:00.000-08:00

I have never liked New Year's Eve much. This is mostly because I find it fairly meaningless. I've struggled to see a point to it ever since it dawned on me that the time at which we decide a new year has started is completely arbitrary, and we are therefore celebrating nothing. Also since it dawned on me that I don't get invited to parties and everyone on earth is having more fun than me even when it's NOT New Year's Eve, let alone when it is.

So my dislike of the occasion really comes down to irritation at others making a big deal over something I'm basically indifferent to.

Or to boil it down: in this, as in all other things, people give me the pip.

But no matter how rationally you assess the emptiness of New Year's, you are human and the mindset seeps in: this is the end of something, and the beginning of something else. Draw a line under the last 365 days, we have a new batch for you.

But...that's worse.

Because I'm someone who has always found himself being borne ceaselessly into the past. I obsess over past disappointments, fret over past mistakes, analyse past events, and wish myself back in time, either to right wrongs, or to enjoy better times. I can't escape the past: a memory with a peculiar gift for keeping the most minor events and throwaway comments accessible in my brain has caused me to be constantly poring over what has been even as I look forward to what will be.

It's not all bad - a keen awareness of where you've been gives a good sense of perspective, provides a foundation for your life.

But it also tugs at you, bites and tears with regret.

And at New Year, the celebration of the ticking over of the calendar just makes me look back at the year about to end, and suddenly I am crushed beneath the weight of the disasters, and the failings, and the regrets. The end of the year does nothing for me so much as make me hang my head in shame for the hash I've made of it.

So I just can't get myself in that celebratory mode. Festivities are not for me at the end of 2011. It's too awful what we've been through to get here.

But what's done is done. I can't change the past, as much as I'd like to. I can't make amends. I can't balance out the world. All I can do is apologise, and apologies seem all that's appropriate for me as we stare out into the seas of 2012.

So I'm sorry. I'm sorry I haven't been as good to you all as I could have been. I'm sorry to those who I've let down, my family, my friends, my readers. I'm sorry for the mistakes I've made, I'm sorry for the jobs I've stuffed up. I'm sorry for being a bad friend, a bad husband, a bad father, a bad brother, a bad son. I know I'm not always bad - I'm sorry for letting myself be bad when I know full well how not to be.

I'm sorry for being surly, and moody, and irritable, for not being as kind, or as companionable, or as amusing, as the man inside me screams at me to be. I'm sorry for letting down everyone who knows me, and for letting down everyone who might know me better if I hadn't failed.

I'm sorry for those I've upset: who I've saddened and angered with my thoughtlessness and stupidity. And I'm sorry that I have driven some away so completely they probably won't even read this. I hope they do - I want more than anything for them to know how sorry I am.

I'm sorry to you all for the ways I've wronged you, and with the deepest shame I admit I am sorry for the ways I'll wrong you in the future.

And maybe more than anything, I'm sorry to myself, for not living up to my own standards, for being too lazy, or too irritable, or too selfish, to be who I want to be. I'll try harder and harder, and I'll be sorry again for falling short I'm sure.

The world is a beautiful place, full of beautiful people, and I'd like for as many of those beautiful people as possible to feel that my existence in the world makes it just slightly better. But for all those moments when I fail in that, for all the times I've made someone's world a darker place, for all the times I've stumbled and forgotten my lines in this show...I'm so sorry.

No, Virginia

2011-12-20T18:57:00.001-08:00

We take pleasure in answering at once and thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of BPWWOO:

Dear Editor,

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, if you see it on Ben Pobjie's blog, it's so. Please tell me the truth: is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O'Hanlon (deceased)

VIRGINIA,

Your little friends are right (and what's the deal with you calling them "my little friends"? What are they, mice?). They have been affacted by the scepticism of a sceptical age, which is a good thing, because by being sceptical we learn to get a grip on reality and stop believing ludicrous bullshit like Santa Claus. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little - but yours is littler than most, judging by the fact you're eight years old and still haven't figured this out. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world around him. This is why he makes up idiotic fairytales to keep himself amused, like the one you continue to fall for.

No, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. How dreary would the world be if there were no Santa Claus? Not very dreary at all. There is love and generosity and devotion: aren't these enough without conjuring up fat elves to convince ourselves that the world is more exciting than it really is? Seriously, if you need Santa Claus to make the world interesting, you are a very dull-minded and ungrateful child and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.

Not believe in Santa Claus! Yes, indeed you should not believe in Santa Claus. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, because fairies don't exist, moron. Neither does Santa - that's why you never see him. Duh!

Really, Virginia, you need to take a good hard look at yourself. Think about it for a second. Santa delivers presents to all the children of the world in a single night? You thought that was possible? Do you have even the slightest knowledge of basic physics? You realise the speeds Santa would have to travel at to do this? He would burst into flames! And with flying reindeer? Come on, Virginia, try to engage your brain here.

You think it's just a coincidence you always get much better presents than your poor friend with the unemployed dad? You think the poor kids must have been "naughty" every year? And how did you think Santa knew who was naughty or nice anyway? He's been spying on every kid in the world? That didn't creep you out even a little bit, this old man peering at you all the time? I bet your Papa wouldn't be too happy to see "Santa" looking through your bedroom window of a night, or asking you if you'd been naughty. I don't think Papa would like that at ALL. Luckily, Papa knows there's no Santa Claus, because he's not a cretin.

So in summary, Virginia, you believed that an old man lives at the North Pole (!) with a bunch of elves - a species that has not been observed ANYwhere on the planet throughout recorded history - and some magic reindeer, and that this old man is capable of making all the toys and synthesising all the commercially-packaged consumer goods that the children of the western world receive each Christmas, and delivering them to EVERY SINGLE ONE in a single night, once a year. Except for the naughty ones, because he's able to determine their behaviour by keeping tabs on all of them 24/7 throughout the previous 12 months. This is what you believed.

Are you fucking retarded, Virginia?

Wake up to yourself, Virginia. And while you're at it, wake up to your parents, who have been shamelessly lying to you your entire life. Lying and deceiving and laughing about it behind your back, mocking your ignorance and lack of critical thinking skills. The world is full of monsters, Virginia, but are not your parents perhaps the worst of these?

A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, Santa Claus will continue to make glad the heart of childhood. Because parents are lying scum and kids like you are irretrievably stupid.

Grow up, Virginia. Stop being such a halfwit, and maybe your "little friends" will stop beating you up. There is no Santa Claus, Virginia, and it's obvious to anyone with half a goddamn brain. Jesus Christ.

Never write to me again.

WEEKEND HOROSCOPES

2011-12-09T19:29:00.000-08:00

ARIES: There's someone behind you. He has a kind face, but he also has a shotgun. So your call, really.

TAURUS: A financial transaction brings you great joy. Like mayb you buy some donuts or something. The joy won't last very long because later in the day you'll find out you have crabs.

GEMINI: You will watch Little Shop of Horrors five times today, and you STILL won't know all the words to "Skid Row". Idiot.

CANCER: The crabs thing would have been funnier if it had been you, but that's astrology for you. All that will happen to you is you'll buy a fauly exercise bike but deep down you'll be glad because you didn't want to have to exercise.

LEO: It is time to sort some things out in your life. Return those damn pants for god's sake.

VIRGO: Sadness is a big part of your life this week, but so is happiness. Also anger, regret, fear and hunger. All the emotions really. And probably you'll go somewhere, have lunch etc. Nothing is going to happen is what I'm trying to say.

LIBRA: Family issues come to the fore this week when your grandmother attacks you with a drill. Time for some tough decisions?

SCORPIO: Someone stole your mirco machine men. Don't know who it was, he had a hood on. He was wearing brown sneakers.

SAGITTARIUS: It seems everywhere you go you are surrounded by betrayal and suspicion. What do the voices in your head tell you to do? If I were you, I'd do it. Go on. I totes dare you.

CAPRICORN: Your faith in God will be severely tested this week when Jesus returns to walk the earth and he backs his car into your shopping trolley. A long and expensive court battle later, and you will be down a hundred thousand dollars and carrying on a secret sexual affair with Jesus. How did things get so messed up? It all started when you were five and you lied about pushing the babysitter down the stairs. Food for thought I'd say.

AQUARIUS: You will be devoured by ants. There's no easy way to say it. Sorry.

PISCES: Go to Bunnings and ask for "Reg". He'll show you where the bags of sand are. Choose the middle bag in the second row. Take it home. Fill your sandpit. Dig through the sand until you find the amulet. Swallow the amulet. Tell nobody. If you do, your whole family dies. Later that night you should kill your family. Wait for my instructions.

This Is Extremely Heartfelt

2011-12-02T17:27:00.000-08:00

My dear fellow Australians, I have something I would like to say to you all.

It has come to my attention during the course of the same-sex marriage debate at the Labor National Conference that there are people out there, real people, with real feelings, who are being terribly distressed by some of the things being said in this debate.

And so, as someone who has in the past spoken up to voice my own opinions on the subject, I would like to apologise.

I am sorry that, through my support for same-sex marriage, I have, however inadvertently, hurt the feelings of those who think it is a bad idea. I apologise for the pain and suffering felt by anyone who found themselves upset or saddened by my disagreement with their own views. I particularly apologise to anyone who has found my - in retrospect, somewhat excessive - focus on concepts of fairness and equality to be at odds with their own principles to an offensive degree. I fully recognise and respect their opposition to fairness and equality, and accept that it was insensitive and wrong of me to vilify them for it.

I apologise for my persistent homophobia-phobia, and I assure those who are concerned about my relentless attacks on homophobes that I have turned a corner in my life, and with the help of my family, my faith, and my sponsor, I believe I can leave that aspect of my personality behind me. I am deeply and sincerely sorry if anything I have said and done in the past has offended any homophobe, and I regret enormously any disrespect I may have shown for their chosen lifestyle.

To those who are opposed to gay rights due to their extreme and/or insane religious beliefs, I apologise for my previous campaign of religious harassment and vilification. It was by no means my intention to suggest that your idiotic dogma was in any way inferior to anyone else's beliefs or philosophy, and I apologise if that impression was conveyed. I deeply regret any hurt or inconvenience caused to members of the religious lunatic community by my suggestion that their beliefs are not the only valid beliefs in existence, or any inference drawn that the government should not be run solely for the satisfaction of religious minorities. I cannot fully express in words how sorry I am that I may have hurt the feelings of anyone through my pig-headed insistence on not agreeing with them.

I am truly sincere in all this, but I feel I need to go further. The time is now for making amends for the unfortunate past.

And with this in mind I would like to apologise for the time in my teenage years when I engaged in a certain amount of physical contact and mouth-to-mouth affectionising with a young lady of Asian extraction. It was an action undertaken in the recklessness of youth, but I realise now that there may have been racists in the vicinity who may have been made to feel uncomfortable by the sight of my lip-locking with exotic females. With the wisdom of years I see now just how nauseated members of the bigot community are by the idea of the co-mingling of different races, and I am regretful that my impulsive actions may have contributed to any feelings of unease or offence that they might have felt.

I also apologise for calling these bigots bigots in the previous paragraph.

Furthermore, I have become aware that in the past on matters of race, I may have come down with a certain heavy-handedness on the side of equality and anti-discrimination. I recognise now that there are good, decent, honest Australians who wish only to live their lives free to detest and discriminate against those of other races without fear of harassment, and I apologise for making their lives just that little bit harder with my petty and ill-thought-out anti-racist attitudes.

I would also like to apologise to anyone who feels distressed or offended by my own marriage, and in particular my past insistence on allowing my wife to choose her own outfits, drive a car, and speak to adult males outside her own family. It is only recently I realised how my lenient and tolerant attitude towards my wife must have upset and wounded those who would prefer that women be treated as the possessions of their husbands, and I feel great sorrow that I have been the cause of such upset.

Furthermore I would like to apologise to the wider misogynist community for any psychological or emotional harm that has come to them as a result of any previous statements on my part to the effect that women might be human beings. It was not my intent to in any way smear or slur misogynists, many of whom are proud Australians worthy of respect, and I abhor the thought that my respect for women may have the cause of anyone else's angst or personal growth - it was not my intention to disrespect the beliefs of anyone else, or to make anyone a better person: if I have done so I apologise.

In summary I would like offer a sincere and heartfelt apology to anyone who at any time has felt insulted by, attacked by, or in vague disagreement with anything I have ever said in the past. I am truly sorry for all of my statements throughout my life to the effect that anybody anywhere was wrong about anything, or that there are people who might on the balance of probabilities be stupid, insane, or nasty. It was not my intention, by saying what I think, to suggest or imply that what I think might in any way be correct, or that what anyone else thinks might in any way be incorrect, or to create the impression that any human being should at any time ever have to hear or read something they might not like very much. I can see now that my past actions have been in every respect an affront to basic human dignity, and I regret ever promulgating the idea that it is acceptable to label or describe fellow citizens in offensive ways based only on an accurate perception of reality.

For these and any other opinions I may have held that perpetuated the unacceptable oppression of my fellow human beings, I apologise without reservation. Thank you

(those of you who likewise wish to redress the injustices referred to in this statement can make a donation to the Association For the Assuaging of the Hurt Feelings of Bastards, or AFAHFB, c/o the Australian Christian Lobby)

Christmas is Coming!

2011-12-01T15:56:00.001-08:00

Given that Christmas is coming, as evidenced by the title of this blog post, it's time to think about where you want to direct your hard-earned money in order to best approximate your feelings of vague affection towards friends and family.

This Christmas, it might be a good idea to give your gift-giving a theme. A good theme is "Ben Pobjie". Why not give everyone you know a Pobjie-themed present?

For example, for your dad, who likes a laugh, get him Funny Buggers, a book of lines from great Australian stand-ups which includes me for some reason.

Of course, the problem is I don't get any money from you buying Funny Buggers, so for your mum, who likes a laugh but is also furiously political, buy Surveying the Wreckage, which is all by me and contains many hilarious political jokes to make you laugh, but also make you think and possibly make you cry if you're a bit weird.

And then there is your grandma, who likes a laugh but only if it's related to food in some way and has cartoons as well. You should buy her Superchef, which as far as I know Maggie Beer calls "the greatest thing ever I have seen ever in my whole life since I was born".

And what about little Jimmy, the boy who sleeps in your backyard? Would he enjoy Handy Latin Phrases or The Adventures of Guanacoman? Who cares - he can't read! Buy them for him and see him weep in gratitude!

So there you go - interesting and affordable ways to manage Christmas, spread some joy, and assist me in my own selfish goals - what more could you ask? An ideal work-life balance and some emotional stability? Can't help you there - I just write books!

Oh we do have fun.

So quick! To the bookstores! Let hilarity be your co-pilot!

Like this guy.

Swearing

2011-11-24T15:05:00.000-08:00

So today, it would seem, is White Ribbon Day. Which I think is probably a good thing to get behind. But doesn't it seem strange?

This is the White Ribbon oath that we're asked to swear:

I swear never to commit, excuse or remain silent about violence to women.

And I do. My life is filled with marvellous, beautiful women - my wife, my sisters, my friends, and the tiny women-in-waiting who I helped to create - and it makes me sick, brings me to tears, to think of hurting them.

So I swear. But it feels so weird, to think that it is even necessary. Just saying those words in my head, it feels surreal. Because if we have to actually affirm that in an oath, it means that there are people out there who wouldn't swear it. There are people out there who are quite happy to commit, excuse and remain silent about violence to women.

Isn't that weird?

Of course I know it's true - there are hundreds, thousands, millions, of men - and women - who think violence against women is fine - you know, under the right circumstances. When she's really asking for it. When it's well-deserved. Everyone knows that this horror is really rather common.

But still, isn't it weird? Isn't it weird that people do this? Isn't it weird that people condone it? Isn't it weird, especially, that it's not just a matter of people losing their heads and lashing out, that there are actual human beings out there who do this systematically, who can justify it to themselves and consider a normal part of life?

Isn't it weird that White Ribbon Day needed to be created?

Let's not look on women as a protected species here, as delicate flowers that need defending by the big strong men. Let's not split our species in two, positioning the male half as the burly warriors nobly striving to keep the women folk safe, and the female half as fragile doe-eyed innocents, helpless if not for the efforts of their guardians. Let's not throw around silly lines like "Imagine if it was your mother, or your sister".

Let's look on men and women as people, sharing their world, sharing their lives. Let's look on the experience of being human as a duty for us all, to look out for each other, for men and women collectively to be each other's protectors. Let's imagine not that it was a woman you know - let's imagine it was you. Or even better, let's imagine it was a complete stranger suffering, and you stood up anyway, because that's what people do for other people.

I know we all get angry, and frustrated, and we want to strike out sometimes at the people who frustrate us, even when those people are smaller or weaker or less able to defend themselves. Even when those people are women. It's pretty human to want to punch someone in the face.

But we don't. Why don't we? Because we don't want to be that sort of person.

I am a bad person to lecture others on morality. I have done bad things in my life. I have treated other people, even people I love, poorly. I have failed so often to live up to my own standards. But no, I don't hit women. Because I don't want to look in the mirror and see a bully staring back at me. I don't want to lie in bed at night, gazing into the dark, and have to keep company with my own cowardice and cruelty. I don't want my beautiful children to have to look up to a brute, and be set to follow the example of a man who let violence overwhelm his humanity. I don't want the legacy I leave the world to be fear and hatred. I don't want to join the ranks of those who have so abandoned compassion, who have so detached themselves from empathy, who have been so hollowed out by anger and crushed by frustration, and who have found themselves so devoid of hope and imagination, that they can only deal with their own demons by inflicting pain on another human being.

I don't want to be that person. Nobody has to be that person. I hope that I, and you, and all of us, can make the effort to be better. I hope that violence against women can become as bizarre and alien a concept as it deserves to be. Let's all join this human race, shall we?

If you would care to peruse my CV...

2011-11-22T13:56:00.000-08:00

So, in the wake of Kyle Sandilands's latest courageous stand against tall poppy syndrome and fat chicks, many people have been asking, why?

Why does Kyle Sandilands have a job, these people (not me of course) have been asking. Why does he continue to be granted opportunities to enrich himself and raise his public profile on radio and television, even though he is, according to scientific testing, the worst person in the world? Why does he occupy a position of power and influence in the entertainment industry even though his only marketable skill is putting gel in his hair and he possesses all the charm and personal magnetism of a Gestapo officer masturbating on a dead rabbit? How has he managed to keep his job in the face of the fairly well-known fact that he is a puffy-faced dead-eyed misogynistic little blobfish of a man whose appearances on radio and television are the audio-visual equivalent of being urinated on by a camel? And how is it fair that due to his inexplicable success, he has also created a long-lasting media career for Jackie O, a woman who, if she one day lost the ability to giggle inanely, would be immediately reclassified as a species of moss by the botanical community?

These are the questions that apparently, so I hear, people are asking.

But of course these are harsh questions. I do understand why Austereo and Channel Seven continue to employ and promote and pay Kyle Sandilands - it is because they have literally been unable to find anyone more talented than him. They've scoured the world, hoping to find someone with more talent than Kyle - which is to say, someone with some talent - but have come up short.

But don't worry, showbiz bigwigs - I am here.

I am here to solve all your problems, I am here to soothe all your doubts, I am here to rescue you from the chubby bearded quagmire you find yourself in.

I am here to replace Kyle Sandilands. Yes, I hereby launch the Replace Kyle With Ben campaign, or if you're on Twitter, #replaceKylewithBen (pronounced "hashtag replace Kyle with Ben" if you need to say it out loud)

What will you get from replacing Kyle with Ben?

1. I am much taller than Kyle. This means that fellow employees will no longer be called away from important tasks to assist Kyle in getting the Milo down from the top shelf.

2. I have a wide and varied assortment of female friends and acquaintances to choose from for the the purposes of sidekickery. Not only are they smoking hot (because duh, as if I have ugly friends), but they can all speak in words of more than one syllable, thereby out-qualifying Jackie O by some margin.

3. I can beat Kyle at arm-wrestling.

4. My Sean Connery impression is near-flawless, creating endless opportunities for breakfast radio shenanigans of a hilarious nature.

5. I appeal to a broad demographic, being equally popular with both pre-schoolers and the elderly.

6. I have never been involved with the singing career or Tamara Jaber.

7. I know how to conceive, write, and perform "jokes", as well as possessing the capacity to "discuss" "issues" with "people", thereby obviating the necessity to conceal an inability to do any of these things by abusing women or strapping children to lie detectors.

8. I have bigger tits than Kyle.

9. I would quite like to be rich and famous, so you know I'm committed.

10. I have little to no desire to threaten violence upon people who give me bad reviews - in fact I tend to make friends with them.

And finally,

11. I am able to deal with my own deep-seated sense of personal inadequacy in ways other than hurling obscenities at others, belittling those with more talent than myself, or whining like a sissy little bitch every time someone criticises me for anything.

As you can see, I am the complete package - at least compared to what you've got now - and am available to start RIGHT AWAY. There is no need to thank me - I ask only for a generous salary and an enormous amount of fame. So, Seven, Austereo, and any other major media organisations who'd like to get in on the action, just have your people call my people, and we can have this deal stitched up quicker than you can say "ambushing a child-rape victim is ratings gold!"

No hard feelings Kyle - it's just that I'm a lot better than you.

A Poem In Honour Of The President's Visit

2011-11-16T16:02:00.000-08:00

Barack Obama rhymes with armour
Because he shields us from our fears

Barack Obama rhymes with calmer
Because I am always calmer when he is around

Barack Obama rhymes with farmer
Because he tends his people and raises freedom and democracy from the soil

Barack Obama rhymes with chicken parma
Because he is cloaked in the cheese of nobility and the tomato sauce of joy

Barack Obama rhymes with banana in pyjama
Because he is long and yellow and chases teddy bears

Barack Obama rhymes with Dalai Lama
Because he is an elderly Tibetan man

Yes, Barack Obama rhymes with llama
Because he is surefooted and carrying our dreams up the Andes

And also, the fur.

Why I Am Not Supporting Movember

2011-11-15T01:02:00.001-08:00

Last year I did Movember. I grew a big stupid moustache, and I raised a bit of money, and it was all good.

See?

But this year, when Movember rolled around, I decided I would not be doing it again.

This is not because I have any problem with the aims of Movember, or how they try to achieve them. I haven't, in the last year, decided it's all a bunch of crap and not worth bothering with.

But one of the main beneficiaries of Movember is Beyond Blue, the depression initiative. And while I've been a supporter of Beyond Blue in the past, I cannot continue that support, because they continue to retain Jeff Kennett as the organisation's chairman and public face.

And while one may laud Kennett for his work in establishing Beyond Blue, and what he's done to raise awareness of depression and mental health issues, I believe that he does not have the best interests of depression sufferers at heart. In fact I believe he actively works against the aims of those who attempt to improve life for depression sufferers and lessen the impact of the illness upon society.

Through his support for poker machines and his opposition to reforms aimed at fighting gambling addiction, through his hurtful and bigoted public statements denigrating gay parents, and equating homosexuality to paedophilia, Kennett has aligned himself on the side of those contributing to depression, not fighting it.

This is not to say Beyond Blue does not do good work, or is worthy of no support as an organisation. But I can't take them seriously as a depression initiative while Jeff Kennett is their figurehead, and the only way things will change is if a message is sent that the current situation is unacceptable.

So that's why I'm not supporting Movember, and most importantly why I'm publicly stating my opposition and the reasons for it. Movember is a great idea, and I hope to be able to support it again in future. But I can't in good conscience give support to the raising of funds for an organisation that I believe is militating http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifagainst its own goals by keeping as its most visible public spokesman a man who frankly doesn't seem particularly serious about actually working for the good of depression sufferers.

Having said that, I am not railing against those who do choose to support Movember. That's their decision, and they are motivated by a genuine desire to support the cause of men's health, and I can't criticise that.

But I do believe we would all be better served by diverting our support to other worthy charities that also do good work, without necessarily achieving Beyond Blue's profile.

You can support Fauxvember, an alternative charity set up basically for the same reasons I've outlined here, which is also committed to men's health issues.

You can support the Black Dog Institute, which does really good work in the fields of depression and mental health.

Then there's Lifeline, which is on the frontline of crisis support and suicide prevention, and is literally a lifesaver for a lot of people.

And of course the other side of Movember is its support for the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia, so why not go donate to them directly?

There's loads of other organisations dedicated to raising awareness of and improving men's health, and if you want to get behind the issue, there's lots of places you can go. I have no interest in preventing support for the people tackling these problems: but I do think a change has to come. Beyond Blue can't be taken seriously with Jeff Kennett at the top - please, give him that gentle nudge.

My Captain

2011-11-13T16:28:00.000-08:00

One of the first cricket books I ever owned was by Peter Roebuck. It's called Great Innings - I still have it now, more than 20 years after I was given it. It's simply a series of 50 short essays on some of the greatest innings played over the history of cricket, from the 19th century through to the late 1980s. It wasn't the first great innings anthology written - the sort of mind that tends to commit itself to cricket is always the same kind of mind that will incline towards list-making. And Roebuck would not have been alone in including in his own list Bradman's flawless 254 at Lord's in 1930, or Stan McCabe's 187 in the face of Bodyline. Most people would probably include Botham's Headingley hurricane of 1981 and it's not a great stretch to put in Viv Richards's 56-ball hundred, or Victor Trumper's 104 before lunch on a wet track.

But I don't know anyone except Roebuck who would select from Javed Miandad none of his myriad test match masterpieces, but a virtuoso 200 for Glamorgan. Who but Roebuck would nominate a whirlwind 88 by Kiwi legend Bert Sutcliffe, hit against a fearsome South African pace attack, with a bandaged head, and a broken heart the day after a train crash claimed the lives of 151 of his countrymen, including his teammate's fiancee? Who but Roebuck would bypass Garfield Sobers's dazzling 132 in the Tied Test in Brisbane in favour his captain Frank Worrell's unspectacular 65 in the same innings, seeing the greatest heroism in the inspiration a skipper gave to a young, insecure team?

That was Roebuck's peculair genius: he was not ignorant of the cold hard realities of the game; he didn't disregard facts and figures - often he would remind his readers that in the end that most important thing for a player was to make runs or take wickets - all else was incidental. But while keeping these realities in mind, Roebuck would still see the romance of cricket, its adventure and emotion, as much as its results and statistics.

He was a storyteller, and his greatest proclivity as a sports writer was to discern the narratives in cricket. Every innings, every day, every wicket, every moment was a story to Roebuck. Great feats of bowling or batsmanship were cinematic in their scope: he would relate them in epic terms, setting the scene with passages that could seem gloriously out of place on the sports pages, with their poetic imagery and whimsical metaphors. He would construct his story as if creating fiction rather than relating mundane real events - the obstacles to overcome, the inner turmoil of the individual, the magnificence of mighty champions coming together, and the triumph of a man over his opponents, his environment, and himself, were related as if Roebuck were handing down a legend, a tale of giants in a more momentous universe. Cricket was in his bones, and it ran in his veins, and his life was devoted to helping others to see it as he did. A team game in which personal ambition is supposed to be sacrificed to the collective good, yet which is comprised entirely of confrontations between individuals, he understood its beauty and its strangeness and its otherworldly quaintness, and he told its story in the way he saw it.

Players' careers were novels, tales of struggle and redemption and success and failure that stretched back long before the public became aware of them, and continued long after they faded from view. Roebuck was a very good player himself, a successful long-standing first-class player and county captain who played with Botham, Richards, Garner, Waugh and Crowe, and understood as well as anyone the battle a man can find himself waging against his own limitations; the frustrations to be found in the inability to realise your highest aspirations. When writing of a player, even to judge him as inadequate or to call for his dismissal, his pieces never contained malice, never lacked compassion. He never allowed his objective judgment of cricketing skill to blind him to the humans he was writing about.

And he delighted in those humans' successes. When weaving a story from the threads of a cricketer, he favoured the rags to riches variety. He loved nothing more than to tell the story of a subcontinental street kid, a country urchin raised on dirt pitches, or an island villager who grew up using a palm frond for a bat, rising to the highest echelons of international sport. He rejoiced in men like Ranji, or D'Oliviera, who defied their own bigoted societies to succeed. He took an especial pleasure in unconventional operators who found success despite their disregard for orthodoxy or tradition - the bizarre stance of Shivnarine Chanderpaul, the crabbed, awkward technique of Simon Katich, the cheerful agriculturalism of Colin Milburn, were all admired by Roebuck, lover of the rebel and the innovator.

His sense of justice, his loathing of bigotry and nationalism, were palpable. He hated barracking, railed against those who would place their desire for their own team to win above justice or the good of the game. His opinions were always fiercely independent and scrupulously sincere. I didn't agree with him all the time - I thought he got it wrong on Darrell Hair, and that he completely lost his head when he savaged Ricky Ponting in the aftermath of the 2008 SCG test against India. But whether agreeing with him or not, there could never be any doubt that what he wrote was motivated by nothing more than pure, genuine conviction. If he could be intemperate, if his emotions could overrule his judgment so that he seemed less than dispassionate in assessing the facts, it only ever came from his love of the game, and his hatred of anything that could sully it. He saw such beauty in the game, and what it could do to elevate people, and bring them together, that it distressed him beyond measure to see ugliness intrude, to see his beloved cricket be less than it could be. That was why he wrote with such anger whenever corruption or greed threatened the game, when he saw it twisted to base political ends, used to assist political thugs in Zimbabwe or organised crime in India. He was no starry-eyed idealist thinking cricket could be divorced from the world around it, but that was just the point - he believed in cricket improving the world around it, and was inflamed by it doing the opposite, or allowing the worst of the world to infect the game.

But perhaps most important of all was how he wrote all this. That beautiful, lyrical, elaborate, passionate, impish, sharp, idiosyncratic style that somehow seemed of another time, evoking Cardus and Wodehouse as it painted intricately detailed landscapes and portraits of a day's play, while simultaneously devising new angles, new windows to see the game through that could distort it in new and lovely ways while also clarifying events in a way that other writers never even conceived of. There was simply nothing else on sports pages to compare with Roebuck's words. The art he brought to what can so often be a flat, blunt craft was something to behold. He could make you fall in love with cricket simply by describing the snap of a bowler's wrist, or the flourish of a batsman as he let the ball pass harmless to the keeper. He made me fall in love with cricket.

I was reading Roebuck before I read a word by Douglas Adams. Before I'd even heard of Terry Pratchett. Before I'd watched a second of Monty Python. Before I'd encountered Wodehouse, before I'd thought of becoming a writer myself. Of all the influences on me as a writer, Peter Roebuck is probably the longest-standing outside my own parents. I never net him, and now, to my lasting regret, I never will. I didn't know him - though, from what I understand few really ever did. But if it's true that a writer can show themselves through their writing, that you can get to know someone by the words they put down, I knew him. I knew him by his words, for most of my life, and the devastation I feel at his death is a testament to his ability to touch lives of people he was never even aware of. It's a mad, delusional conceit for me to wish I'd really known him, to think maybe I could have done something for him, as an act of reciprocity. But if I wish I could have been a friend to him, it's because he so often made me feel he was a friend to me. Maybe that was the greatest part of his genius after all.

I don't know all the details of his life, or of his death. I don't want to speculate, I don't want to intensify my own sadness, or anyone else's, by sifting through that which I really know nothing about, or by pontificating on sadness, or loneliness, or the flaws of a man only just gone.

But what I can say is that in recent years, Peter Roebuck seemed to be one of the last bastions of cricket the way it was supposed to be. As the game became more driven by money, by greed, by coldly professional calculations and cynical self-interest, to the point where the lines between corruption and administration were becoming blurred...Roebuck stood as a voice for cricket as pure, as joyous, as the most beautiful of games. As Michael Parkinson said, sport only matters if it doesn't matter - only if sport can remain a game, played for love and by principles of fairness and honesty lacking in the important, life-and-death world outside, can it be a beacon to that outside world, a force for good. Once cricket becomes just like everything else in life, it might as well not exist.

Peter Roebuck felt that. And now that he's gone, I wonder if anyone else really feels it the same way. With Roebuck gone, cricket feels a little more prosaic, a litle more dull, a little more sordid. I don't know if this game that I love still has the magic, the beauty that can make me believe there's something better in the world. Maybe there's nothing better in the world. Maybe everything really is, at heart, dirty and ugly and selfish. Maybe cricket is destined to go the way of everything else, and even the most brilliant of artists among us can't hold back the tide of voracious, remorseless reality. I hope it's not so, but maybe it is. And this summer, this Roebuckless season that is now upon us, can't help but feel grim and hopeless and dark. This game I love...can it be beautiful anymore? His words, today more precious than ever before, will hopefully help it remain so.

Peter Roebuck I will miss you. If I wrote a thousand times as many words as I have here today, I'm not sure I could ever really say how much.

Yo Pro-Lifers! Suck It!

2011-11-06T18:51:00.000-08:00

Oh, look! An article by Joel Hodge of the Australian Catholic University that is all about defending people's right to assembly and is not at all about defending people's right to harass other people on their way to undergo legal medical procedures and demonising the pro-choice movement. It's all about justice and freedom and stuff.

Because after all, all these people are trying to do is prevent the murder of babies, right? I mean, not literally, but in their own heads, because they're insane. That's all they THINK they're trying to do, right? And if you knew there was a an establishment near you where babies were being taken to be slaughtered, wouldn't YOU picket and harass and wave signs and throw pamphlets at people?

Wouldn't you?

I mean, of course, you'd do more. You'd actually break down the doors and rush in and take those baby-murdering bastards OUT, in a heroic, John McClane-esque manner, because hey, they're KILLING KIDS.

But if you were a real wuss, you'd stand outside picketing and stuff. If you were opposed to baby-murder, but lacked any sort of intestinal fortitude or moral fibre, you'd totally protest outside the clinic where the babies were being murder. If you had guts, you'd take some effective action, but if you were a total coward you'd definitely stick to maximising psychological trauma for young women.

Coincidentally, that's also what you'd do if you actually DIDN'T think abortionists were murdering babies, but were just a self-righteous uptight prig who wants women to be punished for having sex and is enraged by the thought that there might be women who have sex without having to have babies, because you believe women having sex for purposes other than procreation is slutty and disgusting.

As I say that's just a coincidence, because that is not what THESE protesters are doing. These protesters are not hypocritical, judgmental, sexually repressed arseholes. They're just religious maniacs who are also really, really gutless. So let's cut them some slack.

I mean, don't listen to them, or pay attention to them, or alter your behaviour in any way because of them. You can't do that. Ignore them - they're insane. But have a bit of sympathy at least, huh?

You'll See Things In A Different Way

2011-11-02T02:23:00.000-07:00

You know Liner Notes. You love Liner Notes. But you wish it would come along more than once a year. And you wish there was an opportunity for you to see Liner Notes tackle their classic albums more than once, because you missed out on tickets last year.

OH MY GOODNESS THIS IS GOOD NEWS FOR YOU

Liner Notes: Fleetwood Mac's Rumours is BACK

Featuring ME, and also:

Cate Kennedy
Lawrence Leung
Carrie Rudzinski
Emilie Zoey Baker
Sean M. Whelan
Omar Musa
Josh Earl
Alicia Sometimes
George Dunford
Eva Johansen

Showing you Rumours as you've never been shown Rumours before!

You never did believe in the ways of magic? I've got a feeling it's time to try.

Observationalism

2011-10-20T17:36:00.000-07:00

I understand there has been a bit of a brouhaha over the Prime Minister of Australia's failure to curtsy to the Queen of England on the occasion of their recent meeting.

Let me begin my remarks on this affair with a brief comment to "etiquetteand protocol expert" William Hanson:

You are a moron.

Let me follow with a brief comment to anyone on this planet who cares even the slightest bit about whether the prime minister curtsied or not to the Queen:

You are a moron.

And when I say you are a moron, don't take it the wrong way: I simply mean you are of extremely low intelligence. I mean your brain doesn't work the way it should. I mean you need to wear heavy-duty protective clothing to shield you from the inevitable injuries caused by constantly falling over and walking into things. I mean you need to be institutionalised and isolated from society so as not to infect functional adult human beings with your virulent stupidity. I mean your stupidity is so vast as to actually constitute immorality. I mean that if you ever try to strike up a conversation with another person you should be arrested for committing a hate crime, because nothing could be more horrific to endure than to have to talk to you, you irredeemably and nauseatingly idiotic imbecilic moronic stupid cretinous fool.

Now let me tell you what SHOULD have happened when the Prime Minister met the Queen.

The Queen should have curtsied. The Queen should have grovelled. The Queen should have fallen to her knees, kissed Gillard's hand, and bathed her feet in finest perfume. The Queen should have subjugated herself entirely in the most humble gratitude that she has actually been allowed to go on this publicy-funded holiday and meet genuinely important people.

The Queen should have spent the entire meeting with the prime minister crying out, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!". The Queen should have made it clear just how grateful she was that she, as an elderly bejewelled parasite whose position in life is owed entirely to an accident of birth and who has never been required to either assume any genuine responsibility, or record any actual achievement to get where she is, should be allowed to hob-nob with people who've actually risen to their place in the world via hard work and talent. That she should be permitted to engage with the elected prime minister of Australia, a woman who attained that position via her own personal qualities and the democratic processes of a democratic nation, and whose job entails actual power, and actual responsibility, should have caused the Queen to be overwhelmed with gratitude, and humiliated with the thought of just what a small, insignificant wastrel she is by comparison not only with the PM herself, but pretty much all the other people surrounding her.

And the Queen shuold have gone to bed that night with a smile on her face, counting her blessings and wondering at her good fortune, that anyone in a position of genuine authority, when encountering her, should actually have been so preternaturally polite and astoundingly gracious as to shake her hand and bow their head, rather than passing her by with a witheringly scornful glance and going off to do something more useful, important, and enjoyable than poncing about going through the motions of a pointless ritual greeting with someone who is only recognisable by anyone on earth due to the failure of a good portion of humanity to escape from the hidebound medieval mindset that keeps them convinced that the behaviour of a fawning slave to an undeserving master remains worthwhile.

And now, if I may be a trifle direct, the Queen can fuck right off.

And now - the Australian Parliament Border Protection Glee Club!

2011-10-17T01:33:00.000-07:00

Where Can You Find Me?

2011-10-13T03:28:00.000-07:00

Goodness, there are so many places!

You can find me at New Matilda calling decent Australians to arms against the tyranny which threatens our freedom.

You can find me in the excellent King's Tribune, either by subscribing or picking it up at the newsagent - the current issue has my piece on atheism!

You can find me at the stylish and attractive Kill Your Darlings, where I've written about hating Julia Gillard.

Or there's The Roar, where I've been writing about rugby!

And if THAT's not enough, prepare to be EXCITED beyond all BELIEF!

Because Meanjin is running their thrilling Tournament of Books, and if you go there and check out the head-to-head battles of some classics of Australian literature, you'll not only read some cracking reviews of some cracking books, but also see the highly-esteemed Jess McGuire and myself providing no-holds-barred COMMENTARY on each match. Such as this one, to take but one example. The tournament's still going, so head there, catch up, and get on-board.

Now, is that enough for you, you slavering dogs?

How Not To Rape People Part 2: How Not To Be Raped

2011-10-09T23:48:00.001-07:00

Hello there. Many of you in the me-reading community may remember this post, in which I enumerated a few simple, easy-to-follow tips on how to avoid raping people, for the benefit of those many millions of young men who were finding it difficult to not rape anyone for any significant length of time. It was a great success: many readers wrote to me to let me know that they had greatly reduced their raping-people rate, and in some cases, incredibly, stopped raping altogether.

This was very gratifying, of course, but I have recently come to the realisation that my job was only half-finished. I had addressed one side of the equation - men - but what of the other side? What of women? I guess it was the commonsense, firm-yet-fair, down-to-earth, nitty-gritty, wise advice provided to young women by NSW Police Commissioner Andrew Scipione that brought this home to me. His sage council to young women to tell their friends if they plan to have sex, so their friends can stop them having sex if they don't want to, or help them have sex if they do want to, or join in if a passing video producer pays them to, really drove home to me how neglectful I've been.

Sure, I thought to myself, I've provided useful advice to men on how to stop being rapists, but what about women? Don't they need useful advice too? After all, as Paul Mercurio tells us, it takes two to tango, and likewise doesn't it also take two to rape? I'm pretty sure it does - you never see the headline "Man rapes nobody" in the papers - and so I feel I should apologise for my oversight. But nobody can ever accuse me of being a man who doesn't correct his oversights, and so I hereby present:

HOW NOT TO BE RAPED: A HANDY GUIDE FOR MODERN WOMEN AND ALSO THEIR FRIENDS

1. When you meet a rapist, try to stay away from him.

2. Learn to idenfity rapists. You can do this through some canny questioning. Like for example you could ask, "Are you a rapist?" If the rapist is clever he'll see through that though, so you might have to ask more subtle questions, like, "Would you like me to have some Milo?" or "Are you a professional football team?"

3. Avoid men in general. Most women are raped by men, so it's important that a woman who doesn't want to be raped stays well away from men. It's a bit like cats and meat: if a piece of meat walked into a cat's mouth, would you blame the cat for eating it? Like in The Empire Strikes Back, when they fly into that alien thing's mouth. Do you blame the alien for swallowing the Millennium Falcon? No, it is Princess Leia's fault for wearing that bikini. That's an important lesson to remember. If you, as a woman, choose to conduct your activites in the same location as men, you must accept the consequences. If you're going to hang around penises, don't be surprised when penises do what penises do. Men in general have poor impulse control and will under most circumstances have sex three or four times a day whether they want to or not. If you HAVE to associate with a man, for business reasons or because he is your father, wear a wetsuit.

4. Don't be unconscious.

5. Keep an eye on your drink. Research shows a lot of women are raped after leaving their drink unguarded, or as this is known in legal terms, "consenting to sexual intercourse". If YOU don't want to be raped, make sure you have an eye on your drink at ALL times, and avoid flirtatiously allowing strangers to drop pills in it. Even better, drink from a bottle. Or don't drink at all - koalas gain all their hydration from eucalyptus leaves, and koalas are rarely considered slutty. Except that one who died of chlamydia. Point is, if you avoid drinking fluids of any kind, you can avoid that awkward situation where a reasonable person might interpret your unknowingly ingesting a foreign substance which renders you incapable of resistance to violent sexual acts as something of a "come-on".

6. Dress appropriately. Studies show that over 90% of rape victims were raped when wearing some kind of "clothing", which strongly suggests that clothing plays a massive part in rapists' selection of their victims, or "partners", as they are called when wearing midriff tops. It is important that any woman who doesn't want to be raped avoids wearing any type of clothing that sends the message that she is "up for it". This is difficult, obviously, because as noted above, if a woman wasn't up for it why would she be hanging around near men anyway, knowing full well that men like to have sex? But as long as a woman avoids wearing low-cut tops, short skirts, short shorts, tight jeans, figure-hugging sweaters, loose sweaters, long skirts, skivvies, baggy pants, neck-to-knee swimming costumes, policewoman uniforms, or any item of clothing that provides any clue as to the woman's general shape, she can be fairly certain that her behaviour will be considered only conditional consent by the legal system. Which ties nicely into the next point.

7. Do not draw attention to your femininity. Most people who raped women admit that before raping the woman, they wanted to rape a woman. It is therefore vital when out in public that women don't make a big deal about being a woman. Try not to act too much like a woman - don't go around washing dishes or shopping. It can be a good idea to strap your breasts down and cut your hair short in an attempt to pass as a petite teenage boy. But some people consider that extreme - it's more important just to direct conversation away from the fact you are a woman. If you see a man lurking nearby, try to ward him off by casually remarking, "Goodness, I'm having a nice time out today - it's probably my lack of oestrogen making me feel so good"; or, "I wonder what having a vagina is like, because I certainly don't know!" In fact it is always VITAL to prevent people's focus being directed toward your vagina - reputable opinion polls indicate over 60% of people consider a rape victim was "asking for it" if she was found to be in deliberate possession of a vagina.

8. Don't go out alone. I mean this is pretty self-evident unless you're a prostitute, but I thought I'd throw it in.

9. Don't be a prostitute.

10. Make your intentions clear. If you don't want a man to have sex with you, say, "I would not like to have sex with you, thank you." If he still wants to have sex with you, say, "No, really, I do not want to." If he persists, shout "NO!" and knee him in the testicles. If he doesn't get the message, scream for help and try to run away. If, after all, this, he still ends up having sex with you - well you obviously weren't clear enough, try harder next time.

If young women take these tips on board and follow them closely, then I feel confident that with a little bit of commonsense and community spirit, we can move towards a future where young women don't feel unsafe when they leave the house, young men don't feel guilty for their perfectly normal biological urges/crimes, and the heinous act of rape is eliminated from our society except for those times when really what else would you expect?

Happy not being raped!

IT'S TOMORROW! WILL I SEE YOU THERE? I HOPE SO THAT'D BE LOVELY!!!!

2011-10-05T17:00:00.000-07:00

Dog’s Bar Arts Hub In conjunction with Australian Poetry
Proudly Present
Australia’s First Ever
Climate Change Poetry Slam
Friday 7th October 7pm@St Kilda MeMo Theatre

Come join us as we raise a toast to spring (while we still have distinct seasons)! Feel free to laugh, boo, cheer and celebrate the poetic as we contemplate the demise of our planet! Rhyming optional.

MC’ed by The Age’s TV apostle, Superchef author and twitter-philosopher BEN POBJIE, with Guests Crikey cartoonist FIRST DOG ON THE MOON, HELEN RAZER, SHANE MALONEY, LOU SANZ, RRR'S BEN BIRCHALL, Queen of the Spoken Word, EMILIE ZOEY BAKER, professional wrestling superstar KRACKERJAK THE MADBASTARD with special guests , Q&A guest poet and hip hop legend OMAR MUSA, MIGHTY JOE and many more including a surprise guest AUSTRALIAN GREENS SENATOR SCOTT LUDLUM who will be reading the poetry of Bob Brown!

Yes the poetry will be fast, funny, sexy, sad, slow, scintillating, even possibly dreadful, but it will never be boring. Brace yourself for surprise cartoons, magic tricks, juggling and potential nudity.
The Slam will take place at the historic St Kilda MeMo theatre, a glorious throwback to the 1920’s with a rumoured resident ghost and two fully stocked bars.

When: Friday 7th October @7 pm

Where: St Kilda MeMo Theatre, 88 Acland St Kilda

Tickets: $15 Concession/Online Booking, $20 at the door

www.stkildamemo.com.au

All net proceeds will go to the Sacred Heart Mission who work closely with our homeless community.

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 30 - FINAL POEM - Title Courtesy Of @johncarneyau

2011-09-29T22:31:00.001-07:00

Is It Too Late?

Unexpected
The sight of your back receding to the horizon
I never saw the opportunity go begging
I was somewhere
Thinking your face would be there still
Because there's just no way you could go
Before I had the chance to say
Before I had the chance to do
Before I had the chance to give you
There was no way you could go

Now my hand hangs
Like a frayed rope dangling from the cliff, wondering how it broke
And if lying on the rocks below
Flapping in the wind
Another is wishing to return
And wrap itself around its Other

That hand will keep hanging till it falls
And is scattered to the winds
And forgets why it was there
Till the white-hot blaze of your slow-swaying shoulders
The sad exhaustion of your diasporic heart
Is not even a memory
Just a lingering heat-haze at the back of my eyes
Not worth noticing

For now I'll watch your back
Blurring far away
And pray you won't turn around to speak again
This silence is my friend
And grinding uncertainty my comfort
And I'll only hold together
As long as I don't know

And the question I need to ask
Can fade
In a year
In a decade
In a lifetime
And I won't need to ask it
And it will die with its own answer buried alongside
And I won't care
Maybe in a year

I won't care
I won't

Please Do Not Read This If You Are Not A Blog Forward Reader

2011-09-29T17:14:00.000-07:00

A community service announcement from Ben Pobjie, recent graduate of the GASP College of Public Relations-itude and Customer Service Trainingness.

I understand there have been certain complaints from readers of this blog whom have found the bloggingness of the blog to be not to their tasting. Having now had the privilege of learning the factibility of the situations which led to the circumstances of these complainants, I am now in a position to respond.

Firstly, this blog is especially designed to appeal to a very blog forward consumer. Always at the forefront of my mind when writing this blog is the need to not appeal to those whom are not in the position of being in front of themselves when it comes to consuming blogs and other things. This blog is read by A List celebrities such as Patti Newton, Tom Oliver and Mike Whitney to name only a few, and these are not the sort of personages who would read a "run of the mill" blog. In fact, when people read this blog and say they are "frightened" or "confused" or "nauseated", I give myself a big pat on the back as it means I am succeeding in my targets of making a blog full of attractivenessitude to people whom are the kind of people whom I wish to be attractive to. I know I am doing my job right and my modus operandi is being affirmed in a typically solidistic fashion.

Insofar as the aforesaid blog posts in a manner of specificity, blog posts are selected with the same approach in mind - I am a qualified blogger who has a sixth sense for words, and my only problem is that I am too good at what I do, and being a person whom am talented I cannot tolerate having my time wasted, which is the reason you may be provoked to refer to me as a "dickhead". This is your prerogatorivity.

Inasmuch as you say you are also capable of literacy, this does not mean we are of a sameness. Much of what I am writing here probably does not make sense to you or you are not in agreeance with the generalised thrustings of what I am conveying to your brain right now. You would probably never write a blog post like this, would you? This is because you are a person whom does not understand elite bloggery like I do and so it is of an inappropriate nature that you would say "we both know how to write" as it is almost as if we are in different industries: you in an industry whom is for stupidities and me in a forward-thinking industry for blog superstars.

So if you would like do me any favours or kindnessings, please do not waste my time because as you have seen I am not someone whom tolerates it from people whom are you. I am sure there are plenty of blogs that appease your taste which is stupid, so I retrospectfully request that you side-step this blog during future eyeball-directioning computer operativity engagements.

Thank you for your inquisitions

Ben Pobjie, Blog Manager

Below: a picture of a person appreciating the sensual and evocative lifestyle that an exceedingly directional blog like this one can bring about.

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 29 Title Courtesy Of @sexenheimer

2011-09-28T22:23:00.000-07:00

Me

Who is me?
Is me the man who stalks proudly through the crowds winking at the tank tops
Ducking the Squirrel Nutkin hairdo to everyone he meets?
Is me the man who goes to sleep at night dreaming of fuzz-bass donuts
And electronic nachos?
Is me the man who hovers above that man
Astral travelling in his spare time
While his physical body jerks and spasms on the slab
In a lab
Owned by a mad crypto-menshevik futurist?

Is me any of these men?
Or is me none?
Is me the dream of a better tomorrow?
Or is me the nightmare that creeps upon you while waiting for your Boost Juice?

What is me?
If I knew the answer to that question I could rule the world
Yet I would not
For I respect democracy
Does me respect democracy?
Or is me a fascist?
An anarchist?
A feudal neo-primogeniturist?
Why is me so coy about his motivations?

If me were a fireman
He'd put out your fire
If me were a baker
He'd make you a Boston bun
If me were a race-car driver
He'd pass you on the inside
Yet what does me really have to offer?

I don't know
I don't know
Three little words
Say them with me
"I don't know"
Whisper them as if murmuring in the ear of your lover
Sob them as if crying in a gutter
Bellow them!
As if shouting
In the ear of your lover
Deafening her

Is me deaf?
Deaf to injustice perhaps
Is me blind?
Blind to hatred, yes
Is me dumb?
Dumb as a bear with foetal alcohol syndrome, maybe
Is me one of those guys with no sense of smell?
One of those guys with no sense of smell for prejudice I would wager
I guess there's no doubt
Me is a jerk
And you should punch him in the thighs

So who is me?
A Cossack dancer?
An Israeli hitman?
A deformed Welshman?
A buxom Utah madam?
Pop sensation Tiffany?
All this and more?
None of this and less?
More than this and partially?
Yes
No
And undecided

Who is me?
I don't know
You tell me
Who is me?

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 28 Title Courtesy of @Jo_MacD

2011-09-28T00:11:00.000-07:00

Bunnies. It Must Be Bunnies

I do not want to write about bunnies
I'd rather write about bacon sandwiches
Bacon sandwiches that gain sentience through a freak electrical storm
And rise up against their human oppressors and take over the world
But see their new bacon-based civilisation brought low by their own hubris
I'd like to write about that
But no, it must be bunnies

Even though I'd really rather write about tigers
Enormous tigers with enormous teeth
That stalk the jungle and pounce on unwary travellers
But long for something more than this savage existence
Tigers that secretly yearn for a career in musical theatre
But whose dreams are dashed because they can't dance on their hind legs
Or hit a high F
I'd like to write about tigers
But no, it must be bunnies

If I had my way it wouldn't be bunnies, it'd be pirates
Rollicking, roguish pirates
With a glint in their eyes and cutlass at the ready
You may plead for mercy from these pirates
But it will be no good
They will strike you down without remorse
Because these pirates aren't in it for the money
They just like hitting people with swords
I'd like to write many words about the joys of hitting people with swords
But dammit, it must be bunnies

I don't even care about bunnies - I care about spaceships
Big shiny spaceships full of adventurous spacemen
Who meet bizarre aliens, seduce their women, and then fly off with a jaunty wave
And a mocking laugh
At the stupid aliens who trusted them so stupidly
The spacemen I'd write about would be real dicks
But their ships would be gorgeous
And I'd love writing about how shiny and futuristicky they are
But I can't because it must be bunnies

So I'll write about bunnies

Bunnies
What the fuck is up with that?
Carrots?
Am I right?
Bunnies.
Word.

The End

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 27 Title Courtesy Of Emilie Collyer

2011-09-26T16:47:00.000-07:00

Brownlows and Bosoms

Brownlows are better than bosoms are better than brooches are better than bison are better than baccalaureates are better than bills are better than bullhorns are better than buns are better than beetles are better than bugs are better than bacteria are better than bastions.

But if Brownlows are better than bosoms are better than bangles why do bosoms seem better than banter is better than broccoli is better than biotechnology is better than Bavaria?

I'd rather have a Brownlow than a bosom but I'd rather have a bosom than botulism. But botulism is as botulism does and I'd rather have botulism than not have a Brownlow. But I don't have a Brownlow, a bosom or botulism, so what's a boy to do?

If bosoms are better than Brownlows are better than bracelets are better than bloodstains are better than buffalo wings are better than Bose stereos are better than books are better than Bulgarians are better than Brussels sprouts are better than blackbirds are better than blueberries are better than beef cheeks are better than bongs are better than bongos are better than banjos are better than Brazilians are better than butchers are better than bakers are better than bankers are better than builders are better than baffled reactions to bewildering badinage...where are the bosoms that are better?

A Brownlow in bronze may be better than the brassy bosoms that bountiful benefactors bestow upon the benighted bastards below, but if beauty is in the bosom of the beholder, who's beholding the Brownlows?

And if beauty is better than benevolence is better than baseball is better than basketball is better than Beethoven is better than Bach is better than Bradman is better than Brando is better than Bristow is better than Branwell Bronte is better than British India is better than Brother Andrew is better than Brendan Behan is better than Billy Bunter...

I'll take bosoms any day.

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 26 Title Courtesy Of @alliewonder

2011-09-26T04:28:00.000-07:00

Sisters

What is a sister?
Is it simply a woman with whom you share some DNA?
Is it just a girl you grow up with?
Is it a small amphibian dwelling in temperate zones throughout Europe and Asia?
It is all of these things and more, but not the last one

A sister is possibly the most precious thing you can have in life
Especially a sister made from diamonds and uranium
Just think about that for a moment
Think about your shiny radioactive robot sister
Imagine the fun you could have
Imagine the dreadful atrocities she would visit upon the local citizenry, at your command

Is this not what a sister is for, in the end?
Should not a sister be not only a friend and confidant, but also a public menace?
What's the point of a sister who cannot commit murder on a grand scale?
As useless, as my grandfather used to say, as tits on a marmoset
What was wrong with grandfather anyway?
Why did he drink so much paint?
Was it my sister's fault?
Probably

I have three sisters
And I have never felt so close to them as I do today
We don't see each other as much as we should
And we don't talk to each other as much as we should
And we don't know each other's names as much as we should
And we frequently tell each other we hate each other and want each other to die
But we have a bond that can't be broken
A bond of blood
Even though they are all adopted
Or at least that's what I tell them

A sister is a wonderful thing to have
So useful, so helpful in times of trouble
Wait
Not a sister
A trailer
A trailer is a wonderful thing to have
More useful than a sister anyway
You can barely fit anything into a sister
If you want my advice, get a trailer

I think the best kind of sister
Is the young, attractive, sexually liberated kind
Who is not your sister, but someone else's
Another good kind of sister
Is the kind who shoots chocolate out of her eye sockets
But let's face it

That's pretty rare

What have we learned about sisters?
Nothing - and isn't that just typical?
We never learn, we never progress, we never advance ourselves as a species
And hence we die, unenlightened and alone
Especially if we pissed off our sisters
So be nice to your sister
She may be all you have left after your wife leaves you and your parents die and you are excommunicated from your church because you sexually violated a porcupine during Mass
Be nice to your sister
And she will be nice to you
Or not - she might be a right bitch

But hey, what can you do

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 25 Title Courtesy Of @jeremysear

2011-09-24T23:29:00.000-07:00

THE LUCAS THING

It was in a theatre, dank and dusky
That I found him, sitting, sighing
A cigarette dangling from his dry, sad lips
Chuckling in the dark, blinking away tears
His smile sad and lonely, like a gunfighter remembering the last man he killed

And I sat next to him and I tried to talk
But he was in no mood
He looked at me with tired eyes
And shook his head, and shook the desert dust from his boots, and stood
And he walked away, but before he did, he handed me a rolled-up scroll, and shook my hand, and said three words

"I. Shot. First."

And he was gone
And I unrolled that scroll
And in that dank and dusky theatre, by the flickering light of the projector
I read what was written there
And tears sprang to mine as they had sprung to his
And what time was passing...I had no idea
And the scroll read like this:

OPEN: LONG-SHOT, LARS FAMILY HOMESTEAD

We see the farm of Owen Lars, in the early morning. Aunt BERU (Scarlett Johannson) steps out into the sunlight and begins doing her aerobics practice, while all around her run the beautiful bright green desert-elk of Tatooine.

ENTER LUKE SKYWALKER, the four-armed super-hulk of Tatooine.

LUKE
Hey Aunt Beru, what's shakin'?

BERU
Darth Vader is coming! I read it in my crystal ball!

She holds up her crystal ball, which speaks in a funky Negro voice.

CRYSTAL BALL
Sho' 'nuff!

LUKE
Oh yeah? We'll see what me and my faithful companion Dogbert von Woofilus have to say about that!

ENTER DOGBERT, a large cowardly dalmatian with a rocketpack

DOGBERT
Ruh-roh!

I was bawling, hardly able to see
But I had to keep going
I had to know just how the atrocity would end
I turned to a later page

INT. DEATH STAR

ENTER DARTH VADER, dancing to "I Got You (I Feel Good)" as it blares from the Death Star stereo system. He approaches GRAND MOFF TARKIN, a distinguished elderly man with an enormous parrot on one shoulder.

TARKIN
So we captured the princess, Lord Vader?

VADER
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

TARKIN
What?

VADER
Sorry, I mean, yes, we did.

TARKIN
Well we better get her to talk then.

VADER
Yes I will use the Force on her.

TARKIN
LOL! The Force! Epic fail! You can't use the Force, roflcopter!

VADER
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO why not?

TARKIN
Maybe I can explain it like this...

ENTER the MAX REBO BAND to accompany Tarkin's musical number.

TARKIN
When you're fighting against all those nasty rebels

MAX REBO BAND
(nasty rebels!

TARKIN
And you just can't decide the correct course
Take a tip from Grand Moff Tarkin
You may say I'm simply barkin'
But you must never ever ever use the Force!

MAX REBO BAND
(use the Force!)

TARKIN
If you're wondering just how to kill a Wookiee
That ugly beast as strong as a wild horse...

Gasping, sick at heart, I read on
Page after page, all the same
All horrors unimagined, nightmares springing from the paper
I wanted to hurl it away, to run outside, to scream, to have a chemical shower, to vomit on a passer-by
But I could not - I had to see this through to the bitter end
I turned the page

EXT. CAESAR'S PALACE, LAS VEGAS

VADER, JAR JAR BINKS and DANNY OCEAN lounge by the pool

JAR JAR BINKS
Yousa give meesa one millions dollarees for just-a one night with meesa Sith Lord?

VADER
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OK maybe I didn't have to finish.

SPECIAL Pobjie Poetry Month Day 24 Title Courtesy Of @becpobjie

2011-09-23T18:33:00.000-07:00

The Fresh Beat Band
(OR, a poem that people without children won't understand at all)

We've had a great day
It was a super way
To spend some time together
Particularly with Marina and run my fingers through her silky red hair and breathe shudderingly in her ear

We've had a great day
The very best day
And nothing could be better
Unless it was Marina, kissing my lips and running her fingers slowly down my spine

All the music we'll play
It's always a great day
And nothing could be better
Every time we get together
Every time WE get together Marina, tell those other losers to fuck off, I want you to myself oh Marina please God PLEASE

We'll sing and we'll play
We'll kick it our way
We'll hip-hop and pop
The music party won't stop
It won't stop, Marina, till you and I are together, writhing sweatily on top of your drum kit, Marina, show me your rhythm section!

We had a great day...

No. It was not a great day. For it was another day without Marina in my arms. It was another day without my ginger temptress singing sinful suggestions to me. It was another day feeling slightly guilty at how arousing children's television makes me...

We could have a great day, Marina. Take off those shorts.
Throw aside your drumsticks.
Tell Kiki, Twist and Shout to go shove their heads up their dickholes.
We could have a great day, Marina, me and you, it'll be a super way...To spend some time together...
We could make such beautiful music together...especially if we're miming to backing tracks...
We could have a great day...but you're so far away...and so ignorant of my existence...and my kids would probably freak out if they found you naked in my bed in the morning...but still...we could have a great day...

Failing that, Josie Jump from Balamory looks well up for it.

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 23 Title Courtesy Of @creativemercury

2011-09-22T18:19:00.000-07:00

Rugby World Cup

It's been so long
Let's walk
Down the street where I used to live
And back to the house that was mine
The World Cup's on
But let's not watch that
It'll only break our hearts

We can eat in the park where we had lunch that day
Chips from the cafe
Next to the video shop where we rented that movie
That day
We can go back to my house, and watch that movie again
But let's not watch the World Cup
It'll only break our hearts

Let's take a trip to the city
Over the bridge to the art gallery
Walking close as we can without touching
And laughing at the rushing crowds
And the senseless paintings that fashion has plucked
And I won't even check the scores
It'll only break our hearts

Let's get a drink before we go
And then we'll promise to do this again
We'll promise that as hard as we can
And we'll hug for just long enough
And you'll turn around, and so will I
And I'll go home and turn on my TV
Like the last time I said goodbye
And I'll watch whatever's on
But I won't
I won't
I won't watch the World Cup
It'll only break my heart

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 22 Title Courtesy Of @harrisonthefan

2011-09-22T03:56:00.001-07:00

The Joys Of Writing Employment

Writing is better than digging a ditch
Cos you don't need a shovel and you can just sit in your chair to do it
And digging ditches hurts your back

Writing is better than plumbing
Cos you don't need to know how to use a spanner to do it
And you don't need to do an apprenticeship

Writing is better than being in the army
Cos when you write you can just make up cool army stories without having to leave the house
And you don't have to get blown up by IEDs

Writing is better than motherhood
Because you get more sleep because books don't wake up and cry in the night
And you don't get sore nipples

Writing is better than being the Queen
Because you can check Facebook while you're doing it
And also the Queen is very very old

Writing is better than Nazism
Because people aren't so scared of you when they find out you're a writer
And most Nazis are dead now

Writing is better than being a barista
Because if you're a barista you're probably a complete wanker
Why don't you fuck off, baristas?

Writing is better than working at Hungry Jack's
Especially this total bitch I know at the Hungry Jack's near my place
Fuck her

Writing is better than selling Foxtel door to door
Fuck off you idiots I'm trying to have dinner for Christ's sake
Just fuck right off

Writing is better than being a complete knob
Like that guy
What a knob

Glad I'm a writer and not a fucking knob like him
Am I right?
Yeah
Knobs

Why Not Have A Night Out?

2011-09-21T21:06:00.000-07:00

At, for example, this

Everybody's Talkin' at the Fringe Club, 25th September, with me, First Dog on the Moon, Clementine Ford, Sophie Black, Geoff Lemon and Ben Eltham.

Or perhaps at this?

"Sad" at the Wheeler Centre, 26th September, with me, Andrew Robb, Nicole Highet and Noni Hazlehurst.

NONI. HAZLEHURST.

So those two are coming up, and both of them are absolutely FREE! Come along Sunday night and see me shooting the breeze with noted wits, and/or on Monday see me discussing things in perhaps a more serious vein. Both should be fun. Keep checking this blog for news on upcoming performances, there's more looming next month!

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 21 Title Courtesy Of @bethanykeats

2011-09-20T21:33:00.000-07:00

Platform 5

It was on Platform 5 that I first saw him
Just a bedraggled old man, standing alone
On Platform 5
I said to him, what are you doing here, old man?
And he said, I've been expecting you
I said really?
He said yes
I said how did you know I'd be here on Platform 5?
He said, I have a little robot in my head that can tell the future
I said WOW
He said I can give you what you're looking for
I said, chips?
He said no...you're looking for something deeper
And so I sat at his feet, and waited
He said, why are you sitting at my feet?
I said, so I can learn from you
He said well get up, people are looking at us
And so I got up, in awe at his powers of reason

And he said, what would you say, if I told you that of all the animals, the human is the stupidest, the most dull and useless?
I said I would say that sounds unlikely
And he said, really? Consider the chimpanzee. It does not need clothes to be happy, or a house, or a job, or food, or water
And suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, it hit me: he was RIGHT. And I resolved that from that day forward I would stop feeding my pet chimpanzee
I said tell me more

He said there is so MUCH I could tell you. Do you know the secret of the sands?
I said no
He said good, it's rubbish
And with that he waved his hand
And suddenly all around me, the sky and the ground and Platform 5
All seemed to disappear
I was struck with wonder and terror at the old man's powers
Until I realised I had my eyes shut
Opening them I saw that he was still waving his hand
Why are you doing that, I asked
He laughed a mocking laugh like this: ha ha!
And said, do not meddle in things beyond your understanding, foolish boy
And without warning, he hurled a golf ball high into the air
And it fell down
And hit me in the face
I warned you, he said

I thirst for wisdom, I rasped, I need you give me wisdom
And he bellowed, well then let me tell you this!
In all your life, no matter how low you sink and where the travails of modern life may guide you,
Remember ONE THING!
Yes, I said eagerly
REMEMBER, he shouted, the man is mother to himself
I exhaled slowly, and asked, what does that mean?
He laughed. What does it? Are you retarded, he said.
I nodded. I saw his point.

Will you be my guru, I said
He said, Is that a gay thing?
I said, not necessarily, but let's see where it takes us
He said, I'm not gay
I said OK
He said seriously I'm not
I said OK
He said if you SOMETIMES like making out with boys it doesn't make you gay
I said OK
He said anyway, would you like some more wisdom?

He said far away over the horizon lies a mountain
And on that mountain lives an eagle.
And from this eagle an egg was laid.
And in this egg were contained all the woes of the world
And when that egg was poached, they were released
And it was delicious
He stared into the distance for several hours, then sighed

Bravo! I cried, applauding frantically
You have opened my eyes, I said, demonstrating with toothpicks
I won't go blundering through life anymore, blind as a bat, deaf as a snake, lactose-intolerant as a tree kangaroo. From now on, I am an Enlightened Man
And at that the old man laughed
And he laughed
And he laughed
And then he stopped

And it was then I felt warm hands reaching inside my waistband
And I said no, no, not here
Not like this
And so we went to dinner at a small noodle bar
And we made love like gods bringing thunder down upon the earth from inside a disabled toilet cubicle
And I never saw him again

Later that week I found out
That that station HAS NO PLATFORM FIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I mean...dude.

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 20 Title Courtesy Of @Dom_Innate

2011-09-20T02:53:00.000-07:00

Rotundas

Please come and we can meet between the rotundas where the grass is green and the sky is blue except when it's not and let's talk about our feelings I have some and you have some too I didn't quite catch what they are but as long as you have some and I have some too that's what's important and maybe between the rotundas we can play a game something with words or maybe with our hands and it won't matter who wins but I will but it won't matter and maybe between the rotundas we can kiss and cuddle and maybe between the rotundas my hand will climb up your back inside your shirt and I'll feel your skin and you won't mind because that's what people do between the rotundas and maybe the sun will be shining or maybe it will be night-time between the rotundas and maybe the sun will shine like a ball of fire or maybe the moon will smile like Moonface from the Faraway Tree I don't know what he was some kind of moon-man or something but maybe the rotundas are a world at the top of the tree that will pass away quickly so we have to be quick to meet between the rotundas and be very quiet so nobody comes to look for us nobody sees and nobody hears and the world moves on and we can stay here forever between the rotundas and I'll kiss you again and maybe you'll like it or at least you'll pretend to and between the rotundas we'll lay down on the grass and it'll be wet and our pants will get dirty but it won't matter because your fingers will be running behind my ear and then we will close our eyes but not for long because we'd rather see each other and maybe between the rotundas we'll be able to pretend for just a minute or two that we're not between the rotundas but we're in space spinning between comets and glancing off stars and we'll be very very cold but that's the way we'll like it that's the way we'll like it kissing that's the way we'll like it between the rotundas my hand your fingers my ear kissing like it fire moon between the rotundas at the top of the tree we'll kiss and between you and me will be

nothing

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 19 Title Courtesy Of @rachmw

2011-09-19T01:24:00.000-07:00

Unutterable Words

All these things
I can't say
What I was thinking when you
How I felt when you
What I wanted you to
But let's have another drink
I'll tell you about my job and you can look interested
And we'll be OK

All these things
You don't know
The times I almost called you
The words I almost wrote
The truths I almost told
So let's have another drink
And you can tell me about your mother and I'll smile
And we'll be OK

These things
That hover over our heads
The look that meant
The sigh that said
The touch that was...accidental
But let's have another drink
And we can talk about the weather and the paintings on the wall
And we'll be OK

We'll be OK
The things
That we can't say
Those things
That we can't hear
Will still be here
Tomorrow
But right now I need another drink
Right now I just can't say
But we'll be OK

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 18 Title Courtesy of @quac_quao

2011-09-18T02:46:00.000-07:00

Giant Celery

You told me a story
About a celery stalk that wanted to grow up
I told you a story
About a puppet who wished he was a real boy
And you told me a story
About a bottle of water who regretted not being orange juice
So I told you a story
About a lion who couldn't roar
And you told me a story
About a guitar with no strings
And we told each other a story
About a house with nobody in it
And a room without a bed
And a kitchen, that no one ever cooked in

And we looked at each other
And we looked at ourselves
And I kissed you
But I don't remember what it felt like
And you kissed me
But I don't remember what you looked like
And you told me the story about the celery
And I said stop
I've heard this one before
And I looked at myself

But when I looked up again
You weren't

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 17 Title Courtesy Of @goodalltwoshoes

2011-09-16T22:13:00.000-07:00

Bacon
(OR The Food That Fought Back)

Slice me up and sizzle me and serve me to your friends
I won't let you get me down
I won't let you break me down
Cos you can eat me
But you can't beat me
I'm the bacon that's takin' no shit from anyone

I can still remember sitting on that pig's back
Minding my own business
Tending to my own affairs
Till someone whacked me
Someone hacked me
I was hacked from the back I'd always called home

And that's the day I decided things had to change
No more Mr Nice Rasher
No more meek meat from me
No matter how you fry me
No matter how you try me
I'll stick it to the man and I'll stick to the pan and I'll show you what I've got

(guitar solo)

And you might say
Hey
Bacon why?
And all I say
Is hey
If you'd been through what I'd been through you wouldn't ask that question man I've seen things you can't even imagine I've been to hell and back and you think you can break my spirit just by wrapping me around a chicken breast and sticking a toothpick in me and then eating and digesting me?
And you might say
Hey
Never thought of it that way

So slice me up and sizzle me and stick me on your burger
I won't let you rule my life
I won't let you be the boss of me
No more time for talk
I'm no common loin of pork
I'm bacon, and I'm takin' the high road, and nobody'll stand in my way

(guitar solo fade-out)

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 16 Title Courtesy Of @caddalina

2011-09-16T03:40:00.000-07:00

The Insecurities Of Ben Never Choosing Your Topic For His Daily Poem

If by chance today
I should fail to choose you
To select the theme for my next poem

Don't despair
It doesn't mean you'll always be a failure
It just means you're a failure today

If you did your best
To think of a great topic
That would make for a poem of rare beauty and insight

Don't get upset
Just because I completely ignored you
I'm sure there's someone who'd like to pay attention to whatever you're talking about

If you've been trying
To catch my eye and win my approval
So that perhaps I will deign to speak to you, and who knows? One day maybe become your friend

I want you to promise me
You won't cry yourself to sleep at night
Because of the powerful signals I'm sending that I don't like you

Believe me
I don't mean anything by it
I'm not ignoring you because I hate you - there is no causal connection

If you're worrying
That I might find you uninteresting
And that you're a sad excuse for a human being

Don't worry
It's entirely within the realm of possibility
That I don't think that at all and there's some other reason

Just because I don't talk to you
Doesn't mean I think you're a moron
Or that I think you have a stupid voice, or you're ugly, or really really fat

I can't deny
All these things MIGHT be true
But don't leap to conclusions, that'd just PROVE you're stupid

I can't choose
Everyone's subjects to write a poem about
I can only choose one a day, and it's agonising

And if I choose
The smarter, prettier, more interesting people every day
Maybe that's just a coincidence, or maybe it's just my good taste

But don't let it get you down
There's always tomorrow, and you can try again
And maybe then all the good people will be used up and the only others trying will be even worse than you

So cheer up
I don't want you to feel insecure
About your complete and utter failure to cause me to take the slighest bit of interest in anything you have to say or do

If anything
You should be feeling insecure
About that butt-ugly shirt you're wearing

So chin up

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 15 Title Courtesy of @shellity

2011-09-14T21:45:00.000-07:00

Electricity

The sparks from your fingers
Crackling blue, fizz-full of you
Short-fuse the gloom and light up this room
For a moment we spark together
And if we then pull apart
And go down our own roads
We know we'll come back in the soft velvet black
And light up the room
Cos it's never goodbye
Just a break to recharge
Till you bring back the sparks
The lightning that shimmies when your hands reach for mine

The flow and the charge
Current sticking hairs on end
A heart-starting jolt and a blazing field of electromagnetic attraction
And defiance of science is getting us nowhere
We've got to give in to this voltage within
That mundane magic of switches
That lights up the houses and lights up our faces
When we turn each other on

I'll keep myself earthed
Though it's hard to keep feet on the ground
When I hear that crackling sound
When I see those sparks flying
From your fingers in the night, the exploding white-bright
The lightning that shimmies when your hands reach for mine

The Seduction of Sadness.

2011-09-14T06:18:00.000-07:00

I was reading this by Helen Razer because Helen Razer's work is always worth reading - it's intelligent, often insightful, often funny, and she has the admirable quality of not venturing to pass comment on things she doesn't know something about. And on this subject she says a lot that's worth pondering. This post isn't really about her post though - it just got me thinking.

I've often thought, am I really sick? Am I maybe just "sad"? I don't think so - my sadness seems too...out of the blue, the lows too terrifying and random. But who knows? Maybe I'm just wallowing. All I know is I'm sad a lot, that therapy and medication seem to help, and that so, on occasion, does a bit of tea and sympathy from nice people.

But whatever label can be placed upon my demons, what I'm always fiercely trying to avoid is the temptation to use it as an excuse. For the simple reason that I've been depressed, I've been in the blackest of holes, but I've never lost control of my ability to decide how to treat other people. I've never been a jerk "because of depression". Sometimes depression can make it a little harder to behave the way your better angels tell you to, but when I'm a jerk, it's because...well it's because sometimes I'm a jerk. I hate that. I wish I wasn't. It kills me, but I can't deny it, sometimes I'm just not a good guy, as much as I aspire to be.

Recently I lost a friend. Not in the fatal sense - in the sense that I was a jerk, and my friend decided she didn't want to be my friend anymore. I wasn't a deliberate jerk: I was just thoughtless and self-absorbed; but I hurt her, and she exercised her prerogative to cut me out of her life.

I don't even know if I can convey how much that hurt. It still hurts. It's ripping through me, leaving great gaping wounds in me every day, that she's not my friend, that I let her down, that I've lost her. I don't want to lose any of the people I love. And most of all I don't want to let the people I love down - it hurts all the more to lose a friend through your own stupidity, to know it's your fault. It's horrific. It is, let us say it, DEPRESSING. I'm shattered.

I've gone close to losing other people I love recently. I've acted terribly, I've let those demons get the best of me, I've lashed out and fought and fled and given people ample reason to kick me to the kerb. I'm lucky they haven't.

And yeah, it's been tied in to my mental state, the fight I'm having with my own psyche, my own brain chemistry. It makes it hard sometimes. But it's still me who's done it, me who's disregarded friends, lashed out at family, mistreated my loved ones. It's me who's fallen prey to the seduction of sadness, the self-absorption that beckons when you're depressed, or even just sad. I let that happen, and on occasion I found myself too weak to resist.

In the end, sometimes I'm a jerk. It's nobody's fault but mine. And I know that. And I'm sorry. I'm always trying to be a better man. Trying and failing, but hopefully failing a little less each time. I am sorry if you're reading this, and I've been a jerk to you. I don't ever mean to be, but fact is sometimes I am, and I've got to wear my mistakes. I'll keep trying.

Fighting against depression is also fighting against your lesser nature. I'm tired, and I would like to stop fighting. But I won't.

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 14 Title Courtesy Of @kedgie

2011-09-13T22:24:00.000-07:00

Smurf Love

Let me show you smurf love
Let's do it till our faces turn blue
Let me find your secret village
And smurf your smurf till you smurf
And, you know, etc.

Let me show you smurf love
The kind of love that is small, but industrious
The kind of love that you get
When there's 99 men for every woman

Let me show you smurf love
It's a love that's best expressed after-school
It's a love that makes you laugh
It's a love that 20 years later makes you wonder what the hell you were thinking

Let me SHOW YOU SMURF LOVE
The love that wears a jaunty hat
The love that works together for the common good
Let me show you the love that is clearly a metaphor for communism
Baby

Let me show you
Smurf
Love
A sort of high-pitched, aggravating love
It smells like mushrooms
And is fairly poorly animated

Let me show your smurf love smurf love smurf love
The love with that Belgian twist
The love that runs free in the forest
The love that ends when one of us is kidnapped and eaten by a giant wizard
If you know what I mean

Let me show you smurf love
The love that speaks across...
Across...
Um...

OK look I guess what I'm saying is let's fuck in my van

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 13 Title Courtesy of @AlexinaRose

2011-09-12T19:29:00.000-07:00

Tony Abbott's Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat
(OR, A Trip Through The Tunnel Of Love)
(OR, A Psychedelic Manifesto)
(OR, The Adventures of Andrew, Ultra-Deacon)

I just can't stop myself singing
As I stand here before you, my beloved people
Your upturned faces shining like stars in the night sky
With hope, freedom and competence writ large across each one
I can't stop myself singing at the thought
Of the beautiful future I've come here to show you
Of the shimmering, glistening world we will live in
Now I am here

Let me now spread my arms wide and fold you in my loving Liberal embrace
Let me envelop you in the coruscating creases
Of my coat of many colours
With sleeves woven from democracy
Lapels crafted from truth
Pockets deep, the better to hold all your dreams
And throughout it is stitched together with finest economic discipline
Because folks, coats of many colours do not come cheap

As I look down upon you all, decent, hard-working creatures that you are
I am filled with love and affection
And I can't stop myself singing
Of the wonders I will show you
Of the happiness you will know
Of the security you will experience
I can't stop myself singing
About my coat and the magic it contains in every seam

And know, my people, my children, my beloved fluffy little electorate-bunnies
That no matter what happens, I will never, ever lie to you about how much I love this coat
No matter what happens, I will never abandon this coat
Whatever tragedies come to pass, me and this coat are in it for the long haul
That's why I sing to you today
Of this coat, and the boon it will be to our manufacturing industry
The advantages the coat will bring to our steel sector
The ability of the coat to reduce asylum seekers to a fine powder on sight
I cannot stop singing, my people, because now I am wearing this coat
Everything will be All Right

Once life was bleak
And cold
And involved no coats of many colours
My predecessor
She wore
A coat of one colour
And that colour was Evil
And that's why
I came to you
All those months ago
And said
Let me don my coat of many colours!
And I promise
You will feel
Like sunshine on your backs
And burgers in your bellies
And a skilled tongue between your thighs

And now I am wearing this coat I shall be that tongue
And I shall skilfully bring this nation to climax
And the lubrication I bring to our fiscal position
Will allow for penetration into markets as yet undreamed of!
Did you know a man in a coat could be so sexy?
He can
I am naked under this coat
And I am tumescent for your vote
Look closer
I've been working out

And I can't stop singing
And I can't stop cutting taxes
And I can't stop holding the government accountable
And I can't stop riding my bike
And I can't stop oiling my toned, muscular thighs
And I can't stop singing
And I can't stop wearing this coat
This coat of many colours
That is my gift to you
"Gift" in the sense of "thing I am keeping for myself"
And I can't stop singing
And I can't stop listening to mums and dads
And I can't stop easing cost of living pressures
And I can't stop getting tough on things
AND I CAN'T STOP SINGING

THIS IS MY COAT OF MANY COLOURS AND YOU WILL RAISE YOUR HANDS TO ME
FOR I CARE
AND I AM HERE FOR YOU
KEEP WATCHING THE COAT

...

UNGH

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 12 Title Courtesy of @CeadaoinsChild (on her birthday)

2011-09-12T00:41:00.000-07:00

Porn Goblins

While I slept and kept my dreaming
To the bliss-kissed realm of seeming
Toss'd and lost beneath the gleaming
Moon beyond the window's eye

Down night's chimney came a-creeping
Under doorways came a-seeping
To annoy my joyous sleeping
Porn Goblins from the sky!

"Wake up!" And shaking rudely
My tired shoulders they did crudely
Whoop and hoop and caper nudely
And bring me magazines

Aged and sticky pages fluttered
In the candlelight that guttered
And I read "Hot schoolgirls - buttered"
And beheld repellent scenes

I screamed and screamed at goblins thrusting
Pics of loose-juiced ladies lusting
My pants filling near to busting
And my virtue under threat

"Please no more!" I panted weakly
In a haze and gazing meekly
At the latest "Fringed Minge Weekly"
And "Aliens From Planet Wet"

The goblins grinned and cackled slyly
And with looks both mad and wily
Ignored my pleas as I begged shyly
And produced the DVDs

I knew their plan, began despairing
And by now almost past caring
I could do nothing but start staring
At girls wrestling in cheese

All night I sat, horror abounding
At the grunts and moans resounding
And the ceaseless sweaty pounding
Till the sun rose in the sky

And with dawn streaming in brightly
The goblins, their dark nightly
Business done, leapt quick and spritely
Window-wards with no goodbye

And I lay there, spent and weary
And looked around me at the dreary
Walls, with eyeballs sad and bleary
And wished I had never been born

For I realised, now I'd seen them
And so secret, wished I'd been them
On the screen, I'd not un-screen them
Up until my dying breath

The porn goblins had my soul now
Took my soul in every hole now
And it could only be my goal now
To molest myself to death

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 11 Title Courtesy of @Ultrahedonist

2011-09-10T19:42:00.000-07:00

The Night

Lately it seems
I can't stop thinking about exit wounds
Running fingers around the ragged edges of flesh in my mind
Looking out in the dark
To see who fired that shot
Lately it seems

When the stars are so close
You can hear them breathe and draw blood from your fingertips
Reaching out to touch them
When the air weighs on your chest
Like Salem's stones
And your thoughts cast jealous glares
In your direction
Demanding you spend some time

I thought of you as I slept
Though I didn't know who you were
But I saw you and I touched you and you turned and melted to the floor
And I knelt in you
And I thought of you
And I marched to slay wakefulness
And I failed

Lately it seems
I can't stop wondering whose dream I'm in
And if they'll remember me in the morning
Will I catch on the cobwebs of their brain
Or drift into the night with the dust the mind expels

Tomorrow I'll be dull and weary
Head drooping to my chest as buzzing conversation ruffles my hair
For I'll have just come
From eight hours of ceiling-stares
And body-rolls
Running through each romantic gesture
That I'll regret not making on the day I die
Kicking over each powdery trace
Of what I didn't do yesterday
And tomorrow I'll be dull and snap and growl
And throttle myself to stay alive
And tomorrow I'll lie down again
To stare and blink and feel the breath of the stars
And search again for who fired the shot

There's a grey sky outside
And a song on the tides
And lately it seems
I can't stop thinking about myself

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 10 Title Courtesy of @geofflemon

2011-09-09T21:24:00.000-07:00

Nikki Webster

It's hard to write a poem about Nikki Webster
So hard to know what tone to strike
While redheaded visions dance and stream in my head
And I ponder the meaning of beauty, of love, of magic

How do I write about this girl who was famous for a bit and then wasn't?
And then was for a bit more I think?
How do I capture the essence of Nikki?
Assuming she has one?

Do I consider the fleeting nature
Of childhood when caught in a spotlight?
Of an innocence robbed by flashbulbs
Youth corrupted by fame and destroyed by the cruel focus
Of that ever-ravening eye called Celebrity?
Do I mourn for the girl who once was
Who we loved even as we tore to shreds
And whose sad eyes would later gaze
From magazine stands
A smile on the lips, but a desperate plea
Reaching out to cry
"Remember who I was"
Do I do this?

No

Do I slyly eviscerate the girl
Who represented all that is tacky and twee
About the road our modern culture remorselessly drives us down?
Should I sarcastically document the grating voice
The imbecilic gestures
The repellent faux wholesomeness?
Should I pen a poem entitled, "Nikki Webster, Particle Physicist"
In order to highlight the comical juxtaposition
Between the brain-numbing symptom of societal malaise
That her rise to fame embodies
And the idea that she could ever achieve anything
That required an adult-level intelligence?
Should I?

No

Should I be wistful and yearning and write
Where are you now, Nikki Webster?
Where is the infectious smile that allowed us
For a brief while
To shrug off our cynicism and rejoice in the good the world has to offer?
Where are the freckles that sprinkled our TV screens
Like stars in a clearer night sky?
Where are you Nikki?
Your people need you more than ever
Should I write this?

No

Should I be absolutely disgusting and write a poem
About what I would do to Nikki Webster
In a sexual manner?
Should I make references crude to a nude decathlon
And explain how ceremonial her opening would be?
Should I write of how I've been missin' her Strawberry Kisses
From those lips that remind me of a Dyson Bagless?
Should my poem be entitled, "Nikki Webster, Human Nosebag"?
Should it?

No

Could I write a poem about things that rhyme with Nikki, like
Nikki you are tricky when you're sticky it's kinda dicky how you take the mickey out of Kenickie?
Could I?

No

I cannot with clear conscience do any of these things
With honesty and integrity intact I cannot
So what do I do?

Do I write a poem about how Nikki Webster was rebuilt by scientists after being mauled by a bear and now fights moon-pirates in the 28th century?

Yes
I think I do

Run. Don't look back.

2011-09-09T16:30:00.000-07:00

Remember this post?

Felix Scerri, Patriot, does. For over a year he's been stewing on the subject, and finally he could no longer restrain himself, so he emailed me an update on the situation:

G'day mate, if you ever listen to the news services, now do you think that there really isn't a deliberate Islamic invasion of Australia taking place? Yes there is. Welcome to the Islamic Republic of Australia! That's the plan! Any Muslim jokes? Regards, Felix Scerri in Ingham.

As I flee my burning home, scimitars slashing at my throat, I am haunted by the regret: WHY DIDN'T I LISTEN TO THE NEWS SERVICES????

The below photo is now the official logo for this blog.

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 9 Title Courtesy of Catherine Manning

2011-09-08T18:48:00.000-07:00

A Wedding In Pak

How to navigate the choppy seas
Of a modern relationship
How to process the incongruous sight
Of a bride all in white
Yet wearing a 16th century Venetian plague mask and holding a crossbow

We ask ourselves why?

There are no easy answers
People may SAY there are easy answers
Answers like, "Yes" or "No" or "Well obviously" or "In the bottom drawer" or "As long as you thrust gently"
But in fact there are no easy answers
Answers are always difficult
And whether they are difficult because of religion, because of culture, or because of a cleft palate
Makes no difference
Not a skerrick

Why is the bride wearing a plague mask?
Perhaps it is the groom's fetish
Perhaps she is a time traveller
Perhaps she not wearing a plague mask and you merely have a tiny plague mask-shaped speck of dust in your eye blocking your view of her face
All of these are possible, but is it not more likely that the mask represents ambiguity?

After all, whoever you marry, your relationship will never be clear-cut
There are complications associated with marriage as surely as there are lice associated with your children's revolting little heads
How many women have married the man of their dreams, only to find out on their wedding night
That he is not the man they thought he was, but is instead a large swarm of bees
Forming themselves into humanoid shape?
I have no official statistics, but I bet this happens a LOT

You may be married in Pakenham, under the watchful eye of Brown Eric, the wise elder of the local cow tribe
Or you may be married in Pakistan, swearing your oath of fidelity on the sacred erection of Imran Khan
But either way it is true what Stalin said:
Marriage is hard work

Take that as you will
It is open to interpretation
It could mean, "Marriage is full of back-breaking physical labour and carrying bags of cement and things"
It could mean, "Marriage will give you a hernia"
It could mean, "Marriage is like riding a donkey up a sand dune"
There is no right or wrong, except for that last one

Marriage is nothing like that

Marriage is about love
Not the love of a man for a fine gram of high-grade heroin
Nor the love of a woman for racist violence
More like the love of a man for his pet ferret
Or the love of a woman for a book about mushrooms
Those are closer approximations to what marriage is all about

And so, when you stand before the world, and before God, and scream to the heavens, "I LOVE THIS MAN, OK? BACK THE FUCK OFF?"
In a somewhat idiosyncratic adaptation of the traditional wedding vows
Just remember: love; hard work; complexity; thick, delicious creamed honey
Keep these things in mind, and no doubt your marriage shall be a happy one

And the crossbow was probably for, like, foxes or something

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 8 Title Courtesy Of @spacekidette

2011-09-07T19:13:00.001-07:00

The Beauty of Truth

I never saw a truth I liked the look of
Driving through midnight orange fog pocket-change rattling
To find a way to pass the time that threatened to bring reality with it
Sitting on kerbs we avoided each other's eyes
Laughed as loud as we could to drown out whatever we knew about ourselves
And kept driving in circles
Like we thought the truth would give up if it got dizzy enough
Dropping in to wink at graveyard shift checkout chicks
As if we had a plan for the night that would end anywhere
But heavy eyes and loneliness
Lounging on pillars in dirty white malls
Smirking at the bad hair days slithering past and the skirts that promised more than they delivered
And snapping lips to show
Our higher form of being
That didn't need their blissful ignorance
Our jokes told us we were going somewhere
So we happily believed them
And beneath the bulldog clouds heaving quiet breath in the airless night
We turned our eyes from truth
Because its stare will turn you to stone
And when Saturday night's an echo and freedom falls to the winds
We'll know truth
As it squats, fat and deformed, before us, and demands entry to our hearts
And we'll welcome it at last
When we see we're out of options
When we reach out for the thousandth time in throat-stopped hope
And for the thousandth time clutch at thin air
Then truth we'll face, and truth we'll seek
As the last thing on earth we wanted
And the last thing on earth we have left

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 7 Title Courtesy Of @mrgrumpystephen

2011-09-06T21:53:00.000-07:00

Reverse Puberty

If I may propose
A fun new game
To pass the time a little
While you grow up
I will grow down
And meet you in the middle

As you assume
The trappings of
Mature and sober living
I shall debauch
And trust to your
Talent for forgiving

While I devolve
Into the boy
I Never got to be
The girl I knew
Will fade away
And not remember me

You'll learn to live
With all the pain
That comes with getting older
While I shrug off
The heavy cares
Now weighing on my shoulder

You'll grow and learn
Of life and love
And how to handle sorrow
And I will smile
As I forget
Those things I'd rather not know

We'll have some fun
For a brief time
The joy of intersections
Then happily
We'll say goodbye
And head in our own directions

For you can't keep
These childish ways
Your heart is made for flying
And I can't face
Another day
Drawing closer to dying

So let's diverge
On time's wide track
All we need is some persistence
You growing up
Me growing down
Unto sweet non-existence

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 6 Title Courtesy of @definatalie

2011-09-05T20:25:00.000-07:00

My Dog

Sitting under the pillows
Keeping an eye out
The perplexity of the silent watcher
Wells in her eyes

There's nothing comprehensible
About the giants in her midst
Nothing can be deduced
From two-legged scurries

As the long legs stalk by
On their way to meaningless activity
Changing colours and shapes to greet each day
As faces stoop to stare at silent eyes

The blur of existence threatens to resolve
But falls again into chaos
And huddled beneath the pillows
She tries once more, and once more

But giants clatter and giants shout
And light and dark duel
With disregard for time
And soft hands and tight embraces rise and fall

And what she knows will stay locked
And what we know will flow as an un-catchable stream
And she sees us and we see her
And how we know each other

We will never tell

Pobjie Poetry Month Day Five Title Courtesy of @yellekau

2011-09-04T19:38:00.000-07:00

The Character Of Australian Cities

Sydney, you glitzy dame, the sequins dripping from your millionaire's dress
Too expensive for the downtrodden likes of me
But perhaps, I can beg a minute of your time?
To pass a moment in the sheen of your glamour

Melbourne, you intense, dark-eyed beauty, hair over one eye
Arguing with me just for fun, defensive and haughty
Yet with a fire that I cannot turn away from
I need to drink one more coffee and play footsie with you under the table

Brisbane, you sunny fresh-faced nature-child, daisies in your hair
A waterfall in your voice, music in your head
I'll dance with you but never could I hope
To hold you to myself, especially with this humidity

Perth, you...nice...lady. On the west coast
You have iron ore mines or something maybe?
So I guess you're a bit like...a woman...who works in a mine
Oh and lives by the sea, so you know, salt and sand and things

Canberra, you government official
You drive round and round in circles
Cos that's what Canberra's like, am I right?
Maybe we could go to the War Memorial

Hobart, you Tasmanian city
You're in Tasmania, and I can't resist the charms
Of your Tasmanian-ness
You're so Tasmanian and you're in Tasmania

Darwin, you suntanned Amazon
You stand proud in a sweltering land
Strong and brave and self-sufficient and wearing a bikini probably
And with only one arm because a crocodile bit the other one off

Wagga Wagga
Huh, funny name
Yeah. You're out in the country
Cows

Also there's Adelaide

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 4 Title Courtesy Of @jothornely

2011-09-04T01:36:00.000-07:00

How To Get Rid Of Cheezel Finer-Residue

Lately I've been thinking
Of the way you get the orange
Off your fingers

I've been thinking of your mouth
Sucking the residue off
Leaving fingers lip-sticky

I've been thinking of your tongue
Cleaning your fingers
Smacking your lips

I've been thinking of you
Rubbing your hands on your thighs
And the fine golden powder left on your jeans

Lately I've been thinking
About your fingers rubbing themselves
Together, slick and smooth

I've been thinking about you
Wiping your hands on my shirt
Leaving your cheezy mark

I've been thinking about your fingers
Gathering the broken rings
At the bottom of the bag

I've been thinking of the way
You wear them on your hand
Five golden rings

Lately I've been thinking about you
Drawing each brittle circle
Off each finger, into your mouth

I've been thinking of a bowl
On a coffee table
And reaching for it at the same time

Lately I've been thinking
Of the way you get the orange
Off your fingers

Pobjie Poetry Month Day 3 Title Courtesy Of @b454n7

2011-09-02T19:34:00.000-07:00

Our New PM

Our new PM will be a man's man
Or a woman's woman
Or a woman's man
Or a man's woman
But whichever our way our new PM swings, our new PM will bring lots of the greatest things

Like freedom, justice, truth, and freedom again
Like wonder, joy, and absence of pain
Like peace and love and a rhyming quatrain
Cheaper groceries and a high-speed train

Our new PM may come from anywhere at all
North, South, East, West, or an as-yet undiscovered direction I call "hampwards"
And when he or she or it wanders out of the hampwards mists, hat tilted rakishly over one eyes, six-guns blazing
We will know that now
Finally
We have found our new PM

For our new PM will be strong
And brave
And honest
And loving
And decisive without losing the softness of femininity

Our new PM will turn this ship around
In a figurative sense
And also in a literal sense in that if you have a ship
Our new PM will turn it around
FOR FREE
And thus climate change will be slain

Our new PM will have arms of wrought-iron
Eyes of steel
Teeth of diamond
Huge, curved claws ideal for disembowelling large mammals and reptiles that form its core diet
Let us see the bloated bureaucracy combat THAT

Our new PM could be a military man
Preaching the way of the gun
Bayoneting corruption and shelling injustice

Our new PM could be a businessman
Reducing our problems to cold hard figures
Balancing our books and invigorating our production pipelines

Our new PM could be a really fat guy
Eating cake and stuff
And like, not getting much exercise

Our new PM could be a stripper
Which'd be awesome
Because boobs

But I think our new PM will be a rock star
And not just any rock star
I think our new PM will be Peter Cetera
Yeah, you say it's a longshot now
But who's looking like an idiot when The Glory Of love booms over parliament's lawns?
Almost everybody but especially YOU

Or perhaps our new PM will be an astronaut
Taking our nation beyond the moon and past the stars
Where we will all eat a bland fish paste forever

But the important thing is
Whoever our new PM turns out to be
Our country will finally have a leader to be proud of

A man's man
A woman's woman
A woman's man
Or a baby's dachsund

May their reign be long
Their will be strong
Their opinions not wrong
Unlike Penny bloody Wong

Pobjie Poetry Month Day Two Title Courtesy Of @simonnix

2011-09-02T01:56:00.000-07:00

Jackalopes

If I told you I wanted to take you away
And see you run with the jackalopes
Would you think I was mad?
Would you throw back your pretty head and cry, "Goodness what a suggestion!" with the sort of mocking laugh that has always cut me to the core like a flensing knife scything through a minke whale?
WOULD YOU?

Or would you think that it was the most romantic thing you'd ever heard?
Would you take me in your dimpled arms and cry, "YES! Let us go, my love, you and I, to the place where the jackalopes roam, and let us realise our true natures"?

WOULD YOU?

Where the jackalopes run there is no pain, there is no grief, there are no complex financial instruments
Because jackalopes long ago discovered the truth about life:
That life is love, and love is life, and together they form a sort of agglomerated concept known as life-love, or lofe for short
We too can known lofe
If we only go to the land of the jackalopes, and run

Just run, naked and free, happy and wild, face to the wind, bellies to the skies, buttocks to the sun
No longer restrained by bourgeois society
Now made free by jackalope society
We shall finally LIVE!

Can you picture it?
Sitting by the jackalope fire
Singing jackalope songs
Eating jackalope biscuits
Engaging in traditional jackalope erotic tea ceremonies
Playing jackalope scrabble
It could be us, my lofe
It could be us

If you will just say yes
If you will drop what you're doing and join me on this jackalope odyssey
Do not call me mad
Simply because I wish to find a better mode of existence
Do not call me insane
Merely due to my longing for a higher state of being
Do not call me bat-fucking crazy
Just because I once bit off a nun's lips
Just call me your man
And take my hand
And put my hand in your shirt
And move it around a bit

And then we shall truly be jackalope-folk
And happiness may begin

It will all become clear, my lofe
When we run with the jackalopes
It will all become clear

Or if it is more convenient
We could duck into the handicapped toilets and do it in there.

Pobjie Poetry Month Day One Title courtesy of @Dom_Innate

2011-08-31T21:44:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-30T20:46:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-24T05:37:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-19T21:06:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-17T20:13:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-16T20:36:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-14T18:02:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-09T18:53:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-09T04:40:00.000-07:00

Why not come on down and laugh your emissions off?

Who Likes Beauty?

2011-08-04T20:45:00.000-07:00

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.

ENTER NOW!

2011-07-31T22:47:00.000-07:00

You probably know that Masterchef - or as it is known in my world, #masterchef - has entered "Finals Week", the week when we get down to the nitty-gritty, come to the crunch, and are struck about the head and shoulders by the rubber on its way through to the road.

For a poignant description of the opening of Finals Week, check out my Sunday night recap here.

But in addition to that piece of - yes, no false modesty here - genius, I am also celebrating Finals Week with a COMPETITION!

A competition I tried to run before, but nobody entered so it didn't really work out. Hopefully it will work out this time.

The competition revolves around my sort-of-a-hit book, Superchef!

Specifically, it revolves around the recipes contained in the book: recipes like Myst's Apple and Cabbage Puree; Esther's Stress Water; Steve's Cyanide Noisettes; Tenielle's Suburban Parma, and many more.

What I want YOU, my faithful readers, to do is:

1. Choose a recipe from the book.

2. Make that recipe.

3. Take a photo of the results.

4. Send that photo to pobjie.ben@gmail.com

All photos sent in will be published on this very blog, and the BEST efforts - as judged by an expert panel comprising me, my wife, my son and maybe my friend Cam - will receive a very special prize: a SIGNED COPY of my anthology Handy Latin Phrases, known among "fans" who I just made up as "the Pobjie bootlegs".

This early opus of mine contains such works as "The Black Cat", "The Man Who Looked Like a Fish From Certain Angles", and "Franz Kafka, Grocery Boy", and is a rarity in Me-lore.

So there is the contest, and it is just waiting for you eager beavers to get in the kitchen and start entering. Here is an example of the sort of thing you might submit, a beautiful example of Tenielle's Suburban Parma:

So what are you waiting for? Get cooking, and you are in with a chance of not only fabulous prizes, but GLORY!

WEEKEND HOROSCOPES! 30/7/11

2011-07-29T20:00:00.000-07:00

ARIES: You are feeling uncertain and nervous about a major decision you have to make soon. It is time to relax: you are actually hallucinating about this major decision; it doesn't exist. In fact you've been locked in the same room for the last eighteen years. Chill out.

TAURUS: Your impetuous nature often gets you into trouble, and this week will be no exception, as you will find yourself killing between six and eight innocent people. You should probably organise an escape route now.

GEMINI: It's appropriate that you sign is "the twins". This week you will mostly have people stare at your breasts a lot.

CANCER: You are an enormous failure. If the phone rings, don't answer it. It's your mother calling to tell you she hates you.

LEO: You've forgotten where you parked your car. It's on the blue level, row 8. Also, one of your close friends is poisoning you. Can't tell you which one.

VIRGO: Everyone goes through moments of self-doubt in their lives, times when they're not sure if they're doing the right thing or if everything will work out. Except you. You carry yourself with invincible self-confidence, which is odd, because you suck.

LIBRA: This week you will be eaten by a whale.

SCORPIO: Financial matters are on your mind. So much so you probably haven't even noticed the spider laying eggs under your skin.

SAGITTARIUS: You will meet the love of your life very soon, but will waste the opportunity because he will look at you on the bus and you'll think he looks like a rapist so you'll get off at the next stop and walk two hours to get home. He'll probably kill himself from the disappointment, but whatever, you know, as long as you feel good about your unresolved trust issues, right?

CAPRICORN: This will be a week of big sandwiches for you. On Wednesday you will eat an egg and bacon one that will literally cause you to ejaculate in a crowded food court.

AQUARIUS: Maybe you should try a career in the music industry? Acrobatics isn't working out for you.

PISCES: You have toilet paper on your shoe.

I Am A Delicate Flower

2011-07-19T22:27:00.000-07:00

In all honesty I do not mind when people say I suck. If I'm in a good mood, I laugh. If I'm in a bad mood, I cry quietly to myself in the privacy of my own home. But I don't, as it were, "object" to their opinion, or cry "How DARE you?" Because of course it's just a matter of taste, isn't it? It would be wonderful if everyone loved me, but I know that's not going to happen, and if someone thinks I'm painfully unfunny or woefully untalented, that's their opinion and there's no point getting indignant about it. It's entirely subjective, and one must accept that when someone says, "You suck" it's as true for them as "You're hilarious" is for someone who...thinks you're hilarious.

So that's all fine. I'm not saying I enjoy being insulted, and to be honest if you think I suck I'd rather you kept it to yourself rather than tell me personally, but you have every right to say it if you think it.

However, being actually misunderstood is a different thing. Being accused of doing or saying things that I haven't done or said is a different thing. Being characterised as something I'm not is a different thing. And that, I confess, pisses me off a tad.

In the distant and not-too-distant past, I've been accused of being a misogynist, a racist, a rape apologist and prejudiced against or uncaring about people with disabilities, among other things. I know I'll probably continue being accused of these things, because I'm not going to change the way I write or the way I joke for the sake of those who accuse me of them. But, as much as I'd love to say that stuff bounces off me as ineffectually as "You're not funny", it doesn't. It angries up my blood.

Because those things are not a matter of opinion. They are simply not true. Not at all. Not just untrue, they're abhorrent, opposed to all I stand for, and to a great extent they're attitudes of which I've personally and professionally always tried my utmost to represent the antithesis.

All of which is to explain why, if I get accused of these things, I will be angry. I will be furious. And I will not necessarily respond with a sweet and friendly demeanour. Not that you don't have the RIGHT to go throwing about ignorant accusations - it's just that I also have the right to give you the bollocking you deserve for it.

So yes, I am a delicate flower. I have many faults I will readily admit to - please do not think that if you try to lumber me with ones I don't have, I'm going to smile and nod.

After the break: Stupid Pet Tricks

Experimenting

2011-07-18T01:47:00.000-07:00

Piggybacking off a Twitter conversation, I just want to ask some questions about the carbon tax. They are hypothetical questions I am interested in the answer to. Also, they are hypothetical questions about YOU. What would YOU do? This is quite important to remember - it's always annoying when you ask hypothetical questions and people say "Oh it's not really like that though!" These are my hypotheticals - just go with them! I just want folks to think about the way they think.

Question 1: If you were a prime minister, and you'd promised not to introduce a carbon tax, and then discovered that only by introducing a carbon tax could you actually hold on to government, what would you do?

Of course this question is all about the desire for power. As prime minister, you've probably worked pretty hard to get in the position you're in, and holding that position is fairly important to you. Having achieved your absolute ultimate life goal, would you be willing to give it up for the sake of not breaking a promise?

Question 2: Repeat the situation in question 1, but add the detail that the alternative government is one you honestly believe to be terrible.

Here the question of power takes a nobler turn. Would you happily give up power for the sake of your reputation, if it meant sacrificing not only your own ambition, but the good of the nation? If you were sincerely convinced that your losing government would be disastrous for the country, would you be happy to relinquish it because it would be "more honest"?

Question 3: If you were prime minister, and had promised not to introduce a carbon tax, because you thought the country did not need one, but later became genuinely convinced that the country DID need one - either by reading some new literature, or hearing a new argument from a fellow politician, or just through reflecting on things and having an epiphany - what would you do?

Here we see competing notions of "what's right". Is breaking a promise wrong? Maybe. But what if breaking your promise is the ONLY way to achieve what you see as a necessary outcome? Would you see keeping your promise as more important than acting in the country's best interests, as you saw them?

Question 4: Let's run question 3 again, but once more add a detail about the opposition. What if you not only believed a carbon tax was necessary, but were convinced that if you didn't introduce one right away, it would kill the chances of one being introduced for some time? That is, because you knew that waiting for electoral approval would see you lose government, and you knew the opposition would not allow a carbon tax, and you knew that once they were in government, the policy would be dead and buried on their side, and on yours because of the fear of future defeat? What would you do? Would you "do the wrong thing" for the sake of "doing the right thing"?

Question 5: If you were prime minister, and you'd promised not to introduce a carbon tax, but you WERE intent on introducing an emissions trading scheme in future, but you discovered that thanks to vagaries of politics, there was no way of achieveing an ETS in the future without first bringing in an effective carbon tax - what would you do? Would you refuse to introduce the carbon tax on the principle of promise-keeping, even though it would sabotage your actual policy, which you HAD always stuck to?

Question 6: You know the drill. Would it change your answer to 5 if you knew that abandoning the carbon tax and keeping your promise would scupper, not only the tax, but any chance of a trading scheme or price on carbon in the foreseeable future? If you knew that the opposition was intractable, and believed their policy was antithetical to what the country needed, would you hand them power knowing that what you fervently believed in would be buried?

Question 7: Would you rather go down in history as "the do-nothing with integrity", or "the deceitful high-achiever"?

And finally, just for a chuckle:

Question 8: If you had a policy that was not a tax, but had many aspects which functioned in a tax-like manner, why would you be so mad as to stand before the public and tell them it was a tax when you didn't have to?

You can answer or not, but do have a think about it, ok?

COME ALONG

2011-07-17T20:52:00.000-07:00

Are you a geek? I certainly am not, and yet I will be lending weight to the noble geek cause this week, at Trades Hall. The Dungeon Crawl, to raise funds for the good people at Vignette Press to publish their Geek Mook, will be at the Bella Union Bar, this Thursday, July 21, doors open from 7pm. I'll be one of those brave souls engaging in...something. Role-playing? Sword-fights? Honey wrestling? Something like that. Should be HI-larious, anyway.

Fuller details here, do come along.

Check out the sidebar for other upcoming gigs, as always.

How Carbon Tax Made Me An Idiot

2011-07-15T00:37:00.000-07:00

(NB: this piece is dedicated to Erin Riley)

For a while now, I’ve been increasingly convinced of the need to have an opinion about various subjects such as politics, in order to be a normal thinking human being. But I was torn: my belief in thoughtful, sober reflection and reasoned argument as a path to enlightenment made me lean towards having intelligent opinions, while my love of reading tabloid newspapers and listening to talkback inclined me more towards the gibbering imbecile end of the spectrum.

It was a difficult decision, made more so by the enormity of the consequences. I knew that whether I decided to be smart or stupid could determine my future career prospects, the course of my intimate relationships, and how loudly I could talk on trains.

But with the announcement of the carbon tax, the decision was made easy – the only possible response was to become unbelievably stupid.

To be honest, to call it a “decision” is almost a misnomer: the announcement of the carbon tax really leaves those of us who desire to avoid the unexamined life with no option: it is a compulsion, a calling, and yes, a duty, that we transform ourselves into morons, for the good of our country.

It happened almost without my noticing it: I was just toddling along the day after the carbon tax announcement, and suddenly I realised that for the last three hours I’d been telling people that the tax wouldn’t decrease temperatures by a single degree. Not just like that, of course: what I’d actually been saying was, “Did you know the so-called carbon tax won’t lower temperatures AT ALL? Do you? Do you know? So much for ENVIRONMENTALISM!” Sometimes I’d poke them in the chest.

And it felt liberating. I knew I’d followed the correct path. If I’d decided to be intelligent about the carbon tax, how could I ever have derived the deep emotional fulfilment that can only come from inserting “(dioxide)” into sentences? You have no idea how satisfying it is to do this – you should try it. If you thought it was fun complaining about the carbon tax, you will be practically orgasmic once you start complaining about the carbon (dioxide) tax. That’s why Terry McCrann always seems so happy.

Quickly I began to expand the scope of my idiocy, exploring the creative possibilities of using the word “socialism” in as many disconnected contexts as I could possibly think of. I found that once you get into the swing of things, “socialism” can mean anything, really. Pricing carbon, taxing the rich, giving money to the poor, taxing the poor, giving money to the rich, preferring market mechanisms to a command economy, being a woman – all these and more are socialism, once you make a true commitment to stupidity. I’m hoping that in time, I’ll be able to call every policy of every political party socialist without even breaking a sweat.

Of course it’s not that simple, being an idiot. You can’t just scream “socialist” and expect to be taken seriously in the stupid community. You also need to say things like, “the carbon tax will completely destroy our way of life” and “we need an election NOW to get rid of the worst government since Federation” and “I am the shadow Treasurer”. If the carbon tax really riles you up, you can go the extra mile and start delving into advanced mental degradation, for example: “Carbon dioxide isn’t a pollutant it is a necessary element for life on earth”. Not that you want to over-reach. It’s wise to warm yourself up, stretch your stupid-muscles with some thank-god-for-Tony-Abbotts and we-shouldn’t-move-before-the-world-doeses before you go the full Thank-God-we-have-Andrew-Bolt-to-stand-up-to-the-Green-groupthink.

Not that you have to stick to an anti-Green line. That’s the beauty of the carbon tax – it gives us scope to be idiots in any direction we choose. You can call up 2GB claiming that Bob Brown wants to put 90 percent of Australians out of work, or you can call up 3AW claiming that the carbon tax will create six million new jobs in geothermal energy and Great Barrier Reef curating. It’s up to you! As a matter of fact you can do both of those things – it’s the advantage of choosing stupidity over intelligence, you don’t need to be consistent at all (refer to discussion of socialism, above).

And so I’ve found that the carbon tax has really allowed me to be me, to free the spirit within, to release the latent intellectual atrophy that had been inside me all along. Much like a baby bird who, taking its first tentative steps out of the nest, suddenly finds itself able to swoop and soar and slam headfirst into windows, I am finally able to express myself as nature intended. To leap like the salmon, to run like the gazelle, to ride a tractor like Bob Katter. I am free to stand on the rooftop and cry to the world, “Yes! I am stupid, and I am proud! Furthermore the earth has not warmed for 12 years!” I am free to write letters to newspapers. I am free to refer to wealth distribution without even the slightest sense of irony or shame or basic understanding of reality. God, life is sweet when you’re a dullard.

It’s only been a few days, of course – barely time to form an opinion on the carbon tax at all if I weren’t so stupid – and I foresee a lot of strong, enriching dumbness permeating my life moving forward. I see myself poring over graphs and declaring “see? It’s a myth!” I foresee writing pompous and lengthy political analysis pieces about the government’s inability to sell its policy. I foresee tuning into Channel Ten on Sunday mornings a lot. I foresee quoting Ian Plimer. I foresee feeling powerful pangs of sympathy for people earning over $100,000 a year. I foresee saying “Ju-LIAR” and spending the next 20 minutes touching myself with pride at how witty I am.

It is indeed a golden age for the idiot, and I’m grateful to Julia – oops, I mean Juliar, ha ha! – for allowing me this opportunity to realise who I really am. Stop this great big new tax, remove this illegitimate government, STOP LYING, and up with morons. Join me, stupid brethren, and together we will make this country a true paradise for all of those of below-average intelligence and below. It’s time to stand up against this unjust tax and the people of normal intelligence who want to discuss it. Jump on board, idiots!

We can start in the comments of this post.

Questions!

2011-07-09T16:51:00.000-07:00

Today Julia Gillard reveals the detail of her Carbon Tax and Economic Destruction Laser Policy, under orders from her boss Bob Brown. It is very important to have the detail so that Tony Abbott can decide whether he is in favour of it or not in a rational and fair-minded way and not at all go running around screaming like a meth addict on fire.

And before we decide what we think, we need ANSWERS. To some QUESTIONS.

Questions LIKE:

1. What is a carbon tax?

2. Could you repeat that I didn't catch it?

3. Fuckin' carbon, how does it work?

4. If you tax carbon, isn't it true that Coca-Cola will be illegal?

5. Why do you call it a carbon tax when in fact it is a carbon dioxide tax and also why do you call it a carbon tax when in fact it is a Nazi plot?

6. Isn't it true that we need carbon dioxide to live and if we had lots more we would all be sexy giants?

7. Bob Brown is gay, right?

8. How often will the carbon tax be cleaned and checked for woodworm?

9. Under a carbon tax how much will it cost me to eat a cake?

10. Under a carbon tax how much will it cost me to milk a cow?

11. Under a carbon tax how much will it cost me to build a submarine?

12. Why institute a carbon tax when every day China builds a new volcano?

13. How often will the carbon tax indecently assault my daughter?

14. Why are the Greens in charge of the country when nobody likes them?

15. What sort of compensation will be available for me since I only eat jam sandwiches at the moment and am very cold?

16. Why do you hate coal? It is good. Don't you know that?

17. Under a carbon tax how much will it cost me to become an astronaut?

18. Who is hotter, Sarah Hanson-Young or Kate Ellis?

19. Wouldn't it be better to have a policy of direct action like for instance we could buy a really big air conditioner?

20. Isn't it true that under a carbon tax steel will not be a thing?

21. How many carbon taxes will there be per household?

22. If I have solar panels, what the hell, am I right?

23. Why do we even NEED a Great Barrier Reef?

24. Under a carbon tax, how many members of my family will be stoned to death in the annual lottery?

25. Is it true that Julia Gillard is a woman?

26. I have a rash. Why?

27. Under a carbon tax, how much will it cost me to bake a strudel?

28. Under a carbon tax, how much will it cost me to have my genitals surgicaly enlarged?

29. Have you heard that the Greens carry ceremonial daggers everywhere and are swornd to defend the honour of Ahura-Mazda?

30. Under a carbon tax how much will it cost me to suffocate deer?

31. Why does the government want to turn our great country into this:

ANSWERS NOW, PLEASE JULIAR

HAS FEMINISM GONE TOO FAR????

2011-07-04T01:28:00.000-07:00

"Has feminism gone too far?" asks noted intellectual and pantsman Bob Ellis in his latest think-piece. Perhaps you would care to offer your answer on this. But be warned, before you do, your answer is stupid, because you are not as clever as people like Bob and me and possibly Kim Beazley.

It is important to ask whether feminism has gone too far, because if it HAS, we need to take action to prevent good men being ruined by accusations of things they didn't do, and also things they did do, because isn't being accused of something you did the cruellest injustice of all?

As Ellis points out, feminism is out of control when even a good man like Lord Byron is forced to die in Greece just because he was an incestuous pederast - how much longer must we endure these time-travelling feminists destroying the history of Romantic poetry? What's next? Feminists arresting Alexander Pope for raping quokkas? It is only a matter of time and I hope you are happy Naomi Wolf.

The point is, all the famous people who have ever raped anyone are GOOD MEN. Why do feminists hate GOOD MEN? Why do feminists prefer bad men, just because they bad men are not pederasts or rapists or Bill Clinton? It's like, "Oh yeah, John is a good man, but he raped me, so I'm going to get all thingy about it and destroy his excellent political career. Because I hate good men!"

Is that really feminism? Wouldn't a TRUE feminist, a decent, honest, dedicated feminist, LIKE good men? Wouldn't they want to build a better world and realise the occasional sexual assault is a small price to pay for economic stability? Wouldn't a TRUE feminist spend her time working to make women less nasty and evil, rather than constantly destroying Greece's economy in sympathy with stupid prostitutes making outrageous claims in inverted commas?

Yes that's right, Germaine: you ruined Greece. Thanks a LOT.

Let us not forget the original meaning of "feminism", from the Greek "femi" meaning "women" and "nism" meaning "should shut up and be grateful".

Hasn't feminism gone too far when not only Oscar Wilde, but also Winston Churchill, are accused of being big gay people? Why are feminists so anti-gay? And so anti-left-wing? Winston Churchill, John McCain, Arnold Schwarzenegger - the list of progressive left-wing warriors who have been ruined by feminists' insistence on being total dicks is literally endless. And by literally I mean not literally. It's a literary device, idiot, look it up!

I remember when feminists knew their place. I remember when you could have a decent conversation with a feminist without being accused of raping her ears and being smuggled into the Hague with not even enough time to pop your ears. I remember when feminists knew the value of a good scone. I remember when feminists were happy to stay in the kitchen, incubating their eggs. I remember when feminists took a threat to ruin their careers if they wouldn't get on their knees in the jocular spirit in which it was intended.

What happened, feminists? Did you get bitter because you couldn't find a man? I understand. It's hard being ugly, isn't it? But just because you're ugly doesn't mean you should persecute GOOD MEN just because they are GOOD MEN! It is getting to the point where a man can't even squeeze his secretary's breasts at a Christmas party without being dubbed a "predator". It is getting to the point where a man can't even indulge in a good-natured bit of spiking a girl's drink and then having sex with her while unconscious and filming it and broadcasting it on a public website and then writing "HA HA HA" in black artliner on her boobs and then stealing her handbag and then masturbating into her fridge without being labelled a "pervert". Even if he is a GOOD MAN, he must wear this tag forever. Even if he is a poet. Even if he is Shakespeare. Even if he is a promising junior minister in a Labor government. Why do feminists hate promising junior ministers?

Is it because feminists don't have penises? Do they hate penises?? I think they're jealous. I was in a bunch of feminists the other day, and I showed them all my penis, and I could tell by their looks of disgust that they had an innate hatred of penises. Penises are a natural thing, feminists! Love them! After all I don't hate vaginas - I like them even though they're gross and they scare me.

Feminists, I don't want to fight. I don't want hostility. I think we can reach a mutual understanding between the women of this world, and the actual human beings. All we need is for feminists to imagine a world without poetry. A world without literature. A world without progressive politics. A world without media-friendly Labor politicians. A world without right-wing conservatives who are actually left-wing if you know them like we do. A world without good men.

This is the world we are in for if we continue down this path of accusing every single famous left-wing man ever of raping women and liking little boys. Right now, 90% of good men are in jail for rape, while Bill O'Reilly and Hitler run around free.

Here is the deal, feminists: If you can stop accusing us of sexual misdeeds, stop trying to ruin our careers just because we have strong passions and enormous physical magnetism, stop attempting to have us thrown into jail for no better reason than the fact we have committed a crime, stop suing us for every petty little grope and trivial assault we might commit in the course of good old-fashioned horseplay - if you can do all these things...

Then we will continue advancing society, ensuring economic and political stability, producing wonderful art, and being nice to women most of the time unless we're drunk or feeling a bit frisky.

Is it a deal feminists? Can't we go back to how things used to be, when men were men, and women were women, and it was only you who had to be ashamed of that fact?

Hasn't feminism gone too far? Can't we roll it back a bit? Isn't it time to admit that basically, men are pretty good, no matter what they do?

Look into your hearts, feminists - assuming you have any - and try to find it within yourselves to stop bitching.

Because seriously, it is REALLY killing the mood.

It Ain't Me

2011-06-20T02:33:00.000-07:00

I'm not the man who lets this beat him.

I'm not the man who bends his knee to the treachery of chemistry.

I'm not the man who lets you down because it's easier.

I'm not the man who will allow himself to live a life of misery out of a desire to avoid trouble.

I'm not the man who will allow himself to prove unworthy of anyone's love.

I'm not the man whose dreams get stymied by the obstacles he erects for himself.

I'm not the man who refuses to cry, but I'm not the man whose tears reduce him to rubble.

I'm not the man who will be stopped.

I'm the man who makes you laugh.

I'm the man who will amaze you with just what he's capable of.

I'm the man who will deserve your love.

I'm the man who will conquer the world with the power of the same mind that tries to trip him up.

I'm the man who stares nightmares in the face and tells them to go back to hell.

I'm the man who has seen poverty, despair, loneliness and rejection, and wrestled each one to the ground, and will again as many times as he has to.

I'm the man who shapes his own destiny.

I'm the man who lives life the way he wants to.

I'm the man who'll make you proud.

I'm the man who will climb this mountain and plant his flag on top.

I'm the man who is unstoppable.

I'm the man who knows what he wants.

I'm not the man who will let this beat him. I'm the man who will stick around to show you just what he's capable of. I'm going to win.

Trust me I am a professional television viewer

2011-06-16T17:35:00.000-07:00

Hello.

I think we need to talk. It's about television.

You see...you know that TV show you like?

Well, you see, you don't. Like it, that is. The fact is, I've been a bit embarrassed for you, seeing you go around saying you like it, when it's perfectly obvious to me, as a professional television watcher and opinion-monger, that in fact you don't like it at all.

How could you? After all, I have seen that show, and it's perfectly obvious that it's not funny/interesting/realistic/well-acted/well-written/morally acceptable to decent human beings. I knew it from the very first scene, and I had the honesty to admit it. I don't see why you can't show the same integrity. Why not just admit that you hate that show? Why do you persist with this charade that you like it?

I mean, you know it's not GOOD. You obviously know this, because it is objectively true, so why not admit it? Why keep watching it? It seems to me that watching a show, and raving about its quality, when in actual fact it's very bad, is kind of perverse. I cannot imagine why anyone would do it, but then non-professional people who are not professionals move in mysterious ways. As a critic it is often difficult to understand non-critics and their struggles to comprehend the obvious.

I mean, look: of course television is all a matter of taste. And that is exactly my point: now that I've told you what my taste is, why do you continue to fight it?

It's getting a little awkward to be around you, frankly, the way you keep pretending to like this show that you actually hate. I have to keep making excuses for you. It's almost a weird kind of insanity, really - a denial of reality, a lying to yourself.

Let's be frank - you've been tricked. It's all the slick marketing, the tabloid hype. It's the manipulative commercials and the hysterical PR that's conned you into acting like you enjoy this terrible show that in actual fact you can't stand. If only you could see how you've been deceived. I guess you do start with a handicap, in that unlike professional critics like me, you are essentially stupid. But that's not your fault. Well it is a bit, but not entirely. It's your parents' fault really.

All you need to do is be honest. Stop lying to yourself, have the courage to tell the truth about your likes and dislikes. That show you hate, admit you hate it, stop saying you love it. And stop pretending you like all that music in your CD collection, when you know full well it's awful and you can't stand it. And please, for the love of god, stop going to see films that you fervently do NOT wish to see. Why not see a film you WANT to see, for once? If you're unsure of which films you want to see, I can give you a list. But stop pretending those ones you DO go and see are films you want to go and see, when it's perfectly clear to everyone especially me that they're not. But look, it has to start with that awful show.

It's time to come clean about your tastes in entertainment, and finally admit that they're the right ones. Just open your mouth and set yourself free with those four simple, lovely little words: "I agree with you".

You'll be OK. I'm here to help.

If You're Not Part of the Problem

2011-06-09T19:20:00.000-07:00

What is the correct attitude to take in response to those shocking images on Four Corners which we all totally watched and didn’t shut our eyes and hum loudly during? As always, the issue is complicated and yet simple, as long as one pays attention to the subtle cues being given to us by our social, political and ethical superiors in the media and entertainment industries.

First of all, is it acceptable that we allow our cattle to be sent overseas to have their eyes gouged out and their tails broken and shins kicked and things? It certainly is NOT! These cows are AUSTRALIAN. They are OUR COWS. What sort of Australians would we be if we let Australian cows be tortured? It would be, and I realise this is a label not be thrown about lightly, “un-Australian”! Completely and utterly un-Australian. Not Australian at all. If anything, it would be, like, Mexican or Chinese maybe. Is that the country we want our cows to grow up in? Or in the case of veal, not grow up in?

No, we cannot let our cows be treated in this manner. Let the Indonesians source their beef from other, less egalitarian and matey places. Let them torture foreign cows, cows without a grounding in Judeo-Christian ethics.

On the other hand, what right do we have to complain about bad slaughtering practices given what goes on in our OWN abattoirs? No right at all, obviously. We happily butcher countless sentient beings for our own pleasure and then have the audacity to complain when confronted with the inevitable consequences of our desire to treat our fellow intelligent beings as commodities? What vicious scum we are.

So, one story, two sides: on the one hand, we have the moral high ground here, but on the other hand, we are inherently evil. It’s this duality that makes our lives so exciting, of course, but let’s delve deeper. What is the real issue here, as laid out by intelligent letter writers and tweets everywhere?

Asylum seekers.

That’s right: asylum seekers. As has been pointed out by good-hearted people and also journalists, it is fairly hypocritical of anyone to squeal about cattle being sent overseas to be mistreated when they remain silent about asylum seekers being shipped off to Malaysia where everyone gets caned and the toilets are disgusting. How can we possibly think our consciences are clear just because we ban live exports, while we are also willing to treat desperate human beings as “cattle”, apart from the killing and eating bit, although who knows with the way those Malaysians play up, am I right?

So we have two very pressing issues here, both involving sending things to other countries. The first issue: how can we make sure that decent Australian cows are not mistreated while still enjoying the rich, juicy flavour of a good burger without feeling guilty or getting paint thrown on us? The second: how can we make sure that grubby queue-jumpers are not denied their human rights to the extent that Sarah Hanson-Young notices and starts nagging us?

Well, there are a number of possible solutions, and no doubt Julia Gillard will be sitting down with industry and working through the issues in accordance with the government’s official Sitting Down and Working Through Things policy. This is because it is important to get the balance right, and as Agriculture Minister Joe “Rawhide” Ludwig has explained, the priority is to ensure supply chain assurances in order to safeguard animal welfare outcomes while maximising the potential for optimal paradigmatic visualisations leading to the enumeration of multiple recursive principles of axiomatic fulfilment which should guarantee the creation of multiple inherent redundancies in the cause of obviating the necessity of further peak discussions regarding the consideration of dis-endorsing our diplomatic self-actualisation. So that’s what we’ve got to get right before anything else.

The first possible solution is to end both live exports, and sending asylum seekers to Malaysia. This is a stupid solution not worthy of a moment’s consideration for reasons that are blindingly obvious to anyone but the most feeble-brained of imbeciles. Which I assume you are not, so I won’t insult you by explaining.

The second possible solution is to INCREASE both live exports and sending asylum seekers to Malaysia. I’m not quite sure exactly how this will solve the problem, but I suppose eventually we won’t have any cows or refugees left, which will give us a lot more space to stretch out in and grow a few vegetables which are healthier than both beef AND Afghans.

The third possible solution is to pre-torture our cows here at home, so the Indonesians won’t have to. We could get the asylum seekers to do it for you. Two birds, one stone.

Fourth, we could feed the cows TO the asylum seekers. Or the asylum seekers to the cows. Though this runs the risk of promulgating the dreaded “Mad Refugee Disease”. Possibly we could just put them all in a pen and let them fight it out.

But the fifth solution is the one that solves the problem elegantly and permanently while playing to the Gillard government’s strength: SYNTHESIS.

What we do is, we keep the cows here, and treat them well, with high-quality fodder, hygienic and spacious living quarters, and regular full-body massages. This way the cows will be happy and their meat will be especially tender. But we don’t actually eat them, instead we live with them as equals. Or possibly not exactly equals. We’d probably live with them like they’re our children, or really fat people from a third-world country. About that status.

Then, instead of sending COWS to Indonesia, we send the asylum seekers there, and film THEM being abused in abattoirs. Then we win a Logie for it. Then we bring them back here, and milk them. Then we make cheese. Which we feed to the cows, who by now will have evolved into highly intelligent beings able to address the crippling skills shortage in the mining industry. Then we send the asylum seekers back to Indonesia, and have a bit of a giggle. Then we take 4000 genuine refugees from Malaysia, and assign each one a number, which will correspond to the cow who will be their new master. Having dressed each refugee in a nice clean morning suit, we text the cows and ask them to drop round for drinks and…

OK, this is getting a little complex I admit. Perhaps we should all just calm down a bit and remember that, no matter what happens to the cows, or the asylum seekers, the important thing to remember is that we really, really CARE. And in the end, isn’t that the most important thing? They can punch our cows, and they can flout our immigration laws, but they can never take away our feeling of moral superiority.

And I guess feeling superior to the rest of the world is the most satisfying solution of all.

It's A Living

2011-06-08T16:28:00.000-07:00

Alas it is true that from time to time I must use this blog not for higher purposes, but for grubby utilitarian self-promotion. And thus I'm just letting you know a few things I've been up to lately:

Firstly, please do not forget that my first book, Surveying The Wreckage, remains available for everyone to pay money for and laugh till their cheeks crack and bleed. Available at sophisticated bookshops, and also here.

Surveying the Wreckage of course is a collection of columns from New Matilda covering the years 2008-2010. For more recent satirical spewings, check out the site itself. In particular, my latest, about sluts and feminism and stuff. It made people angry!

Also my SECOND book (yes I know) is just about everywhere a book could want to be. This is just one place you could get it, but seriously there are HUNDREDS of places to buy it from. Also, I will soon elaborate on a competition I mentioned recently. A special Superchef competition for people who like Superchef, with a proper prize and everything! Stay tuned chefpions!

Also, if you like scholarly examinations of social mores and the role of comedy in our community, you probably didn't expect to find anything like that round here. But amazingly, I did one of those! For the latest edition of Meanjin magazine. You can subscribe online, or buy a hard copy from any of these fine establishments. I'm quite chuffed with this article, actually, it being unusual inasmuch as it is serious and makes me seem sort of clever and stuff.

Also! You can see me LIVE and UNCUT at The Bedroom Philosopher's High School Assembly at the Thornbury Theatre on June 24. I will be playing Principal to a motley assortment of juvenile delinquents including the BP himself, Tripod, Josh Earl, Damien Lawlor, Emilie Zoey Baker, the DC3, Anna Krien, and Sex On Toast. It will be HUGE! Get in quick, or you may MISS OUT probably.

Lastly, fans of Masterchef may or may not have noticed I've been writing the occasional recap of episodes. The first couple I did are below:

Here.

And here.

There'll be more of these, so watch out for them.

And that's all the plugging I'll be doing for today, I think. Lots going on, lots of fun! Thanks for reading, you're just wonderful. Here is a picture of a kitty.

UPDATE: The Meanjin article is now online for FREE here: http://meanjin.com.au/editions/volume-70-number-2-2011/article/offensive-comedy/

But still buy the magazine, it has other good stuff in it!

How To Carbon Tax, Or Else Not

2011-06-06T23:46:00.000-07:00

Hello, how are you? I am here to talk to you about carbon taxes and other things of that sort which are good for saving the environment or possibly destroying the economy if that's what you're into.

What is a carbon tax? It is a tax on carbon, if that's not too complicated.

What is carbon? According to Wikipedia it is the chemical element with the symbol C and atomic number 6. Scary? Perhaps or not. Not much is known about carbon except that it is necessary for life and also kills people. So what to do? We must put a price on it.

Why must we put a price on it? Because we have capitalism and if we do not put a price on it we will not have capitalism, and that is called kibbutzes. Do we want to live in kibbutzes? Probably, but on the other hand no. Consider the fact of glaciers. Not convinced? Go to Tuvalu. You can't, it's dead. See? Indeed.

But just because we accept that we are all going to die doesn't mean that we are agreed on the best way to go about it. Should we solve the problem by ignoring it? That usually works. But will it in this case? Probably. So let's do that. But no! We can't! Because of economics.

Economics demands we take action! ACTION! But should this action be direct or indirect? There are pros and cons to say the least.

DIRECT ACTION: This means action will be direct, which means Tony Abbott will give lots of money to lots of people who will promise to be good. It is like prostitution, except instead of sex people will sequester carbon. If you ask a prostitute to sequester carbon she will but it costs extra. But it won't cost extra to get business to sequester carbon it will just cost a lot. The advantage of direct action is that it will cost a lot. The disadvantage is that it will be so direct it might hurt, like being kicked in the neck. OUCH!

INDIRECT ACTION: This means action will be indirect, or "passive-aggressive". Under the government's plan, carbon will be persuaded to commit suicide through a system of rumour and innuendo. Is this the way to go? Certainly it will be cheaper, but also it will be more expensive, so what is the man in the street to think? We asked him:

Clearly emotions are running high. How are we to know who to trust? Should we trust the scientists who want us to stop climate change, or should we trust the scientists who want us to increase climate change until we all burst into flames? The answer of course is yes, but how? Perhaps Cate Blanchett has the answer.

But can we trust our future to such an unstable and luminous person? Shouldn't we trust our future to someone like this:

So in the end it comes down to whether we want our planet in the hands of a psychotic woodland monster, or a bionic man. It's a hard choice but one we must make unless we don't, in which case our children will have a horrible life unless everything is wrong in which case they won't, although they still might, since they may just be bad people. You should have raised them better.

But let's not quibble. One thing we can all agree on is that climate change, for better or for worse, is definitely possible if we accept the word of someone or other. If we don't then the opposite might be true though this seems unlikely doesn't it? No, not really.

THIS IS FINISHED

Sluts and the Men Who Love Them

2011-05-26T16:56:00.000-07:00

This weekend in Melbourne, SlutWalk will be parading through the streets. What's it all about? Here's a good article by one of the organisers, my pal Clem Bastow. And another one by fellow organiser/pal, Karen Pickering.

And of course there is my contribution, which is irresponsible, offensive, and adds nothing of value whatsoever. But maybe you'll get a chuckle from the article about which critics rave "you sound like a a right tosser, a throw back to some grunting heaving past which most have moved on from … read a book!"

Anyway look I thought I'd just weigh in an say why, as a man who, with some sense of trepidation, calls himself a feminist, I'm quite in favour of SlutWalk and think it's a good idea.

~~I like the idea of SlutWalk because I quite want to see a bunch of ladies in their undies.~~

No, Wait! Let me start again...

Firstly, I think the talk of "reclaiming" the word slut is a bit of a red herring. It doesn't really matter whether you think of it as reclaiming or not. Everyone knows it's a nasty word that's usually used in a nasty way. A negative way.

But the point of SlutWalk (to ME, I stress; and if others have a different take, please please please let a thousand frigging flowers bloom, it's all good) is that it's NOT negative. It's positive. It's happy. It's even lighthearted. It's not an angry thing, it's not a hateful thing or an anti-male thing.

And I don't think it's trying to make women call themselves sluts, or dress as sluts. It's not trying to make women do anything except stand up and say, "we will not be attacked and mistreated no matter what we wear, no matter who we have sex with, and no matter how well or badly we fit into someone else's ideas about femininity.

It's not a battle between men and women here, it's a battle between decent people and indecent people, between arseholes and non-arseholes, between people who would say that even if a woman walks down the street stark naked, even if a woman is a prostitute, a stripper, or, yes, a SLUT, there is no excuse for assaulting her, abusing her or treating her as less than human.

Is SlutWalk "giving men what they want"? Maybe - but then since when was the main aim of feminism to deny men what they want? I am sure plenty of guys will miss the point, I'm sure plenty of guys will turn out just to leer. But hey, you know what? Fuck 'em. For me the point of SlutWalk is that it doesn't matter a damn what sexists want or don't want. That's why it's happening - because there are women who want to say, we do what we like regardless of what you want us to do. Women who say, when I decide what to wear, how to talk, how to act, how many people I want to have sex with, I'm basing my decision on what I want. Not on the fact you want to ogle me, not on the fact you DON'T want to ogle me, not on the fact you wish I was more demure, or more promiscuous, or more ladylike, or less girly. Women who say, in essence, we are going to live our lives on the terms that men tend to just because. Screw your expectations.

This is why I like SlutWalk: because I want to send the message that when the bastards of the world, the paternalists, the misogynists, the rape apologists and the straight up-and-down arseholes, snarl the word "slut" at a woman because she's not conforming with the way he wants femininity to manifest itself, the decent, well-adjusted people of the world will LAUGH IN THEIR FACES.

You want to call them sluts? Well that is just fine, guys. We will throw it back in your faces, laugh our heads off, and go on living our lives. Not just the sluts, but the men who love them, the children they raise, and everyone else who doesn't accept the right of the pricks to shape the world.

Not everyone is comfortable with SlutWalk, which is fine. It's an emotive word, and I'm not going to tell anyone that because they don't like the idea, they're not proper feminists or unconcerned with women's rights. There's room for all opinions. But I DO know that the Slutwalk has been organised by proud, gutsy females who will fight for the cause of decency all their lives, and who are making this statement this way because it resonates with them and so many others.

The SlutWalk, for me, is about we comrades standing up like Sarah in Labyrinth, and crying, "You Have No Power Over Us!" Call us sluts, call us whores, call us fags, call us dykes, call us pussies, call us anything you want, but you have no power over us. Your abuse isn't going to give you control. We're going to win, and you're going to lose, dying with the word SLUT on your sad little lips. Get used to the new world, dickheads.

March on, siblings.

BEN POBJIE'S EXCLUSIVE PRIVATE RAPTURE DIARY

2011-05-23T10:34:00.000-07:00

As you will remember, the Rapture was on Saturday. If you followed my instructions, you are no doubt living it up in Paradise with the rest of us good Christians. However, let's face it, most of you are irredeemable bastards, so I thought I should keep a diary of my experiences since being Raptured. I started the diary at 6pm Saturday, when the blessed event happened. Some of my observations were already shared on Twitter, but this is a more comprehensive, no-holds-barred, frank look at life in Heaven that I hope you find enlightening and instructive as you dodge molten lava and have Satan nibble your earlobes while waiting for the destruction of the universe. Welcome!

BEN POBJIE'S EXCLUSIVE PRIVATE RAPTURE DIARY!

Saturday, 21st May

6pm: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

6.01pm: I feel that travelling at this speed while naked is not healthy. A distinct flapping effect.

6.03pm: From up here, everyone looks like ants. Ironically, the ants look extremely large. Asked David Attenborough why as he floated past on an updraft. He explained that at this height, the ants' natural ascorbic acid creates a prism effect, making them look over three thousand times their actual size. I had a follow-up question but he started accusing me of staring at his "manly jolly-parts", so I didn't press the issue.

6.06pm: Well, here we are. A lot of people standing around looking a bit lost. Everyone covering their crotches with their hands, or magazines. Asked the man next to me where you get the magazines. He looked very shifty and ran away.

6.10pm: Some angels have appeared and given us clothes. In Heaven you get to wear whatever you want, but until we're checked in we all have to wear Jedi robes. There seems to be no explanation for this, but we're all afraid to ask because the head angel looks really mean. Well to be fair he doesn't really look mean but he has a very off-putting mole right between his eyes. So it seems mean to call him mean but I bet he is because that mole would make anyone bitter. The angels are herding us towards the check-in desk.

6.12pm: The concierge here is VERY rude.

6.15pm: Having checked in, we are each given a room. My room is quite nice and has a view of the river (not sure which one). Unfortunately though, everyone has to share a toilet. My toilet is shared with Scott Stapp, the singer from Creed. I foresee this causing problems in future.

6.45pm: Relaxing in the common room. From some of the behaviour here, frankly I am surprised these people got Raptured at all. Kirk Cameron just whispered in my ear that he is "bi-curious". Don't know what to do with this information. Spared having to make decision on the spot because Kirk was distracted by Fred Nile's elephant impression.

7pm: Before dinner was summoned to God's office for post-Rapture debrief. God looks much as I expected he would, but wears horn-rimmed glasses. Also he has the feet of a weasel for some reason. He asked me if I would like some tea, and I accepted, which made him cry. "We have no tea," he kept moaning over and over. It was a bit usnettling, but he got over it, and asked me how I liked Heaven so far. I said it was great, but the towels in my room were a little small. He promised to look into it, but in a very sarcastic tone, so I don't know. I asked him what people in Heaven did for fun. He said chia pets were very popular. We then spent about a minute just sort of staring tenseley at each other. Finally God gave me a kiss and told me he was happy I was there and to see him if I ever needed anything. I asked him for a coffee and he punched me. On the way out of his office I ran into Jesus, who tried to sell me a capgun. I didn't have any money so I couldn't. Jesus called me a girl, but I think he was just over-tired.

7.30pm: Dinner time! We assembled in the mess hall for dinner. Dinner was a little late, which went down badly with some of the Raptured. In particular, George Pell becamse very rambunctious, banging his fork on the table and making loud shrieking noises until a basket of bread was brought to his table. When menus arrived, disappointed to discover that in Heaven you have a choice between two dishes: tuna or devon sandwiches. I asked an angel whether it was the same every night; he said on Friday nights you get a chicken stock cube.

7.45pm: Dinner becoming very tedious. Partly because the tablecloths show such a lack of flair; mainly because I am seated next to the Archangel Gabriel, who has been monopolising the conversation by reciting his list of reasons That 80s Show should be brought back. I tried to break the monotony by asking about his wife, but he didn't even seem to notice me.

8pm: Frankly, this devon is sub-par.

8.21pm: After dinner we adjourn to the recreation area. It is becoming apparent that there is a certain amount of tension between the pre-dead and the Raptured, or "Rapties", as they call us. I was discussing this issue with Guy Sebastian, and he said it was just because Daryl Somers had spent the whole time since he got here naked rubbing himself against the Bronte sisters, but I think it goes deeper. It's racism, IMO.

8.34pm: Cliff Richard is drunk already. He's strutting around the hot tub, telling everyone he's changed his name to Lovepistol von Gigglepants, and demanding chicken Twisties.Jesus is having a word to him, but Cliff keeps poking his belly and making Jesus laugh. I don't know why Jesus is so ticklish.

9pm: Back to my room. It's lights out at 10pm, which seems unfair. And also pointless given that in Heaven everyone has night vision. Trying to program my clock radio, which seems needlessly complicated. I tested the alarm and was nearly frightened to death when a porcelain Virgin Mary shot out the top of the clock and squirted breast milk in my face. Hard to concentrate because of the sound of Scott Stapp gargling in the bathroom. He asked if I wanted to come gargle with him, but I said I didn't actually know what that would entail. He said it would be incredibly painful so I said no.

9.23pm: Just about to turn in for the night when I discovered Rene Goscinny in there. Says he's doing "research" and will be finished soon. Give up and go out drinking with Charlemagne.

9.30pm: Charlemagne is not all he's cracked up to be. Keeps yelling out to women, asking if they want to see his scar. Wasn't so bad until he said it to Jennifer Aniston. Now she thinks I'm a weirdo because I'm his friend.

9.36pm: Heaven's drinks selection is incredibly limited. There are only three brands of beer, or milk. Admittedly up here milk gives you superpowers, but still.

9.57pm: Cliff Richard has reached the maudlin stage. Keeps telling me I remind him of his mother and asking me if I'll go on a rowboating holiday with him. Said yes just to shut him up, hope he doesn't remember this tomorrow.

10.34pm: Back in my room. Stapp STILL gargling! Has he been doing it non-stop? He must have taken at least a short break, because he is now wearing a cowboy outfit. Asked him why, he said "Jesus told me to". If we weren't in Heaven would be inclined to disbelieve this.

10.39pm: Goscinny still in my bed. Refuses to get out. Says if I get in "just to cuddle", he'll put me in the new Asterix book. Why do people lie so much in Heaven?

11pm: Can't sleep. Miranda Devine throwing pebbles at my window.

11.03pm: Miranda will not give up. Has started yelling, asking if I want "Seven Minutes In Heaven". Leaned out to tell her how inappaopriate this was, and saw things I never want to see again.

11.34pm: Finally asleep. Not sure how I'm writing this. It's a Heaven thing I guess.

Sunday, 22nd May

3am: Had a fright. Turns out Heaven has a rule where seraphs get free access to all mini-bars. Woke up to a bunch of angels fighting over a can of Pepsi and a Kit-Kat.

7am: Woken up by Jesus storming into the bedroom, banging a saucepan with a spoon and screaming "On your feet, Cocks!" No idea why, since once we were up he just made us stand in a field for an hour. Asked him what we were supposed to be doing, he said, "Looking for animal shapes in the clouds". Didn't feel I could ask any more questions after that.

8.30am: Breakfast time. Everyone gets rice bubbles. I asked if I could have some honey, but the waitress just laughed. Seemed strange, but then I realised the waitress was Katharine Hepburn, which made a lot more sense.

9am: Had some free time, so wandered about the place taking stock. There are some lovely landscaped gardens in Heaven, though I feel they should install some surveillance cameras given the number of drug deals being done openly about the place. Passed a bush where Elvis and Marie Curie were frantically copulating. Found this less strange than I would have expected.

9.24am: Not surprised that Mother Teresa is here. A little surprised that she's working the main floor at a motor show.

9.35am: Dropped in on a concert in the park. God encourages musical expression in Heaven, but the only music he likes is Joshua Kadison. This was the subject of quite an argument last night, when Elton John asked if he could put on a show, and God agreed as long as he only played the songs of Joshua Kadison. Elton became very angry, but God won the argument by saying, "I know what you get up to at night", and twisting Elton's nipple really hard. Anyway this morning Elton is playing in the park. The only song he knows is "Jessie", so he's playing that a lot, but his delivery is great. Ironically, Joshua Kadison himself was left behind. Asked Jesus why this was, and he told me it was a "motor skills thing".

10am: Playing netball. This is apparently compulsory in Heaven, seven days a week. God is the umpire. He seems to enjoy the job a little bit too much.

11.30am: Still playing netball. Exhausting.

12am: Finally lunchtime. We don't eat lunch in the mess hall, but rather in Jesus's Dinner Theatre, which means we have to listen to his stand-up while we eat. He's pretty awful - mostly relying on obscene actions with the holes in his hands, and a lot of jokes about Stalin. For some reason he thinks Stalin is incredibly funny. Quite relieved when he finishes and St Peter comes on with his performing puppies.

1.30pm: More netball.

2.30pm: Was ushered into a seminar: "Heaven: Your New Home", where we learned about Heaven. I was sat next to Fred Nile. Tried to strike up a conversation, but he was sulking because Kirk Cameron had put the moves on me and not him. Keeps carving "I H8 Ben" in his desk with a compass. The lecture was very informative though. We found out the system of government in Heaven is basically Republican, where God is the president, Jesus is Prime Minister, and Jane Austen is Foreign Secretary.

2.55pm: Met Jane Austen. Asked her why Heaven needed a Foreign Secretary. She stuck two fingers up my nose and threw me into a wall. "Any more questions, bitch?" she hissed.

3.18pm: Time for the Daily 3.18 Prayers. We all gather on the Prayer Diamond and throw confetti at God while he does burnouts on his motorbike.

4pm. Stopped in for tea with Stephen Hawking. He told me he still doesn't believe in an afterlife. I told him he was in denial. He said he refuses to accept the evidence of his own eyes and will only accept proofs in manila folders. It was weird to hear him talking without his voicebox. I never knew he had a Jamaican accent.

4.58pm: Nasty incident in the common room, Einstein just referred to Archbishop Jensen as "Raptie scum". Jensen pulled a knife and things look like getting ugly.

6pm: We're all in the common room, still shaken after the rumble in the common room. Justin Bieber just got his guitar out and started a singalong of "Beautiful in My Eyes", but our hearts just aren't in it. Einstein's gashed thigh just keeps rising in our brains.

8pm: Dinner still hasn't arrived. Rumours of a chefs' strike are sweeping the hall. Julia Child is said to be demanding greater leave loading. Heston Blumenthal is standing on his table urinating on people. Anarchy looms. Jesus came in to try to keep the peace, but retreated under a blizzard of fortune cookies.

8.28pm: Dinner finally here. We are eating in an atmosphere of sullen rebellion. God wandering round the hall muttering "Second day and already everything's gone to bloody buggery". The Virgin Mary keeps making desperate attempts to lighten the mood with references to Waldorf Salad. Nobody's buying it. Particularly not Prunella Scales, who's been demanding to be return to earth since she got here.

9pm: Retired to bed. Have worked out a system with Goscinny whereby I cuddle him for half an hour, then he has to get into the wardrobe and let me sleep. He says my character's name will be "Beneficix".

9.15pm: Can faintly hear Miranda down the road, yelling at Hugh Grant. Can faintly hear Taylor Hanson in the next room, tattooing his brothers in their sleep. Uncomfortable. Jesus short-sheeted my bed. I think it was retaliation for my mistaking him for Sophie B. Hawkins yesterday.

9.35pm: Finally it's quiet. Feel myself drifting off to sleep, to my great relief, since tomorrow we start "basic training". Not sure what this means, but noticed St Paul squatting outside the information centre fingering a machete. A bit nervous.

Monday, 23rd May

2.46pm: For fuck's sake, that dickhead is gargling AGAIN.

People Get Ready...

2011-05-19T19:03:00.000-07:00

Hi! Have you heard about The RAPTURE? It's coming tomorrow, May 21st, and it's just about the most exciting thing to happen to the world of People and Things since the premiere of the film Annie.

Basically what will happen is all the good people in the world will get sucked up to Heaven, a lot like what happens when you run a vacuum cleaner over a peanut shell. But imagine your vacuum cleaner's bag is heaven, and the peanut shell is a good Christian. Like maybe Fred Nile or TV's Patricia Heaton.

However, the bad people are like those little bits of sticky stuff that you don't really know what they are but you can't get them off the carpet unless you bend down and use your nails for, like, AGES. But God has no time to use His nails, he is a busy man with many tsunamis to calibrate, so he uses his vacuum cleaner, and all the people who are not good Christians will get left on earth and be ruled over by the Anti-Christ, AKA "Stevie".

So it's going to be fun for everyone really: for good Christians, eternity in Heaven, where anal sex is permissible as long as it's with an angel, and friendly ghosts are everywhere. For non-Christians, slavery and volcanoes, which has its drawbacks, but on the upside anal sex will be OK down here as well.

However, the Rapture itself may be a little bit harrowing, what with the thunder and heavenly light and people going zooming up into the air just as they were handing you your chicken royale. It's going to be a lot like sniffing glue, only better and more frightening. Like sniffing REALLY GOOD glue. And that's why you need:

BEN POBJIE'S EASY TEN STEP GUIDE TO SURVIVING THE RAPTURE ONLY NOT LITERALLY OBVIOUSLY BECAUSE IT IS THE RAPTURE

1. Wear warm, loose-fitting clothing. The Rapture is likely to be fairly chilly because of the low pressure system and Santa Claus, so it's important to wrap up warm so you don't get chilblains. Also your clothes should be loose-fitting so you don't get deep vein thrombosis, because anyone with deep vein thrombosis gets left behind.

2. Keep your head between your knees. When the Rapture comes, it will produce a real jolt, and you could get whiplash if you are not in the brace position. You will not enjoy Heaven if your neck hurts. You won't enjoy earth either. I mean you won't enjoy earth either because there'll be an earthquake and you'll get raped by vultures, but the neck thing will just be salt in the wound.

3. Eat lots of leafy green vegetables. This will be good for digestion and help you lose weight. Anyone with a BMI of over 25 gets left behind, so it's important to eat right and exercise. Now, the Rpature is tomorrow, so you may have left it a little bit late, but leafy vegetables are still great for improving your general sense of wellbeing, and also you will be supporting our local farmers, which would be nice, given they will be left behind because farmers are hated by God.

4. Dance like nobody's watching. This will give everyone a good laugh.

5. Get your financial affairs in order. I'm not really sure what this means, but it seems like good advice. I guess it means, like, paying your phone bill? And take all your money out of your account so you have it to hand, and that way you won't get taken by surprise by the direct debits you forgot you had. The Rapture only takes payment by direct debit, which is annoying, but what can you do?

6. Humanely slaughter your pets. They will miss you when you're gone, and they will suffer under Stevie's iron fist, so best put them out of their misery now. A good thing to do beforehand is scream abuse at them, and maybe torture them a bit, with needles or pliers or something. That way when the end comes they will view it as a relief, and won't be scared.

7. Build an enormous wooden statue in your backyard. This statue can be of anyone you like, but it's important that it be very large, and that you set it on fire at sundown. This way, if you don't get taken up by the Rapture, you're in with a chance of randomly attracting the attention of another god who might take you instead. Covering all bases etc.

8. Have your hymen surgically reconstructed. It's worth a shot. God doesn't look into these things too closely. So to speak. If you are a man and are uncomfortable with the idea of having an artifical hymen fitted, dress as a priest.

9. Get a haircut. This isn't necessary, strictly speaking, but let's be honest you look a complete shambles. Do you want to look like a scarecrow when the Rapture comes? Even if it doesn't, get a haircut, you will NEVER EVER find happiness looking like that. Seriously, I tell you this for your own good, smarten yourself up, Shaggy. To be honest, it MIGHT be necessary, if Jesus has any taste.

10. Stop being such a dick.

Rich

2011-05-14T19:14:00.000-07:00

There has been a lot of debate in the media lately about whether a family with a combined income of $150,000 is "rich", triggered by the federal government's provocative failure to say they were at any point in time ever.

So I'm here to answer the question: Are they rich?

Well, it all depends on your definition of "rich", of course.

They are certainly not "rich" in the sense of "Oh I just can't decide which yacht to sail down to the shops to buy my new diamond-encrusted microwave".

And they're not rich in the sense of "My life is a lot more relaxed since I became CEO of Microsoft".

And they're not rich in the sense of "Every day I spend $20,000 on high-class prostitutes who are willing to call me 'Atreyu'".

And they're not rich in the sense of "This chocolate cake is so rich and delicious".

However...

They are rich in the sense of "being richer than almost everyone else on Earth".

And they are rich in the sense of "Seriously? You have $150,000 a year and you want welfare? That's a bit frigging rich".

And they are rich in the sense of "Stop bitching about how the government isn't going to give you as much free money".

And they are rich in the sense of "Seriously, dude, just shut up".

So we can see how there are arguments on both sides. On one hand, you can easily say that people who earn that much, while not "rich", obviously have enough money to get by without relying on government handouts, and are far enough at the upper end of the income scale that suggesting cutting their welfare is an "attack on average Australians" is so inaccurate as to be demented.

On the other hand, it's also true that people are incredibly whiny, and that it's an outrageous act of Bolshevik class warfare to force people to pay more tax just because they earn more money, and people are doing it tough and can't do without their welfare payments, and the government's Budget will act as a disincentive for people to get ahead because who on earth would want to have more money if they knew they were going to have a little bit less than they would have had if they had a bit more than that?

So why DOES the government want to punish people for hard work? Why DO they want to criminalise success? Why ARE they going to inflict severe spinal injuries on everyone with two cars?

It is probably because the Prime Minister does not know what it's like to have children.

The Crumple Zone

2011-05-10T16:34:00.000-07:00

And I used to be strong
And I used to be a man
But now I fold at your feet
Like a burning letter

I'm sitting in my car, late at night, watching the blood well from the lines I've just sliced into my arm, and I'm wondering just why I did it. In hindsight I'll manufacture some kind of explanation, but in the moment all I can think of is, I've got to find a reason for someone to care.

And in the moment, I am out of my mind.

Shaking from head to toe, I grab my phone and I call my wife and ask her to remind me why I'm worth keeping around. She talks me down, but I keep shaking all the way home.

And there you have just one of the recent skirmishes fought between my brain and itself.

To say depression has only just wrapped me in its loving embrace would be wrong. I've been falling into that pit off and on for most of the last 20 years. But it was this year that everything came to a head. It was this year that, as I spun my wheels frantically trying to deal with the release of two books, the writing of two regular columns, my first-ever comedy festival show, a full-time night job and the accompanying sleep deprivation, and providing for a wife and three children, I finally cracked open, and lost my ability to keep it together. Thankfully, this also meant I stopped pretending everything was OK. The meltdown came suddenly, frighteningly and with devastating force, but it was the meltdown I had to have.

It's been a terrifying, strange, surreal, ridiculous time, suddenly finding myself buffeted by waves of panic, sweating and gasping for air and sobbing for no good reason, stricken suddenly by the all-pervading terror that everyone I love has finally become fed up with me and left, as undoubtedly they will, and as undoubtedly I deserve. Suddenly finding myself shrunken and diminished, huddling in a ball against the pain of the world. Suddenly finding myself clenching my teeth and wondering how long I have been. Suddenly finding myself completely unable to cope.

Always the fear, the fear. That an unanswered text message means a friend has cut all ties. That when I'm not around, people talk about me, saying what they REALY think. That I'm pathetic, weak, worthless, and the voice that won't stop whispering to me "Fat Loser, why don't you give up? Nobody could love a THING like you" is right. The creeping feeling that even though I know depression is just an illness for everyone else, maybe I'm that one person for whom it's justified. For whom it's no more than what I deserve.

And the guilt. Knowing what a burden this crisis is placing on the people I love. Knowing how much I must be hurting them. Knowing how hard it is for my family, and cursing myself for my selfishness. The agony of knowing you could ruin lives by leaving, and feeling that you're ruining them even more by staying.

And the mad, hysterical absurdity. The hindsight hilarity of dissolving into tears in the doctor's office, and then explaining through the choking sobs that I'm a comedian. The ludicrousness of my trying to be a rock for my friends and dispense wise advice when I have no idea how to save myself from the treachery of my own psyche. The sick joke of sitting in a room full of friends, all talking and laughing raucously, and feeling lonelier than I have in my life.

And through it I kept writing, and I kept joking, and I stepped up on stage ten times to perform that festival show, cracking jokes about my own death of all things! And I opened up to the world about my problems and let people know, and somehow I struggled through. And I kept breaking down, and gasping for air, and crying, and putting my family through hell, and scaring everyone around me, and reaching out desperately to find someone, anyone, to constantly reassure me that I'm loved, and that the world is, even slightly, a better place for my existence.

I have enough friends who've gone through, and are going through, similar things to know I'm not unique, and I'm not special. I have been struck by an illness, not a romantic genius's curse. And I still don't quite know how to handle it. I don't even know if this blog post is a good idea. I rarely write so personally about myself, and it's possible that what I've written is an awful bunch of old rubbish.

But hopefully it'll go a little way to helping me remember in the dark moments that I'm not alone, and that this too shall pass. The traitor in my head will continue to make his sorties, attacking furiously in an attempt to crush me. Maybe he will succeed, and maybe he won't. I have resolved to fight him. I will keep struggling on, trying to retain my rational mind and keep somewhere at all times that as bad as things get, it won't last forever, that things will be all right, and that most importantly, I'm not alone.

And hopefully, writing this might help others know that they're not alone. I'm so grateful for everyone who has read my work, who's come to see me on stage, who follows me on Twitter etc etc. I owe you all a debt of gratitude, and I know that problems and demons beset many of you too. You're not alone. Darkness can strike us all at any time, but I know there are people who love me - no matter how much it feels, so often, that there are none - and I have to work on remembering that. And I've learned that when you're sick, you need help. You need to seek out those who are trained to help you survive. I'm popping pills like nobody's business, and that is weird and alien to me. But it's what has to be done, and it's no big deal.

Or...perhaps that's all a colossal wank, and I'm kidding myself and this won't really help anyone. A definite possibility. But hopefully my attempt to sort out all the thoughts that have invaded me as a result of this breakdown, to get down in blog form the persistent buzzing in my head, will have a positive effect on someone, somewhere. Hopefully that'll include myself!

Because I know now the desperate flailing, the horrific suffocation that comes when those black waves come crashing over and you find yourself just about incapable of keeping your head up in the face of the merciless tides. But we're all capable. We may have to lean on others from time to time, but we don't have to fall. Tomorrow I may feel them crashing again, and become convinced that none of this is true, but now I have to affirm that it IS.

The scars on my arm are healing. I know I want to live, and even though I don't exactly know how to go about it, I think I will.

Thank you all. You're lovely.

I promise I'll start joking again soon.

I weep on your feet and reach for your hand
And beg for some sign of your love
And I used to be a man
And I used to be strong

Stand the Heat, Get in the Kitchen!

2011-05-03T16:21:00.000-07:00

First of all, apologies for the break in transmission. I haven't been able to muster a blog post for a while, because, well, myriad reasons which hopefully I can soon expand on.

But soft! The main thing is to transmit to you the news of the day!

SUPERCHEF IS HERE!

Yes, my meisterwerk is in stores, on shelves, on sale, available in shops and online and all over the place! Do buy it, it would be a nice thing to do. I promise it's funny, and will hopefully delight and amaze both fans of MasterChef and fans of jokes. Oh, and fans of cool illustrations, which in this case were done by the masterful Steve Keast. So go, buy, read, tell your friends, spread the word, spread the gospel, spread the Chefpion philosophy. And get that #superchef hashtag trending!

Want to know more about Superchef? Why not watch this instructive promo?

Or check out one of the recipes from Superchef: Jessie's Sex Pizza:

Jessie says: Go knead that dough!

And the recipes are the crux of this next bit: a COMPETITION!

Since you are all enormous Superchef fans, you will already be familiar with the useful and nutritious recipes to be found within the tome. Not just the Sex Pizza, but also Steve's Cyanide Noisettes, Esther's Stress Water, and many more.

So what I'm asking from you, Supercheffers, is to see just what you bring the hotplate. Get working on those recipes, make them in the comfort of your own homes, and show us all how they turned out! Send photos of your efforts to pobjie.ben@gmail.com, I'll post all dishes on the blog, and the best efforts will receive...

A WONDERFUL PRIZE OF SOME SORT!!!!

Excited? I know you are! To get those creative juices flowing, here's an example we prepared earlier: one eager chefpion's take on Myst's Apple and Cabbage Puree!

Mmmmm! Is that your tummy I hear rumbling? But I know you can match that, so break out the spatulas! Hop to it! Your work will be seen by...well, a few people. A few people read this blog right? C'mon now, we're cooking with gas! Or electricity, whatever.

And thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. I am very proud of Superchef and I do hope you all enjoy it.

Let's Catch Up

2011-04-07T15:48:00.000-07:00

My first EVER show in the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, Ben Pobjie's Funeral, has now been running for two nights, and it has been, as they say, a blast. A good time has, hopefully, been had by all, and I hope I will continue to see many of you there at Blue Velvet. It will be lovely. There are eight more nights to go, so that's...I mean you've got quite a few opportunities really. I mean, do you have any excuse? I think not!

If you come to the show you will learn about life, death, cyclists etc. It's the show no parent should miss and also other people.

In other delightful comedy news, I want to direct you to the latest edition of the Gather Around Me. In this episode, Cam and I were granted an audience with the great, the wonderful, the hilarious Paul F. Tompkins, currently out here from the US for the aforementioned festival. Being able to podcast with PFT was probably the highlight of my comedic life so far. He is a lovely man and it is an awesome podcast and you should listen to it NOW. It will whet your appetite for my show which you're about to go to or something.

To whet your appetite for the podcast which will whet your appetite for the show, try this.

A Bargain!

2011-03-30T14:33:00.000-07:00

Hello there.

Would you like to know a way to be entertained and delighted while also contributing to a worthy cause?

Oh good.

Then here is Fault Lines. It is an ebook collection of short pieces by some special writers and also me, put together by the estimable Matt Granfield, to raise money for the Red Cross relief efforts in Japan and New Zealand. For a $10 donation, this charming publication - including my story "Themroc van Harryhausen, Gnu Buster" could be yours!

Go ON!

It's Time

2011-03-22T15:55:00.000-07:00

In fact, it's past time, don't you think?

My friend gnomeangel has started the campaign, perhaps you should get on this bandwagon before it's too late!

C'mon!