A Matter Of Concern

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

In particular, today I am worried about Fred Nile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

I AM AT THIS THING ON SATURDAY

Why not come on down and laugh your emissions off?

Who Likes Beauty?

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




Mmmm...cute.

Anyway I wrote on the subject for New Matilda:

It's Time To Let Kids Be Adults

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

Well done pageant-haters

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

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

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

Child psychotherapists - the true enemy.

ENTER NOW!

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

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

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

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

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

(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!

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????

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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!

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

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.