This is how I am

"Tell me I'm good" - Bart Simpson

I have never been drunk. I have never smoked a cigarette. And I have never taken an illegal drug. These things have passed me by. My addiction of choice is not to any substance. It is something else.

The reason I write and perform comedy is that I find the experience of getting a laugh the most wonderful thing in the world. The buzz derived from making someone laugh, or knowing that something you write has entertained people, is enormous. And it really is addictive. The trouble with it is that it's fleeting. You can't make people laugh for five minutes, then go home and live the rest of your life out feeling secure in your own abilities. If you want the feeling to continue, you have to keep writing, keep performing, keep getting the laughs. Because the buzz leaves your system so quickly, and it's so addictive, that the only way to keep yourself up is to keep doing it, again and again.

And that's not such a bad thing. That's probably why most entertainers keep doing it - the drive to keep getting that high is the drive to keep creating, the fuel for an artist to stick with their art. As far as my career goes, it's probably helpful that I'm addicted to the applause.

But.

What happens if I'm not just like that when I'm working? What happens if that's what I'm like all the time?

Because my addiction isn't restricted to getting acclaim for my work. My real addiction is what you could call reassurance. Or affirmation. Or just "feeling good".

OK, so who isn't addicted to feeling good, right? But the difference here is like the difference between your body being able to make insulin, and having to inject it into yourself.

I can't of course know how other people feel - maybe everybody is exactly like me - but it has always seemed that most people are to some extent able to generate their own self-esteem. Or maybe it would be better to say, to hold on to their own self-esteem. That is, if they have reason to feel good about themselves, they'll know it, and they'll be capable of convincing themselves of it. If they have friends, they'll feel they have friends all the time. If they are loved, they will feel loved.

And importantly, they won't need reminding of all this every five seconds.

Like me.

Because self-esteem is a drug to me - it feels great when I get some, but it leaves my system fast, and then I need another hit. If you tell me you love me, I'll believe you, but a couple of days later I won't be able to convince myself it's still true, until you tell me again. I'll fear that you've stopped loving me. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume that you have. And I'll just curl up into a little ball of hurt. That good feeling just won't stay. I can't generate affirmation from inside myself - it has to be applied externally. I have lots of friends - but when I'm not actually with them it's pretty easy to convince myself they're probably not that into me anymore. If I haven't heard from a friend in a while, I have to assume they don't want to be my friend. And if I haven't recently been told I'm smart, or talented, or nice, or loveable, I have to assume nobody thinks I am.

And I know it's not true. But this addiction doesn't care what I "know".

If you are a friend of mine, a loved one, or even a family member, I guarantee that my thoughts about you are dominated by the terror that you've gone right off me. I promise that at some point, I've worried that I've upset you, or angered you, or - most of all - just plain bored you, and you're sick of me. I hate it, but I can't help it - unless I'm talking to you right now, I'm probably terrified that I've lost you. And one way or another, I'd bet about 80% of my waking hours are accompanied by that terror.

And the worst part is, I know how annoying it is to be needy. I don't want to reach out and beg for reassurance. I don't want to be the person who needs to be constantly told he's good. I don't want to be constantly craving this external validation. Because it's completely lame to be that person, and I know, most terrifyingly of all, that if I'm that person, I'm actually going to drive people away because I'll just be too aggravating to deal with. And so my paranoia will become self-fulfilling - by fearing that nobody loves me, I'll ensure that, in the end, nobody will. So no, I don't want people to be always reassuring me that I'm good.

But God, yes I do.

But I don't.

But...

No. I don't. I don't want to be that guy. I don't want to be that sort of irritating burden on people I love. And I certainly don't want to make my own worst fears come true. Mostly, I want to to break this addiction, and learn how to hold on to the happiness I receive, learn how to make myself feel good, and learn how to actually feel what I already know to be true.

But I don't know if I can, or if I ever will. And it's hard sometimes. So right now I'm just saying, this is how I am. I am sorry if I'm too needy and too annoying at times. I don't mean to be. But there's a part of me that's broken, and I haven't figured out how to fix it yet. I don't want anyone to rush to my aid here, or to feel any responsibility to prop me up. But I hope it helps the people who know me to understand a bit what's going on in my head. And I hope it might help people who feel the same way to see this stuff written down and know they've got a little bit of company.

To everyone who does offer me that reassurance, to everyone who offers me friendship, thank you. I appreciate it more than I can say. I'll keep trying to hold on to it a bit longer, and more importantly, to be worthy of it.

WHAT IS TO BE DONE ABOUT THESE FACTS OR POSSIBLY NOT?

Well goodness Australian politics is in quite a state isn't it? Yes it is, or is it? No. But possibly yes? Maybe. How can the ordinary citizen make sense of all these Machiavellian goings-on? They can't, it's impossible. Let me show you how.

Here are the facts: Kevin Rudd, the worst prime minister in Australia's history, was deposed in 2010 despite being the best prime minister we'd ever seen. After his epochal victory over John Howard, Rudd was the hero of the Labor Party, who then assassinated him because they hated him so much, although out of respect for him they did not say how much they hated him, because respect is paramount in politics as demonstrated by how disrespectful everyone is.

He was deposed of course by Julia Gillard, the worst prime minister in Australia's history, and now, in an exquisitely ironic twist of irony, is set to depose her himself, even though she is a great prime minister and has achieved an enormous amount in her time in office, hamstrung only by the fact she is a do-nothing prime minister. Also the polling numbers are extremely low, but politics is not all about polling, a lesson Gillard learnt well when she deposed Rudd for having low polling numbers.

But what does this all mean for the ordinary stupid Aussie working family aspirational battler? Just who will be our prime minister on Monday?

Well, Rudd doesn't have the numbers, so he certainly won't be, unless he doesn't have the numbers or possibly not. So Gillard will be prime minister except in the event that she is defeated by Rudd or someone else, which will not happen because they don't have the numbers, or do they? No. Or yes? One thing is for sure, the numbers are being had by someone, or are they? One thing is for sure: possibly.

After Gillard defeats Rudd or not, Rudd will go to the backbench and Gillard will be secure until he challenges again but he probably won't, but he DEFINITELY will. If Rudd beats Gillard which he won't but what if he does? One thing is for sure, if he does, which he won't but maybe, Gillard will go to the backbench and never be leader again except in the event she decides that she wants to. Which she won't because she said she won't, and she has no reason to lie apart from the usual ones.

But will a change of leader make any difference to our everyday lives? Certainly it will, except in the literal sense. Or does it? Perhaps not. But maybe? Yes. Or no. Only time will tell. Or will it? Only time will tell.

But one thing is for sure, after Rudd is prime minister which he will never be, we will see a much greater focus on policy over personalities, as opposed to Gillard, who focuses less on personalities and more on policy. Whoever is prime minister, we can be certain that personalities will be brought to the fore and policy made a priority in the background as the electability of the party increases even as their ability to get people to vote for them falls dramatically. So after Gillard wins the ballot, she will reintroduce good Labor values and if she loses she won't, which must call into question her trustworthiness. But can Rudd be trusted, given if he loses he refuses to even guarantee he will win? One thing is for sure, the answer is unknowable.

Only time will tell who is prime minister and whether Gillard's inevitable victory will come at the expense of Rudd's defeat, or whether Rudd's momentum will see him score a famous victory over his own loss. But one thing is for sure, whoever wins will be the victor, and that is certainty you can take to the bank.

Or is it?

Brecht and Coleridge

"Ah, well-played, sir, well-played indeed!" The mellifluous baritone rang throughout the drawing room as Bertolt Brecht, playwright, poet, and champion middle distance runner placed the tray of marzipan delights in front of his friend, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, poet, lover, and foster mother.

"Did you hear that?" said Brecht, a nervous look in his eye as he sank into the deep folds of the comfortable couch.

"Hear what, sir?" boomed Coleridge, reaching for a treat and licking his lips, less in anticipation than in unstoppable nerve spasm.

"I could have sworn I just heard a mellifluous baritone," said Brecht. "It told me 'well-played, sir'"

"Ah, you Germans are a cunning bunch," said Coleridge, lifting his cup and pouring tea down his neck. "That was me, sir, complimenting you on that clever move you performed, placing the tray upon the table at the precise psychological tipping point. Quite an advantage you have over me, I think you'll agree."

Brecht studied the undercover poet intensely, noting well the curve of his neck, the cleft of his chin. In some ways, he thought to himself, man is little more than a cow with an aptitude for algebra. In some ways. He spoke:"It was prophesied that I would be killed by a man with a mellifluous baritone."

"I don't see how," Coleridge punctuated himself by quickly hemming his trousers, "a mellifluous baritone makes a poor choice of weapon. I once attempted to assassinate a Maharajah with my mellifluous baritone. He suffered only a superficial flesh wound and shot me in the knees."

Brecht was silent a moment, contemplating the futility of struggling against the machine. Sometimes he thought things would have been much simpler if he had been born a magical talking cushion. Sometimes. He spoke again:"Erst komm das Fressen," he said urgently, squinting hard at Coleridge, and leaning forward.

Coleridge hesitated. He had suspected this might be where it was all leading. When Brecht had invited him up to his room, he had accepted, not out of eagerness for company, but from respect for the bond they had forged with each other in Korea. But now, with Brecht's hand strongly massaging his thigh, he realised his initial instincts had been right: Brecht had invited him here to speak German at him."What does that mean?" he asked, reaching inside his sweater and removing his brassiere through an armhole so as to keep the mood light.

"It means, 'now we dance, tomorrow we urinate'," replied Brecht, sucking Coleridge's ear.

"FILTHY LIAR!" screamed Coleridge, leaping up and upsetting the marzipan. "It means nothing of the sort!"As quickly as it had come, the flash of rage passed, and Coleridge smiled pleasantly at his companion and took up a seat on the windowsill, contemplating the quadrangle."Do you sometimes feel, Bertie, that we are not doing enough?"

"What do you mean, enough?" replied Brecht, furtively. Coleridge turned from the window and saw Brecht attempting to climb into the kettle. He sighed. This happened so often these days he was beginning to regard it as part of the daily routine. Walking across the room, he yanked Brecht's head from the steaming jug and rubbed his hair with a towel. Brecht gasped. "You shouldn't have done that," he wailed. "Death is the only answer for me, I fear."

"Come, come," said Coleridge. "That's no way to talk. Talk like this instead," and he demonstrated with a low guttural moaning. Brecht tried it, and his mood imediately lifted.

"This IS fun!" he chuckled, capering about like a schoolboy. "Wunderbar!"

Coleridge laughed like a carefree schoolgirl, until he glanced once more out of the window. Ducking down, he hissed, "Stop it!"

"Why?" cackled Brecht. "I've never felt so alive! MOoooooo! MooooooO!" he warbled, twisting his nipples as he scampered onto the top of the bookcase.

"Stop it, man! This is serious!" Coleridge barked. "We've attracted humpback whales! They're in the quadrangle, bumming cigarettes."

Brecht sighed and climbed down. He perched once more on the sofa and mournfully vomited into Coleridge's teacup. "They will only get cancer," he said. "In the end, everyone gets cancer."

"This is true," Coleridge nodded. "I've had it six times this year, and frankly it's getting a bit much." Brecht nodded back, and so they proceeded in this fashion for several hours, bobbing their heads like deranged budgerigars, neither one willing to break down and mention the real cause of their dissatisaction. Deep down, both of them knew that the summer in Lesotho was weighing them down intolerably.

Eventually, the silence had to be broken. The detergent man was at the door, demanding he be paid for this week's detergent. Brecht dutifully slipped him a fifty, and sent him on his way with a tender kiss. Returning to his chair, he mournfully wrote a pessimistic modernist play and ate it without fanfare. In the opposite corner, Coleridge was talking animatedly on his mobile phone. Snapping it shut, he stormed across the floor. "Dammit! The Atkins account just fell through!" he raged.

"What's the Atkins account?" asked Brecht timidly, a pen up each nostril.

"Oh, I've no idea," said Coleridge, so airily that a ballon emerged from his ear. "I just like to occasionally shout that it's fallen through. It's a hobby."

"I thought poetry was your hobby."

"Oh no, poetry is my PASSION," corrected Coleridge genially, taking half an hour to punch Brecht repeatedly in the head for daring to say such a thing. "Poetry is my LIFE. I wrote one just the other day. It's about raccoons. Would you like to hear it?"

"I would rather be raped at gunpoint by a syphilitic anteater while a mountain lion slowly ate my head," said Brecht, with his usual suave Bavarian charm.

"Oh good, here it is then," Coleridge assumed a splay-legged stance, threw his head sideways and took on the facial appearance of a paralysed toad, his normal recitation pose. He began:

I have come, said the spider crab,
To bring you great news
News that will fill you with joy
For unto us a king is born
A great fat ugly dibbly boy

The spider crab proceeded to leap on the rocks
And do an amusing little dance
And all who saw him were sore amazed
And set fire to each other's pants

I have come, said the spider crab,
Not to abolish, but to complete,
To complete the undertakings of yore
Wackle wackle doodle, piffle goggle blee,
Slampitskin greddle weddle CAW!

Entirely spent, Coleridge spun around and shouted, "Lawks!" before collapsing on top of Brecht's meticulously constructed Lego pirate ship.

The next few hours were spent in hostile silence, Coleridge avoiding Brecht's gimlet gaze and Brecht tattooing Persian swearwords on his penis. The first to speak was Coleridge. He cleared his throat, using a catheter, and addressed his old friend in a high, reedy voice, apparently in an attempt to impersonate Glynis Johns.

"I saw Gerard Manley Hopkins the other day," he said.

"Oh yes," said Brecht. "How is he? Still a hopeless old drunk?"

"He's looking very well. Tanned. He just came back from Pakistan. He's got a girlfriend over there. Met her on the internet."

"Mein gott. How did he manage that?"

"Apparently she's morbidly obese, but very creative in bed."

"How so?"

"She makes cheese sandwiches in there. Got a jaffle maker hooked up to the electric blanket. Hopkins says it's divine. Anyway, they were going to be married, but they were caught having sex and she was stoned to death." Coleridge demonstrated how it would have looked like with a short and amusing mime.

"That's terrible," Brecht put on his "sad" hat, to indicate that he was sad. "How's he taking it?"

"Oh, he said c'est la vie."

"He's philosophical about it?"

"No, he just likes to prove he can speak French. Anyway, that's not what I wanted to tell you. Hopkins took me aside in the tavern and told me in confidence that he recently realised he doesn't actually like dappled things at all."

Brecht nearly leapt out of his seat, and then nearly had a stroke, and very nearly exploded. "WHAT?"

"He said, and I quote, Dappled things, they're rubbish, innit?"

Brecht fanned himself with a nearby otter. "I don't believe it, I just...all these years, he's been living a lie."

"He told me not say anything, he said it might ruin the Welsh economy." Brecht nodded. This was typical. Gerard Manley Hopkins was a talented silversmith, a competent monk, and a wonderful lover, but if he had one weakness, it was his obsession with the Welsh economy. If he had two weaknesses, it was the hideous growths the sides of his head which made him look like an eland. But Brecht tried not to think about that. It reminded him too much of the pain he carried inside him every day. On an impulse, he decided to confide in Coleridge.

"Samuel," he said, haltingly, "I have a great pain inside me, and I think it is something you need to know. Es tut mir leid, but I did something a few Jahren back which I am not particularly proud of."

"Is this the Vin Diesel thing again?" said Coleridge, yawning with barely disguised contempt and a completely disguised midget submarine.

"No, no, it's much worse," said Brecht, crying into his cornflakes.

"Where did you get those cornflakes?" roared Coleridge, his anger as sudden and terrifying as a summer's day or a delicate dandelion, perhaps even more so. Certainly more sudden than a dandelion. It is in fact difficult to imagine in what way a dandelion could be thought of as "sudden".

Brecht shrunk into his seat. "I bought them earlier."

"GIVE THEM TO ME!" screamed Coleridge, in a blind, unstoppable rage, hurling books and pot plants at his hapless Teutonic chum. Brecht cried and cried, shrieking for him to stop, promising him everything, and in the end, as always, it ended in a sweaty, passionate embrace, naked on the floor, exploring each other's bodies with remorseful passion. "I'm sorry," sobbed Coleridge. "Cornflakes, they just..."

"I know," Brecht soothed, stroking his hair. "They set you off." Indeed they did. Coleridge and cornflakes had had an uneasy relationship, ever since at the age of six he had watched his mother run off with Will Kellogg, and his father run off with a bag of pears, only to return shamefaced and admit he did not actually know the way to his car. From that day forth, young Samuel's father had forced him to eat cornflakes three times every day, for the next sixteen years. "We must confront our demons!" Coleridge senior would screech maniacally, shovelling more crunchy golden leaves of doom into his son's bowl. "Strength through indomitability! Here, have some milk!" he would hiss, throwing carton after carton at the boy's head. Poetry was Samuel's way of dealing with the nightmarish reality of his childhood. At that stage, he didn't actually write poetry, but he had sneaked a copy of the collected works of Emily Dickinson from the school storage cupboard, and every night, he would take the precious volume from his bedside table and lie beneath the covers, thrilling at the strange new emotions which awoke in him when he rubbed the book vigorously between his thighs. Coleridge often described those times as the happiest of his life, although when pressed further he would crumble and admit that in fact they were unspeakably awful and he wanted to kill himself whenever he thought of them. Eventually, his mother had returned, full of exciting stories about high society in Vienna, flaunting her newly acquired oboe-playing ability and kicking Samuel in the stomach at regular intervals. His father degenerated further and further into madness, until ten years ago he had planted himself in the backyard and begun to produce figs from his armpits.

"Anyway," said the undercover poet, covering his nakedness with his trenchcoat, the warm afterglow making him strangely shy, "what was it you wanted to tell me?"

"Oh yes..." Brecht hesitated. Did he really dare? He thought back to his days in the hospital in Munich. Proper equipment had been in short supply. He hadn't flinched at the thought of using a harpoon to remove a patient's spleen, even when it was completely medically unnecessary. He could not flinch now. He took a deep breath and inhaled a bee.

Five hours later, in his hospital bed, Brecht looked up at the swarthy Adonis holding his hand, smiling and reciting a new epic poem about parsnips, and realised how lucky he was to have found a true friend. Across the ward, some head trauma patients were performing an impromptu rendition of The Threepenny Opera. Bertolt smiled indulgently. Let them have their fun. After all, who's to say Mack The Knife wouldn't be better with several verses concerning a mischievous juggling rabbit? Not he, that's for sure. "Nicht mich," he murmured sleepily. "Nicht mich."

And now, the secret didn't seem so terrible and daunting after all. "Sam," he said, trying to focus on Coleridge, the task made difficult by the poet's insistence on running back and forth past the bed at high speed, squeaking loudly. "Sam, I'm ready to tell you what's been bothering me for so long..." he coughed, for no reason. "You...you remember New year's Eve 1946?"

"How could I forget?" grinned Coleridge, swigging from his Gatorade bottle.

"Yes, well...after the party was over, you'd fallen asleep on the couch."

"Ha ha ha," said Coleridge in an oddly unconvincing manner. "I was so drunk. Whatever possessed me to liquefy those Jessie Matthews records?"

"Yes, well...while you were asleep, I sort of...."

"Yes?" Coleridge was nude with anticipation.

"I set you up on your hands and knees, dressed you as a Dalmatian and took photos of you with Kurt Weill's testicles in your mouth."

Coleridge gazed levelly at Brecht. "I see."

"Then Kurt played the piano and we wrote a song together called Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Big Flabby Girlie Man, Let's All Shove Things Up Him'" Brecht looked carefully at his friend. "It went to number one in Japan, it made us both millionaires. Every night I call him up and we laugh at how much fun it was to humiliate you because you're so stupid and we hate you so much. We did that last night for hours. I hope you're not angry about this."

In many ways, this marked the beginning of the deterioration of their friendship.

An Article Which You Will Not Find In The Daily Telegraph

not by Gemma Jones

WASHING machines, microwave ovens, DVDs and plasma TVs are among a 60-item welcome gift pack for asylum seekers offered rent-free homes in the community due to their lack of anywhere else to go. The revelation is yet another indication of Australia's fundamental decency and has led to claims that the federal government is "kind".

To fulfil a promise to move an influx of families out of detention, the Gillard Government is now fitting out each home with up to $10,000 worth of furnishings and electronics in order that the asylum seekers may have a basic level of comfort and something akin to a decent quality of life as they wait to find out whether they'll be allowed to continue their lives in a free country or be returned to the terrible hardship they came from.

They are given food hampers upon arrival at rented homes where they wait for their claims to be processed - this is due to the biological fact that human beings require food in order to sustain life.

The revelation comes as border protection authorities reveal they have intercepted two more boats carrying asylum seekers overnight, five boats in the past week - testament to just how great a nation Australia is, that so many people wish to make a home here - and middle - and high-income families find themselves so comfortably well-off that their greatest concerns are cuts to private health rebates and the impact of the carbon tax.

Everything from beds, fridges, mattresses and lounges to an alarm clock radio, clothes hangers and containers for biscuits are being bought in a "household goods formation package" that contains more than 60 items, which should allow the asylum seekers, during their temporary stay in this emergency accommodation, to live their lives free of unnecessary hardship and in the manner which Australians, residents of the "lucky country", generally take for granted. In particular, the beds will allow them to sleep somewhere other than the floor, the fridges will allow them to not eat rotting food, the mattresses will mean the beds actually function as beds, the clock radios will allow them to tell the time and listen to music, the clothes hangers will allow them to hang up their clothes, and the biscuit containers will give them a place to store biscuits should they be fortunate enough to acquire any. Community groups describe these arrangements as "the least we could do, really".

It includes a television at a minimum size of 53cm, which is a small size for a television and will permit the asylum seekers to enjoy the fairly basic privilege of watching TV. "Of course the houses have TVs in them," said a department spokesperson. "That's just a no-brainer."

An average family of five is eligible for $7100 worth of goods, while larger families of more than nine people can be provided with up to $9850 in furnishings, the Opposition has revealed after Senate estimates this week which showed just how remarkably cheaply the government is able to provide for people in need.

Special consideration is given to providing computers, internet access, mobile phones, bikes, skateboards, rollerblades, iPods, games consoles and sewing machines, a fact lauded by both sides of politics as a wonderful demonstration of our society's capacity for compassion and willingness to lend a helping hand.

There are 97 homes being rented in Sydney suburbs - and funded by taxpayers - at an average cost of $416 a week with families arriving to a hamper of bread, butter, milk, eggs, other "essentials" and cleaning products, as would be expected for anyone expected to live under these circumstances having come from the Third World with few possessions, and being forbidden to seek employment. (Ed. - remove quote marks around "essentials" before publication: there doesn't seem to be any reason for them to be there)

Families with a baby - which can be quite expensive and for whom basic levels of care are non-negotiable given they are innocent infants with no ability to care for themselves or choice in where they are taken - can access a $750 pack of basic supplies. Phone and electricity connections are also paid for, obviously, because this is Australia.
The assistance is on top of free doctors' visits, dental care, pharmaceuticals, education and payments of up to $433.25 a fortnight to sustain asylum seekers unable to work. These elements are included mainly in order to prevent asylum seekers dying, giving their children a decent chance at a good life, and to make sure they are not treated any differently to those who via pure chance were born here.

Opposition Immigration spokesman Scott Morrison said the revelations would delight families who considered themselves incredibly lucky to have nothing worse in their lives than struggling with cost of living rises.

"The cost of Labor's protection of vulnerable people is a source of pride for every Australian family lucky enough to not only be allowed to live in this wonderful country, but to also have the privilege of being able to provide, through their tax dollars, a little bit of succour and dignity to those less fortunate. What a great society we have built, that while so many around the world have real problems, Australian families are able to debate the carbon tax and private health insurance rebate, secure in the knowledge these are the worst things that will happen to them," Mr Morrison said.

Immigration Minister Chris Bowen said the government was being responsible in providing asylum seekers with basic provisions while their claims were being assessed.
"We have a duty of care to provide essential items such as cleaning supplies, furniture and bedding, and baby items such as prams, for vulnerable asylum seekers in community detention," a spokesman said, to polite applause from the assembled press who wondered why there was a need to state this rather obvious fact out loud.

"People do not keep the goods, they remain in a house when a family moves out and are used by the next people who move in. These people are not allowed to work," the spokesman added, causing the press to hurriedly rewrite a number of stories that could have inadvertently misled their readers on these significant points, especially in regard to the costs involved and the asylum seekers' lack of options.

Asylum seekers late last year were asking for housing, visas and internet access when they arrived, in what experts described as "a fairly obvious development".
For more than five years the Red Cross has been contracted to provide the packages, but the numbers of people in community housing has exploded since Mr Bowen pledged in October 2010 to move most children out of detention, leading to widespread compassion and decency breaking out across the country.
"They are basic supplies, we are not talking about luxury," Red Cross spokesman Michael Raper said, an assertion backed up by every piece of evidence so far uncovered by anyone anywhere.

Suburban mum Rhonda Bailey, 44, a married mother of three with a mortgage, said, "Isn't it great that these people who've had such a hard time may be able to enjoy all the advantages that allowed me to build my comfortable life? And it's even better that we are not only wealthy enough, but kind, decent and humanitarian enough, to offer them a little bit of comfort and respite while they wait to find out what happens to them. It's just fantastic that we live in a country where those who come here in search of a better life, no matter who they are, will be treated with dignity and respect, and we don't have to deprive them of the basics out of penny-pinching or just plain prejudice.

"It makes you proud to be an Australian, doesn't it?"

A Letter To The Aboriginese People

Dear Aboriginals,

We need to talk. We have a problem. I know, I know – I thought everything was cool between us. I thought we’d reached an understanding: you would provide us with entertaining dance routines and skilled footballers, and we would provide you with military incursions into your communities and helpful suggestions on how to spend your money, like the suggestion "You can only spend your money how we tell you to". There was a healthy give and take between you Aboriginals and we "normals", and you’d been nice and quiet for a while, which frankly I found extremely commendable. I really thought we were making progress.

But then.

Then came Australia Day, and the most shameful episode in our country’s history since Manning Clark ate Weary Dunlop live on the Graham Kennedy Show. Now look, Aboriginals, I have nothing against peaceful protests, as long as they don’t actually happen, but no matter what your political proclivities, it is absolutely disgraceful that the prime minister, our sort-of-elected leader, should be subjected to the indignity of having angry people stand near her. Why can’t Aboriginals have some respect for the office of prime minister? Is it because there were no prime ministers 40,000 years ago? You have to stop living in the past, Aboriginals. Today we have prime ministers, and they deserve respect. They don’t deserve to be tucked under the arm of a bodyguard like a Steeden under the arm of Sam Backo (he was a famous Aboriginal footballer, you see – don’t tell me I don’t know how to speak to you on your own terms, Aboriginals).

What’s more, to do this on Australia Day is just bad taste, Aboriginals. It is disgusting that you saw fit to sully this great day which commemorates the liberation of Aborigine Australians. Now I know what you will say – you will say "liberation from what?" Which is understandable – I know you people sometimes have trouble with English. It’s easy for you, in your simple native way, to not recognise what a great day for your race the first Australia Day was. But consider this: if the British had not landed that day and claimed Australia for the King, it might have been the French! Or the Spanish! Or, I don’t know, Filipinos or something weird like that. Would you prefer that? Do you know how hard Filipino is to learn? Especially for people like you who never get into the good schools. I think we can safely say that Arthur Phillip in 1788 saved you from many generations of Eurasian tyranny and difficult verb forms. And it’s not that we expect thanks for it – we just expect a bit of peace and quiet while we are busy celebrating that glorious day. We don’t even mention the fact that a couple of years later you people STABBED Arthur Phillip. With a SPEAR, no less, which frankly is a bit on the nose. And yet we overlook that. We don’t demand a Sorry For Stabbing That Guy Day. We’ve got CLASS, Aboriginals. Maybe you could learn a bit from that.

The thing is, Aboriginals, there is only so long you can go on ignoring our generosity before we start to kick back a little bit. The white man is a proud and noble fellow, who can be pushed only so far. Don’t let the history of the European race fool you: we’re not all sweetness and light. And we’re pretty sick of giving and giving and not getting anything in return.

We came to this country in a spirit of cooperation and friendliness, wanting only to build a great new nation and hopefully escape from prison and live in the bush as cannibals. We built cities, and we let you live in them, even though they did in fact belong to us and building materials are not cheap. We gave you civilisation, and clothes, and an array of interesting new germs to learn about, expanding your experience and making you more cosmopolitan. We even gave you more downtime by providing free babysitting services, often permanently. It is difficult to think of a way in which we white dudes did not improve the Aboriginal lot, and I’ve gotta say, we were pretty shocked when you responded with nothing but whining and carping and dying of the flu. It made us wonder why we bothered.

Really, the whole history of the relationship between Indigenouses and real people has been one long tale of distrust and petty quibbling and ingratitude on an epic scale. And look, we can sit around playing the blame game all day long, but it would achieve nothing. Because we already know it’s your fault. Aboriginals, if you put half as much effort into buying fast food franchises and starting massive multinational mining corporations as you did into protesting and living in squalid conditions, you would all be extremely wealthy like us. But I guess that’s too much to ask, eh? Even after all we’ve done for you.

And it’s like you’re never pleased. We didn’t give you the vote, because we thought it’d be too much pressure for you, given ballot papers often have more than six candidates on them and ancient Aboriginal culture was pretty skimpy on maths. But you didn’t like that, so we let you vote, and then you go find something else to complain and/or die prematurely about. We give you alcohol, and you complain about alcoholism. We take away your alcohol, and you complain about not having any alcohol. We give you the gift of law and order, and then you complain that we keep arresting you without "reasons". Seriously, when are you going to be satisfied? We even agreed to stop calling you "Abos", even though that was a real timesaver and everything takes twice as long now.

I mean, look at Cathy Freeman. We didn’t have to let her on that Olympic team. There’s a little white girl somewhere who cried her eyes out because her place got taken by Cathy. We gave her that place out of the goodness of our hearts. And then, even more generously, we gave her a gold medal – we didn’t even ask her to give it to us when she got back or anything. Didn’t that prove that we were perfectly willing to let Aboriginals do stuff and be on TV and everything? But still you don’t seem happy, whining about land rights and infant mortality rates and basic human living standards and frankly, it’s starting to get us down. It makes us wonder if you were really ready to participate in society after all. We let you, because you’d been fairly well-behaved and we thought it’d be a nice treat for you, but if you’re going to repay us by protesting and stealing shoes, maybe we should reconsider. Maybe it was all too much, too soon. You’ve got to walk before you can run, even when you’re black, I suppose.

The point is, Aboriginals, if you want to keep getting favours from us Australians, you’re going to have to stop acting like such dicks about it. A little grace wouldn’t go astray, you know? A little decency. A little team spirit. I mean, we’re all in this together, aren’t we? Some of us more than others, obviously, but that’s only to be expected because we’re a bit more presentable. You can’t blame us for that – God just made us this way. And he made you that way, and I don’t think we can ignore the implications, right?

You need to chill out, Aboriginals. We’re not asking you to like us – although if you don’t it just shows how mean you are. All we’re asking is that you go about your business quietly and peacefully, and let us go about our business quietly and peacefully, and stop yelling at our prime minister, and maybe, you know, go out to the desert and talk to the birds or something. That’s the sort of thing you guys like, isn’t it?

We just want a little bit of respect and to not have to be reminded of your existence very often. Then I’m sure we can all get along, Aboriginals and civilised humans alike.

Yours tolerantly,

Ben Pobjie (White)

Thinking a Bit More

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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.