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.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
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!
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.
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.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
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.
Friday, January 20, 2012
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!
- 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!
Sunday, January 8, 2012
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
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
Thursday, January 5, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
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.
"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.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
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.
Friday, December 9, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, December 2, 2011
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)
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)
Thursday, December 1, 2011
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.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Swearing
So today, it would seem, is White Ribbon Day. Which I think is probably a good thing to get behind. But doesn't it seem strange?
This is the White Ribbon oath that we're asked to swear:
I swear never to commit, excuse or remain silent about violence to women.
And I do. My life is filled with marvellous, beautiful women - my wife, my sisters, my friends, and the tiny women-in-waiting who I helped to create - and it makes me sick, brings me to tears, to think of hurting them.
So I swear. But it feels so weird, to think that it is even necessary. Just saying those words in my head, it feels surreal. Because if we have to actually affirm that in an oath, it means that there are people out there who wouldn't swear it. There are people out there who are quite happy to commit, excuse and remain silent about violence to women.
Isn't that weird?
Of course I know it's true - there are hundreds, thousands, millions, of men - and women - who think violence against women is fine - you know, under the right circumstances. When she's really asking for it. When it's well-deserved. Everyone knows that this horror is really rather common.
But still, isn't it weird? Isn't it weird that people do this? Isn't it weird that people condone it? Isn't it weird, especially, that it's not just a matter of people losing their heads and lashing out, that there are actual human beings out there who do this systematically, who can justify it to themselves and consider a normal part of life?
Isn't it weird that White Ribbon Day needed to be created?
Let's not look on women as a protected species here, as delicate flowers that need defending by the big strong men. Let's not split our species in two, positioning the male half as the burly warriors nobly striving to keep the women folk safe, and the female half as fragile doe-eyed innocents, helpless if not for the efforts of their guardians. Let's not throw around silly lines like "Imagine if it was your mother, or your sister".
Let's look on men and women as people, sharing their world, sharing their lives. Let's look on the experience of being human as a duty for us all, to look out for each other, for men and women collectively to be each other's protectors. Let's imagine not that it was a woman you know - let's imagine it was you. Or even better, let's imagine it was a complete stranger suffering, and you stood up anyway, because that's what people do for other people.
I know we all get angry, and frustrated, and we want to strike out sometimes at the people who frustrate us, even when those people are smaller or weaker or less able to defend themselves. Even when those people are women. It's pretty human to want to punch someone in the face.
But we don't. Why don't we? Because we don't want to be that sort of person.
I am a bad person to lecture others on morality. I have done bad things in my life. I have treated other people, even people I love, poorly. I have failed so often to live up to my own standards. But no, I don't hit women. Because I don't want to look in the mirror and see a bully staring back at me. I don't want to lie in bed at night, gazing into the dark, and have to keep company with my own cowardice and cruelty. I don't want my beautiful children to have to look up to a brute, and be set to follow the example of a man who let violence overwhelm his humanity. I don't want the legacy I leave the world to be fear and hatred. I don't want to join the ranks of those who have so abandoned compassion, who have so detached themselves from empathy, who have been so hollowed out by anger and crushed by frustration, and who have found themselves so devoid of hope and imagination, that they can only deal with their own demons by inflicting pain on another human being.
I don't want to be that person. Nobody has to be that person. I hope that I, and you, and all of us, can make the effort to be better. I hope that violence against women can become as bizarre and alien a concept as it deserves to be. Let's all join this human race, shall we?
This is the White Ribbon oath that we're asked to swear:
I swear never to commit, excuse or remain silent about violence to women.
And I do. My life is filled with marvellous, beautiful women - my wife, my sisters, my friends, and the tiny women-in-waiting who I helped to create - and it makes me sick, brings me to tears, to think of hurting them.
So I swear. But it feels so weird, to think that it is even necessary. Just saying those words in my head, it feels surreal. Because if we have to actually affirm that in an oath, it means that there are people out there who wouldn't swear it. There are people out there who are quite happy to commit, excuse and remain silent about violence to women.
Isn't that weird?
Of course I know it's true - there are hundreds, thousands, millions, of men - and women - who think violence against women is fine - you know, under the right circumstances. When she's really asking for it. When it's well-deserved. Everyone knows that this horror is really rather common.
But still, isn't it weird? Isn't it weird that people do this? Isn't it weird that people condone it? Isn't it weird, especially, that it's not just a matter of people losing their heads and lashing out, that there are actual human beings out there who do this systematically, who can justify it to themselves and consider a normal part of life?
Isn't it weird that White Ribbon Day needed to be created?
Let's not look on women as a protected species here, as delicate flowers that need defending by the big strong men. Let's not split our species in two, positioning the male half as the burly warriors nobly striving to keep the women folk safe, and the female half as fragile doe-eyed innocents, helpless if not for the efforts of their guardians. Let's not throw around silly lines like "Imagine if it was your mother, or your sister".
Let's look on men and women as people, sharing their world, sharing their lives. Let's look on the experience of being human as a duty for us all, to look out for each other, for men and women collectively to be each other's protectors. Let's imagine not that it was a woman you know - let's imagine it was you. Or even better, let's imagine it was a complete stranger suffering, and you stood up anyway, because that's what people do for other people.
I know we all get angry, and frustrated, and we want to strike out sometimes at the people who frustrate us, even when those people are smaller or weaker or less able to defend themselves. Even when those people are women. It's pretty human to want to punch someone in the face.
But we don't. Why don't we? Because we don't want to be that sort of person.
I am a bad person to lecture others on morality. I have done bad things in my life. I have treated other people, even people I love, poorly. I have failed so often to live up to my own standards. But no, I don't hit women. Because I don't want to look in the mirror and see a bully staring back at me. I don't want to lie in bed at night, gazing into the dark, and have to keep company with my own cowardice and cruelty. I don't want my beautiful children to have to look up to a brute, and be set to follow the example of a man who let violence overwhelm his humanity. I don't want the legacy I leave the world to be fear and hatred. I don't want to join the ranks of those who have so abandoned compassion, who have so detached themselves from empathy, who have been so hollowed out by anger and crushed by frustration, and who have found themselves so devoid of hope and imagination, that they can only deal with their own demons by inflicting pain on another human being.
I don't want to be that person. Nobody has to be that person. I hope that I, and you, and all of us, can make the effort to be better. I hope that violence against women can become as bizarre and alien a concept as it deserves to be. Let's all join this human race, shall we?
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
If you would care to peruse my CV...
So, in the wake of Kyle Sandilands's latest courageous stand against tall poppy syndrome and fat chicks, many people have been asking, why?
Why does Kyle Sandilands have a job, these people (not me of course) have been asking. Why does he continue to be granted opportunities to enrich himself and raise his public profile on radio and television, even though he is, according to scientific testing, the worst person in the world? Why does he occupy a position of power and influence in the entertainment industry even though his only marketable skill is putting gel in his hair and he possesses all the charm and personal magnetism of a Gestapo officer masturbating on a dead rabbit? How has he managed to keep his job in the face of the fairly well-known fact that he is a puffy-faced dead-eyed misogynistic little blobfish of a man whose appearances on radio and television are the audio-visual equivalent of being urinated on by a camel? And how is it fair that due to his inexplicable success, he has also created a long-lasting media career for Jackie O, a woman who, if she one day lost the ability to giggle inanely, would be immediately reclassified as a species of moss by the botanical community?
These are the questions that apparently, so I hear, people are asking.
But of course these are harsh questions. I do understand why Austereo and Channel Seven continue to employ and promote and pay Kyle Sandilands - it is because they have literally been unable to find anyone more talented than him. They've scoured the world, hoping to find someone with more talent than Kyle - which is to say, someone with some talent - but have come up short.
But don't worry, showbiz bigwigs - I am here.
I am here to solve all your problems, I am here to soothe all your doubts, I am here to rescue you from the chubby bearded quagmire you find yourself in.
I am here to replace Kyle Sandilands. Yes, I hereby launch the Replace Kyle With Ben campaign, or if you're on Twitter, #replaceKylewithBen (pronounced "hashtag replace Kyle with Ben" if you need to say it out loud)
What will you get from replacing Kyle with Ben?
1. I am much taller than Kyle. This means that fellow employees will no longer be called away from important tasks to assist Kyle in getting the Milo down from the top shelf.
2. I have a wide and varied assortment of female friends and acquaintances to choose from for the the purposes of sidekickery. Not only are they smoking hot (because duh, as if I have ugly friends), but they can all speak in words of more than one syllable, thereby out-qualifying Jackie O by some margin.
3. I can beat Kyle at arm-wrestling.
4. My Sean Connery impression is near-flawless, creating endless opportunities for breakfast radio shenanigans of a hilarious nature.
5. I appeal to a broad demographic, being equally popular with both pre-schoolers and the elderly.
6. I have never been involved with the singing career or Tamara Jaber.
7. I know how to conceive, write, and perform "jokes", as well as possessing the capacity to "discuss" "issues" with "people", thereby obviating the necessity to conceal an inability to do any of these things by abusing women or strapping children to lie detectors.
8. I have bigger tits than Kyle.
9. I would quite like to be rich and famous, so you know I'm committed.
10. I have little to no desire to threaten violence upon people who give me bad reviews - in fact I tend to make friends with them.
And finally,
11. I am able to deal with my own deep-seated sense of personal inadequacy in ways other than hurling obscenities at others, belittling those with more talent than myself, or whining like a sissy little bitch every time someone criticises me for anything.
As you can see, I am the complete package - at least compared to what you've got now - and am available to start RIGHT AWAY. There is no need to thank me - I ask only for a generous salary and an enormous amount of fame. So, Seven, Austereo, and any other major media organisations who'd like to get in on the action, just have your people call my people, and we can have this deal stitched up quicker than you can say "ambushing a child-rape victim is ratings gold!"
No hard feelings Kyle - it's just that I'm a lot better than you.
Why does Kyle Sandilands have a job, these people (not me of course) have been asking. Why does he continue to be granted opportunities to enrich himself and raise his public profile on radio and television, even though he is, according to scientific testing, the worst person in the world? Why does he occupy a position of power and influence in the entertainment industry even though his only marketable skill is putting gel in his hair and he possesses all the charm and personal magnetism of a Gestapo officer masturbating on a dead rabbit? How has he managed to keep his job in the face of the fairly well-known fact that he is a puffy-faced dead-eyed misogynistic little blobfish of a man whose appearances on radio and television are the audio-visual equivalent of being urinated on by a camel? And how is it fair that due to his inexplicable success, he has also created a long-lasting media career for Jackie O, a woman who, if she one day lost the ability to giggle inanely, would be immediately reclassified as a species of moss by the botanical community?
These are the questions that apparently, so I hear, people are asking.
But of course these are harsh questions. I do understand why Austereo and Channel Seven continue to employ and promote and pay Kyle Sandilands - it is because they have literally been unable to find anyone more talented than him. They've scoured the world, hoping to find someone with more talent than Kyle - which is to say, someone with some talent - but have come up short.
But don't worry, showbiz bigwigs - I am here.
I am here to solve all your problems, I am here to soothe all your doubts, I am here to rescue you from the chubby bearded quagmire you find yourself in.
I am here to replace Kyle Sandilands. Yes, I hereby launch the Replace Kyle With Ben campaign, or if you're on Twitter, #replaceKylewithBen (pronounced "hashtag replace Kyle with Ben" if you need to say it out loud)
What will you get from replacing Kyle with Ben?
1. I am much taller than Kyle. This means that fellow employees will no longer be called away from important tasks to assist Kyle in getting the Milo down from the top shelf.
2. I have a wide and varied assortment of female friends and acquaintances to choose from for the the purposes of sidekickery. Not only are they smoking hot (because duh, as if I have ugly friends), but they can all speak in words of more than one syllable, thereby out-qualifying Jackie O by some margin.
3. I can beat Kyle at arm-wrestling.
4. My Sean Connery impression is near-flawless, creating endless opportunities for breakfast radio shenanigans of a hilarious nature.
5. I appeal to a broad demographic, being equally popular with both pre-schoolers and the elderly.
6. I have never been involved with the singing career or Tamara Jaber.
7. I know how to conceive, write, and perform "jokes", as well as possessing the capacity to "discuss" "issues" with "people", thereby obviating the necessity to conceal an inability to do any of these things by abusing women or strapping children to lie detectors.
8. I have bigger tits than Kyle.
9. I would quite like to be rich and famous, so you know I'm committed.
10. I have little to no desire to threaten violence upon people who give me bad reviews - in fact I tend to make friends with them.
And finally,
11. I am able to deal with my own deep-seated sense of personal inadequacy in ways other than hurling obscenities at others, belittling those with more talent than myself, or whining like a sissy little bitch every time someone criticises me for anything.
As you can see, I am the complete package - at least compared to what you've got now - and am available to start RIGHT AWAY. There is no need to thank me - I ask only for a generous salary and an enormous amount of fame. So, Seven, Austereo, and any other major media organisations who'd like to get in on the action, just have your people call my people, and we can have this deal stitched up quicker than you can say "ambushing a child-rape victim is ratings gold!"
No hard feelings Kyle - it's just that I'm a lot better than you.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
A Poem In Honour Of The President's Visit
Barack Obama rhymes with armour
Because he shields us from our fears
Barack Obama rhymes with calmer
Because I am always calmer when he is around
Barack Obama rhymes with farmer
Because he tends his people and raises freedom and democracy from the soil
Barack Obama rhymes with chicken parma
Because he is cloaked in the cheese of nobility and the tomato sauce of joy
Barack Obama rhymes with banana in pyjama
Because he is long and yellow and chases teddy bears
Barack Obama rhymes with Dalai Lama
Because he is an elderly Tibetan man
Yes, Barack Obama rhymes with llama
Because he is surefooted and carrying our dreams up the Andes
And also, the fur.
Because he shields us from our fears
Barack Obama rhymes with calmer
Because I am always calmer when he is around
Barack Obama rhymes with farmer
Because he tends his people and raises freedom and democracy from the soil
Barack Obama rhymes with chicken parma
Because he is cloaked in the cheese of nobility and the tomato sauce of joy
Barack Obama rhymes with banana in pyjama
Because he is long and yellow and chases teddy bears
Barack Obama rhymes with Dalai Lama
Because he is an elderly Tibetan man
Yes, Barack Obama rhymes with llama
Because he is surefooted and carrying our dreams up the Andes
And also, the fur.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Why I Am Not Supporting Movember
Last year I did Movember. I grew a big stupid moustache, and I raised a bit of money, and it was all good.
See?
But this year, when Movember rolled around, I decided I would not be doing it again.
This is not because I have any problem with the aims of Movember, or how they try to achieve them. I haven't, in the last year, decided it's all a bunch of crap and not worth bothering with.
But one of the main beneficiaries of Movember is Beyond Blue, the depression initiative. And while I've been a supporter of Beyond Blue in the past, I cannot continue that support, because they continue to retain Jeff Kennett as the organisation's chairman and public face.
And while one may laud Kennett for his work in establishing Beyond Blue, and what he's done to raise awareness of depression and mental health issues, I believe that he does not have the best interests of depression sufferers at heart. In fact I believe he actively works against the aims of those who attempt to improve life for depression sufferers and lessen the impact of the illness upon society.
Through his support for poker machines and his opposition to reforms aimed at fighting gambling addiction, through his hurtful and bigoted public statements denigrating gay parents, and equating homosexuality to paedophilia, Kennett has aligned himself on the side of those contributing to depression, not fighting it.
This is not to say Beyond Blue does not do good work, or is worthy of no support as an organisation. But I can't take them seriously as a depression initiative while Jeff Kennett is their figurehead, and the only way things will change is if a message is sent that the current situation is unacceptable.
So that's why I'm not supporting Movember, and most importantly why I'm publicly stating my opposition and the reasons for it. Movember is a great idea, and I hope to be able to support it again in future. But I can't in good conscience give support to the raising of funds for an organisation that I believe is militating http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifagainst its own goals by keeping as its most visible public spokesman a man who frankly doesn't seem particularly serious about actually working for the good of depression sufferers.
Having said that, I am not railing against those who do choose to support Movember. That's their decision, and they are motivated by a genuine desire to support the cause of men's health, and I can't criticise that.
But I do believe we would all be better served by diverting our support to other worthy charities that also do good work, without necessarily achieving Beyond Blue's profile.
You can support Fauxvember, an alternative charity set up basically for the same reasons I've outlined here, which is also committed to men's health issues.
You can support the Black Dog Institute, which does really good work in the fields of depression and mental health.
Then there's Lifeline, which is on the frontline of crisis support and suicide prevention, and is literally a lifesaver for a lot of people.
And of course the other side of Movember is its support for the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia, so why not go donate to them directly?
There's loads of other organisations dedicated to raising awareness of and improving men's health, and if you want to get behind the issue, there's lots of places you can go. I have no interest in preventing support for the people tackling these problems: but I do think a change has to come. Beyond Blue can't be taken seriously with Jeff Kennett at the top - please, give him that gentle nudge.
See?
But this year, when Movember rolled around, I decided I would not be doing it again.
This is not because I have any problem with the aims of Movember, or how they try to achieve them. I haven't, in the last year, decided it's all a bunch of crap and not worth bothering with.
But one of the main beneficiaries of Movember is Beyond Blue, the depression initiative. And while I've been a supporter of Beyond Blue in the past, I cannot continue that support, because they continue to retain Jeff Kennett as the organisation's chairman and public face.
And while one may laud Kennett for his work in establishing Beyond Blue, and what he's done to raise awareness of depression and mental health issues, I believe that he does not have the best interests of depression sufferers at heart. In fact I believe he actively works against the aims of those who attempt to improve life for depression sufferers and lessen the impact of the illness upon society.
Through his support for poker machines and his opposition to reforms aimed at fighting gambling addiction, through his hurtful and bigoted public statements denigrating gay parents, and equating homosexuality to paedophilia, Kennett has aligned himself on the side of those contributing to depression, not fighting it.
This is not to say Beyond Blue does not do good work, or is worthy of no support as an organisation. But I can't take them seriously as a depression initiative while Jeff Kennett is their figurehead, and the only way things will change is if a message is sent that the current situation is unacceptable.
So that's why I'm not supporting Movember, and most importantly why I'm publicly stating my opposition and the reasons for it. Movember is a great idea, and I hope to be able to support it again in future. But I can't in good conscience give support to the raising of funds for an organisation that I believe is militating http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifagainst its own goals by keeping as its most visible public spokesman a man who frankly doesn't seem particularly serious about actually working for the good of depression sufferers.
Having said that, I am not railing against those who do choose to support Movember. That's their decision, and they are motivated by a genuine desire to support the cause of men's health, and I can't criticise that.
But I do believe we would all be better served by diverting our support to other worthy charities that also do good work, without necessarily achieving Beyond Blue's profile.
You can support Fauxvember, an alternative charity set up basically for the same reasons I've outlined here, which is also committed to men's health issues.
You can support the Black Dog Institute, which does really good work in the fields of depression and mental health.
Then there's Lifeline, which is on the frontline of crisis support and suicide prevention, and is literally a lifesaver for a lot of people.
And of course the other side of Movember is its support for the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia, so why not go donate to them directly?
There's loads of other organisations dedicated to raising awareness of and improving men's health, and if you want to get behind the issue, there's lots of places you can go. I have no interest in preventing support for the people tackling these problems: but I do think a change has to come. Beyond Blue can't be taken seriously with Jeff Kennett at the top - please, give him that gentle nudge.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
My Captain
One of the first cricket books I ever owned was by Peter Roebuck. It's called Great Innings - I still have it now, more than 20 years after I was given it. It's simply a series of 50 short essays on some of the greatest innings played over the history of cricket, from the 19th century through to the late 1980s. It wasn't the first great innings anthology written - the sort of mind that tends to commit itself to cricket is always the same kind of mind that will incline towards list-making. And Roebuck would not have been alone in including in his own list Bradman's flawless 254 at Lord's in 1930, or Stan McCabe's 187 in the face of Bodyline. Most people would probably include Botham's Headingley hurricane of 1981 and it's not a great stretch to put in Viv Richards's 56-ball hundred, or Victor Trumper's 104 before lunch on a wet track.
But I don't know anyone except Roebuck who would select from Javed Miandad none of his myriad test match masterpieces, but a virtuoso 200 for Glamorgan. Who but Roebuck would nominate a whirlwind 88 by Kiwi legend Bert Sutcliffe, hit against a fearsome South African pace attack, with a bandaged head, and a broken heart the day after a train crash claimed the lives of 151 of his countrymen, including his teammate's fiancee? Who but Roebuck would bypass Garfield Sobers's dazzling 132 in the Tied Test in Brisbane in favour his captain Frank Worrell's unspectacular 65 in the same innings, seeing the greatest heroism in the inspiration a skipper gave to a young, insecure team?
That was Roebuck's peculair genius: he was not ignorant of the cold hard realities of the game; he didn't disregard facts and figures - often he would remind his readers that in the end that most important thing for a player was to make runs or take wickets - all else was incidental. But while keeping these realities in mind, Roebuck would still see the romance of cricket, its adventure and emotion, as much as its results and statistics.
He was a storyteller, and his greatest proclivity as a sports writer was to discern the narratives in cricket. Every innings, every day, every wicket, every moment was a story to Roebuck. Great feats of bowling or batsmanship were cinematic in their scope: he would relate them in epic terms, setting the scene with passages that could seem gloriously out of place on the sports pages, with their poetic imagery and whimsical metaphors. He would construct his story as if creating fiction rather than relating mundane real events - the obstacles to overcome, the inner turmoil of the individual, the magnificence of mighty champions coming together, and the triumph of a man over his opponents, his environment, and himself, were related as if Roebuck were handing down a legend, a tale of giants in a more momentous universe. Cricket was in his bones, and it ran in his veins, and his life was devoted to helping others to see it as he did. A team game in which personal ambition is supposed to be sacrificed to the collective good, yet which is comprised entirely of confrontations between individuals, he understood its beauty and its strangeness and its otherworldly quaintness, and he told its story in the way he saw it.
Players' careers were novels, tales of struggle and redemption and success and failure that stretched back long before the public became aware of them, and continued long after they faded from view. Roebuck was a very good player himself, a successful long-standing first-class player and county captain who played with Botham, Richards, Garner, Waugh and Crowe, and understood as well as anyone the battle a man can find himself waging against his own limitations; the frustrations to be found in the inability to realise your highest aspirations. When writing of a player, even to judge him as inadequate or to call for his dismissal, his pieces never contained malice, never lacked compassion. He never allowed his objective judgment of cricketing skill to blind him to the humans he was writing about.
And he delighted in those humans' successes. When weaving a story from the threads of a cricketer, he favoured the rags to riches variety. He loved nothing more than to tell the story of a subcontinental street kid, a country urchin raised on dirt pitches, or an island villager who grew up using a palm frond for a bat, rising to the highest echelons of international sport. He rejoiced in men like Ranji, or D'Oliviera, who defied their own bigoted societies to succeed. He took an especial pleasure in unconventional operators who found success despite their disregard for orthodoxy or tradition - the bizarre stance of Shivnarine Chanderpaul, the crabbed, awkward technique of Simon Katich, the cheerful agriculturalism of Colin Milburn, were all admired by Roebuck, lover of the rebel and the innovator.
His sense of justice, his loathing of bigotry and nationalism, were palpable. He hated barracking, railed against those who would place their desire for their own team to win above justice or the good of the game. His opinions were always fiercely independent and scrupulously sincere. I didn't agree with him all the time - I thought he got it wrong on Darrell Hair, and that he completely lost his head when he savaged Ricky Ponting in the aftermath of the 2008 SCG test against India. But whether agreeing with him or not, there could never be any doubt that what he wrote was motivated by nothing more than pure, genuine conviction. If he could be intemperate, if his emotions could overrule his judgment so that he seemed less than dispassionate in assessing the facts, it only ever came from his love of the game, and his hatred of anything that could sully it. He saw such beauty in the game, and what it could do to elevate people, and bring them together, that it distressed him beyond measure to see ugliness intrude, to see his beloved cricket be less than it could be. That was why he wrote with such anger whenever corruption or greed threatened the game, when he saw it twisted to base political ends, used to assist political thugs in Zimbabwe or organised crime in India. He was no starry-eyed idealist thinking cricket could be divorced from the world around it, but that was just the point - he believed in cricket improving the world around it, and was inflamed by it doing the opposite, or allowing the worst of the world to infect the game.
But perhaps most important of all was how he wrote all this. That beautiful, lyrical, elaborate, passionate, impish, sharp, idiosyncratic style that somehow seemed of another time, evoking Cardus and Wodehouse as it painted intricately detailed landscapes and portraits of a day's play, while simultaneously devising new angles, new windows to see the game through that could distort it in new and lovely ways while also clarifying events in a way that other writers never even conceived of. There was simply nothing else on sports pages to compare with Roebuck's words. The art he brought to what can so often be a flat, blunt craft was something to behold. He could make you fall in love with cricket simply by describing the snap of a bowler's wrist, or the flourish of a batsman as he let the ball pass harmless to the keeper. He made me fall in love with cricket.
I was reading Roebuck before I read a word by Douglas Adams. Before I'd even heard of Terry Pratchett. Before I'd watched a second of Monty Python. Before I'd encountered Wodehouse, before I'd thought of becoming a writer myself. Of all the influences on me as a writer, Peter Roebuck is probably the longest-standing outside my own parents. I never net him, and now, to my lasting regret, I never will. I didn't know him - though, from what I understand few really ever did. But if it's true that a writer can show themselves through their writing, that you can get to know someone by the words they put down, I knew him. I knew him by his words, for most of my life, and the devastation I feel at his death is a testament to his ability to touch lives of people he was never even aware of. It's a mad, delusional conceit for me to wish I'd really known him, to think maybe I could have done something for him, as an act of reciprocity. But if I wish I could have been a friend to him, it's because he so often made me feel he was a friend to me. Maybe that was the greatest part of his genius after all.
I don't know all the details of his life, or of his death. I don't want to speculate, I don't want to intensify my own sadness, or anyone else's, by sifting through that which I really know nothing about, or by pontificating on sadness, or loneliness, or the flaws of a man only just gone.
But what I can say is that in recent years, Peter Roebuck seemed to be one of the last bastions of cricket the way it was supposed to be. As the game became more driven by money, by greed, by coldly professional calculations and cynical self-interest, to the point where the lines between corruption and administration were becoming blurred...Roebuck stood as a voice for cricket as pure, as joyous, as the most beautiful of games. As Michael Parkinson said, sport only matters if it doesn't matter - only if sport can remain a game, played for love and by principles of fairness and honesty lacking in the important, life-and-death world outside, can it be a beacon to that outside world, a force for good. Once cricket becomes just like everything else in life, it might as well not exist.
Peter Roebuck felt that. And now that he's gone, I wonder if anyone else really feels it the same way. With Roebuck gone, cricket feels a little more prosaic, a litle more dull, a little more sordid. I don't know if this game that I love still has the magic, the beauty that can make me believe there's something better in the world. Maybe there's nothing better in the world. Maybe everything really is, at heart, dirty and ugly and selfish. Maybe cricket is destined to go the way of everything else, and even the most brilliant of artists among us can't hold back the tide of voracious, remorseless reality. I hope it's not so, but maybe it is. And this summer, this Roebuckless season that is now upon us, can't help but feel grim and hopeless and dark. This game I love...can it be beautiful anymore? His words, today more precious than ever before, will hopefully help it remain so.
Peter Roebuck I will miss you. If I wrote a thousand times as many words as I have here today, I'm not sure I could ever really say how much.
But I don't know anyone except Roebuck who would select from Javed Miandad none of his myriad test match masterpieces, but a virtuoso 200 for Glamorgan. Who but Roebuck would nominate a whirlwind 88 by Kiwi legend Bert Sutcliffe, hit against a fearsome South African pace attack, with a bandaged head, and a broken heart the day after a train crash claimed the lives of 151 of his countrymen, including his teammate's fiancee? Who but Roebuck would bypass Garfield Sobers's dazzling 132 in the Tied Test in Brisbane in favour his captain Frank Worrell's unspectacular 65 in the same innings, seeing the greatest heroism in the inspiration a skipper gave to a young, insecure team?
That was Roebuck's peculair genius: he was not ignorant of the cold hard realities of the game; he didn't disregard facts and figures - often he would remind his readers that in the end that most important thing for a player was to make runs or take wickets - all else was incidental. But while keeping these realities in mind, Roebuck would still see the romance of cricket, its adventure and emotion, as much as its results and statistics.
He was a storyteller, and his greatest proclivity as a sports writer was to discern the narratives in cricket. Every innings, every day, every wicket, every moment was a story to Roebuck. Great feats of bowling or batsmanship were cinematic in their scope: he would relate them in epic terms, setting the scene with passages that could seem gloriously out of place on the sports pages, with their poetic imagery and whimsical metaphors. He would construct his story as if creating fiction rather than relating mundane real events - the obstacles to overcome, the inner turmoil of the individual, the magnificence of mighty champions coming together, and the triumph of a man over his opponents, his environment, and himself, were related as if Roebuck were handing down a legend, a tale of giants in a more momentous universe. Cricket was in his bones, and it ran in his veins, and his life was devoted to helping others to see it as he did. A team game in which personal ambition is supposed to be sacrificed to the collective good, yet which is comprised entirely of confrontations between individuals, he understood its beauty and its strangeness and its otherworldly quaintness, and he told its story in the way he saw it.
Players' careers were novels, tales of struggle and redemption and success and failure that stretched back long before the public became aware of them, and continued long after they faded from view. Roebuck was a very good player himself, a successful long-standing first-class player and county captain who played with Botham, Richards, Garner, Waugh and Crowe, and understood as well as anyone the battle a man can find himself waging against his own limitations; the frustrations to be found in the inability to realise your highest aspirations. When writing of a player, even to judge him as inadequate or to call for his dismissal, his pieces never contained malice, never lacked compassion. He never allowed his objective judgment of cricketing skill to blind him to the humans he was writing about.
And he delighted in those humans' successes. When weaving a story from the threads of a cricketer, he favoured the rags to riches variety. He loved nothing more than to tell the story of a subcontinental street kid, a country urchin raised on dirt pitches, or an island villager who grew up using a palm frond for a bat, rising to the highest echelons of international sport. He rejoiced in men like Ranji, or D'Oliviera, who defied their own bigoted societies to succeed. He took an especial pleasure in unconventional operators who found success despite their disregard for orthodoxy or tradition - the bizarre stance of Shivnarine Chanderpaul, the crabbed, awkward technique of Simon Katich, the cheerful agriculturalism of Colin Milburn, were all admired by Roebuck, lover of the rebel and the innovator.
His sense of justice, his loathing of bigotry and nationalism, were palpable. He hated barracking, railed against those who would place their desire for their own team to win above justice or the good of the game. His opinions were always fiercely independent and scrupulously sincere. I didn't agree with him all the time - I thought he got it wrong on Darrell Hair, and that he completely lost his head when he savaged Ricky Ponting in the aftermath of the 2008 SCG test against India. But whether agreeing with him or not, there could never be any doubt that what he wrote was motivated by nothing more than pure, genuine conviction. If he could be intemperate, if his emotions could overrule his judgment so that he seemed less than dispassionate in assessing the facts, it only ever came from his love of the game, and his hatred of anything that could sully it. He saw such beauty in the game, and what it could do to elevate people, and bring them together, that it distressed him beyond measure to see ugliness intrude, to see his beloved cricket be less than it could be. That was why he wrote with such anger whenever corruption or greed threatened the game, when he saw it twisted to base political ends, used to assist political thugs in Zimbabwe or organised crime in India. He was no starry-eyed idealist thinking cricket could be divorced from the world around it, but that was just the point - he believed in cricket improving the world around it, and was inflamed by it doing the opposite, or allowing the worst of the world to infect the game.
But perhaps most important of all was how he wrote all this. That beautiful, lyrical, elaborate, passionate, impish, sharp, idiosyncratic style that somehow seemed of another time, evoking Cardus and Wodehouse as it painted intricately detailed landscapes and portraits of a day's play, while simultaneously devising new angles, new windows to see the game through that could distort it in new and lovely ways while also clarifying events in a way that other writers never even conceived of. There was simply nothing else on sports pages to compare with Roebuck's words. The art he brought to what can so often be a flat, blunt craft was something to behold. He could make you fall in love with cricket simply by describing the snap of a bowler's wrist, or the flourish of a batsman as he let the ball pass harmless to the keeper. He made me fall in love with cricket.
I was reading Roebuck before I read a word by Douglas Adams. Before I'd even heard of Terry Pratchett. Before I'd watched a second of Monty Python. Before I'd encountered Wodehouse, before I'd thought of becoming a writer myself. Of all the influences on me as a writer, Peter Roebuck is probably the longest-standing outside my own parents. I never net him, and now, to my lasting regret, I never will. I didn't know him - though, from what I understand few really ever did. But if it's true that a writer can show themselves through their writing, that you can get to know someone by the words they put down, I knew him. I knew him by his words, for most of my life, and the devastation I feel at his death is a testament to his ability to touch lives of people he was never even aware of. It's a mad, delusional conceit for me to wish I'd really known him, to think maybe I could have done something for him, as an act of reciprocity. But if I wish I could have been a friend to him, it's because he so often made me feel he was a friend to me. Maybe that was the greatest part of his genius after all.
I don't know all the details of his life, or of his death. I don't want to speculate, I don't want to intensify my own sadness, or anyone else's, by sifting through that which I really know nothing about, or by pontificating on sadness, or loneliness, or the flaws of a man only just gone.
But what I can say is that in recent years, Peter Roebuck seemed to be one of the last bastions of cricket the way it was supposed to be. As the game became more driven by money, by greed, by coldly professional calculations and cynical self-interest, to the point where the lines between corruption and administration were becoming blurred...Roebuck stood as a voice for cricket as pure, as joyous, as the most beautiful of games. As Michael Parkinson said, sport only matters if it doesn't matter - only if sport can remain a game, played for love and by principles of fairness and honesty lacking in the important, life-and-death world outside, can it be a beacon to that outside world, a force for good. Once cricket becomes just like everything else in life, it might as well not exist.
Peter Roebuck felt that. And now that he's gone, I wonder if anyone else really feels it the same way. With Roebuck gone, cricket feels a little more prosaic, a litle more dull, a little more sordid. I don't know if this game that I love still has the magic, the beauty that can make me believe there's something better in the world. Maybe there's nothing better in the world. Maybe everything really is, at heart, dirty and ugly and selfish. Maybe cricket is destined to go the way of everything else, and even the most brilliant of artists among us can't hold back the tide of voracious, remorseless reality. I hope it's not so, but maybe it is. And this summer, this Roebuckless season that is now upon us, can't help but feel grim and hopeless and dark. This game I love...can it be beautiful anymore? His words, today more precious than ever before, will hopefully help it remain so.
Peter Roebuck I will miss you. If I wrote a thousand times as many words as I have here today, I'm not sure I could ever really say how much.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Yo Pro-Lifers! Suck It!
Oh, look! An article by Joel Hodge of the Australian Catholic University that is all about defending people's right to assembly and is not at all about defending people's right to harass other people on their way to undergo legal medical procedures and demonising the pro-choice movement. It's all about justice and freedom and stuff.
Because after all, all these people are trying to do is prevent the murder of babies, right? I mean, not literally, but in their own heads, because they're insane. That's all they THINK they're trying to do, right? And if you knew there was a an establishment near you where babies were being taken to be slaughtered, wouldn't YOU picket and harass and wave signs and throw pamphlets at people?
Wouldn't you?
I mean, of course, you'd do more. You'd actually break down the doors and rush in and take those baby-murdering bastards OUT, in a heroic, John McClane-esque manner, because hey, they're KILLING KIDS.
But if you were a real wuss, you'd stand outside picketing and stuff. If you were opposed to baby-murder, but lacked any sort of intestinal fortitude or moral fibre, you'd totally protest outside the clinic where the babies were being murder. If you had guts, you'd take some effective action, but if you were a total coward you'd definitely stick to maximising psychological trauma for young women.
Coincidentally, that's also what you'd do if you actually DIDN'T think abortionists were murdering babies, but were just a self-righteous uptight prig who wants women to be punished for having sex and is enraged by the thought that there might be women who have sex without having to have babies, because you believe women having sex for purposes other than procreation is slutty and disgusting.
As I say that's just a coincidence, because that is not what THESE protesters are doing. These protesters are not hypocritical, judgmental, sexually repressed arseholes. They're just religious maniacs who are also really, really gutless. So let's cut them some slack.
I mean, don't listen to them, or pay attention to them, or alter your behaviour in any way because of them. You can't do that. Ignore them - they're insane. But have a bit of sympathy at least, huh?
Because after all, all these people are trying to do is prevent the murder of babies, right? I mean, not literally, but in their own heads, because they're insane. That's all they THINK they're trying to do, right? And if you knew there was a an establishment near you where babies were being taken to be slaughtered, wouldn't YOU picket and harass and wave signs and throw pamphlets at people?
Wouldn't you?
I mean, of course, you'd do more. You'd actually break down the doors and rush in and take those baby-murdering bastards OUT, in a heroic, John McClane-esque manner, because hey, they're KILLING KIDS.
But if you were a real wuss, you'd stand outside picketing and stuff. If you were opposed to baby-murder, but lacked any sort of intestinal fortitude or moral fibre, you'd totally protest outside the clinic where the babies were being murder. If you had guts, you'd take some effective action, but if you were a total coward you'd definitely stick to maximising psychological trauma for young women.
Coincidentally, that's also what you'd do if you actually DIDN'T think abortionists were murdering babies, but were just a self-righteous uptight prig who wants women to be punished for having sex and is enraged by the thought that there might be women who have sex without having to have babies, because you believe women having sex for purposes other than procreation is slutty and disgusting.
As I say that's just a coincidence, because that is not what THESE protesters are doing. These protesters are not hypocritical, judgmental, sexually repressed arseholes. They're just religious maniacs who are also really, really gutless. So let's cut them some slack.
I mean, don't listen to them, or pay attention to them, or alter your behaviour in any way because of them. You can't do that. Ignore them - they're insane. But have a bit of sympathy at least, huh?
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
You'll See Things In A Different Way
You know Liner Notes. You love Liner Notes. But you wish it would come along more than once a year. And you wish there was an opportunity for you to see Liner Notes tackle their classic albums more than once, because you missed out on tickets last year.
OH MY GOODNESS THIS IS GOOD NEWS FOR YOU
Liner Notes: Fleetwood Mac's Rumours is BACK
Featuring ME, and also:
Cate Kennedy
Lawrence Leung
Carrie Rudzinski
Emilie Zoey Baker
Sean M. Whelan
Omar Musa
Josh Earl
Alicia Sometimes
George Dunford
Eva Johansen
Showing you Rumours as you've never been shown Rumours before!
You never did believe in the ways of magic? I've got a feeling it's time to try.
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