If the West Byron development goes ahead the Byron that you know, the Byron that we love, is dead. Murder. In plain daylight. Except this murder has been calculated, financed and sanctioned by the state. Allowing development at West Byron... Read More →
It’s 7pm. Actually it’s five past. It’s Tuesday. You’ve got the whipper snipper out. At least that’s what it sounds like. High-pitched mechanical whirring at my precious wine time. That’s when I sit down for 10 minutes and have a glass of wine and talk to my husband.
Why do I spend so much time getting ready? The other morning I put the alarm on at 5am so I could get up and wash and blow dry my hair. It takes half an hour, and I knew if I didn’t get up early to do it I wouldn’t have time later in the day.
Last week I faced my fears. I went to the podiatrist. Her name was Louise. She was very nice. Very reassuring. It made me wonder why I’ve put it off for ten years.
Last year when Jacinda Arden became New Zealand’s prime minister she also made history by being the world’s youngest female head of government. If that wasn’t enough for the army of cynical misogynists who control our media, now she’s having a baby.
Poor baby Barnaby. He’s in twuble. He’s been a very, very naughty boy, caught with his political pants down, his cock in the cookie jar. It’s become evident that Mr ‘Family Values’ seems to value families so much he was attempting to have two at the same time.
After much contemplation I’ve come up with a solution for this tricky social conundrum that affects personal mores and the public conscience and has resulted in police taking to the beach in Landrovers to hunt down those hideously offensive nudies daring to swim on a deserted beach in their birthday suits.
As a child I lived in domestic violence. As a young woman I was punched and kicked by four of my boyfriends. As an adult woman I have also lived in domestic violence.
I can get my head around peak oil. I have come to grips with the polar caps melting. But what I can’t believe is that we are right in the middle of an avocado-based end-of-days scenario, an avocado armageddon. The worst has been realised.
I’ve never really got the point of Australia Day. I’ve never felt so much nationalistic pride that I want to put on my flag bikini and listen to some shit middle-of-the-road Aussie music while drinking a beer chanting ‘Aussie Aussie Aussie’.
Last week I wrote about the inappropriate representation of women on the mural on the Extreme Sports Stars ride at the Brunswick Carnival. It has created a bit of a social-media shitstorm for both me and the local men who stood in silent protest.
Little Boy: ‘Mummy, when I grow up I want to be a football player. Or maybe a racecar driver. I will conquer the world with my courage and my ability.’ Little Girl: ‘Mummy, when I grow up I want nice... Read More →
In a few weeks I’m 50. And let me tell you it’s not ageing I regret. It’s the fact nothing’s changed. The world I shook my fist at three decades ago as an anarchist socialist feminist marxist radical environmentalist continues to revolve around violence, greed, exploitation, cruelty, injustice and murder.
Your doctor can no longer call you fat. New guidelines from NSW Health are encouraging GPs to discuss weight in a ‘positive and non-judgemental manner’. When their tubby patient comes in and they have to deliver the news they can no longer use words such as obese.
I love Byron Bay. It’s why I came here 27 years ago. It’s why I stayed here. I never meant to. It was like falling in love with someone you never planned to fall in love with. Someone without a job or shoes. Someone who asked nothing of you but that you stay.
The other day my 8-year-old said that I swear too much. I was fucking shocked. I said ‘Really? What about your friends’ mums – do they swear?’ She said ‘No’. I responded in the only way a responsible mum of five can. ‘Get Fucked? Not at all? Shit.’
Hear that? That’s the sound of patriarchy falling. The thunder of the powerful being felled by the powerless. The scream of indignation of the perpetrator being called to account by the victim. The din of disbelief that the priveledge party is over.
When you are a comedian people say things to you that they wouldn’t say to other people. They think you can handle it. They think that you don’t have feelings like normal people. That you are bulletproof. That everything is a joke. That you dish it out so you can take it.
This weekend my son Charlie goes to Italy. Not New Italy. Old Italy. The one they keep in Europe. I’m so jealous. My daughter went two years ago. Now it’s Charlie’s turn. He doesn’t even look that excited. It’s not a holiday. It’s a school trip. It’s language immersion. Do these kids have any idea how privileged they are?
I love being nude. I like sleeping nude. I like swimming nude. Damn, I even shower nude. I’m nude right now. Well, under my clothes. I always go nude under my clothes. If you’re like me then you probably love being nude too. Statistics show that it’s highly probable you were born nude.
I can’t stand large groups of women in hats. They’re scary. It's why I loathe Melbourne Cup. You put a hat on a woman and give her a glass of champagne and you’ve unleashed an evil more terrifying than the beast from 20,000 fathoms.
Did you know that parking charges are the fee that consumers hate most? This was the result of a UK survey that came back with an overwhelming majority of people surveyed saying parking should be free.
Next year I turn 50. In preparation for this depressing celebration of one’s scum line on the bathtub of life I have been looking through old photos. It’s like a retrospective of the world’s worst haircuts. How can one woman have so many tragic looks?
What’s the point of being a big Hollywood producer if you don’t get a little extra titty? Harvey Weinstein has been exposed for being a sexual predator, routinely assaulting and abusing women to the extent that it was such common knowledge it was an ‘in joke’.
I have too many clothes. In my walk-in wardrobe there is barely a space for me to squeeze another coat hanger.