This weekend just past Australia awoke to the story of the horrific shooting in Margaret River. Seven people shot in a murder/suicide where a husband shot his wife, a father shot his daughter and a grandfather shot his four grandchildren.
This is the beginning of a sentence that women comedians hear all the time. It’s usually a pissed person after the show who thinks they’re complimenting you by telling you that you’re the best female comedian they have EVER seen.
Sick of women ruling the world? Tired of people saying you can’t rape chicks? Tired of feminists ruining your fun by insisting on things like an end to violence against women, consent and equity in the workplace and the world?... Read More →
Most nights I sleep around. Not how I used to in my twenties; these days it’s just me bed hopping around the house. I don’t remember the last time I went to sleep and woke up the next morning.
Just over 12 months ago I stopped using plastic bags. After seeing picture of the devastating impacts one billion-plus bags per day have on our environment. It’s hard to use a plastic bag guilt free one you’ve seen one kill a turtle. Or choke a fish.
Trigger Warning: This article contains ideas that may trigger people who are triggered by ideas, especially ones they don’t agree with. It may refer to content that makes you uncomfortable. If this is you, don’t read on. Or maybe you should.
How exactly does a ball make headlines? Malcolm TurnBALL – oops, Turnbull – must have been delighted that it was the leader of the Aussie cricket team, and not the country, copping the heat for letting everyone down.
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.