I’m not sure if it’s true but the story goes that when the announcement of the first gay marriage was made on October 1, 1989, one of the editors at this newspaper said, “I’ve got the headline. With This Ring . . .”

Go on. Laugh. It’s funny. OK. Gay marriage. Can you explain that to me please? Same sex couples have had the guts to follow their hearts and their genitals, to defy “convention” and stereotypes and live boldly, freely, proudly and authentically. They have stood tall, gay and rebellious despite the wrath and the disdain of the uptight white honkies, the religious fundamentalists, the idiots, the conservatives and the right-wing political extremists. So why on earth would they want to get married?

Sure, they should be able to get married but why would they want to? Why would these glorious public unions that have said “stuff you, this is who I am, like it or join the Young Liberals” buy into an institution that has regarded their love as everything from wrong to degenerate to evil? Why would they want to buy into this antiquated system? This is an institution historically based on inequality, racism, ownership of human beings and sexual and financial control of women and children. Then reinforced by romantic notions fed and fuelled by marketing and the media.

Even the straights are walking away from marriage in droves. You reckon the 7.15 from Dandenong to Flinders Street is chockers? You should check out the 8.05 from Outmoded Expectations to Living In Sin.

Gays, lesbians, queers and homosexuals should be able to get married if that’s what turns them on. But they should not have to purely for the relationship to be legally ratified for the purposes of superannuation, pensions, taxation and to have legal status as the parents of their own children. It makes me ashamed to live in a society that denies this fundamental right to human beings.

Gay people don’t need to be accepted by this institution that will never fully embrace them. F—‘ em. Do your own thing. Don’t be like us boring old straights and child-obsessed breeders. I saw a postcard the other day. It had an image of a 1950s bride with the words: “Why do I have to get married? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

That is why the movement by the Melbourne City Council to set up a Relationships Declaration Register is a move in the right direction. Registering a same-sex relationship will not give them the same rights as married couples but this documented evidence could help in legal proceedings involving inheritances and the division of property. One small step for man love and woman love. One giant step for us all.

STOP! The weasel words, corporate speak and subterfuge are doing all of our heads in. These treacherous economic times are tough enough but the lack of straight talk is ringing alarm bells. And it’s everywhere. Chronic overuse of what appears to be conversational time savers — but are actually fact-warpers — means people are diverting to a cliche generator and truth diluter.

Let’s face it, when it comes to cold, hard truth often the best option is lying.

In these harsh times of economic rationalism (sacking) restructuring (sacking) and merit-assessed and incentive-based liquidation and redirecting of human resources (sacking) the bulldust detector is invaluable.

Don’t listen to what they’re saying. Listen to what they’re not saying. That’s where the truth is. And the truth will set you free. Well, that’s according to John 8:32. Look it up. I’m a Bible-quoting atheist.

The words synergise, incentivise, monitise, optimise and virtualise cannot be trusted (and yes they are real words, look them up). And anyone who knows what “disintermediate” means should throw themselves into the nearest pit of boiling lava. The terms that comprise the axis of bulldust are mission statement, core values and client-focused. If you hear all three in any one meeting jump on the table and scream, “Say what you mean you slimy, gutless corporate maggots”.

You can’t handle the truth? Just try me. This is the conversation I’d like to hear:

“Come in to my office, Buchanan. You’ve been here for years, are very good at your job and are paid what you think is a decent wage but had you decided to walk away this time last year we would have doubled it. We’re the only ones who know your value and we’re not going to tell you because our job is to pay the lowest price we can because we’re a business.

“The new board is scared witless of you because you know more than they do and you’re not afraid to say it. And sure, you and I both know they’re just a bunch of jumped-up electricians and rich plumbers but they think they’re intellectuals, visionaries and worse still, creative. Yeah, I know, I have to go along with it because I’ve got kids in private schools and it’s simply a matter of time before I’m going to need a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, a 30-metre yacht or be banging a 21-year-old personal assistant to fill that gaping hole inside me.

“As you know I’ve been given a promotion to recognise the relentless sucking up I’ve done over the past 10 years to make up for my lack of ability. If you’ve seen me in action you’d agree that what I actually deserve is a medal as big as a dartboard. I’m not sure it’s worth it either but here I am. Check out the view.

“So, the more costs I cut the bigger bonus I get. The board is leaning on me because the more money I save them, the heftier their pay cheques because the juicier the shareholders’ dividends. You know that saying ‘kill one, scare millions’? Firing you will keep everyone in a state of fear, which means we can pay them whatever we want and treat them however we like. Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.

“We’ll be replacing you with someone half the price who is enthusiastic but has no experience so we can mould them to fit our New Regime. They’ll feel eternally grateful to have a job in this stormy economic climate. Mmmm, smell that unpaid overtime!

“Fear’s a great motivator. If it doesn’t work out the board members will just activate their golden parachutes and I’ll eject to safety with a cushy package if I haven’t died of a brain aneurysm, heart attack or stroke already. Something stress-related but slightly poetic.

“That talk about the company being a family? Sucked in. All crap. So too the waffle about a variety of voices and passionate individuals. We just said that to keep you all here so things chugged along nicely.

“I bet you thought the Christmas party was us being generous and that it was a thank you for a job well done. It was a simple financial decision. Tax deductible and recommended by the number crunchers to save money on retraining new staff. So anyway, you’re fired.

“You’ll have no problem moving on to bigger and better things because quite frankly you’re bigger and better than all of us. And if you don’t, I couldn’t give a rats. A small part if me wishes I were you. But the rest of me will be driving home in my new $100,000 Mercedes- Benz to my $3.5-million house and having the board members over for a $200-a-head barbie at the weekend.

“Here’s your cheque, close the door and on your way out send in Middleton.”

I WOULD like to sincerely apologise for the comments I made about four-wheel-drives in last week’s column.

Due to a limitation on the number of words, I was unable to say everything I wanted about these dangerous and obnoxious monster trucks being driven by people selfish at best and ignorant at worst.

And not just shame on you for driving these anti-social, arrogant four-wheeled bullies. Shame on the car companies for appealing to your insecurity by sucking you in with slogans like “Give way — not” (Jeep), “Get in or get out of the way” (Toyota HiLux) or the “class-kicking” HiLux 4WD utility with its “intimidating styling”, “aggressive bonnet scoop” and “dominating moulded front bumpers”. YEAH! What next? “Kill everyone and destroy the planet NOW WITH FREE AIR!” Suck up that free air, baby, because soon we’ll be paying for it.

When I discovered that the word Pajero really is Spanish for wanker, I thought to myself: “It must be my birthday!”

And just so we are clear, bush folk, people towing horse floats and the like, you’re off the hook. I’m talking about the people driving tanks to do the shopping and drop their kids off at school.

I can’t be fagged unpacking the arrogance of the space they take up on the road, which is the equivalent of taking up eight seats at the cinema and wearing a refrigerator as a hat. And I’m not going to get into their environmental impact, as there must be at least one 4WD that is greener than the lowered Commodores with mags that fang down my street blowing blue smoke. But you’d have to be an idiot not to put together the basic larger-vehicle-equals-more-fuel-necessary-particularly-on-city-roads equation.

Need the space? Try a station wagon, roof racks or a little inconvenience. So your kids have long legs? Where are these kids with the two-metre legs? The only place I’ve ever seen them is in the Moomba parade and I thought they were actually normal-sized people on stilts.

So let’s get this party started and crack open an icy-cold can of facts, shall we? Let’s slip into something a little more uncomfortable with the 4WD safety myth.

Research conducted by the Monash University Accident Research Centre has concluded that 4WDs are almost twice as likely to roll than a car, resulting in their drivers being 3.4 times more likely to be killed due to crushed cabin space.

The centre has pointed out that 4WDs “are not subject to the full range of design rules applicable to passenger cars and their derivatives”.

A team from Imperial College London and University of Queensland found, after a study of more than 40,000 vehicles, that “4WD drivers were almost four times more likely than car drivers to be using a mobile phone and 26 per cent more likely not to wear a seatbelt”. The researchers concluded that 4WD owners take more risks because they feel safer.

The Australian Transport Safety Bureau found that half the 36 children killed in driveway deaths between 1996 and 1998 were struck by large 4WDs. They have also found: “The proportion of alcohol intoxication amongst 4WD drivers involved in fatal crashes (29 per cent) was higher than for all other types of vehicle.” And: “In 4WD crashes involving multiple vehicles, passenger car occupants accounted for the largest proportion of fatalities (64 per cent). 4WD occupants accounted for 18 per cent.”

Children are at risk because they are little and these vehicles are high. As far as proximity sensors are concerned, they do bugger all to protect children. According to NRMA Insurance’s Robert McDonald: “They only work about a metre from the car, unless you are travelling extremely slowly. Your reaction time is not going to be quick enough to at least not knock someone over before even realising they are there.”

In 2005, NSW’s senior deputy state coroner, Jacqueline Milledge, recommended that 4WDs weighing two tonnes or more be banned from school grounds and within 200 metres of schools. She also recommended that the drivers be required to hold special licences after five-year-old Bethany Holder was run over by the driver of a Nissan Patrol with a bullbar.

Due to their weight and the bullbars being positioned at perfect head and chest height, drivers of vehicles hit side-on by 4WDs are 26 times more likely to be killed or suffer serious injury than if they had been hit by a standard-sized passenger vehicle, according to ABC’s Catalyst program.

But apparently they’re fashionable. If pick-up at your school is a procession of kids being collected from school in a car the size of a three-bedroom house, you may want to consider the values of that school.

Will it take a 4WD to back over the child of another 4WD owner for these status-obsessed fashion slaves to realise that these vehicles are potential killers?

Here’s a cheaper alternative to buying a 4WD. Just buy a normal-sized car and put a sticker on the back that reads: “I DON’T GIVE A STUFF ABOUT YOU AND I VOTE.”

HOW about that Grand Prix, eh? One look at the racing fans is all it takes for me to realise that some suburbs should have fences around them. Knuckle-dragging petrol-heads, anorexic bottle blondes marinated in fake tan and middle-aged blokes with man boobs and pimples on their arses paying exorbitant money to watch cars go fast. What a disgrace. It’s no wonder I drink.

I’m sure the parents of terminally ill children suffering rare diseases that there is no funding for researching will take comfort in the fact that the State Government has probably spent $30 million on loud, polluting cars while their child dies. They’ll be at peace knowing that Bernie Ecclestone has pocketed a $20 million licensing fee. There goes my chance of ever being a grid girl.

Don’t start banging on about all the revenue that it supposedly (and I stress the word supposedly) creates. You could get a far better long-term return by putting that money into science, education or health.

Why is it that many of the flag wavers who are the keenest for these events so they can “show off” to bring tourists into our town are the ones that least want to share it. If you need to have a Grand Prix looting, marauding and corroding our town to feel “proud”, please kill yourself at your earliest possible convenience. And take your “I’m Another Australian Against Further Immigration” T-shirt with you.

It’s festival fever here in our beautiful Melbourne and I am part of the festivities in my role hosting the Sydney Road Bakery Tours as part of the Melbourne Food and Wine Festival.

This is not a thinly veiled or heavy-handed plug because this alleged left-wing rag sponsors this festival of feeding. Don’t call, they’re booked out.

Last week and again this week, I’ll show folks around Sydney Road and take them into a handful of the many Middle Eastern bakeries along this lively and cosmopolitan strip of bridal boutiques, multicultural food, funky cafes, factory outlets and rampant tolerance.

It’s a gift to take the Loafers into a bakery owned by Iraqis, and after they have met the hard-working and generous couple and their sweet well-mannered children, and eaten their delicious food, tell them that these people are asylum seekers from Iraq. The same people that John Howard is leaving stranded on boats or letting rot on Pacific islands.

At our next stop, I introduce them to Houssam with the twinkling eyes, beaming smile and Osama bin Laden beard. He displays kindness, hospitality and warmth and also cooks Lebanese pastries so delicious they bring tears to your eyes. Let’s hope it dilutes the widely held belief that all Lebanese men are rapists.

Next stop is Jenny the Turkish mother of five who makes gozleme (stuffed pastries). She arrived from Turkey 37 years ago, first landing in the Northern Territory. The blackfellas told her that they ate white people (having her terrified for weeks) and then taught her English, “bad words first”.

“I feel like I am in another country,” the wide-eyed Loafers say as they openly gawk at the young girls wearing the hijab and tight jeans SMSing and drinking Coke. It should be called the Meet Your First Muslim tour. Don’t be alert, don’t be alarmed, shake their hands, eat their food and enjoy the hospitality they extend. Marvel at the warmth they radiate despite (or possibly because of) the horrors they have seen and the hours they spend building a better life in what they hope is a decent and tolerant society.

My favourite moment of each tour is as we cross Sydney Road and I hold up a stick with a loaf of bread on it and stop the traffic. Not just any traffic but; I tell them all to look out for a 4WD. As the 4WD approaches I walk onto the road and hold up my stick ushering the Loafers across with the words: “Sorry this is an emergency. These people have not eaten for three minutes. You are not a local, please take the next right, which will take you to South Yarra.”

One of the Loafers said: “I’m from Brighton, dear, and if you did that where I’m from you’d be run down.”

“Yes,” I replied, “That’s why I live here.”

Unless you need to tow a horse float or you are the Bush Tucker man, you don’t need a 4WD. When I walk along High Street, Malvern, and see rows of four-wheel-drives that have spent even less time in the bush than Telstra, I want to pull out my key and scratch into their pristine duco BUY A SMALLER CAR YOU GREEDY SELFISH —- Or ride a bike and save on the lipo.

Give me pide, gozleme and baklava, not circuses.

THERE’S nothing more glorious than Melbourne in March. Our beautiful city becomes so alive it shimmers. The nights get cooler and darker, the kids are in bed by 8pm and we get reacquainted with our Doona, our risotto recipes and our winter coats.

The loveliness of March in Melbourne takes me by surprise every year. But we’re always guaranteed the odd scorcher during March to remind us that we live on a tropical island. Or in the case of this week, a ball-tearing heatwave. Welcome to Melbourne. The slogan on our licence plates shouldn’t be “On The Move”. It should be “Bring Bathers. And a Jumper”. It’s not all picnics and icy poles though. March is the month of the revolting, corrosive, environmental and cultural vandalism that is the Grand Prix. Don’t get me started. Point made. This was meant to be a happy piece.

Blame it on the madness of the March weather but I found myself at Moomba twice last weekend despite my general reluctance to drag myself out to events such as the Royal Melbourne Show, Moomba or the Melbourne Cup for fear of finding myself wrangling three kids in a soup of bogans, grumpy families and drunks.

I took a mate down to the festivities on Saturday night. He’s in his 60s, born abroad, and has been a resident of our fair city for only seven years. We laughed at the bloke with the jock rock announcer voice commentating on the water-skiing who turned the term “ladies and gentlemen” into one word and punctuated every sentence with it. As we wandered through the garish-coloured rides, the intoxicating smelling crap food, the fireworks and the sideshows run by people with bad teeth my companion said, “This could be anywhere. I feel as if I’m overseas.” I replied, “You are.”

On Sunday, I fulfilled one of my childhood dreams and finally made it to the Birdman Rally. Sure, I went to the parade as a little tacker and I waved like a loony at Zig and Zag despite finding them slightly creepy, but I never made it to the Birdman Rally. Now I can die a happy woman. Why I don’t feel the need to get stroppy about the name Birdman, not Birdperson, I can’t explain despite the fact women too dress up and jump off all in the name of “because I can”.

As I watched most of the competitors make no attempt at aeronautical ingenuity despite elaborate costumes, I thought, “This is just dickheads jumping into the water to take the piss.” And I loved them for it. When I say “dickheads”, I mean that in a good way. In the same way when I say Channel Nine executives I mean that in a bad way. To the man in the cardboard Messerschmidt, the turquoise alien and the bloke with the pink wings flying the even pinker giant fluffy unicorn, I’d like to say thank you. Thank you for taking the piss.

I don’t know what being an Australian is, but what I do know is that taking the piss is such a crucial element of who we are. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t take the piss. The worst thing you can call an Australian is uptight or up themselves. At the Birdman Rally I watched an assortment of yahoos, wags and loonies prepared to make total dickheads of themselves purely in the name of taking the piss — appropriately, too, when reminded of the story about the origins of the name Moomba meaning “Up your bum white man”. I don’t care if that story is true or false, it’s just too good to let fact contaminate it.

When my son Charlie was four I attempted to impress him with a dog responding to commands. “Max, sit,” I said. And the dog sat. “Max, shake,” I said. And the dog shook. Charlie looked at the dog and said, “Max, fly”. And as anyone who understands the limitless imagination of a four-year-old will know, Charlie quite expected Max to fly. You know that thing about people only going to the car racing hoping to see a crash? Watching the Birdman Rally I realised that everyone there actually hoped to see someone fly.

Community festivals such as Moomba are integral to the fabric of our society. They get us out of our little biospheres in search of joy. We check out people from other tribes and are reminded that we live, not just in a society, but in a community. “Community” seems such an empty word at times. Festivals make you feel what a community is and be embraced by it. And like making a dickhead of yourself at the Birdman Rally next year.

It was about this time last year my cousin Jim, in his 50’s received the news he’d been accepted into university to study behavioral science. He’s taken to it like a luvvy to latte and got straight As in his first year.

When I asked Jim (who’s marriage breakdown lead him to psychotherapy to deal with the rage, blame and control created by the emotional trauma of being raised by very damaged people) why he wanted to be a psychologist he replied, “I want to stop any more dads throwing their children off the Westgate Bridge.”  Which is what happened this time last year. “Why did he do it?” people asked at the time, desperately trying to make sense of an irrational action with devastating consequences that came from something broken deep inside he may not have even known was broken and if he did, could not find the tools to fix.  “Because he was sick,” I’d answer.  “No other reason. He was sick and not getting effective treatment. That’s not what healthy people do.”

When I told some girlfriends about my brave and beautiful cousin’s mission, my mate Sue said “When Jim’s finished his degree can you ask him why men only do something when it’s too late?”

Mental Health Blowout The Age Saturday January 30 moaned “Medicare spending on psychological therapy blowing our by $1.5 billion by 2011, twice it’s allocation.”

What?  How about “The constant underestimation of the enormous social costs of metal illness and the medieval attitude towards people suffering mental illness to  “get over themselves, stop whinging and get on with it like the rest of us” has lead to the realization that the pitiful amount of money allocated to deal with this important issue is nowhere near enough.”

Blowout.  Loaded term number one.   How can it be a “blowout?” The budget is arbitrarily created.  You can allocate amounts however you like just because something is under funded doesn’t mean it’s absorbing more resources than it needs.

One in 5 people suffer mental illness.  And they always have.  This is not some ‘recent development’.   Mental health is under funded and under resourced. Can anyone tell me of anything more important we can put our resources into than investing in the mental health of our community?

“The blowout wlll put pressure on this year’s budget. “

Pressure.  Loaded term number two.  I don’t remember reading about how the government propping up private health funds is putting ‘pressure’ on the health budget.  Or the huge rise in caesarians due to the government’s doctor pandering despite mountains of evidence to towards midwife care is blowing out the health budget.

And who knows how much pressure it’s taking off people suffering mental illness and their families.

There are concerns the Federal Government hasn’t released any evidence that the consultations are improving mental health.  Which doesn’t mean they don’t have any any. And just because they don’t have any evidence, or have evidence to the contrary that doesn’t mean it’s not helping.  Maybe it’s not visible yet, maybe they’re not asking the right questions or looking in the right places. Emotional corrosion takes a long time to set in and a long time to fix.   Mental illness is something you often can’t  “see” until it’s too late. It’s possible you can’t see the benefit if it’s too early.

There are concerns therapies are failing to reach men and young people.  It’s imperative we deal with this swiftly and effectively.  But not by taking the resources away from people who are being treated and gaining benefit.  Many of these people are women needing treatment to deal with the sickness of the men and the young people they are supporting. Mental illness can be contagious contracted via the emotional pollution it creates.

Women are often the soul support for many men and young people who suffer mental illness because they don’t get professional help. This support often lessens the urgency for them to seek assistance. It’s a huge burden for these women. And not effective.  Most women have no mental health training. It’s a fine line between supporting and enabling destructive behavior.

Many people have approached me asking why no one is talking about the crisis in men’s mental health and urging me to say something. They usually suggest women are going to have to do something about it because the men can’t or won’t.

But it’s not a women’s job.  Many are doing it and clearly it’s not working.

A bloke recently pleading with me to write about in the men’s mental health crisis told me he recently attended a launch of a book navigating Men’s Midlife Crisis. 40 or so people turned up. All but two were women, and the two men were both psychologists.

One thing that can happen with the increased access to therapy is a shift in cultural change and a reduction in stigma which will normalize the equation, and help men and young people to access mental health support.  Changing the thought from “I need to be strong and not ask for help.  Instead I will self medicate with work, sex, drugs, blame and denial because I am scared of what will happen if I sit in a chair and open up” to  “I am hurting the people around me and detonating my life maybe I need to talk to someone.  That’s what I’ve seen other people around me do.”
Article from The Age on Mental Health Blow Out.