WASN’T it hilarious how World Youth Day was an attempt to make Catholicism appear all modern and trendy, but what it achieved was to highlight how deluded and anachronistic the religion is?

The cavernous gap between the fresh-faced young teenagers and the old blokes in frocks and party hats was never more apparent than when the words “pilgrim” and “texting” were used in the same sentence. Repeatedly.

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I had to laugh when I heard that “Ratzinger Rules” had been spray-painted on the Hyde Park War Memorial. And when I saw pilgrims chanting, “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Oi! Oi! Oi!” I can’t help wondering how the teenage pilgrims coped with their hormones and no condoms and what the consequences will be in a few weeks’ time.

The fusion of wild youth and religious rapture is a complicated reality. A complicated reality I assume was responsible for the GOD ROCKS! graffiti I saw on an old stone church yesterday.

I don’t give a stuff what people believe in, but it won’t stop me poking at it or prodding it. Why should religion be any exemption? Telling me I’m going to hell won’t bother me because I have the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the Invisible Pink Unicorn and Bertrand Russell’s Teapot in my heart. Google them if you are in the market for some red hot enlightenment.

Over the past couple of weeks Catholic-bashing has been elevated to the level of an extreme sport. Put your hand down at the back there, I’m allowed to. I spent every Sunday for the first 18 years of my life sitting in a medieval torture chamber listening to a bloke bang on about his imaginary friend who did magic tricks. Then the next 20 years massaging, editing and pruning the brainwashing into something that fit until suddenly I woke up one day and realised I was an atheist.

I wasn’t searching for anything. I wasn’t dabbling or questioning. I wasn’t having any kind of spiritual breakdown. I just opened my eyes one day, looked around and realised that I had once been standing in a house and one by one the walls had collapsed and there was no longer a house there. I was standing out in the open. It was very liberating.

Funny though. For a while I would go to pray and then remind myself that I didn’t believe. These days I send out wishes. I know, just as crazy.

I question some of my progressive, believing mates about if they believe in Noah’s ark, the Immaculate Conception, Adam and Eve, the Resurrection, even heaven, and they squirm a little and try to change the subject. They get vague, defensive and then start muttering something about faith and mystery and a power of love that unites us all.

Sure, it would be easy to torture them, but they’re adults and it’s their life. I just can’t see why it’s so difficult to have a rigorous discussion about it. I feel no need to convert them. I just want them to know that if you are brave enough to place your hand through the invisible electric fence there’s a bigger world beyond.

It’s been a revelation to me a year since my “epiphany”. I feel as if I’m walking through life with the blinkers off. Suddenly all the religious mumbo-jumbo jumps out as so bonkers. Wearing certain things, eating certain things, mumbling certain things at certain times so some imaginary friend will let you into a club in the sky when you die. I want to do my living now, thanks. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of never having lived.

There is a school of thought that suggests atheists should not call themselves atheists but just say we apply rational thought to everything and religion is no exception.

As Sam Harris, author of The End Of Faith, puts it, “I think that ‘atheist’ is a term that we do not need, in the same way that we don’t need a word for someone who rejects astrology.

“We simply do not call people ‘non-astrologers’. All we need are words like ‘reason’ and ‘evidence’ and ‘common sense’ and ‘bullshit’ to put astrologers in their place, and so it could be with religion.”

I don’t care what people believe in, but I do care that religion impacts on political discourse, public policy and that it stunts the ability of people to think for themselves and question. And that it kills people and causes suffering. But most of all I care that the invisible electric fences that are wired in the minds of children brainwashed by religion are difficult to remove. And impossible if you don’t even know they’re there.

A quote attributed to Stephen F. Robert sums it up for me: “We are both atheists, I just believe in one fewer god than you do. When you understand why you dismiss all the other possible gods, you will understand why I dismiss yours.”

Peace be with you.

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IT’S easy to forget that we’re just mammals wearing clothes. I’m always reminded when the spring racing carnival comes around of the primal urge we have as animals to procreate. The females of the species slink about in their strappy, low-cut dresses and high heels, and the males of the species scrub up in their cheap suits and wraparound sunglasses, both drawn to the breeding ground during mating season, and then become socially lubricated with alcohol. Sure, there’s the odd accountant on his RDOs wearing a nappy and sporting a beer can on his head with a tube going into his mouth. He can be explained by the term “natural selection”.

Don’t go thinking that my landscape of friends and acquaintances is one hotbed of adultery, but there has been disproportionate talk (and some action) in recent times on the subject of extracurricular intimacy. We’re talking flings, one-night stands, crushes, online romances and full-on affairs involving people in committed relationships. Which has made me ponder the mammals wearing clothes thing again.

Does anyone want to eat the same meal every night for 40 years? Wear the same shoes every day? Is it possible? Is it healthy?

Lifelong monogamy is an unrealistic expectation that makes people feel like failures. And if you don’t believe me, take one look at the divorce statistics. People are torn between their emotions and an archaic expectation that was conceived when the average life expectancy was 30. Monogamy is a wonderful way to maintain what the church and the state would call “social order” and, more importantly, to ensure paternity to hand wealth down to offspring.

Things are different now. In First World countries most people’s lives are no longer just about survival. Seeing survival’s sorted, we’re distracted by the promise of stimulation, happiness, constant change and upgrading. Eating our way up the food chain via hedonism and desire.

Yes, of course I think lifelong monogamy is a wonderful concept. And I would love to think that we would all find a mate for life and live happily ever after and be buried in the ground side by side for all eternity and never fancy another person. But it’s an unrealistic expectation. That is not to say that we shouldn’t try our best to achieve it. You can’t go into a relationship thinking: “I’ll stay till I get bored or she gets fat.” The mantra of for better or worse, richer and poorer, sickness and health is something that applies to all relationships. Not just sexual ones.

We have to remind ourself that lifelong monogamy is almost impossible and not beat ourselves or other people up if that goal is not reached. Sure, some people manage it, but they are even fewer than you think. Don’t tell me that behind every one of those rock-solid 50-year marriages there hasn’t been a stolen kiss, a lust-filled night or yearning for the one that got away. Forty years without one flush of attraction for another. I don’t buy it.

Lifelong monogamy is as big a fluke and as unattainable a goal as being a supermodel. It’s a lucky equation of genetics, environment and airbrushing.

I’m never surprised that people split up. I’m surprised they stay together. Being in a relationship is not simple. Or easy. Ask anyone. It’s not possible to experience a long-term relationship and not at some stage think: “How bad does it have to be to leave?” No matter how well you think you know someone, you don’t know the person you are embarking on a relationship with. They don’t even know themselves. How is it possible to know how the two of you will grow and change, how you will cope with the different terrains and how you will respond to each other’s reactions? Apparently, arranged marriages last longer than the romantic type. But are they as happy? Or happier?

It’s not your fault if it doesn’t last as long as you would hope. I was almost going to use the word “fail” there as in “it’s not your fault if it fails”. But it’s not about failure. I don’t see the end of a 20-year relationship that has run its course as a failure. Nor do I see a 40-year relationship full of passive aggression, sulking and discontent as a success.

But what about the notion of spiritual theft? An open relationship is one thing, but what about a secret connection on the side that is filling the desire for something more breathless, more glittery, more slippery, more illusive. Something you just don’t get in a long-term relationship. Some people have confided in me that an affair has saved their relationship. We hear all the bad affair stories, but never the good affair stories. Most would say that it’s not right, but I can see that some people may feel that if no one is being hurt, that it is not totally wrong either.

An afternoon with Clare Bowditch, Marieke Hardy and Catherine Deveny BOOK NOW!

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Other countries fight for their independence. We could just have ours, writes Catherine Deveny.

EVEN if the Australian flag had a picture of a bloke called Davo chucking a brown-eye on it or the image of a pav whipped up by Aunty Bev, I don’t imagine that I could ever be a flag waver. But at least if our country’s flag did have these pictures, I’d be able to look at it and not feel like a 40-year-old still living at home with my parents.

Still being part of “The Empire” feels exactly like that. Like we are living at home with our parents. Despite attempting to delude ourselves that we are “world class”, a “global leader”, or “part of the axis of evil” – sorry, meant to write “member of the coalition of the willing” – we are a dole-bludging bong-head living out the back of our parents’ place. (No offence to dole-bludging bong-heads living out the back of their parents’ place.)

Even Prince Charles thinks that it’s time we flew the coop. He’s gone down to the bungalow, stormed in and said: “Are you still here? One thought one got one’s arse into gear ages ago. One might consider pulling one’s finger out and getting one’s own life.”

And what have we done? Sat there in our tracky-dacks and boxing kangaroo singlet, handed the spliff to our mate Knackers, picked up the PlayStation controller and said: “Can’t be stuffed, mate.”

Because we tried once. Didn’t work out. So we just continue self-medicating with a couple of she’ll be rights and a lie down every arvo. “‘Cause if it ain’t broke mate . . .” But it is. Australia is broke because it’s never been fixed. It’s never been assembled. It’s still in the flat pack with the allen key.

Are the English going to have to chuck us out first? Are we that laid back? $100 says that England’s going to be a republic before us. “Sorry chaps, we are selling the family home and buying a campervan. To use your own term, ‘you’re rooted.’ ”

How embarrassing is it that we aren’t a republic? I cringe when I meet folks from abroad and they realise that we are still part of the Commonwealth. I shrink when they ask why we have England’s Queen on our coins, only for me to tell them that she’s our Queen too. They’re flabbergasted.

I have often wondered why the Queen can have the top job in Australia despite the fact that it defies our equal opportunity laws. “Yes, we proudly enforce our meritocracy and rules of equality . . . apart from the boss lady because that’s different.”

So much for common wealth. The Queen’s fortune was recently conservatively estimated to be about $US500 million ($A590 million) by Forbes magazine. Some suggest that it’s closer to $US10 billion. Would it kill her to spread it round a bit?

I hate to admit it, but a recent trip to America had me envious of their flag. A flag they chose and were not allocated. They talk of their founding fathers, their War of Independence and their coming of age. They made a decision. And they fought for it. East Timor has self-determination and we do not. What a scathing example of our apathy that is. How easy it would be for us. And how difficult it was for them.

Let me simplify this for you. We have a referendum. The question is: Do you want us to be a republic? Tick the box. A. YES. B. NO. C. LET ME ASK MY HUSBAND.

Keep the Westminster system. Personally, I’d be happy with a benevolent socialist dictatorship, but that’s what happens when you have a columnist from the People’s Republic of Moreland.

As far as a president is concerned, I don’t give a rat’s about the process. The president could be Tony Mokbel’s rug for all I care, just so long as we are a republic. And why do we need to call our head of state the president? How about something more Australian. Like “the Big Whoop”. “Please Stand for the Big Whoop of the Republic Of Australia. Shane Keith Warne . . .”

What do we do about the Commonwealth Games? We change the name to the Piss-Weak Countries Who Have Bugger-all Chance of Winning at the Olympic Games. All those royal hospitals, royal societies, with your royal this and royal that? Change the word from “Royal” to “Bonzer”, “Ripper” or “Beaut”.

Being a republic will make a monumental difference to Australia. We will stop looking to other countries and look at ourselves. Our confidence will blossom, our dynamism will flourish and our imagination will run wild. Our originality will leave other countries thinking: “If they can do that, maybe so can we.” And it will affect our daily lives.

It will break my heart if I don’t die in the Republic of Australia.

 

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1. The right to redefinition

 Any sportsman who has displayed the behaviour of a thug, an alcoholic, a violent sociopath or a rapist has the right to be described as a ‘rough diamond,’ ‘loveable rogue’ or ‘knock about character’ with a ‘heart of gold.’ 

2. The right to fish for compliments from foreign visitors

Citizens have the right to ask foreigners, ‘How do you like Australia?’ If the foreigner does not respond enthusiastically that ‘Australia is the greatest place in the world,’ the foreigner is immediately to be deported and forced to wear a Ken Done ‘I Love Australia’ T-shirt for the rest of their lives. 

3. The prohibition against excluding oneself from a shout

When draining a few cans at a local establishment, no person is to undermine the liberty of his compatriots by refusing to participate in the shout – excuses of being a poof, having to get up early or being violently allergic to alcohol notwithstanding. 

4. The right to cringe, culturally speaking

a) When watching a feature film from Overseas, the appearance of any person with an Australian accent is to be heralded with the excited ejaculation: ‘That guy’s Australian. Did you hear that?’

b) Citizens must take every opportunity to remind fellow citizens that we invented the Hills Hoist, the VCR and the wine cask. ‘We’ means all of us. It is prohibited to acknowledge the names of the individuals responsible. When one wins, we all win. When one of us fails, he or she is unAustralian.

c) A citizen is honoured with the title ‘Our’ when people from Overseas acknowledge he or she exists. E.g. ‘Our Hugh,’ ‘Our Nic,’ ‘Our Cate,’ ‘Our Kylie’ and ‘Our Mary, Princess of Denmark.’

 

5. The right to bear jingos

The flying of the Australian flag outside a person’s home or the wearing of an Australian flag to a sporting event is an unassailable right of Australian citizens. It confirms their jingoism and reinforces their belief that Australia is better than Anywhere Else and, by extension, that they are better than Anyone Else for living Here. 

6. The responsibility to Australianise

Citizens are required to act ‘more Australian than Steve Irwin’ when conversing with recently arrived visitors from Overseas. Citizens are required to punctuate sentences with ‘bonza,’ ‘sheila,’ ‘crikey,’ ‘strewth’ and ‘cobber,’ and to draw the visitor’s attention to our extreme weather and dangerous animals. It is imperative for citizens to imply that foreigners are weak and would be unable to live here because they ‘couldn’t hack it.’ It is compulsory for citizens to extract an admission of defeat or inadequacy from the foreigner.

7. Ladies, bring a plate

8. The right to the survival of our language

The use of the terms ‘Pull my finger,’ ‘I’ve had a gutful,’ ‘What are you looking at?,’ ‘I shagged your sister,’ ‘Come here and say that,’ ‘You. Me. Carpark. Now,’ ‘While you’re down there,’ ‘Have a stab,’ and ‘Cracked the shits’ is enshrined in this charter. So too the universal recognition that a person you call ‘a bastard’ you are fond of, but a person you call ‘a bit of a bastard’ you are not.

9. The right to denial

Citizens have the right to refuse to acknowledge the existence of Tall Poppy Syndrome by playing the Underdog Card. Identifying as an underdog comforts the citizen who is not successful enough to be a tall poppy, while conveying the impression they never wanted to be one anyway, because tall poppies are wankers and deserve to be cut down. Even though they don’t exist.

10. The right to make jokes about New Zealanders

All citizens have the right to refer to Kiwis as ‘sheep shaggers,’ categorically refusing to acknowledge that that’s what the rest of the world calls us.

11. The right to crack open a can of who gives a rat’s?

Federation? Constitution? Words to the national anthem? Stuffed if I know.

12. There is a universal agreement that over the fence is out.

13. The right to claim the normal human response to tragedy as ‘uniquely Australian’

When a national tragedy occurs, citizens must vicariously experience the event via media saturation and trauma porn. Citizens must comment that acts of compassion and assistance are ‘uniquely Australian’ and ‘an intrinsic part of the Australian character.’ Any suggestion that this is a normal reaction and a universal expression of the human spirit is prohibited.

14. The right to defend our slags, scrags and scrubbers

Citizens are to be outraged when migrants call our women ‘sluts.’ All citizens are obliged to uphold our women’s honour by strenuously asserting that we have the best sluts in the world, which is why they call this place the Lucky Country. 

15. The right to refuse to loan a power tool

Any person approached by a fellow citizen widely acknowledged to be a bludger, a bit dodgy or a bloody hopeless klepto and requesting to borrow a power tool has the right to respond, ‘Rack off and buy your own, you tight-arse. And by the way, I want me shifters back.’ 

16. Freedom of religion

The religious beliefs of Australian citizens are to be strenuously tolerated and respected. As long as you’re a Christian or not too Jewish, and not weird like those Muslims, those Buddhists or them atheists. The term Christian does not include Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Seventh Day Adventists, people who speak in tongues and pass out or any of those happy-clappy churches that involve public displays of emotion or affection.

17. The right to believe

Citizens are compelled to believe that the Australian accent is the most difficult to learn and that the consumption of Vegemite and beer and the wearing of thongs represent a cultural odyssey and are the test of true patriotism.

18. The use of the word ‘unAustralian’

The word ‘unAustralian’ is to be reserved as the most heinous insult to describe any person, action or opinion not considered to uphold traditional Australian values. The term ‘queue jumper’ is the second most heinous. The opposite of

‘unAustralian’ is ‘little Aussie battler.’ ‘Little Aussie battler’ is Australian for ‘we have a massive chip on our shoulders.’ Little Aussie battlers live on Struggle Street.

19. The biggest crime an Australian can commit is to be up him or herself.

20. The universal rule of lawn

When mowing your nature strip it is customary to mow your neighbour’s. If you don’t, you’re unAustralian. And a queue jumper. And up yourself. 

21. The obligation to celebrate being a good house in a bad street

Citizens of Australia are obliged to puff out their chests and yell ‘Oi! Oi! Oi!’ about being ‘world class’ at anything, no matter how trivial or distasteful. Particularly if it involves beating the Poms.

22. The right to be disappointed

Citizens of Australia maintain the right to be disappointed if their prime minister is not Aussie enough. And when we say Aussie, we mean a piss-head. Citizens are entitled to laugh and mock when watching the prime minister stiffly drink a beer in a country pub while wearing a brand-new Akubra hat and neatly ironed moleskin jeans.

23. The freedom to denationalize

If an Australian succeeds Overseas and acquires an American accent, he or she is no longer considered Australian. E.g. Greg Norman, Helen Reddy, Rupert Murdoch and Elle MacPherson. Mel Gibson is exempt owing to the technicality that he was born in the USA. And that he is mental. If the Australian accent isn’t good enough for you, you are no longer good enough for us. The only exception is

Peter Allen, and that’s only because he sang ‘I Still Call Australia Home.’ In an American accent.

24. The right to emotionally abuse foreigners

When a migrant attempts to assimilate, the wog / chink / darky / towelhead / curry muncher / slaphead or desert rat must be aggressively stereotyped and must submit to verbal ridicule, practical jokes and cultural harassment. Asians can’t drive and are good at fixing computers. Middle Eastern people are all falafel-eating terrorists. Mediterraneans are hotheads who drive too fast and talk with their hands. In the case of Scandinavians, jokes about Ikea and Volvos are required but the knowledge there are differences between Sweden, Norway and Denmark is not. NOTE: English and American nationals are singled out for particularly brutal and sustained treatment. If foreigners take issue with racial vilification it is the obligation of citizens to explain that it’s the way we show people we like them. And if they don’t like it, to tell them to rack off back to their own country.

25. The freedom to sell your soul to the sappers down Khe San

Australian nationals travelling to Asia have the freedom to loudly sing Cold Chisel songs after consuming their bodyweight in alcohol, accusing a taxi driver of ripping them off and blaming the effects of the previous day’s drinking on food poisoning.

26. The right to a fair go

All white, middle-class, heterosexual Australian blokes you are mates with have the right to a fair go.

27. The prohibition against complaining

Citizens are prohibited from correcting a person who has shortened their name, even if they have clearly introduced themselves as Philip, Stephen, Peter, Margaret, Patricia, James or Kathleen. Phil, Stevo, Petey, Marg, Trish, Jim and

Kathy are obliged to shut up and get over themselves. To disregard people’s given and preferred names is a sign of affection. Like it or not. Complaining or mentioning it is unAustralian. 

28. The Dreamtime

No matter how strident and outspoken an atheist, a sceptic or a rationalist may be, they must never question the Dreamtime.

Pushy Women MARCH 14 BUY TICKESTS NOW! WILL SELL OUT!

 

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UPDATE DECEMBER 2012 Call to legalise Ecstasy.

“The present drug classification systems have little relation to the evidence of harm, there is overwhelming evidence ecstasy is significantly less dangerous than alcohol for the user and society generally.

‘Alcohol was found to be most harmful to society and fifth most harmful to users, making it the most harmful drug overall. Ecstasy, on the other hand, causes almost no harm to society and scored very low on the harm done to the user, coming in at 17th overall’ READ MORE

We need a scientific, statistical approach to drugs
October 10, 2007

In Britain, there is a proposal to assess drugs based on the risk they pose, writes Catherine Deveny.

I HAVEN’T taken a lot of drugs in my time, but, like most people my age (I’m 39), I tried almost all of them when I was in my 20s. I’ve taken less than most of my mates because drugs didn’t do that much for me. And because I’m a tight-arse. These days I’m fairly dull. I don’t need to drink to have a good time, I just need to be in bed by 9.30 with a copy of The Monthly.

I’m not saying that drug taking is right or wrong, I’m saying that recreational drugs are a part of life that has been with us for centuries and is here to stay. The situation is unavoidable, although it can be regulated. But we can do more about damage control. My mates in their early 20s tell me that “only bogans drink” and they prefer to take recreational drugs on a Saturday night. They mention drink-driving laws, the violence associated with drunks and calorie intake. They are not concerned about the long-term effects of drug use. Twenty-two, bullet-proof and “it won’t happen to me”. But the young folk do respond to balanced information and the experiences of their peers, both negative and positive.

Young people experiment with drugs. My kids will take drugs. What am I going to tell them? I don’t know yet. But truth will be a large part of it. There’ll be a policy that we will pick them up or pay for a cab from wherever, whenever if they are not fit to drive or if things get out of hand. No questions asked.

And then there are drugs in sport. We all agree that it’s just not cricket for people who take performance-enhancing drugs to compete against people who don’t. Runner Marion Jones’ recent confession that she was off her head on rocket fuel was too little, too late. She should have been fessing up before they put the Olympic gold medals around her neck.

There should be two leagues of sporting competition. Clean and drugged. If athletes want to push themselves to human limits with the assistance of pharmaceuticals, bionics and blood transfusions, go for gold. But you compete on a level playing field against the other mega ‘roid rage humans. If you want to play clean, play clean. But if you’re in the clean team and you get sprung doing drugs, you’re off to the drugged league. Forever. And I know which league most spectators would prefer to watch.

The Federal Government wants all Australian elite athletes tested for illicit recreational drug use anywhere, any time. And I don’t understand why.

If it is about athletes being role models, why are other role models such as musicians, actors, politicians, writers, doctors and lawyers exempt?

Performance-enhancing drugs? Sure, test away. Zero tolerance. But recreational? If the Government wants to limit recreational drug use, which it doesn’t, they’d be legalising the stuff. They are content to give the public an illusion of a “war on drugs”, with reports of the drug busts in the news making it look like they are doing a good job. What they are doing is trying to look as if they are putting out a bushfire with a spray bottle. The Government is soft on drugs, heavy on hypocrisy and piss-weak on alcohol.

Recreational drugs are not our biggest problem. Alcohol is far more addictive and destructive. And we all know it. Drink-driving, family trauma and alcohol-fuelled violence are far bigger problems than recreational drugs. Tobacco causes 40 per cent of hospital illnesses, while alcohol is blamed for more than half of all visits to emergency rooms. Yet if someone dies because of recreational drugs, it makes the front page.

Early this year British medical journal The Lancet published a landmark study that found alcohol and tobacco were more dangerous than some illegal drugs such as marijuana and ecstasy. They assessed the drugs on three levels: “the physical harm to the user, the drug’s potential for addiction, and the impact on society of drug use”.

They questioned the scientific rationale for Britain’s drug classification system and called for “a new classification of harmful substances, based on the actual risks posed to society”. And we all know that’s not going to happen.

Some recreational drugs are worse than others. And others are less addictive and harmful than alcohol. I am calling for an approach to drugs in our society that is scientifically and statistically based. The more damage a drug is causing to the user and the community, the tighter the control should be. And that includes alcohol.

According to Professor David Nutt, the bloke who ran The Lancet drug study: “All drugs are dangerous. Even the ones people know and love and use every day.” Cheers.

 

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MEN COULD NEVER get into Pilates. Why? Not enough stuff to buy. How many yoga mats and pairs of Thai fisherman pants can you have? That’s why blokes love cycling. Ride for an hour, come home and then spend five hours trawling the net for the perfect high-modulus-weave carbon-fibre seat post.

Is it my imagination or is the world being taken over by Lycra louts with their arses in the air, their handlebars on the bitumen and their anti-erectile-dysfunction gel inserts firmly installed?

My partner is mad for it. I realised this, not when I woke one morning to find “boys from the bunch” drinking coffee and comparing pubic bone heights. And it wasn’t when he sat up all night watching the Tour de France in full cycling gear complete with silly little cap, saying the word “peloton” a lot. I realised he was obsessed when he wheeled out his bike and sheepishly asked, in a “Does my bum look big in this?” voice, “Are these carbon-fibre shifters too much with the silver alloy components and the shallow-bend handlebars?”

I smiled, backed away slowly and ran screaming: “FREAK! FREAK! THE MAN IN THE LYCRA WITH THE SHAVED LEGS IS A FREAK!”

At 8am in his bike gear he’s not going anywhere, he’s “just done a quick 100 kilometres in a bunch with Cadel Evans”. This from a man who used to drive up to the shops to buy his family-size block of Cadbury Dairy Milk.

Suddenly it’s all bike bling and cycling porn. Our bedroom is knee-deep in magazines with articles like “Hot Pumps, Top Routes and Tight Quads!”, “Chicks Who Like Their Saddles with Titanium Rails” and “Check out the oversized tubing on that, lads!”

Some Christians have the letters WWJD (What Would Jesus Do) tattooed on their wrist. My partner has the letters WWLAD (What Would Lance Armstrong Do).

Cycling keeps you fit, saves the planet and gives men the opportunity to wear fluorescent yellow. But, man, is it boring to watch. If you don’t believe me, check out Cycling Central. “Coming up in today’s exciting show: people riding up hills, people riding down hills, and some people riding slightly faster than others.” It’s the difference between watching a sport and a game. Cycling is a sport. Golf is a game. Put that on your knicks, Bracksy.

There is no larger distance than the distance between people who would rather poke themselves in the eye with a pencil than watch this and cycling freaks. There’s no biffo, the bingles are few and far between and when they happen you actually feel them because everyone has been eight years old and come a cropper fanging down a hill.

The “exciting attacks” look like one snail going a little less slow than the other. If you know your pubic bone height, tune intoCycling Central and you’ll thank me. Also a great watch for the cycling obsessed is Sooty Park. It’s a magazine-style cycling show that covers everything from couriers to recumbents. Less bling, more fun and a few laughs. Kind of the poor man’s bicycle version of Top Gear.

 

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THE only people that you will find outdoors at the moment are prostitutes, smokers and cyclists. And it seems in many circles that is how their social desirability is currently rated, in descending order.

I’ve had a gutful of “cyclists are a menace” comments. A car cuts them off? The driver is an idiot. A cyclist cuts them off? ALL cyclists are menaces and they should ALL be off the road and NONE OF THEM should be allowed to breed. Here’s the truth: cars kill, injure, annoy, abuse, cut off and hassle far more cyclists than vice versa. And if you don’t believe me, get on a bike.

There are thugs, lunatics, idiots and morons in all areas of life and cycling is no exception. So why is the odd maverick Lycra lout not simply viewed as an exception rather than an accurate representation of the entire cycling community?

You think the Hell Ride goes along Beach Road every Sunday? You should talk to some of the mums and dads, commuters and students who pedal during peak hour and they’ll tell you stories of road rage that will make you think every day is a hell ride for them.

I want to say thank you. To all the cyclists getting out there in the wind, and the cold, and the rain and pedalling to work, to school, to get about their daily business. They are cutting down on road congestion, helping the environment, freeing up parking spots and reducing their stress levels through both exercise and the financial bonus of a cheaper form of transport.

Many households could (and do) solve the “no time to exercise, can’t afford a second car and no parking at work” equation with a bicycle. Others solve it by buying a second car that they can’t afford; which contributes to the national debt and in turn inflation and then up goes the interest rates as well as our carbon emissions.

Lay off the cyclists. They should be paid for commuting. We should be standing at the traffic lights handing them drinks and giving them towels when they arrive at work. The Government should be doing everything in its power to encourage and facilitate safe cycling in our glorious city.

Good news. Cycling is not just the new golf. Bicycles are the new cars. Australians have been buying more bicycles than cars for the past seven years. More good news. The British Medical Association found that the risk of inactivity is 20 times greater than the health risk posed by a potential accident on a bike.

According to Bicycle Victoria, cycling numbers along Swanston Street (Melbourne’s cycling spine) have grown 680 per cent in 15 years. Cycle awareness will increase the more people cycle. People are more conscious of cyclists if their partner, their parent, their sibling, their mate, their children or themselves are out on the road pedalling.

A wonderful culture of cycling is flourishing. A few weeks ago I saw a line of peak hour traffic create a wider birth than was necessary for the stream of cyclists as the road narrowed. And whoever is behind the Free Bike Repairs at the north gate of Carlton Gardens every Sunday should be hoisted onto a sedan chair and given some kind of civic reception.

On May 28, 2006, the first Cyclovia in Melbourne was held. Cyclovia means “life to the streets” and it’s been happening for more than 30 years around the world. A section of Sydney Road was closed off to cars from 8am to 2pm and people cycled, rollerbladed and strolled. All you could hear was the clicking of gears and the whoosh of bike tyres. It was marvellous.

Between 1974 and 2003, travel to school by car rose from 22.6 per cent to 70 per cent. Children being driven to school accounts for 18 per cent of peak hour traffic in Melbourne. We are constantly being told that children are getting fatter and driving cars is now the environmental equivalent to piping cigarette smoke into humidicribs.

Yet there are still plenty of people who could easily walk or ride their children to school at least a couple of times a week who don’t simply because they can’t be bothered. The most effective way parents can encourage children to ride bikes is by riding bikes themselves.

Children should be encouraged to think of their bike not just as fun and exercise but transport.

The Japanese believe that by carrying their babies on their back it teaches the child when to bow. I suggest that parents riding with their children in baby seats and on tagalongs gives them an instinctive understanding of the flow of traffic. Keep in mind that I have no facts to back that up, it’s just what I reckon. I suppose that’s why this page is called Opinion.

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