Tracy Grirmshaw vs. Matty Johns

Published 23 May 2008

The most stunning television I’ve seen for a very long time was on Channel Nine last week. You can’t handle the truth?  Mate, I can’t handle the truth.

If you haven’t watched Grimshaw’s interview with ‘rugby league superstar” and ‘television personality’ Matthew Johns don’t walk but run to watch it online.  Grimshaw should win a Walkley or possibly the Nobel Prize For Calling A Spade A Rapist. This interview should be on the syllabus of every school.

Seven years ago Matthew Johns and a bunch of his teammates had sex with a 19-year-old girl. Four Corners did a story on the epidemic of group sex involving football teams and interviewed the girl who named Johns.  A Current Affair followed up with one of the most harrowing interviews I’ve ever seen.  I sobbed.  For the victim, the state of football and the mess many of our menfolk are in and that the rest of us are enabling.

Johns repeated the terms “willing participant” “the hurt and embarrassment caused to my wife and family” and used the word “unsavory” to describe what was clearly a spiritual gang rape without showing an iota of compassion to the victim. Grimshaw dismantled the familiar rhetoric with precision that left me breathless. After explaining he’d left the room at one point and then returned to check, “everything was okay” Grimshaw replied, “You see Matthew, most right thinking people would be thinking how could you look at that scenario and see anything was okay. She was 19 years old.  She was naked. And she was outnumbered…..Isn’t there something in your mind that said this is wrong, on every level? This is a vulnerable woman.  She wants more from this situation than we’ll ever be able to give her."

It was this that unraveled me. 

“Lets say she offered herself.  If I suggested to you the women who do that are looking to feel special for a while.  They see you all as sports Gods and they want a little bit of your fame and adulation and your specialness to rub off on them...Did it occur to you that that girl laying on the bed was somebody’s sister someone’s daughter, a girl with hopes and dreams and aspirations of her own?’

John’s wife Trish’s take was,  “His crime is infidelity to me as his wife and I am the only person who can judge him on that.” When asked, “How do you view this girl?” Trish answered, “I certainly wouldn’t like it to be my daughter.”  The look on Trish’s face seemed to say, “She’s a slut who’s stuffed up our lives, ruined my husband’s reputation and my life with it.”  When she said, “I’m glad she’s not my daughter” it may have been unclear to some but crystal to me that she didn’t mean, “because of what that poor girl went through” but “because I would be humiliated.”

I didn’t think Grimshaw had it in her to go one of the most alpha of the alpha males on Australia’s biggest embarrassment Channel Nine.  But she did.  Take a bow Tracey Grimshaw.

Footy Show. Pigs In Suits.

Bankrupt orgy of male chauvinism

Published June 17 2007

The Footy Show is fooling no one: a misogynist in a suit is still a degrading spectacle.

I HAVE JUST WATCHED three episodes of The Footy Showand I feel like Sammy Davis jnr at a Ku Klux Klan rally, like Dannii Minogue at a Mensa convention, like George Pell in 2007.

I'm not into plants but I like Gardening Australia, I'm not into quiz shows but I like The Einstein Factor, I'm not into cars but I likeTop Gear, so not being into footy isn't the reason that I'm repelled by this destructive, small-minded, morally bankrupt orgy of chauvinism. The Footy Show is a celebration of the very worst that television, sport, Australia and human beings can cook up. It's offensive, toxic, corrosive, encouraging viewers to be stupid, shallow and sexist. Sit down, shut up and hang on. And ladies, bring a plate.

The Footy Show is nothing more than media-sanctioned misogyny. And so much less. Tune in and you'll feel you've woken up in 1952. A man in a full body condom, men dressed as women, girls in bikinis, guys stuffing toilet paper down their jocks, dickheads, wankers and yobs. The few women that I did see were leered at, one called "a bitch" and another told to "get f---ed" (both by Sam Newman). I heard the word "sheilas" and could sense that the words "poofters", "wogs", "slopes" and "spastics" were just below the surface.

Is it the program, the network, the culture of Australian television, or just Newman that is so offensive? It's all of them. But Newman really needs to be singled out for his extraordinary contribution to this tragic, puerile, adolescent show that degrades the culture of football, alienates women and teaches boys that females are slaves, trophies or bitches.

No wonder young footballers are taking drugs. How else can they reconcile this bizarre world with real life? And what's with the suits? Some pathetic attempt to bring respectability to this sad little show? Fat chance.

Newman is vain, ugly, a megalomaniac, a bully. I can't help feeling that deep inside he would be happy for women to have their brains removed and replaced with a bar fridge. He's a dangerous bloke who's paid a lot of money to defile our culture and undermine our intelligence in the most putrid of fashions. For any of you who have sat surrounded by people laughing at this maggot and found yourself thinking there is something wrong with you, there isn't. There's something wrong with him. And them.

The Footy Show catapults sexism into an extreme sport. Football shows don't have to be a cross between a buck's night and a lynching. And if you don't believe me, watch Before the Game. It's not as blokey, and that's not just because there is a woman on the panel but because the blokes are not as blokey. The jokes are not as blokey. And the content is intelligent. Think Roy and HG, Live and Sweaty, Talking Footy and The Fat. Australia has an impressive history and culture of intelligent, entertaining sports shows that put The Footy Show to shame.

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In the corridors of power, the best woman knows her place

Published May 7 2008

SAM Newman insults and undermines women once again. Not news, I know, more a day in the life of a serial misogynist. He fondled a mannequin with the face of a respected female football commentator and then, when women kicked up, bagged all women associated with football, using the caveat "I love women, I've been married to two or three of them".

CLICK TO READ THE PIGS IN SUITS ARTICLE

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Northland and Southland

Northland and Southland seemed poles apart, mainly because shoppers in the south had teeth — and shoes. GROWING up close to Northland, (regional dialect pronunciation: Norflandz) resulted in my magical childhood shopping odysseys being zoned to the Palace of Shoplifting and Festival of Mullets. Northland: No shirt? No shoes? No worries!

The arrival of the child-endowment cheque was celebrated by the collection of lay-bys from Fosseys and school holidays were marked by pantomimes with names like Carry On Up Jack's Beanstalk or Aladdin My Pants, performed by drunken wannabe Dick Emery types whose biggest claim to fame was once meeting Bernard King. The creepy theatre queens made no attempt to hide their enjoyment of the disproportionate number of times they got the audience of children to yell "he's behind you".

The outing was usually topped off with a visit to Coles cafeteria, where we were treated to jelly that tasted like soap and chicken mornay that tasted like spew. Norflandians were either skinny and smoked Winfields or fat and wore sports wear. The number of fat people in runners and tracksuits on any given day meant blow-ins could easily be excused for thinking some kind of Obese Olympics was being held. Alternatively, blow-ins may have come to the conclusion that Northland was a biosphere breeding ground for Chubby Chaser eye candy — the rivalry between potential suitors being so stiff the chubbies were forced to run (hence the sports wear) to set up competition in order to find the keenest and most athletic chaser with which to mate in an attempt to diversify the gene pool and aid evolution.

Meanwhile, the skinny Norflandians were advancing natural selection by doing circle work in the car park in hotted-up panel vans while their offspring performed impact and velocity experiments using shopping trolleys against brick walls. Sure, they could have used crash-test dummies, but why use a mannequin when you could use your four-year-old half-brother who smoked Camels purchased with the money he'd just got from cashing in aluminium cans? I was also familiar with Southland, because my grandparents lived in Mentone. I mean, Parkdale. Their house was the only one in the Mentone street that was, according to them, in Parkdale, yet used Mentone's postcode. Parkdale was posher. But the only people aware of this were the people who lived in Mentone. We had another relative who didn't live in Northcote but in Westgarth. When people asked where Westgarth was, she'd reply: "Near Ivanhoe and Hawthorn."

My memories of Southland are hazy, slightly nauseous and headachey, which I put down to the journey in my grandparents' overheated Toyota Crown — tartan rug on the parcel shelf, a Thermos in the glove box and the radio stuck on 3AK, Beautiful Music. It was beautiful if you liked panpipes and Manhattan Transfer, which may explain the nausea. The trip was only a couple of kilometres, but because my grandfather — wearing his tam-o'-shanter and an RSL pin in his lapel — drove like a man wearing a tam-o'-shanter and an RSL pin in his lapel, it took 4 years each time. In comparison with Northland, Southland seemed incredibly exotic, almost like a foreign country — possibly because it had a roof garden but more than likely because most of the people had teeth. And shoes. We all have our traditional hunting grounds. Although I loathe shopping centres, there's an alarming familiarity about Northland. A bit like an uncle you hate but you know all his jokes. For 40 years I've lived in our fair city, and I've been to almost every shopping mecca — Knifepoint (I mean Highpoint), a place in Northcote nicknamed Poxy Plaza, Doncaster Shoppingtown — but I've never been to Chadstone. And it's time I did. More later.

Chadstone. No one gets out alive.

Chadstone is the largest shrine to Mammon in Australia. So I went to find out whether the population of Australia (the amount of people who visit each year) could be wrong.

They are. Or I am. You choose.

Chadstone is a metastasised tumour of offensive proportions that's easy to find. You simply follow the line of dead-eyed wage slaves attracted to this cynical, hermetically sealed weatherless biosphere by the promise a new phone will fix their punctured soul and homewares and jumbo caramel mugachinos will fill their gaping cavern of disappointment.

I was thrilled to have the ''almost 9000 car spaces but I still couldn't find a park'' experience along with everyone else who'd thought on this beautiful Sunday morning: ''Mmmm, how can we spend the day avoiding marinating in each other's emotional cesspool and distracting ourselves from the darkness of our souls? I know! Let's head down to the abattoir of souls and buy cheap clothes, processed food and anything with a remote control.''

Chadstone is the same as any other shopping centre, just bigger. The domed glass roof and palm trees only highlight the vast gap between life and this soul-destroying cathedral to emptiness.

Four-wheel-drive mums trading passive-aggressive insults over skinny lattes in the food court. Eight-year-old girls looking like they're about to audition for the Pussycat Dolls. Fat people with a burger in one hand and a bucket of Coke in the other. Old folk on scooters who'd give their right ventricle to be euthanased. A guy in a T-shirt that said Duck My Sick. Sneering, shuffling teenagers. And grown men having clothes bought for them by their mothers, I mean their wives, reminding me women marry men expecting to change them and men marry women expecting them to stay the same.

Why buy a doughnut when you can buy a doughnut maker? Water when you can buy a water filtration unit? Or a pie when you can buy a pie maker? Easy to clean, easy to store and 20 per cent off! Why buy clothes when you could purchase a garment to enhance your ''lifestyle experience''? Most people had more than 10 loyalty cards in their wallets. Loyalty card sluts.

The food is obscene. Its abundance and pointless variety communicate a lack of intrinsic value. As if it were not grown and prepared by humans. Just processed. As I passed the giant cookies and monstrous muffins, The Pancake Parlour looked lamer than usual. But there was an honesty in its lameness I respected. If anyone can illuminate me to the point of Pretzel World I'd forever be in their debt.

No one looks happy. Everyone looks anaesthetised. A day spent at Chadstone made me understand why they call these shopping centres complexes. Complex as in a psychological problem that's difficult to analyse, understand or solve.

What does it say about a culture when shopping is considered a valid form of recreation? It says we have far too much money. The lemmings entering and exiting Chadstone look exactly like the gamblers at the casino. They bound in all excitement and optimism and leave stooped, sad and dragging their feet. Because as tragic as it is, Chadstone seems better than their real lives.

Memento mori is a Latin phrase that means ''remember you will die''. The phrase is also used to describe objects that remind people of their mortality. A mate has a skull as hers, to remind her to live life to the fullest and treasure each day and the people she loves.

Chadstone should be a huge memento mori for us all. If we knew we were all going to be dead in a week, shopping centres would be empty. Truth is, some of us will be dead. If you find yourself heading towards one of these spiritless palaces of consumption, memento mori. Remember you will die and chuck a screaming uey. And if you find yourself in captivity shuffling round with the walking cadavers in search of the next hit, ask yourself if you are already dead.

Check out my new podcast! 

God Is Bullshit: The Resurrection 2011 Melbourne International Comedy Festival

“Gotta love those fundamentalists.  Putting the fun and the mental back into religion...”

God Is Bullshit: The Resurrection part of the 2011 Melbourne International Comedy Festival ON SALE NOW! CLICK HERE TO BUY TICKETS! The perfect Christmas gift for your favorite frothing at the mouth atheist, or hard core bible basher.

"Who was Jesus? So a long time ago there was this woman called Mary and she was a virgin.  Hang on I'll answer questions at the end. And an angel appeared before her and told her that she was going to have a baby.  Shhhh boys, let me finish. So Mary gave birth to Jesus who was the Son of God sent to earth to die for our sins. Hey, cut it out guys this is serious.  When Jesus grew up he performed miracles, walked on water, bought people back from the dead fed a crowd of thousands with a few loaves of bread and couple of fish, turned water into wine and then he was nailed to a cross and he died. But he came back to life three days later. Actually hang on guys. This sounds like a croc of shit.’’ 

Due to popular demand my one-woman show God Is Bullshit is back after a sellout season in the 2010 Melbourne International Comedy Festival. Better and now with 20 percent more blasphemy. BUY TICKETS HERE.  WILL SELL OUT! April 1st-24th at Trades Hall (no performances Monday). 

Strap yourself in for a death-defying ride through my spiritual journey from wannabe Catholic altar girl to atheist eye candy. Hilarious, moving and profound. Big finish. Trust me.

WARNING! May contain traces of Cardinal George Pell, Tony Abbott, Mary McKillop, liturgical dancing and bizarre Bible stories. 

Here's what some middle aged, middle class rich white guys had to say about God Is Bullshit....

“Deveny's shock and awe humor does for atheism what Mark Arbib does for espionage. And she's still my favorite tweep.”

Tony Jones - host of ABC’s Q and A

"Sexier than Christopher Hitchens, funnier than Richard Dawkins, and more ethical than George Pell, Catherine Deveny is not to be missed."

Peter Singer - Author, Philosopher and Professor of Bioethics, Princeton University

Deveny as the courage to say what so many of us think and makes you proud to be a card-carrying atheist.  I wish she was my mother. Seeing God Is Bullshit was the best $20 I ever spent.

Adam Elliot- Academy Award winning creator of Harvey Crumpet and Mary and Max 

“Catherine Deveny, like Julian Assange, exposes, confronts, maddens. She tells the truth to power – and to habit, conformity, timidity and comfort. Dangerous and seductive, she makes me laugh, and laugh…”

Barry Jones, AO - writer, lawyer, social activist, quiz champion and former politician. 

“You will be judged.”

Cardinal George Pell - Australian Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church.

And a few words from a our favorite Christian lady we all love,

"As one of the freaks who still believe in God, I found even I was welcome!"

Clare Bowditch  - singer, musician, broadcaster, writer, It Girl.

A review