And why would I? Why would anyone?

The lion does not lose sleep over the opinion of sheep.

Much of my work is as a professional speaker.  In the questions after my addresses, talks, speeches, panels, debates and keynotes there is always at least one question about how to handle haters. My advice? Block, unfriend, delete, switch stations, change channels, talk to someone else or say ‘speak to the hand Alan Jones.’ 

The recent hate explosion over my ANZAC Day opinions have fascinated, amused and horrified many. And happily for me, proved my point in a more transparent and unequivical way than I ever could. My views, that ANZAC Day does not reflect the inclusiveness of all those affected by war, nor our more sophisticated understanding of the true machinations and motivations behind war (let alone the facts) are neither rare, radical or new. See here, here, here for a start. 

Political commentator Bernard Keane summed it up in this tweet…

The importance of collecting and sharing statistics, particularly from a feminist perspective has led to me putting together a Top 100 Hate Comments from the comments and messages I’ve received over the last fortnight. These comments will be very familiar for women don't happily lie down in the chalk outline drawn for them by the patriarchy.  I hope you find them useful.

Top 100 Hater Comments

(you're welcome)

To flick through click prev | next  above.

It’s crucial to keep in mind the haters in the Top 100 are a tiny bunch of very noisy people, often the same person from different platforms with multiple accounts. Their profiles reveal the majority are men, predominately from Queensland and Perth, almost always declare on their bio they are a ‘proud true blue Aussie’, a passionate supporter of a football team, they frequently use a pseudonym and curiously, more often than you would imagine, are men posing as women. A quick glance through their profiles revealed almost all used their twitter accounts solely for hate, abuse, harassment and bullying. It was very clear the time spent hating me was simply time off hating asylum seekers, gays, Julia Gillard, atheists, environmentalist, Melbourne latte sippers etc.

A staggering amount had a Liberal National Party badge pinned to their avatar.

Hopefully this slide show will help further illuminate the reality that women who color outside the lines cop 100 times as much vitriol and it’s a thousand times more vicious. The Top 100 illustrates the abuse is gender based and sexually violent in nature.  The lack of grammar, punctuation, THE GRATUITOUS CAPS LOCK AND EXLAIMATION MARKS!!!!!, poor spelling and complete absence of rational thought indicates these poor souls are not that bright. Or occupied with their careers, study, relationships or friends. 

More naming and shaming here.

Women who color outside the lines need to know what haters look like, expect it and know it passes. As you take a wander down Hate Street it will be a comfort knowing it’s not just you. We all cop it. It’s unavoidable. These kinds of comments say nothing about the person it’s directed to but everything about the person saying them.

No, it’s not okay. But Illuminating it is a much more useful contribution I can make than anything I could do to stop it. Haters gonna hate. And as much as many of us are calling it out, naming and shaming it and employing anti bullying tactics haters have always been with us and will always be a work hazard for those who don't Pipe Down Princess. And more often than not, proof we’re on the right track and, at times, rock solid evidence proving everything we’ve been saying. 

I was inspired to compile The ANZAC Spirit Top 100 Haters by Anne Summer’s Her Rights At Work a brilliant address exposing the disproportionate gender based abuse of a sexually violent nature directed at Prime Minister  Julia Gillard and Chrys Stevenson’s Defending Deveny which almost broke the internet after an appearance on QandA I made with Arch Bishop Peter Jenson. Despite claims I took over the show and Jensen could not get a word in Stevenson’s research proved I spoke half the time Jenson did,

“Deveny’s contribution of 1,259 words was 13 per cent below the average. Jensen’s, on the other hand, was 78 per cent above the average.”

Enjoy, The ANZAC Spirit. And as you do remember these comments say nothing me but everything about them which can be neatly summed up as misogyny and relevance deprivation (and dare I say ironically Tall Poppy Syndrome) thinly veiled in the Australian flag. 

Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Samuel Johnson.

P.S. My Mildura performace of Curvy Crumpet on Friday which the ANZAC trolls encouraged all to boycott and promised '2000 protesters' at was a huge success. Full house, happy audience and not one protester. Not one. Despite me publically letting all interested know via Mildura radio, television and newspapers I would be delighted to answer any quesions at any neutral venue between 3-5pm on the day of my my perfomace there was not one taker. Grand Hotel in Mildura cancelled my booking on the ground I damaged their brand. But they were happy to take a booking from Today Tonight. Today Tonight exists solely to make dumb and hateful people dumber and more hateful. 

Keyboard Warriors, paper tigers and furious impotant misogynists having a tantrum with reality every single one. 

Julian Burnside and me on the illusion of free speech. Watch...

Some people are allowed to say some things some of the time. 

Are you okay with the fact that we pay our cleaners more than our childcare educators?

I’m not. And I haven’t been for a long, long time.

Particularly considering the epidemic in helicopter parenting, clipboard holding school shoppers, attachment parenting, after-school cramming classes, co-sleeping, ‘mummy blogs’ and general obsession with providing children with some imaginary perfect life.

The notion of ‘best care’ seems rather selective.

The obsession with the perfect diet, germ free homes, attempted social engineering by selective socialising, harm minimisation through choice of the correct fabrics, risk minimisation with helmets, knee and elbow pads, stranger danger and safe searches.

There has never been more time, energy and thought spent on the raising of babies, toddlers and children, yet we pay our childcare workers such dismal wages it’s leading to 180 childcare educators leaving the sector every week.  That’s not good. For anyone. Kids, parents or childcare educators. Why don’t we care? We should.

No one is forcing them to but encourage them to swear if they want to. The worst thing you can encourage girls to be is nice and the second is pretty.

The idea swearing is ‘wrong’ or ‘nice’ indicates there’s a universal agreement on the definitions of ‘wrong’ and ‘nice’ and a. these traits are desirable and b. you can project yourself as being nice by simply sticking to the rule of not saying certain words.

A linguist once told me the people most likely to swear are working class men and educated women. Which props up my theory the poor and the rich have much more in common than the middle class. Who work out what they think is the done thing by aspiring to what they think the rich do, and doing the opposite of what they think the working class do.

Encouraging teenage girls to swear teaches them to question the people who tell them they've crossed the line or broken the rules. It encourages them to ask “What rules? What line? Says who? Where’s it written, who wrote it and why?”

I tell girls (and boys) to beware of anyone using the words respect, traditional, family values, unacceptable, morality, uncalled for, inappropriate or unnecessary. Particularly to beware of the word ‘offensive’.

It’s code for ‘Pipe down princess, back in your box.‘

Offence is taken not given and more harm is created by taking offence than giving it.

Just because someone is offended does not mean they’re right.

Offence is used as a mode of social control.  Do not be oppressed by feeling you’re supposed to lie down in some chalk outline drawn for you by a society that once upon a time would have burned you at the stake for such unladylike behavior. Now all they can do is accuse you of transgressing some social norm constructed by the patriarchy to put you in your place. And the reason you have to be put or kept in your place is in order to fortify their place. And their place would be the one with disproportionate access to power, control, decisions, leisure, money and the ability to control women’s bodies. AMIRIGHT?

Words reveal much.

Men have opinions, women are opinionated.

Men speak, women are outspoken.

Men are passionate, women rant.

Men have mouths, women are mouthy.

And when was the last time you heard a man called feisty, bitter, sassy, shrill or ‘a piece of work’?

The shibboleth is not that people who swear are uneducated or have small vocabularies; the real shibboleth is that people who assert those who swear are uneducated or have small vocabularies reveal they are insular morons themselves.

 “The sort of twee person who thinks swearing is in any way a sign of a lack of education or a lack of verbal interest or -is just a fucking lunatic.”  Stephen Fry 

Teenage girls should learn to fuck themselves.

Had a discussion with Clementine Ford the other day and she told me about a sex therapist on Oprah who said teenage girls should be encouraged to masturbate. People went crazy. The show was overwhelmed with complaints claiming that ‘encouraging girls to masturbate would make them promiscuous' . Sorry?

(No, it wouldn't. Buy so what if it did?)

Clem and I then had a long discussion about masturbation. She was flicking the bean and getting the magic feeling from 12. I did not work out how to orgasm through masturbation until I was 21.

Yes 21.

Growing up masturbation was talked about as something only men did and that was only if they were perverts, desperate or gay. Hetrosexual intercourse was the only real sex. Anything else is what you did 'if you couldn't get it'.  I don't know when I worked out masturbation was something that women did on their own and with partners. I do know I would have a fiddle every now and then but never manage to climax. Which was why I WAS BOY CRAZY. Jumping the fence to find a boy or a man with the magic wand to make with the abracadabra. My teens were spent in a constant state of distraction and frustration.

If I had been encouraged to masturbate, if it was spoken about in a healthy and positive way and actively encouraged I wouldn't have been so emotionally unstable and boy crazy as a teenager. I could have had a wank and got on with my homework, had better sex in my teens because I knew how things worked and knew how to fuck myself and perhaps give the boys and menI was shagging a bit of a hand as we fumbled about.

Recently I have found myself in two separate situations chatting away with a women with her teenage daughter in earshot. I used the word ‘lube’ in one conversation and ‘virginity’ in the other. The mothers did that ‘cut it out she’s listening’ hand movement.

What? What’s wrong with teenage girls having the words ‘lube’ and ‘virginity’ explained to them? What is it going to turn themselves into some mouth frothing nyphomania?

There is nothing wrong with sex, pleasure or any part of the body. Safe and consentual. They're the rules. 

People don't talk as freely and openly with girls about sex as they do with boys. They have gender defined sexual expectations and aspirations for kids. People are always making jokes about their teenage boys wanking in their rooms, but not girls. 

Buy your thirteen year old a dildo and a bottle of lube. Explain that girls and boys masturbate, women and men masturbate, straight, gay, partnered and single masturbate. Alone and with others. It’s free, fabulous, a great stress release and the best way you can find out how your body works and what you like so you can share your pleasure with others. It may help prevent them jumping the fence and finding themselves in unhealthy and abusive sexual relationships because they haven’t worked out how to abracadabra themselves.  It also may help them concentrate on their homework.

What all women and girls should be encouraged to achieve is F.O.S. Fuck Off Status.

When I was 19 I met a woman called Patricia O’Donnell who I am buddies with today. O‘Donnell is a successful restaurateur, businesswoman and all round brilliant dame. When I was 19, she didn’t know me. But I was sitting at the bar of her establishment The Queenscliff waiting for some of my mates, her staff. She said to me, apropos nothing, ‘You know what you need young lady. You need Fuck Off Status. You need to have your house, and your business and be able to tell anyone you don’t want to deal with to fuck off.’

Best advice I have ever been given.  We need to encourage all women and girls to aim for fuck off status (not to dream of just marrying a footballer) and encourage all men and boys to enable and support it.

Women are 50% of the population, do two thirds of the work, earn 10% of the money and own 1% of the land. What do we want? Fuck Off Status! When do we want it? Fuck off.

'The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off'

Gloria Steinem

I am proudly un-Australian. The whole sport, barbie, tanned, blonde and beachy business was never really me. For a while I identified more with my Irish heritage. It seemed a better fit: loud-mouthed, wide hipped, total disrespect for authority, love a good yarn and a plate of spuds. All with bad teeth.

But these days, I know what I am. I am a Melburnian to the core. If I wasn't born here, I would have moved here.

I love Melbourne. Which doesn't mean I can't love anywhere else. I'm with Samuel Johnson, "patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel". I adore the breathtaking glittering city of Sydney, and Tasmania is one of the most beautiful places that I have ever been. When I was in a plane on my way to Port Douglas a few years back, I spoke to people from Los Angeles who had been travelling for more than 24 hours. I said to them, "I promise, it's worth it." And it was.

The mercurial Melbourne weather allows you to wear all the clothes in your wardrobe and eat all the food you love. Melburnians are informed, opinionated, love a good feed and are always up for a chat. This time of year is particularly intoxicating. Blue skies, cool nights, clothes drying quickly but warm stuff in your belly for dinner and the kids in bed early. I wake up in Melbourne, but feel as if I have died and gone to heaven.

It's the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. I really, really love the Melbourne Comedy Festival. And no, I have not been asked to write something on the festival. I write compelled by love or truth. If I could be bought, I'd be turning tricks for advertising.

When I get my hot little hands on the festival program, my heart starts pumping as I go nuts with the red pen and the Post-It notes. I then sink as much as I can afford on tickets and babysitters. Then it's counting down the sleeps and it's on with the boots, tights, scarf and red lipstick and down to the Melbourne Town Hall. This dull, soulless building is transformed into an exhilarating, vibrant palace brimming with people queueing, blabbing in the bar or hanging round the coffee wagon waiting for their caffe lattes. Listen and you will hear every other person say: "This is amazing. Is it always like this?"

The whole experience is life-affirming and glorious. And the festival is like a drug; maybe it's more like gambling, as I promise myself: "OK, just one more show." People accost friends between shows with "What have you seen? When are they on? You've got to see him/her/them."

I asked my English friend Dan about the Brits' reputation of complaining. "It's not that we're whingers," he explained. "It's just that we like talking and everything happens to be shit."

I love the English. Their default setting of forming an orderly queue as soon any more than two people are assembled. Their sweetness. "Mind the gap." Their passive racism: "Oh, Catherine, you Australians are so refreshing!" (Really? Then it must be true that 70 per cent of communication is non-verbal because your face just screamed "vulgar, coarse and tactless".)

I love how desserts are all "puddings" and have names like Spotted Dick. And how adorable is their justification - or better still, denial - of the class system despite the existence of second-class stamps, the monarchy, hereditary titles, posh hotels that won't serve you a drink in the bar unless you're a guest with a room number, and the nationality of your nanny being a social marker?

I love the English response to every request as "sorry", like they had forgotten to deal with my request, despite not possibly being able to pre-empt it. "Could you pass me my handbag?" "Oh, sorry." "Could you tell me where the loo is?" "Terribly sorry. First on your right." "Would you be so kind as to take off your pants, hold that chair above your head and do the hokey pokey?" "Frightfully sorry. Yes. Just a moment. How dreadfully rude of me."

I wasn't in Blighty for the weather. Or the food. I was there for the chat. I love how the English speak English. Words like "lodger", "knackered" and "wankered". Terms like "feeling poorly", "she's a right nutter" and "he's a pompous git". The fact children say "bottom" instead of "bum" in an attempt not to appear "common", yet the pubs have names like The Badger's Arse, The Vicar's Cock and The Hairy Snatch.

Over a dessert of Gooseberry Fool with a bunch of people (two named Hector, and all of whom described their ageing parents as "barking", "batty", "bonkers" or "barmy"), a midwife spoke about labouring women. "They always want to know how it's looking 'down there'. I say, 'It's beautiful, like a gently blossoming rose, petals slowly unfurling.' The truth is, it's like looking down a dog's throat." Only an English person could come up with that.

The English are, undeniably, the funniest people on earth. How else can you explain such place names as Clench (Wiltshire), Twatt (Orkney), Dull (Perth & Kinross), Nasty (Hertfordshire) and Cuckoos Knob (North Yorkshire)? 

But what a bunch of wusses. An announcement an Clapham station; “The temperature is expected to be high.  Please take note of information on the platform posters and carry a bottle of water with you at all times.  If you are feeling unwell please approach a member of staff.” It was 23 degrees. How much did I love non-chalantly, putting on a jumper, scarf and mittens and asking if there was anywhere I could buy soup. 

Two complaints. Anything I wanted to buy was double the price plus a bit more than I estimated (then convert that into pounds) made even worse by the English customer service mantra “First world prices. Third world service”.  And that the place was teaming with Australians. At one point I found myself thinking, “Crikey, there are a lot of English people here.” 

I was trying to overhear the natives with their “stark raving mad” “fancy a pint” and “he’s a jumped up little plonker” but instead my ear drums were constantly pierced by screeches of, “Hey, Gaz! Check this out! What a pisser!” 

Catching up with English mates I hadn’t seen for 14 years began with excited ejaculations of “You haven’t changed a bit”. Then the backpacking photos were dug  out to reveal that indeed we had and are now clapped out and middle aged.  So overwhelmed with how beautiful I looked in one photo I said,   “I wished I’d known how good looking I was back then.” My mates then corrected me “That’s not you, Catherine, you’re the fat one at the back with the face like a slapped arse.” And I was. Lie back and think of England?  Don’t mind if Ido.

The lush and exotic blooms stood out as large unapologetic blurters, show offs, in monochrome suburban Preston in 1969. In gardens that considered lavender, geranium and daisies  ‘rather loud’, agapanthus as a ‘pest’ and hydrangeas, the color and shape of the hair of the nana’s that sat in the pews in front of me at church, as beautiful. And kind of mystical. ‘You know the color of the flower changes depending on the soil.’ 

I wondered whether I would worship these dumpy, ungainly flowers when I was an old lady.

I was about four years old and Mum asked me what my favorite flower was. ‘Forget-me-nots’ I replied. ‘They’re not a flower, they’re a weed.’ ‘Says who?’ I said.

The smell of stew, the sound of ‘Matlock’ and the weight of my parent’s emotions leaking into me was pierced by that moment. Those big happy flowers like you saw on Hawaiian shirts. The ones people wore on holidays. Whatever they were. 

“Why do American’s speak in such loud voices? So you can hear them over their loud clothes.”

My parents weren’t big on the outdoors. Outside was something you tolerated going from one inside to another inside. They didn’t own runners or bikes and I never saw them swim. Raised Catholics and therefore to think of their body as enemy number one was probably what led to my father poisoning his with smoking and alcohol which resulted in Mum obese with shame and comfort food. The demonizing of desire may have been the reason they shut themselves down physically from the elements. The weather on their skins may have aroused their bodies so much their bodies would wake and mourn of neglect. So they stayed inside. In their insides.

At four I remember running naked through the bush at Wilson’s Prom with my cousin Kate-Louise who was only three months younger than I. The bush was all McCubbin. Kate-Louise explained ‘Nude is not wearing clothes. Rude is not wearing clothes and showing off at the same time’. I must have been concerned because I remember being relieved by that explanation. Kate-Louise committed suicide on my 25^th birthday. I was living in Tokyo. It was my Mum who told me ‘She threw herself under a train.’ She was 24. 

It was the summer before I began primary school and we went on that holiday. Our very first of only a handful of holidays. I was 4, David, 3 and Elizabeth, 6. We loaded up the Valiant and my grandparent’s white canvas tent and took the four-hour drive down to Wilson’s Prom. 

Mum’s family had camped in Wilson’s Prom when she was a teenager.  Back then hardly anyone knew it was there. I have no idea how they even knew about it.

Mum told me she would set off with a book and a can of pineapple juice in the morning and come home late afternoon. She would find a shady spot, put the can of pineapple juice in some cool shallow water and spend all day reading, swimming and writing letters to my father.

This always seemed strange to me. I could only ever remember Mum barely tolerating Dad and never remember her reading a book, let alone writing a letter. Least of all to Dad. 

The breathtaking slap in the face of the view of glittering Norman Bay and the magical winding Tidal River with its secret rock caves and silvery schools of fish made me blink my eyes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Squeaky Beach. The sand really did squeak when you walked. It was magic. The stretch of my pink paisley bathers we'd bought from Venture and the joy of my red bucket and spade. The savory canned smell of Tom Piper Braised Steak And Onions. The feeling of a lilo under a sleeping bag, under sand, under my sunburn.  It was intoxicating. The brightness of the parrots, the chat and laughter of the other campers, the sting of the March Flies with their rainbow sheen, and that moment waking up remembering you were on holiday. Camping. And outside the flap of the tent were adventures waiting.  

We were dirty, grubby, hungry, wet, warm, scorched, parched and outside. And I felt a happiness I have been drawn to ever since. A happiness of being exposed.

Leaving Tidal River I was heartbroken. I thought we had moved there forever.  It was grey, cold and raining. I was wearing shorts, a jumper and thongs. My legs were freezing but my back radiated from sunburn.  I was holding a bucket of starfish and did not understand why I couldn’t bring them home.

“Because they will die,” said Mum. “They live here. They’ll die at home.”

Outdoors I remember first feeling everything.

MARCH 8 is International Women's Day, a day when middle-class women, like myself, squat over mirrors and reflect on how far the sisterhood has come and what challenges lie ahead. My two cents worth? It's 2008 and we still have debutante balls. How wrong is that? And on how many levels? The answers are a) very b) stacks.

Debutante balls, the tribe has voted, and it's time to go. OK, the tribe hasn't voted, it's another case of what I reckon. Let's remind ourselves that this page is called Opinion. In that respect I believe in democracy; all voices should be heard. But as far as deb balls go, I say shove your civil liberty and personal choice. Ban debutante balls. Yes, Aunty Funbuster is on the job this week. Don't like it? Tough. Read sport.

Allow me to get you up to speed on this one. Debutante balls were traditionally a coming-out rite of passage for "young ladies". The concept originated in England just after the Industrial Revolution. It was an opportunity for the affluent middle-class to eat their way up the food chain by shacking up with aristocracy, and for the aristocracy to shag the new money and stop inbreeding by slumming it with the plebs. Got to hand it to those Poms, they can't cook but they sure knew how to create an empire.

Let's unpack shall we? When girls reached maturity (read: were considered old enough to put out) they were paraded around like cattle in wedding gowns to be judged by prospective husbands and their families.

Imagine the muttering at the tables as the young ripe visions of loveliness glided around to the Viennese Waltz. "That Lilith has a face like a hound but some jolly good breeding hips what!" "Not good enough for our Gordon though, he's 678th in line to the throne. Jocelyn appears fetching but not lively. We can't be having lively. Lively can lead to feisty. Put a red sticker on Jocelyn." I don't know if they poked the girls with sticks or looked in their mouths; if they didn't I'm sure they would've liked to.

Here on Planet 2008 this bizarre and demeaning ritual has 16-year-old girls volunteering to be reduced to nothing more than gender stereotypes and sex objects judged on their looks, not their brains, creativity or ability. The debs frock up in white wedding dresses, carry bouquets and even have pageboys and flower girls. It all smacks of "here's one we prepared earlier". This is what she'll look like when she's a bride, just add the veil. You like? You buy.

The debs of today are still "escorted into society" by a young male and presented to an old, middle-class white male to give his approval (!), more often than not with his wordless wife at his side looking more than slightly mother of the bride. Then you know what the girls do? They curtsy.

John Howard's coming over a bit Sir Joh at the moment, so it was refreshing to see the face of The Man Least Likely. Poor old Pete. The last time I caught a glimpse of him was during the worm poll dancing debate. The camera would occasionally cut to him in the audience and Pete would strap on the fake smile faster than you could say, "You should have gone straight for the jugular when you had that chance". I did think it was fabulous that Costello managed to chew through his restraints and escape from his cage for the night. I'm sure they upped the sedation after that.

As I jog round the People's Republic of Moreland puffing and wheezing in my Kevin07 T-shirt, I do enjoy the delicious irony that every front yard with a Greens placard in it is overgrown, unkempt and knee high in thistles. It's a case of, "Sure we're into the environment, we just can't be stuffed mowing. We're flat out weaving." And it seems you can't put up a Vote Labor board unless you have the obligatory Tibetan prayer flags flying from the veranda and a recycle bin overflowing with Coopers Red stubbies.

The Socialist Alliance may be short of money, but they're certainly high on effort. Power poles are plastered with black and white A4 photocopies of their team, which includes a man with a goatee wearing a hood. The Honourable Member For Utopia I assume. And I thought I saw a Democrats bumper sticker the other day. But it just said "Magic Happens". Here's hoping.

Placards in people's front yards are one thing. But receiving a personally addressed letter from the spouse of a candidate is hilarious, outrageous, tragic and appalling on so many levels - which leads me to the other good laugh I had this week.

Malcolm Turnbull's wife, Lucy, (Turnbull of course, Mrs, thank you very much) wrote a personally addressed letter to the constituents of Wentworth. All 90,000 of them. She wrote because, "I thought it was important for you to have the opportunity to hear about the Malcolm I know and love". Why? What's with this guy? Does he get his mum to ring up work when he's taking a day off sick as well?

Mrs Turnbull goes on to attempt to dispel the myth that he comes from a privileged background by explaining that as a child, Malcolm's family hit rock bottom and had to move from Vaucluse to Double Bay and - shock, horror - lived in a flat. The shame. Family values. Supported my career choice. Our kids our greatest achievement.

Reading the letter smacks of "never mind how he presents, he's actually a good bloke. Never mind the born-to-rule accent, the deep sense of entitlement and the patriarchal walk. And the nuclear reactors." Political spouses should be not seen and not heard. Can you imagine getting a letter from Kevin Rudd's wife, Therese Rein? "This is an automatically generated response. I have my own life and he has his. If you see him, give him my best. T."

Or a postcard from Bob Brown's partner? As the two of them shuffle about in their sarongs and mandals cleaning up after a big night on the tofu, does Bob's partner think it's his place to tell voters what Bob's really like?

I'd love a letter on flowery paper from Janette. "Dear Mrs (insert husband's surname here),

"Let me introduce myself. My name is Mrs John Howard, or as my husband calls me, Mother. I'd like to tell you about the man I have been sleeping in a single bed next to for more than 30 years.

"Contrary to common belief he's not old-fashioned. His favourite band is the Seekers and he once had a conversation with a woman whose daughter had a child out of wedlock. And he's not racist. We have many friends from overseas. Well two, George Bush and his wife, Mrs Bush. Even though they talk funny and don't know who Don Bradman is, we treat them just like normal people.

"Despite my supportive wordless wife routine, let me assure you, I'm the one who wears the fawn slacks round here. We've never disagreed on anything because if we did, things may become unpleasant. And we couldn't have that.

"Your husband should tell you to vote for my husband. If he hasn't already you're probably poor. Or foreign.

Yours forever cardigan clutching,

Mrs Howard."

Clem and I then talked about the Erotic Fan Fiction we had read at the previous event with Andrew Denton and Declan Greene.  (Mine involved Tony Abbott, Cardinal Geroge Pell, Gina Rinehart and a dildo in the shape of Rose Hancock).

At that VERY moment a fan had sent both Clem and I an email with an Erotic Fan Fiction she had written about us!

I thought it was fabulous and Canbebitter generously allowed me to post it.  Enjoy.... 

Clementine Ford rolled her head back and moaned loudly.

“Gnnnnnnaarrghhhhgggggghhhh. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

She looked down between her creamy thighs and studied Catherine Deveny’s dark wavy mane as it bobbed up and down behind her own elegantly groomed pubic hair. How did this happen?!, Clementine wondered as she took another sip of red wine out of a Brunswick-issue jam jar. Catherine’s perfectly pink tongue flicked her clitoris again. Oh, who the hell cares, Ms Ford revised, as orgasmic waves crashed over her.

It had actually started out, as these things often do for Northside feminist writers, on Twitter. A little calling out sexism here, a few #qanda tweets there, and before they knew it, Clementine Ford and Catherine Deveny had cultivated Twitter followings comprising most of the feminists (and their trolls) in Melbourne. Naturally, they’d SlutWalked together, Reclaimed the Night and eventually developed a friendship offline. In June 2012, they were each delighted to find that they were both asked to read at the same Erotic Fan Fiction event at the Wheeler Centre. In July 2012, Clementine had called Catherine in a panic.

“Dev! Erotic Fan Fiction is on tomorrow and I haven’t written anything yet.”

“Oh Clem, this is so typically you. As soon as I heard, I got home and wrote this amazing piece about Tony Abbott and George Pell. And Andrew Bolt. And Gina Rinehart.”

“And that is so typically you. But I don’t have time for your gloating. What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to have a glass of wine, calm the fuck down, and write something filthy. It’s not hard.” To Clementine, Dev sounded as if she’d already had a glass or two herself. The advice wasn’t helpful.

“I don’t think I can do it. I’m freaking out, Catherine.”

“How about I come over and we can do it together? Maybe if you had some help, you’d feel more confident. You’re so adorable when you panic.”

Clementine knew that even just the company of the older woman would steel her nerves. “Thank you,” she whimpered into the phone.

“I’ll cycle over. See you in five,” Catherine replied.    

Clementine opened the door to a slightly flushed Dev, dressed in a deep green dress, with a low cut scoop neck. She must have gotten dressed in a hurry, because she wasn’t wearing a bra, and Clementine could see every curve of her bountiful breasts. She’d skipped stockings too. Clementine looked down at her own attire. She was wearing a cream lace vintage nightgown. Her blue Bonds briefs were clearly visible under the flimsy material, but she figured Dev would forgive the oversight. 

“What you need, is some inspiration,” Catherine said in her typically forthright manner. She went into the kitchen and poured out two very large jam jars of red wine, and two shots of tequila.

“I know,” Clem agreed. “I’ve been trawling the news and skimming children’s books, but nothing is coming to me. I even read some Literotica, but then I got distracted, and you know…” She gestured at her crotch. “I wasn’t very productive. Who are those for?”

“The wine is for the both of us, the tequila is just for you,” Catherine replied, her eyes glinting cheekily. Clementine opened her mouth, but Dev continued. “Don’t argue, just slam it back.”

Clementine did so. Oh god, she was in her 30s and far too old to be shotting tequila. She woozily stood back from the bench to find Catherine’s hands between her thighs.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” she spat out.

Catherine looked sheepish, but kept her hand on Clementine’s inner thigh. “I just wanted to check how distracted you’d been from Literotica. And I wondered if maybe I’d be better at inspiring you?” she added hopefully.

The tequila going to her head, Clementine grabbed Dev’s hand and plunged it inside her briefs. Her moat had suddenly become flooded, and she wanted more than anything for Catherine to know that she was the cause of it. With her free hand, she grabbed a jar of wine and took another gulp.

“Kiss me.” Catherine did so, and pushed Clementine against the bench. Dev’s stiff nipples pushed through the green fabric and brushed against Ford’s. Clementine felt Catherine’s fingers search deeper into her sex, the heel of her hand expertly massaging her clit.

“Oh God,” Clementine offered involuntarily.

“There’ll be no talk of God here,” Catherine snapped, ever the atheist. “I’m going to punish you for that.” She pushed Clementine’s head to her unstockinged mound.  

Instinctively, Clementine knew what was expected of her. She peeled away Catherine’s black French briefs and ran her tongue over her hot slit. Reaching up one hand to grasp Dev’s famous bosom, she used her other hand to get a firm hold of her ample, fleshy arse. She licked blindly, feeling for Dev’s pleasure button with her tongue. A few guttural sounds told Clementine she had found the right place. Licking faster and faster, Clementine felt her own briefs get wetter and wetter. She removed her hand from Catherine’s behind and plunged them deep into Dev’s slippery cave. Clem knew there’d be no attention for her until Catherine was satisfied.

The experienced older woman came quickly and heavily, releasing delicious juices into Clementine’s willing mouth. The younger woman swilled some more wine, removed her nightgown and Bonds, and sat down on her favourite chair.

“Now me.”

Catherine took her place at the foot of the chair, posed as if in prayer. While she didn’t care for the church, the cult of pussy was something she could get behind.

“You’re soaking,” she murmured. Catherine inserted an exploratory index finger into her crevice, feeling for Clementine’s raised G-spot.

Clementine breathed in sharply as Catherine found it. She sipped at her wine and felt two more fingers enter her. She ran her hands over her own torso, taking in her feminine curves, eventually resting on her swollen breasts. Clementine tugged gently at the stiff nubs of her nipples, heightening the sensation. She rolled her head back.

Ms Ford then felt Catherine apply her tongue to the place she needed her most. Combined with the now methodical in-and-out motion of Dev’s long fingers, Clementine began to feel pleasure unlike anything her boyfriend or faithful vibrator had ever been able to give her. She spread her legs further, pressing her warm vulva hard up against Catherine’s enthusiastic face.

Clementine’s breath got hot and heavy. Catherine continued to flick her tongue expertly, and faster now. Her fingers slipped in and out easily, and at speed. While focusing intently on the wavy hair in front of her, Ford lost all control and reason.

As the climax tingled through Clementine’s body, she brought Catherine’s head to meet hers and kissed her, tasting her own meaty sex on her lips. “Stay with me,” she whispered, as post-coital exhaustion set in.

Hungover, with red wine stained lips, Clementine awoke the next day to find Catherine gone. “Shit, it’s 3pm,” she said to no one. She quickly rushed off some erotic fiction, substituting the characters of Jesus and Satan for Clementine and the devilish Dev. Her pussy pulsated with delight as she committed the previous night’s depravity to paper.

Suddenly it was 7pm. Clementine Ford cycled madly to the Wheeler Centre, all the while worrying what Catherine would think of her story. Eddie Sharpe introduced her, and Clementine stepped up to the podium. It was her moment of truth, and the way she saw it, there was only three ways the reading could go. Badly, with Catherine never speaking to her, let alone tweeting at her, again; mediocre, with Dev tweeting at her but never touching her again; or very well, with the two of them getting a room straight after. Clutching at her throat, Clementine felt her own erect nipple graze her arm. She nervously began reading.

As she returned from the lectern to her seat, Clementine glanced back to see Dev with a wicked look in her eyes, running a pink tongue around the edge of her crimson lips. The moistening in Clementine’s crotch told her she’d be seeing that tongue again very soon…

Want more?  Come see Clem, Dev and Nelly Thomas LIVE Sunday November 4th 3pm Bella Union Bar. And this is also a DO NOT MISS. Tuesday October 9th Too Much Information. I went last week and was GOBSMACKED!!!

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