Why I love Melbourne and Melbourne Comedy Festival. Top 20 must see shows.

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."

The beauty of this festival is that it is accessible and it's cheap. Some shows feel like a fun night out with mates, while others drag you abruptly out of your comfort zone. And others are crap and you slag them off on the way home. Which is all part of the experience. Watching the audience is almost as much fun as the show. You'll see all types: bogans, old folks, ladies from Malvern, Goths, students, pimply teens and suburban mums and dads all hoping for something to make their hearts sing.

I always get asked for suggestions. Because the programme can induce a bit of decision paralysis.  Here are my top ten picks. 

Rhys Nicholson filthy, wrong and insane. Five stars. Must see. Total genius.

Don't Peak At High School Crip comic Stella Young, adopted only child Fiona Scott-Norman, one-time girl Jacq de Vere and a rotating host of other comedy misfits on life after bottoming out at school.

Greg Fleet what a magnificent man and comedian. This year talking about the shame of substance abuse. 

Diana Nguyen in PhiL and Me The Vietnamese iconic sewing machine Mum, Kim Huong is insane and hilarious! Think Wogs Out Of Work. But a Vietmanese woman.

Khaled Khalafalla This guy is going to be famous. Smart accessible ethnic humour. And a spunk. 

Geraldine Hickey  if you like your lesbians, laconic look no further. Equal parts hilarious and warm. 

Harley Breen  Part bogan. Part genius. Solid pair of hands, cracking jokes and brillant physical comedian. 

Jack Dee an utter arsehole, an old hand at comedy. Hates everything and everyone and touring again after six years because 'I want to spend less time with my family’

Aleisha McCormack rising star of Melbourne comedy. How To Get Rich (directed by Julia Zemiro) is Aleisha’s second one woman show and has already had a sell out season at Fringe. 

Joel Creasy is an acid-tongued prince, a foodie, momma's boy and total bitch. See him before you have to go to Rod Laver Arena to do it. 

Margaret Cho if you like your comedy grown up, rude and transgressive, you’ve probably already bought tickets to Margaret Cho. If not. Get cracking.

Sarah Millican sweet and caustic Nominee Barry Award 2009 Melbourne Comedy Festival. Considered “The funniest woman in Britain.” 

Stephen K Amos loves Melbourne and Melbourne loves Stephen. Slick, fast and piss funny.

Felicity Ward Returning to Melbourne for ONE NIGHT ONLY! The Hedgehog Dilemma was nominated for Best Comedy at every major comedy festival across Australia in 2012. As it bloody should have been.

Denise Scott and Judith Lucy Can’t. Go. Wrong. Like spending the evening with your naughtiest aunties.

The List Operators Looking for a family show that’s not childish, patronizing and will have you all fully coughing your lungs up, this is it. 

Here are some wild cards..... Some young up and coming ones to watch Sam Peterson  and Andy Matthews, Headliners, bunch of expert US comics and Best Of British is always good.

I’m also doing a show called Curvy Crumpet, "Brassy... the audience were delighted" The Age. It was also picked in the Time Out Melbourne Comedy Festival Top 20 (see clipping above). Love to see you. I'm thrilled with it and the big noisy audiences are loving it. 8.15pm Trades Hall. 

See something. Anything. Book a night. Do three shows. I'll babysit for you. Don't turn around and say: "I meant to go." There's plenty of time to sleep when you're dead.

Tickets fot Curvy Crumpet ON SALE NOW 

HIBISCUS published in Paper Sea Quarterly Issue #2

In a bouncinette.  My feet splashing in a bowl of water. Golden light sneaking through the leaves warming patches of my legs. No top. Or perhaps a cotton singlet.  Under a hibiscus tree. Festooned with flowers the color of musk sticks. Nappy. Bottle. I must have been about a year old. I smelt BBQ.

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.

Erotic Fan Fiction Clementine Ford and Catherine Deveny by Canbebitter

I was stitting round a table at Albert Food and Wine with Clementine Ford, Stella Young, Emilie Zoey Baker and my boyfriend last night lsitening to Benjamin Law do a live reading of the Erotic Fan Fiction he had just done involving Corey Bernadi and a large dog at the Wheeler Centre.

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!!!

Alan Jones, Catherine Deveny. What's the difference?

more....

Jill Meagher. If like me you thought your information was inconsequential please call Crimestoppers 1800 333 000

It was not an attack, or a near rape or an attempted abduction. Well it certainly didn't seem like it at the time. Just a nuisance. 

In July. I thought nothing of it. I mentioned it to my boyfriend a day or two later in passing. We shrugged. I'm a big girl, I live in the city, I travel alone late at night, these things happen all the time. No biggie.  I wasn't scared. 

It was only after the constant calls to report anything, ANYTHING, no matter how small, to Crimestoppers to help Jill Meagher that this little incident began to amplify.

I did not want to seem like a bandwagon jumper, a time waster, an alarmist or a wuss but I called Crimestoppers yesterday morning after yet another tweet urging people to call. I'd discussed the incident to my boyfriend and housemates the night before and they'd encouraged me too. 

So the call to Crimestoppers went something like this;

"Look I'm really sorry, this is probably a waste of time and not helpful and I’m sure you’re really busy but they keep saying to report anything that may help find Jill Meagher and something happened to me in July. I was riding home along Sydney Road 1am Sunday morning. I don't drink so alcohol was not a factor. I was near the corner of Albion Street and Sydney Road. A guy on the footpath said, "Excuse me".  I took one look at him. He seemed slight and non descript but there was something a little menacing about him. Usually blokes at that time of night are loud, pissed, abusive, suggestive or in groups. I kept riding. As I did he walked off the footpath and on to the road and lunged at my bike trying to grab the pack rack/mudguard. I kept riding."

"What did he look like?" asked Crimestoppers.

"Early thirties, sandy hair, jeans, blue hoodie. Norwegian/Finnish looking. Scandinavian.'

"Any accent?"

"No. Sorry. This is probably no help at all and sorry for wasting your time"

Crimestoppers were appreciative and thanked me for my call.

After I called Crimestoppers I tweeted to others thinking perhaps I could encourage someone out there who like me didn't want to make a fuss, be accused of making something out of nothing or someone not wanting to feel or appear as a wuss who had useful information to give police a part of the puzzle. I did not think mine was. But one of the main reasons I called was to help awareness and accurate stats. 

About 6pm I arrived home and had a look at the footage. In it there was a man who looked like the man who was a nuisance to me weeks before. I was shocked. I was not expecting that at all. 

All I know is the man who hassled me looked just like the man in the CCTV and was wearing the same clothes. I do not know for sure if he is the same man. Or if he had anything to do with the disappearance of Jill Meagher.

One of the other reasons I didn't think to report the nuisance weeks or days before was that I assumed if a woman was taken from the street it would involve a car, being down a lane or involving some heavy looking fellas. Not a lone nondescript guy on the street who looked like an IT guy. Alone and on foot. With the opening line ‘excuse me.’ 

Like all of us I am deeply disturbed by the disappearance of Jill Meagher. It's very close to home on many levels. The thing in the report that really resonated is as she left the bar her male work colleague asked if he could walk her home. She said no. Repeatedly.

Which would have been pretty much what I would have said.  Actually my response would have been more like, “Fuck off. Walk me home? Like you could protect me. I walk these streets all the time. Thanks sunshine. I grew up in Reservoir. I can look after myself.”

Anyone who wonders why I and people like me did not report it earlier do not realize how much unwanted attention women and girls get all the time. And how often when it is reported it's dismissed. 

Steve Price and Andrew Bolt accused me of being responsible for Jill's death LISTEN HERE for not reporting the minor nusinance.  So I suppose I'll be in the slammer with this Brunswick woman was threatened by man with uncannily similarities to Jill Meagher's killer.  Twice. She went to the police. No details of the incident were recorded. 

This from Bek "How sad that each of us probably has dozens of these unreported incidents (the boy who touched me on the way up the waterside ladder at the local pool, the man who pinched my bottom as I walked between Myer stores in the city, the piano examiner who touched my breast while I played for my piano exam in Year 10, etc, etc...). If all this stopped, we might have less trouble spotting the really dangerous guys."

If women reported every drunk, creep, loony or fuckwit who hassled them the cops would have to multiply their numbers by a thousand and still be flat out. 

I ride all over Melbourne. I never feel scared and I experience unwanted attention from dickheads and creeps in EVERY suburb. I find Brunswick and particularly well-lit busy Sydney road one of the places I deal with the least amount of bullshit. 

This morning I was inundated by calls and door knocks from media maggots wanting to 'make content' from the disappearance of Jill Meagher. Sickening.

I am happy to help Jill Meagher, her family, Vic Police and trusted associates. I am NOT happy to enable media vultures veiling content as 'concern'. Mainstream media, particularly tabloids, talk back radio and A Current Affair thrives on the horror, grotesque and sensationalist.

My considerations are these. How can I help? How can I encourage people to speak out? How can I make sure the emphasis stays on the investigation and not on anything else.

Who do I trust to not use this terrible situation to whip up fear, accusations or ratings? 

Not you 3AW (Neil Mitchell referred, to Jill as a 'party girl' who may have gone partying)  Channel Seven, Today Tonight or the Herald Sun. 

I spoke to The Age, Chrissie Swann and Jon Faine. Because I trust them.

If you would like to be informed and not emotionally manipulated may I suggest you consume your media from ABC. 

What has happened to Jill Meagher is horrible but not common. Keep in mind the most dangerous place for a girl or woman is not on the street late at night but IN HER OWN HOME. She is most likely to be killed or injured by not only by a man she knows but one she is related to.

My tips for women wanting to feel safe. Buy a bike, use main roads and learn self-defence. You cannot rely on 'a man walking you home'. Nor should you want to. Your city sister. Walk wherever you like. 

Women, men and children should be able to walk the street when they want, where they want wearlng whatever they want.

Men are far more likely to cop violence on the street. So why is no one telling them not to walk alone?

Don't tell me not to walk alone at night. Tell people not to rape and kill.

If like me you thought your information was inconsequential please call Crimestoppers 1800 333 000

Colette sent me this, which explains why we don't report these frequent occurrences. She generously allowed me to publish it. Thanks Colette. 

Hi Catherine,

In the past couple of days I have heard a senior policeman say that women should report incidents to the Police when they happen and it got me thinking about some of the ‘incidents’ that have happened to me over the years. What if all women reported these ‘incidents’ throughout our lives, where would we start and where would we stop. 

Should I start with my grade 2 school excursion where the boys pulled me into their compartment, blocked the door, tossed me from side to side of the compartment, pulled my dress up and pulled my pants down till I screamed and cried enough for them to let me go.  I didn’t tell anyone about that.

What about when I was about 10 years old and out riding my bike with my friend, you know back when it was safe to let your kids go off and ride their bikes all day. There we were riding along the footpath and when crossing over a creek a guy called out and we looked down and saw him lying on the creek bank with his pants down and masturbating... “Come over” he said... we didn’t tell anyone about that.

What about when I was 15 and working Saturday mornings in a supermarket and the boss would trap me in the bench seat of the break room and rub his hands up and down my legs.  I told my workmate about that and she said he did it to her too.

What about when this same boss would get me in a big bear hug so that his arm went all the way around my body and his hand cupped my breast, yes I was not alone there either.

What about when a male teacher threw a girl against the door of the classroom breaking the window in the door... good catholic girls school, I’m pretty sure our principal (Sister Patricia) was told about that but he was still there when I left 3 years later.

What about when I went on holidays with 2 girlfriends at the age of 18 and we were lying in the botanic gardens in Adelaide reading books and a man came up and lay down on his side facing us and started masturbating... oh actually we did report that one.  We were at the beach in Glenelg the following day and we saw him and so we went to the Police Station and told them and they laughed at us.

What about when I was travelling at the age of 21 through Europe with a girlfriend.  We were on a night train and she got up to go to the toilet and I saw a man follow her down the train carriageway so I got up to see if she was all right.  She wasn’t alright, this man had my friend pinned up against the wall of the train with his hand at her throat and my appearance and yelling at him sent him running back along the passage.  We didn’t tell anyone about that.

I can’t imagine being taken seriously if I had reported any of these ‘incidences’, and that is part of the problem, it should all be taken seriously because it is all serious and disturbing and heartbreaking terribly terribly common. 

If like me you thought your information was inconsequential please call Crimestoppers 1800 333 000