Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
At my Hill’s Hoist, beneath the stars
Pegging uniforms, towels and bras
After chaos of dinner, bath, bed
Each squealing child’s laid down his head
The house so quiet and dead asleep
The sensual flap of a cool damp sheet
I am of, am one, with the night
I dissipate, tiny, out of sight
With each wet item lifted, hung
I breathe in deep, a day is done
Yasmin Gunn yasmingunn@ymail.com
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
I always fib a little when I get the morning after pill. I’ll say I’ve had it before, but often one or two less times than I actually have. I’ll say there was a condom (it broke!), when there wasn’t. And I always make sure I go to a different chemist – because you wouldn’t want your local pharmacist knowing you were promiscuous and irresponsible.
I’m surprised at the shame that sits around me when I access emergency contraception. It’d surprise most who know me – I’m open about sex, my body and its myriad of functions. But having been born in the 80s and educated in the 90s, I had always expected and believed that any sex I had would be ‘safe’. There would be no STIs and no unplanned pregnancies in my life – no siree.
Of course, life and sex are a bit more complicated than that. And while I enjoyed telling the tales of my time as a ‘lady about town’, I never liked telling the tales of the few times or moments when sex went unprotected. Nor do I like telling the tales of the consequences of those times.
I’ve often blamed myself for the slip ups – it was my fault, I should have been more assertive, I should have put a stop to things. But judging by the number of men I’ve slept with who felt being asked to wear a condom was a personal affront – “But I’m clean baby, aren’t you?” – I’m not sure if I’m entirely to blame. I sometimes wonder if men only feel ashamed about unprotected sex if they actually catch something.
I only really thought about my morning after pill shame this week after a fairly ridiculous contraception fail. The condom broke and I had missed a pill in the last seven days – a contraception no-no according to my GP and the internet. My paranoia and my determination not to have a child saw me march right down to the chemist for yet another morning after pill. But this time it was different. I was all jokes and laughs – much to the relief of the pretty 23 year old male pharmacy student who served me. I didn’t feel ashamed because I was in a relationship and I had done everything in my power to be safe. Unlike the other times when mistakes had happened during casual sex with strangers. I walked out smiling, but I didn’t feel liberated.
More than anything else, the experience unsettled me. It reminded me that I am not as immune to gender-based assumptions about women and sexual behaviour as I think I am. And that bugs me. I know the personal is political, but I bristle when it becomes obvious to me. I try to rise above it – be tough and stand proud. But it isn’t always easy. Right now the best I can do is remind myself what I’ve learnt about shame from Brené Brown.
Shame is different to guilt. Guilt is knowing that I did something bad, but shame is believing that I am bad. What I’ve learnt about shame is that it hates being spoken. And now that I’ve given it a name, shown it to the light, and shared it with those I trust – it will get easier to combat. And maybe, one day, I will feel comfortable walking into my local chemist and asking for the morning after pill.
– www.anneshirley.com.au
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Choosing to be at Catherine Deveny’s The Gunnas Writing Masterclass was the first step. My year of responding to invitations and ideas by saying ‘why not’ with Gilly made for so many amazing moments and opportunities grasped, awesome tunes, mind blowing experiences, dodgy and flash hotels and memory making that it was time to pull my finger out and revisit that mantra of ‘why not’.
Choosing to be here was designating today day dot, ground zero, a line in the sand of ‘from this moment on, I choose to spend my time on this rather than that.’ The other stuff will get done or not, but its guaranteed the sun will still come up tomorrow. There’ll be something for dinner…or not. The dog hair will be vacuumed off the carpet…or not. Note to self, remembering some day-to-day practicalities will be useful, such as going to work to pay the rent. Ditto remembering to eat greens to keep the scurvy at bay. But choosing to start this process was such an important milestone for me.
Choosing to be here was, in a sad way, giving myself the permission I had decided I somehow needed. Permission to use the creative part of my brain, get my creative self moving, make things that look beautiful, feel beautiful and bring me and the people in my life joy. That joy could be in the form of a good-for-the gut kind of dinner for my wing woman and I; a mermaid tail dress up for a little friend or a carefully crafted message on a postcard to connect with someone far away. Spending a day at the writing masterclass was the start of giving myself the permission to choose to spend my time and energy playing with the intangibility of a collection of words to get it just so for a day. And writing – just writing! Choosing to be here was the first step, taking time out from my usual choices, more often than not unconscious choices that didn’t value creativity.
Choosing to spend a day doing something that my instinct was to name as indulgent – but was actually enriching – was such a gift. What a way to spend a day – hanging at Avid Bookshop (a non-chain megalopolous bookshop and one of my favourites), being outside on the back verandah (in itself, a treat for an office worker), with other people interested in words and creativity and sharing their work AND working with someone like Catherine Deveny. I have much gratitude for her choosing to spend her time with us and gratitude for her son’s desire to live in Japan that lead her to hold these workshops for Gunnas like me who are gunna get brave and get writing once we’ve perfected the art of procrastination. I’ve been gunna do it for so, so long and today I started.
www.notsonanna.blogspot.com.au
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
I don’t want to change the world. I don’t even want to change my sheets half the time. Well that’s a lie, I’d like to change the world but only if the world wants to be changed.
$54.00 – A day in the life of a temporary tight arse.
Last night I flew into Brisbane. I was sitting in the plane with my phone defiantly switched on (fuck their rules I’ll leave my phone on if I bloody well please).
Bored after 5 minutes seated and requiring some form of visual stimulation, I commence a search for reviews on the hotel I’m booked in to. I’m not sure why I booked the cheapest room in the suburb. I think I was trying to be conservative with money; I was made redundant recently and have been lectured by others about watching what I spend. Perhaps I didn’t feel a weekend in a hotel was something I was worthy of. Especially as I was going to do something completely self-indulgent. I was flying to Brisbane for a writer’s workshop.
“Ladies and gentleman, welcome onboard your flight JQ881. Please give us your attention for the inflight safety demonstration.” I instantly tune out and return to staring into the electronic gadget in my hand I am so helplessly addicted to. It’s my crack. It also has a massive crack in the screen which gives me the shits. But that’ll cost money to fix.
Scrolling, scrolling – ah here we are, my accommodation reviews.
“Smelly, dirty and desperate for an update” read one. Hmmm, sounds like some of the guys I’ve shagged.
“Run down, tired looking and filthy” read another. These reviews are beginning to look like a glossary of my ex boyfriends.
Ok, ok, keep reading, Have some faith.
“Great location and good pool” alright then – this is more like it.
“Our ensuite was blocked so we had to use the showers down the hall”.
“The communal showers are okay but could use a good bleach”
NO FUCKING WAY!
I can do budget hotels, I can do simple, basic and unpretentious. But I cannot and will not do communal showering. It reminds me too much of living in a caravan park as a kid. In those days caravan parks were for poor people and paedophiles. I was a poor person. Everyone else was a paedophile.
I furiously started googling. Tap, tap, tap on the glass face.
Hotels…. Tap, tap, tap South Brisbane. Enter.
WARNING message appears on the screen – you have 20% battery left.
Shit hurry, hurry. I curse myself.
My phone is crap. I’ve needed a new phone for ages but my inner tight arse thought I could just stretch it out a little longer.
“It’ll do for now” I’d say. It still does the job….. sort of. I’d lecture myself. Folks in foreign countries don’t even have homes or food. I can live without a fully functioning phone.
Typing – Last minute, hotel club…… fuck, fuck.
The hostess is coming and she’s looking toward me.
Quick hide the phone. Phew! Got away with that one.
$54 a night. That’s’ what I paid for the original hotel. What was I thinking? Free Wi-fi and walking distance to the venue, that’s what I was thinking.
Page loading your results……….
Secret Hotel deal! 5 star including full buffet breakfast! Woah! Tell me more.
Usually $294 per night but as this is a secret hotel deal you only pay $204.00 per night. My inner tight arse rejoices!
“This amazing hotel has blah blah and blah” – whatever 5 stars = clean sheets, functioning toilet and a private shower. Buy buy – take my money damn you the hostess is coming.
Credit card name – I’m still under my ex-husbands surname. God I really need to change that.
Expiry date – 11/14
CVC number – 757
Loading …… waiting, waiting.
Processing payment…. Hurry hurry.
Confirmed. Congrats! Your booking number is 57874….
Hostess…. “Excuse me ma’am you have to switch your phone off right now” Ooooh. This hostess is a snappy one.
‘Oh sorry.. yes of course” I insincerely apologise to her whilst the passengers nearby look at me like a I’m a serial killer. Don’t they realise I have a major crisis. Can’t these people see the drama I am in?
SWITCH OFF? The phone asks me. Yes I hesitantly respond.
1 hour 45 mins later
“Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare the plane for landing. Our cabin crew will be coming through collecting rubbish. Please stow your tray tables.
“Yeah, yeah” I think to myself. We know the drill. Really who doesn’t know the drill? Who hasn’t sat their regular sized arse into a minute sized seat with their knees up around their necks? Who hasn’t chowed down on a cold and dry $9.50 egg and lettuce sandwich whilst sipping on 187ml bottle of warm Sauvignon Blanc?
My hand slides into the seat pocket to retrieve the phone which was earlier forcibly removed from my possession.
SWITCH ON
Loading loading….. ok now what is my new hotel called.
OPEN EMAIL…. Nothing.
RE-OPEN email. Still nothing.
In my haste I have typed in the wrong email address. My hotel confirmation is lost in cyberspace.
10% battery left
“Maa’am you need to leave your phone off until well inside the terminal”
Fuck. Battery dead.
$54.00 for a cheap room. $204.00 for the replacement room.
Where did I sleep? In a hotel I walked into off the street. That’s another $268.00
1 night in Brisbane cost $526.00 but let me tell you, the private shower and feather down pillow was worth every cent.
Thanks for reading.
FB me @ clarebearyeah
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Hi everyone, I’m Jill and I’m a shopaholic. It’s been 13 days since my last shop.
Ah I can hear you snickering now. I know, I know – you don’t believe in such a thing as someone who shops too much. You probably think having a compulsion to shop is like being addicted to chocolate, or watching footy, or sex. Couldn’t possibly be true and even if it was, what’s the harm?
And my answer, in that uniquely Australian vernacular, is “heaps” (and as a sidebar, where else in the world is “heaps” a legitimate unit of measurement?).
I can tell you first hand that having a compulsion to shop, and shop, and shop, can seem harmless enough, but it can wreak real havoc. Havoc not only on the obvious levels, like the financial, but on deeper levels including relationships (which are often indirectly harmed by too much shopping – not a lot of energy left for one’s partner if all one really thinks about is that cute little pair of patent red heels on sale), one’s emotional life (which can become impoverished when all you want to do is shop and shop and shop, and when you’re not shopping, you’re thinking about shopping) and the big one of self-worth (many women who shop too much, and I’ve met a lot since I started on my own journey of healing, suffer with almost permanent self-loathing of a mild or lethal variety).
One of the reasons so many people don’t believe in, or at least discount the impact of, overshopping is because it looks good. There’s all those gorgeous bags with even more gorgeous contents. How could anything that cute be bad for you?
But compulsive overshopping is as just as ugly as any other unhealthy or addictive behaviour like gambling to excess, binge drinking, drug abuse. None of those behaviours, done to excess, is pretty. You only need one walking picture of drunken misery to realise how horrible drinking when done to excess is.
Drink too much and you could end up throwing up on the footpath or in a garden bed (or one terrible story I heard, and I swear this isn’t some ‘friend’ story dressed up as one of my own examples of extraordinarily bad behaviour from my misspent youth in a Queensland mining town, of throwing up into your date’s motorcycle helmet).
Not pretty.
But shopping looks good. It’s an ‘attractive’ habit, and there’s very little vomiting involved, usually. Those who indulge in it, including those who over-indulge in it, are often a weensy bit interested in, if not obsessed by, appearance-related activities and things. And they often look good themselves.
But the internal experience of feeling unable to control your spending habits, and feeling compelled to buy more, and more, and more, bears a remarkable resemblance to the internal experience of over drinking, or abusing drugs, or unhealthy gambling.
My journey back from unhealthy shopping started in 2009 when I took a year without clothes shopping. Not a big deal for many people (but then again, a year without alcohol, or watching footy, or chocolate wouldn’t be difficult for me and that would be pure living torture for some) – but a life changing experience for me. I now shop consciously, and only when I choose to shop. It’s liberating, and a dramatic change in how I used to consume (which could broadly be described as impulsive, erratic and rapid).
I’m not asking you to suddenly have a deep and abiding compassion for those of us who have overshopped, or are still overshopping. But I would ask you to at least please stop snickering.
Jill Chivers is an advocate for conscious shopping and helps women who shop too much to stop, or at least cut down. She has a fascination with style and identity and the significance of clothing in our lives. Among other things, she worries about the problems of fast fashion and the unreal role models presented on reality television.Learn more at www.shopyourwardrobe.com
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Of course I was fucking crazy when I lived in Dili, in East Timor. But anyone who has been a volunteer aid worker in the country will tell you, everyone goes crazy in Timor. I’ve heard about volunteer groups in other developing countries who organised party weekends and slept around like mad with locals and got right into the cheap, cheap drugs. Not me. I just had a fuckload of time on my own to find out I was shit at harmonica, get ring worm from patting the house puppy and struggle with my PTSD from being abandoned in a developing country by my boyfriend and getting chucked out of my house by my arsehole neighbour-landlords.
***
Kate Olivieri writes about shit she can’t believe happens in real life, except it happens to her, so she faithfully records it so you can be equally dumbfounded. She can be found retweeting like a fiend on Twitter @kateolivieri, sporadically writing about life in Lismore, NSW at www.kateolivieri.com and writing about aforementioned shit she can’t believe happens at http://practicalempath.tumblr.com. The above snippet of writing is about her year working as an Australian Volunteers International volunteer in the Government of East Timor.
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
In the early 90s, I had my 15 minutes of fame across a couple of National Rugby League football seasons. The media called me ‘the feminist fighting football’ after I wrote a controversial article on masculinity, football and players’ violence on and off the field. This article focused on an unpleasant incident in a Brisbane nightclub where some Queensland National Rugby League players, fuelled up by drink and testosterone, played dirty by manhandling a girl’s boobs and roughing up the club manager who tried to stop them. This incident was glossed over by the Sunday Mail because News Limited were major sponsors of the State of Origin.
When the match against the Blues happened on the Wednesday, these abusive males were glorified as Maroon heroic warriors on the field and their off-field transgressions were muted. The woman concerned was objectified and rendered invisible, while the manager was marginalised as an inferior form of masculinity.
I was bombarded by requests to comment on radio, TV, in newspapers, and even to commentate a whole NRL match on TV for Seven, from a feminist perspective. As a media academic I became both object and subject in the media, quite an uncomfortable position to be in. Funnily enough, often drive-time male radio announcers would agree with me, congratulating me, for instance, in the NRL heartland of Newcastle and Western Sydney, for being game enough to tackle a taboo topic. By contrast, I was viciously attacked once by a female radio announcer in Hobart, for daring to criticise sporting heroes.
After that, I wrote a couple more articles on sporting masculinity, homoeroticism in football, and further explored off-field violence against women including rape. I was almost signed up by a well known publisher to write a book. Unfortunately, they wanted me to write about violence and masculinity across all footie codes, whereas I felt I had enough material on NRL. When that contract fell through, I decided to leave sporting heroes to others, and began to specialise in the representation of disgracefully ageing male bodies in popular culture – e.g. Andy Sipowitz in NYPD. Funnily enough the media rush transformed into a mere trickle! Ironically, however, while I still fiercely condemn excessive violence on-field, and any manifestations of violence and abuse off-field, particularly against women, I have become a great fan of State of Origin matches.
An old Queensland comrade has recently written a musical on the State of Origin. Hopefully this will be produced by 2015, and will then tour the NRL heartland, delighting everyone. Watch this space! I have fond memories of the momentous Origin 1 when our team, led by the legendary Artie Beetson, beat the Blues for the first time. I was actually present at Lang Park for that historic occasion.
My one-time spouse played on the wing for Easts and when he stopped playing, we used to go along to watch various games. He had boarded at one of the top Brisbane church schools where Union was king. However out of rejection of that school’s culture, when his school days finished, he chose to play the working man’s game, Rugby League.
Over the years, vacillating between enchantment and disenchantment, I have found that I did not enjoy the TV commentary at State of Origin time, preferring to turn it off and listen to the wit and wisdom of comedy duo Roy and H.G. Hence I chuckled when they commented on Deborah Kerr – from The King and I – ie Wally Lewis, the King. Also of course Glen Lazarus the Brick with Eyes featured a lot; he is now a member of Clive Palmer’s party and even more brick-like than before.
These days I am a dedicated fan of the brilliant S of O Queenslanders Cameron Smith, Billy Slater and Jonathan Thurston in particular. My friend Juanita and I were hoping that Cameron would leave Storm in Melbourne and that the boy from Logan would return to play in Queensland for the Broncos. Sadly this did not eventuate; we will just have to enjoy his playing as Queensland and Australian captain.
I am still fascinated by media reportage on the NRL. For instance recently the Courier-Mail earnestly discussed at length the ramifications of the fact that Greg Inglis’s partner was expecting their baby on the same date as Origin 2. We await with bated breath for the outcome, a battle between nature and culture writ large.
Right now I am already humming possible tunes in my head for the (hopefully) upcoming State of Origin musical extravaganza. Who indeed will play the onstage Wally, Mal, the Brick, Alan, Cameron, Billy, Greg and Jonathan..?
http://moviebuffq.wordpress.com
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Once upon a time in Wonderland, Alice was sitting quietly under her favourite tree, reading her book, when she looked up and saw the Mad Hatter bouncing down the road towards her.
“Whatever is the matter?” she called out.
“The circus,” he shouted. “The circus is here and I’m going to be late!”
Alice closed her book with a *pop* and stood up excitedly.
“Circus?” she said. “Where?”
“At the castle!” cried the Mad Hatter as he bounced past.
Alice fell into step beside him, skipping to his bouncing, her long legs allowing her to keep up. Every day she had practiced her skipping, so she was now just as fast as he…. and she looked a lot more graceful!
“What do they have in the circus?” she asked. “Animals?”
“No!”
“Clowns?”
“Pah!”
“Trapeze artists?”
“Oh good gosh, no!”
“What a strange circus!” declared Alice. “One day this silly land might learn to be normal!”
“Harrumph!” huffed the Mad Hatter. “Wonderland is normal, it’s you who is strange.”
As they got closer to the castle Alice could see the bright flags flying from the top of a big tent, and she could hear the sounds of a fair. Because of that sound people were streaming in from all over the countryside. Alice saw the White Rabbit and Bill and Ben, and the Cheshire Cat leapt from branch to branch above her, not at all his usual gruff self. Even the Smurfs had come out of their village for the spectacle!
So many people, and because of that the castle grounds were filled to swelling and the noise was ginormous in Alice’s poor ears.
She put her hands over her ears and shouted “I wish this wasn’t so loud!” and immediately everything went quiet.
“Thank you,” said Alice, graciously, as she made her way through the crowd to get her ticket.
The acts were already lining up inside the tent but this was not like any circus Alice had ever seen, it was all back to front! There was a rabbit which pulled a man out of a hat, the top and bottom of a person who had been sawn in half waddled into the ring and were magicked back together by a Bearded Lady, and two jugglers rode in on a push-me-pull-you bike and juggled each other. Alice thought it was all very strange.
Then it was time for the final act.
“I wonder what it will be,” said Alice to no-one in particular, and, of course, no-one answered her.
The Ringmaster spoke but Alice, because she hadn’t unwished the silence she had wished for earlier, couldn’t hear a word he was saying, so she just had to sit quietly and wait.
And, just when she thought she was going to see something spectacular….
She woke up under her favourite tree, with her book still in her lap.
“Oh well,” she said, “I suppose in Wonderland even dreams have no ending!”
I fucking LOVE Melbourne International Comedy Festival so much that for 20 years, despite being a comedian I didn’t perform in it. Instead I’d spend my nights seeing stuff. The record was 37 shows one festival. Which included a 2am secret Daniel Kitson/David O’Doherty show in Old Council Chambers Trades Hall (the room my show The Trollhunter is in this year)
Running on café lattes, no sleep and Smith Crisps my girlfriend Caitlin and I would dare each other ‘just one more…’ and then be hospitalized for exhaustion for the three weeks after festival.
Plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead.
Even when I’m doing a show (like this year) I attempt to see as many shows as I perform.
My rule of thumb. Put together a few nights of three shows a night. Someone you know, someone you’ve heard of and a total random you know bugger all about. Don’t research! Go in cold knowing nothing.
I also put together a few ‘Wedding Nights’.
Something old (an established comic),
Something new (some fresh meat),
Something borrowed (international),
Something blue (transgressive, sweary, NSFW).
A week before festival people ALWAYS ask me what to see. So here’s my annual Dev’s Must See MICF 2014 Top Picks.
Miss Itchy
Cult, out there, bizarre, the two dumpy creepy ladies, Miss Gerda and Miss Candy Girl are back after a ten-year hiatus. This award winning cry for help will scratch your itches, blow the cobwebs out of you heads and scare the fuck out of you. Top night out. Take your nan.
The Boy with Tape On His Face
Want something to take the whole family to? This is it. Just go. You’re welcome.
Rhys Nicholson
Really hitting his mark and finding his voice after a few years poncing on stage, go see Dirty Uncle Rhys. A cross between Pee Wee Herman and your wrongest most perverted best friend he’ll give you a glimpse of life from the perspective of a gay pervert in your 20s. Happy ending guaranteed.
Stella Young
For years and years we’ve all been nagging comedian, cripple and all round good time girl Stella Young to do a show. But she’s been too busy being brilliant, being a crip and swinging from chandeliers to find the time. Finally she’s decided to shut us all up and has crafted an hour of laughs, stories and smackdowns. Quite a buzz about this one.
Joel Creasey
His third or fourth one man show this delightful homosexual from Perth who was run out of town in Colac for being gay will ring your bells, float your boat and talk about Meryl Streep. A lot. You have been warned. And he’ll sing. And if you don’t laugh and clap, he’ll cry and throw shit.
Nelly Thomas
The only regret of this year’s festival is that Nelly and I’s shows clash so I’ll miss it. Smart, funny and what a babe she will push you out of your comfort zone and wrap you up in a warm blanket of shit hot comedy. Get ready to piss yourself. And think.
Upfront
All girls. All live. Every year for the last MICF puts together an all star line up for one night only at Melbourne Town Hall. I was in the very first and I’m thrilled to be in the line up again this year along with, Nelly Thomas, Celia Pacquola, Kate McLennan, Jennifer Wong, Felicity Ward, Em Rusciano, Mel Buttle, Hannah Gadsby, Cal Wilson, Rebecca De Unamuno, Anne Edmonds, Sarah Kendall, Miss Itchy plus more!
Wil Anderson
The man is a master. This has to be close to his 20th MICF show. Watch an accomplished comedian take an audience, weave a spell and take an audience of bogans to bourgeois on a wild ride of perfect one liners, hilarious anecdotes and cultural commentary. If you’ve never seen him, do. If you have, see him again.
Anne Edmonds
Anne is one of Australia’s most exciting new stand up, character and banjo playing comedians. She’s been at it for a few years and has made a huge jump with numerous telly gigs and Anne’s a YouTube sensation with her ABC produced video ‘Raylene The Racist’ attracting over 60,000 hits. Go see.
The Listies
Looking for a family show that’s not childish, patronizing and will have you all fully coughing your lungs up, this is it. I hate kids entertainment. But I LOVE The Listies.
Felicity Ward
Not many comedians are as committed and accomplished as Felicity. Award winning, hard working and skilled she ticks all the boxes. Her shows are always surprising and thoroughly rehearsed, tested and thought out. This year’s is going to be a pearler.
Dave O’Neil
20 years he and I have been in the business and he gets better and better and better. Such a safe pair of hands. Solid, well written and warm. Dave ponders whether things really were better back in his day. A time when it was less Twitter more Twister, less X-factor more X-Men and absolutely no Kyle, Seal or Redfoo.
Adrienne Truscott
Adrienne Truscott, one-half of the infamous Wau Wau Sisters, dressed only from the waist up and ankles down, undoes and does in the rules and rhetoric about rape, comedy and the awkward laughs in between. This is one for the people who like their lungs bursting and their buttons pushed. Adrienne performs every rape joke she has ever heard wearing no pants. Heard good things. A bit afraid. Strap yourself in.
Dave Callan
Dave Callan’s show A Little Less Conversation is one of the best comedy shows, or shows full stop I have ever seen. I saw it last year and had show envy. Do. Please. It’s a masterpiece.
Fiona O’Loughlin
She is the naughtiest aunt in the world. The personification of the greatest Australian comedy has to offer, irreverent, unapologetic and the hero of her own novel. This mother of five originally from Alice Springs goes there. And takes you with her. Her show about her battle with alcohol was one of the greatest theatrical experiences I’ve ever had. I have seen every show she has done and they just get better and better.
Hannah Gadsby’s NGV tours
Hannah is an obscenely talented, terrifyingly sharp comedian. With a degree in fine art.
You heard me.
Sold out for five years in a row, Hannah’s informatively hilarious NGV shows have developed a cult following. This time round she is remounting three of her classic NGV Art Lectures.
These tours sell out. Take a mate, have a ball and get some culture into you. Born in Tasmania Hannah’s tours are the quintessential MICF experience.
This year’s wild card? Go see Jordana Borensztain. You’ll thank me.
My show is Catherine Deveny-The Trollhunter, a collaboration with star Guardian columnist, Ikea enthusiast and award winning theatre maker Van Badham. It is by far the best thing I’ve ever done. It’s a smack down, stand-up fairytale about online trolls, misogyny, anonymous internet haters and Attorney General George ‘Brandy’ Brandis’ and other Liberal party. It’s OMG, LOL and NSFW and uses actual material sent to us by actual real live trolls. I wear a costume specifically designed for the show by costume genius Bryn Meredith (who worked on the King Kong puppet).
This is my fourth one woman show and after 22 years of doing stand up I reckon I’ve finally gotten the hang of it. The best thing I have ever done. Book now. Will sell out.
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
I was accidentally outed at work. Why was I ‘in’, you might ask? Well, I wasn’t completely. I’m a teacher in a northern suburbs state school and to staff, I’ve always been loudly and proudly myself – my girlfriend attends work functions, I mention her in conversation. Why wouldn’t I, right? Everyone talks about their families. I’m not going to self-censor. How completely contrary to all my politics and beliefs around being unapologetically who you are and damn the consequences. And yet, up until four years ago, I wouldn’t dream of putting a photograph of my girlfriend on my desk. What if a student saw it and asked who it was? I would happily answer ‘No’ to the question ‘Do you have a boyfriend, Miss?’ but never follow it with: ‘But I do have a very lovely girlfriend. Thanks for asking’. Oh, I know what you’re thinking: Why do students have to know if you have a partner or not? Isn’t it better to keep your personal life to yourself? This was my rationale for years. I reasoned it wasn’t their business anyway and was irrelevant to my teaching. I often replayed the words of an old Diploma of Education lecturer who had said, ‘I’ve never known a single gay colleague to have come out successfully to a student body; it always ended badly for them.’ So when I was accidentally outed to a large group of students by two of my colleagues, I panicked.
I don’t blame these two teachers. It happened innocently enough. I had been communicating via email with the author of one of our Year 11 texts; an awesome collection of short stories. In one story, a young man’s sexuality is questioned by a friend and he laughs her off. The students always choose to believe that the character wasn’t gay, but I was convinced he was – which the author confirmed for me. I think I wrote to him something like, ‘As a big lezzo myself, I generally pick up on the homo subtext.’ Anyway, our emails back and forth contained some other insights regarding this story and others relevant to the teaching of the book, so I cut and pasted this email stream onto an A4 page with a heading that read, ‘Please do not show this to your students, but this may be helpful in teaching the text blah blah.’ Now, you may have heard that teachers are overworked. It’s true. If another teacher gives you a resource and you trust that teacher, you may not have time to read the resource before a class starts (shock, horror) and you may just photocopy it in the ten minutes you have before class because of all the other stuff you had to do over lunch and then hand it out to your class to read. And that’s exactly what happened. My two colleagues accidentally outed me to about 40 students. Aghast at their actions, they came to find me after their classes, to apologise. They were spoken to by the assistant principal about their unprofessionalism. For those of you who work at schools, you know that this pretty much means everyone in the school now knew – and if not at that time, then at least by the end of the week.
So, holy shit, they know. They know I’m a big ol’ lesbian. And I had to teach a bunch of the same Year 11 kids the next morning in Literature. I was beside myself. I skulked off from work that day feeling very exposed. What would they think of me now? I was suddenly confronted with the idea that I wasn’t actually as comfortable with my sexuality as I thought. All the worst homophobic prejudices I publicly denounced (amongst my entirely supportive friendship group and family) were the ones I was convinced my students would have of me. She’s a freak, it’s unnatural, it’s perverse – even, it’s sinful! I imagined parents calling the school to have their children removed from my classes; I imagined corridor and class bullying. I became that frightened teenager again and was so angry and ashamed at myself for losing the courage of my convictions. ‘Don’t show this to your students,’ I had written – ‘because I’m ashamed of who I am,’ I may as well have added and now they all knew it. It was with pure terror that I faced my Literature class that next morning. ‘I know that something was given to you in class yesterday that I said I’m a lesbian (nearly choking on the word) and I don’t want you to think that I’m worried that you know that, because it doesn’t really worry me. It’s just that, you know, you just want to keep some things to yourself.’ Urgh, it sounded so lame and it was. And the kids, they couldn’t have cared less. They barely raised an eyebrow. One of them, sensing my distress, said something soothing, bless her, like, ‘Don’t worry about it Miss.’ And the class continued as normal. And so did the next one and four years later not a single parent has called to remove their child from my class.
It’s not like one day the students didn’t know and the next they did. Some students still don’t know and it’s not like I’m running around the school, jumping out of closets at them. But when I hear homophobic language used, I say, ‘That’s really offensive language and offends me personally because I’m gay”. Works a treat. Never seen kids have a re-think so quickly! And, even if it’s not because they’re really sorry for having said it, but because they’re simply stunned that a teacher is willing to say they’re gay in front of them, that’s fine too. At least they’re thinking. I talk about my girlfriend in class sometimes, I might say something really controversial like, ‘Oh, my girlfriend loves that stupid show, too’. It’s really no big deal. Sometimes the boys squirm, sometimes they even tell me it’s bad because God/Allah says so. I just reply that we’re all entitled to our own beliefs but my belief is that I deserve to be happy. On these occasions I notice the looks of triumph on some students’ faces and this makes me immeasurably happy. I am generally a lot happier in fact, since I was accidentally outed at work. I don’t recommend it for everyone but for me, it’s worked out fine.
Students don’t seem to ask me as much anymore if I have a boyfriend, but I do have a photo of my girlfriend stuck to my desk. And if they want to know, I say, ‘She’s lovely. Thanks for asking.’
POSTSCRIPT
For the last couple of years, following a professional development class at Safe Schools Coalition Victoria, I have facilitated a queer/straight alliance group at my school. We meet every now again and talk and do things like baking and selling rainbow iced cupcakes to promote IDAHOT (International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia). The first year we celebrated IDOHOT we gave out some badges with an anti-homophobia message and got heckled a bit, but mostly the kids grabbed them and wore them on their uniform long after the official day. Safe Schools Coalition came to our school and did some professional development with the staff, which was very well received. We also made a huge effort to address the all-pervasive homophobic language used at school. We also work with the Equal Opportunities and Human Rights Commission on ‘Fair Go, Sport!’, a student led project that aims to increase awareness of sexual and gender diversity in schools and to promote safe and inclusive environments, particularly in the sporting arena. Sometimes I despair when I overhear some homophobic language used, or worse, witness some bullying, but I honestly believe that what we’re doing is slowly changing this culture. We can’t expect to change everyone’s mind on this issue, but I like to think that we can create an environment in which queer kids can at least feel like their school has their back. Please check out the links below.
Safe Schools Coalition Victoria link:
http://safeschoolscoalitionvictoria.org.au/
Fair Go, Sport! project link:
http://www.humanrightscommission.vic.gov.au/index.php/reservoir-high-school