Hello darlings,

What a day! I’ve been sacked from The Age.

I’ve adored every moment of my time with The Age. The Age is the heart and soul of my city and Melbourne is the love of my life.

Every column I have written for The Age was prepared like a meal for close friends.

I am disappointed. To my beautiful readers of The Age, I will miss you.

Can somebody write me a reference?

Dev x x

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One of my favourite people is an old boyfriend’s mum, Marijke, a stuttering Dutch psychologist, heart of gold, body of a Veronica and a penchant for buying old furniture, painting it beige and re-upholstering it in calico.

Meeting her in my teens was a revelation. The women I knew mostly fell into the category of teacher, housewife, mother, nurse or tuckshop lady rather than fiercely independent, free-thinking European woman who cooked lentils, travelled the world and danced to her own tune. Clothes optional.

I caught up with Marijke a while ago to meet her new man, Rene, a Dutch cardiologist. The little boys and I rolled up to a breakfast by the sea. Whole-wheat pancakes, bowls of stewed fruit the colour of jewels, fluffy clouds of yoghurt, steaming cups of coffee and light streaming in. At the moment I was reflecting on what a healthy sight it was, Rene pushed his chair back and lit a cigar. At the table.

I love Europeans.

He turned to me and said: ”Cathy, did Marijke tell you how we met?”

”No, she didn’t.”

He took a drag of his cigar and said: ”I killed her father.”

Rene had legally euthanised Marijke’s father in the Netherlands, where euthanasia is legal. A death with a happy ending.

I thought of Marijke and Rene when I addressed the Dying With Dignity Rally on the steps of Parliament House last week.

Passionate supporters huddled together on the steps like many Melburnians past. I hoped this was the last rally for euthanasia ever, but infuriatingly I knew it wouldn’t be. Despite the need for our laws to catch up to reflect social progress and our community values, 85 per cent of people support voluntary euthanasia.

I was disappointed by the turnout – about 150 people. Some 10,000 rocked up to the Save Live Australian Music Rally when they closed The Tote. But the collective age at the Dying With Dignity Rally was probably twice that of the Slam Rally. Perhaps it’s a good sign – maybe people were thinking: ”I don’t have to turn up to a rally for voluntary euthanasia. Clearly it’s going to happen; they legalised abortion.”

WAKE UP everybody! Politicians know 85 per cent of us want euthanasia. BUT WE DON’T HAVE IT! Shirtfront your local member and say: ”Pull your finger out, sunshine, and speak up. Because you’re just The Honourable Member For People Dying in Pain.”

Dogs can be legally and peacefully put to sleep, (sure, many of them we’re more fond of than our relatives). Other countries safely administer voluntary euthanasia, so don’t give me any bull about it being dangerous or us not being responsible. We all know doctors, thanks to the benign conspiracy between the legal system, the police and the Victorian government, euthanise people every day.

So why is it illegal? Blame religion. Yet 85 per cent of people support euthanasia, while only 9 per cent of people go to church. The majority of people with faith believe in voluntary euthanasia.

I don’t care what you believe, but we all must fight for a secular state to stop religion influencing our policy. And I don’t care who you vote for, if you believe that Jesus was sent to Earth to die for our sins, clearly Tony Abbott was sent to Earth to live for our sins. Not having access to voluntary euthanasia is an infringement of our rights. Article Five of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights: ”No one shall be subjected to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment.” I would proudly, safely, euthanise a loved one who needed it. And happily be fined, prosecuted or incarcerated as a result.

Turn up to the next euthanasia rally. Because there are people lying in hospital, at home and in palliative care who would streak down Bourke Street to shake up this mediaeval mentality of a few. Otherwise we may all have to become veterinarians so we have access to Nembutal.

”What do we want? To die. When do we want it? When we choose.”

That’s me, attempting to sex up euthanasia. Everyone deserves a happy ending. Not just Marijke and Rene.

Catherine Deveny is a Dying With Dignity Victoria Ambassador.

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I THOUGHT it was a joke. A talk radio station with Steve Price (a man, according to Wikipedia, widely known as the Poisoned Dwarf), Jason Akermanis (footballer, half man, half punchline), Andrew Bolt (right-wing tabloid hack), Sam Newman (Melbourne’s favourite misogynist and bully), Chris Smith (serial creep and ugly drunk from 2GB) and Steve Vizard (who, despite his extraordinary cultural contribution and his corporate crimes being dwarfed by the daily social atrocities committed by every second corporate maggot on King Street, is now known as ”disgraced businessman”) is starting up. In Melbourne. Yeah, right.

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Note this moment. Because there’ll be a day when you’re asked, ”Where were you when you first heard of vajazzling?”

I thought if I alerted you to the existence of vajazzling here in the privacy of our one-on-one reading communion, the damage would be contained. It would mean your shock-induced coughing fit resulting in latte spraying out of your nose would occur here, preventing you the public humiliation of spitting your drink into someone’s face when the conversation turned to vajazzling and you innocently asked, ”What’s that?”

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The why do kids get their dad’s surname article was one I was umming and ahhing about for ages. It seemed to cover a lot of similar territory, delusion, self-deception, convenient excuses etc as the famous Why Do Women Change Their Names When They Get Married article.

(By the way Jana has since divorced and is now back to Pitman).

Followed up by the article to the article.

Which lead to this research on name changing and kids names.

It’ll be another case of me flushing the nutters, Nazis, fucktards and closet misogynists out. Had 3000 words and only as space of 700 so much was chopped out. Here’s my p.s.

The surname thing is something I am passionate about. The married name thing was about changing or not where as the children’s surname was about reinforcing a patrilinial tradition steeped in ownership. Not so much the outcome but the lack of honesty about what is informing the choice is what interests me. And the touchiness surrounding the discussion. And what’s really and truly behind the touchiness.

My children’s father was happy for our offspring to be Deveny and so was I.

As the pregnancy progressed as wrong as it had always felt all these people having just their father’s name it felt odd my our child just having mine.

So they the kids are hyphenated. My name first. No dramas. Perfect decision for us. They are told they can drop a name or change at any stage.

I remember around the time of the women changing their name article I was off to do a radio interview about it. My son asked where I was going. I explained I was off to the radio and explained the whole women changing their surname business. I said “Some people say ‘Well if we’re all hyphenated then if they have children what surname do they end up with?’” Dom replied “One name from each making a new name.” I thought, “If a nine year old dyslexic can work it out why can’t all these fuckwits.” Lightbulb. They have a vested interest keeping the status quo. So much so this issue is labeled ‘unimportant’ ,‘difficult’ or ‘both’.

Being born with an opinion and a vagina is misfortunate enough. When teamed with no fear of letting people down because they are already crushed with disappointed by ‘the way I ‘turned out’ well I’m just a walking ‘mouthy’ ‘feisty’ and ‘bitter’ bomb thrower waiting to happen. Sit back and enjoy the show!

Three years ago I innocently asked the readers of The Age, the broadsheet of Melbourne; one of the most engaged, sophisticated and socially progressive cities in the world, birthplace of Germaine Greer, Barry Humphries and Barry Jones and a UNESCO city of literature, “Why are women still taking their husbands surnames?” And I’m still having jam tins thrown at me for having the audacity to even ask the question. And worse still, to have the temerity to question the furious, irrational and non-sensical responses. Made by angry, annoyed and irritated people who either lack the intellectual capacity or refuse to apply it to reveal their true motivation to why they are angry, annoyed and irritated. Let alone to answer the question.

For every one uptight white honky who believes I am the only person who thinks the practice is sad, misogynist, archaic, insecure and unnecessary. There is a 1000 who have said ‘Thanks for voicing my thoughts. Now I can just shove this article under my conservative friends noses and you can take the rap!’

It’s so amazing all these women saying their surnames were horrible and that’s why they went with the husbands. I bet their brothers happily handed that same surname on. And if they were so horrible why hadn’t they changed their names by deed poll already?

The ‘easier’ argument and the ‘family needs one surname’ argument are just dodgy reason disguised patriarchy employed by people with no insight into their own medieval, divisive and views.

And the “family tree” argument thing just shows how easily they have swallowed the dodgy reason-disguised patriarchy and the strength of the invisible electric fences to keep it like that. HELLO. WE HAVE THE INTERNET AND SOPHISTOCATED GOVERNENT OFFICES FOR GENEOLOGY. It shows how blind people are to the misogyny when you here them talking about the family tree in solely patriarchal terms.

And has far as the ‘historically argument’ goes, see tradition and convention in today’s argument. It’s not ‘just your father’s surname’ it’s yours.

As far as ‘there are more important things to deal with.’ Oh yeah? And what are you doing about them? And by the way, we don’t do one thing at a time. Hopefully they are all being dealt with but this is just vain hope to distract from the importance of this issue.

One of the most interesting conversations I had last week was with a mate who ended up hyphenating she said, “I really didn’t care. And he said he didn’t either. So I said fine, let’s just go with my surname. And suddenly he went from I don’t really care to I’m not happy about that at all. Which is why I pushed for the hyphenated.” Get thee to a watercooler, a lunch room or online forum. If people get offended, just blame it on me.

 

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The only explanation I have for my overwhelming urge to go to Calder Park Drags last Friday was because I’d spent a disproportionate amount of the previous fortnight in Mount Martha, or as I call it, Midsomer Murders Bay. You know that English mystery telly show where it’s all chutney, hedges and avuncular parsons at the village fair until the kindly widow who breeds hounds finally snaps and decapitates the tavern keeper in his sleep for bending over the corners of the hymn book? Well it’s like that but by the sea. Mount Martha is the only place in the world you’ll find authentic ersatz 16^th century Tudor architecture with a view of jet skis.

There are more uptight white honkies in the Portsea end of Frankston than you can shake Maggie Beer rolled in quince paste at. The morning after bin night I received a petition from the neighbors. Apparently my rubbish ‘wasn’t clean enough’. A mate’s parents have lived in Mount Honky for 40 years. “I didn’t know people from other countries existed until I was 14. The only Asian I ever saw growing up in Mount Martha was in the word Caucasian. I suppose it could have been worse,” she added, “It could have been in Sorrento, where you can be arrested for not blow drying your hair and you get ten years hard yakka for not wearing moleskins.”

What have I been doing in Caucasia? Squatting in an empty house because I, like hundreds of other Melbourne show offs, attention seekers and narcissists with self esteem issues am writing a show for the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. And no, that is not a veiled attempt at advertising my show God Is Bullshit, That’s The Good News. When I tweeted “And when I say ‘writing’ I mean googling myself and wanking.” my mate and fellow comedian Geraldine Hickey replied, “it appears we have the same method for writing shows. I also include eating toasted cheese sandwiches.”

Mount Martha’s Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice has since informed me that onanism is illegal in their jurisdiction. The only form of physical pleasure permitted other than doubles tennis and brisk sudoku is hitting yourself in the sternum with a first edition copy of Stephanie Alexander’s The Cook’s Companion.

The only antidote for my White Dog, White Shoe, Emotionally Constipated, Self Funded Retiree fatigue was recalibratation via a bogan enema. Which resulted in a bunch of little boys in skeleton suits and I taking off down the Calder on an odyssey. The Thunderdome for a night of legal street drags on what is apparently the fastest drag strip in the world.

I say ‘apparently’ because how could you prove it? Years ago I worked in Tokyo as a prostitu…. I mean English teacher. I fancied writing a memoir of my escapades and calling it Give Head, Lose Face. Anyway out with a couple of mates in a Japanese restaurant last week one asked if I was fluent. “Can either of you speak Japanese?” I asked, “No,” they replied. “Then yes. I’m fully bilingual.”

I pulled up to Hoons Haven behind a lowered Commodore with tinted windows, mags all round, a license plate H8ER79 and a bumper sticker that read Fuck Off We’re Full. And a crucifix hanging from the rear view mirror. Because Who Would Jesus Hate? I explained to the boys that H8ER79 meant the driver hated not only 79 but all prime numbers and as far as being full went, well, he was full of shit. But probably best not to tell him that. Unless they wanted their heads punched in. In the name of God.

Entering the carpark a bloke with a face like a slapped arse, the mouth of a corpse and the personality of a very angry war criminal with a personality disorder and a toothache gave me a ticket he’d written my licence plate number on. Parking fee I assumed. Or maybe some car key party where you get to have a stab at someone else’s car for the night. No, the ticket was so I could prove I was the owner of my own car on the way out. Or that’s what Ivan Milat’s brother said. If the ticket and the license plate didn’t match I was pretty sure I would have been raped. For all I knew the black sheep of the Milat family may not have even worked there. He just showed up every Friday night with his official looking tickets to meet people. Before dismembering them.

Entering the temple to petrol, testosterone and rubber I was overcome with 70s flashbacks. Mullets, Winfield Reds, panel vans, blokes called Daz and 3XY. As I entered The Dome, the dirt bowl carved from paddock in Diggers Rest (under 18s free! Under 12, don’t get too pissed you may have to drive mummy and daddy home) I was greeted by the roar of hotted up engines, the smell of global warming and the sight of, no it can’t be, yes is was, an espresso coffee stand. So much for pie, smoke or beer? Now its, soy latte, chai or mochachino? At the Calder Park drags. Only in Melbourne. Bunch of poofs. With taste. And anger management issues.

At least back in the days you could buy a girl a beer you were in with the chance of a root. These days you buy her a caffe latte and the best you can hope for is a conversation.

Great crowd. I didn’t realize it was a theme night. It was either Inbred and Sex Offender Friday, or a Moe Singles Night. I pulled out a texta to write my mobile phone number on the little boys arms in case they got lost. Then I thought maybe I should write their blood types down as well. Or a message JUST BRING THE KID BACK SAFE AND I’LL GIVE YOU MY PHONE, MY WALLET AND WHAT EVER ELSE YOU WANT.

The truth is I trust bogans far more than middle class people. The harder people try to act normal the less normal they actually are.

The little boys and I sorted ourselves a posse and the crowd was very friendly. It was a like a bogan Noah’s Arc. Two of every kind. Short fat bogans whose heads joined directly onto their bodies and tall skinny ones whose heads appeared to be connected to their body by a stalk, ones that looked as if they’d bite if you touched their ears, and others wearing beanies that screamed Special Needs Group. And stacks of families. I particularly enjoyed seeing the fagging mums in tracky dacks tipping Coke into baby bottles and handing it to toddlers in prams pushed flush up against the cyclone fence next to men wearing ear muffs commonly worn by operators of jack hammers.

The little boys were mad for the speed, noise and particularly the smell of burning rubber. “You can get the best smoke here Mum. Suck it up and hold your breath. It’s sick as!” Sick as? Hello Cancer! “And if you boys close your eyes while you inhale you can wish for where you want your tumor to metastasize from!” My kids were doing the drawback with tyre smoke. Not surprising, considering they’re half wog, half bogan. And considering I’m what the boys call WWM. World’s Worst Mother. Which is a refereshing change from ‘fat maggot’, ‘hell in a skin suit’ and ‘a cross between the grim reaper and a weirdo.’

I can’t explain how I find burning rubber, exhaust fumes and 140-decibel noise relaxing. I suppose you can take the girl our of Reservoir but you can’t take the psychic mechanism to escape emotional chaos via outside distractions out of the hysteric with repressed rage and abandonment issues.

In the current climate of panic and fear about the impact of greenhouse gas emission and our preoccupation with our personal responsibility for reversing the devastating and far reaching consequences of global warming there’s something comforting and liberating about being amongst people who consider environmental vandalism a sport. “Who gives a stuff about carbon footprints? Shove your Prius. Go hard or go home. Not my fault the environment’s fucked. Game on.”

We met a lovely kid with a skinhead and rats tail called Scott. He was one of those aggressively friendly baby bogans who, due to benign neglect had the survival instinct to identify and bond with any adult with a full set of teeth and access to a car not up on blocks in an attempt to ingratiate his way up the food chain. “So who are you here with Scott?”

“Me dad. And me bruvver Efan. Drags give mum the shits. So she’s gone boozin’. Sometimes me Nan comes. But she’s in jail at the moment.”

“How old are you darling?”

“Five. In April.”

“Can I by you a Coke Scott?”

“Na. I’d rather a dim sim but. Give us $20 and I’ll buy us all some.” Gave him $20. He nicked off didn’t he and that was the last I saw of him.

The highlight of the night for me was a 1962 FB Holden dropping her guts and dragging off a C63 Mercedes Benz. It’s not every day you get to see a merchant banker from Hawthorn get their arse whipped by a panel beater from St. Albans. Mount Martha to Calder Park. Seeing how the other half live. Top night.

 

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