ABORTION! Now that I've got your attention: abortion

OK. Fine. Right. Abortion, yeah?

I don't really like writing or talking about abortion, because...well, who does? Anytime you express an opinion on abortion you're likely to get someone calling you a monster or a Nazi or demanding to know how YOU would feel if you'd been aborted, and then you have to give them a lesson about logic and it goes on and on forever.

But look I've been thinking about abortion, and much like a mushroom sprouting from soil, an opinion has burst out on top of my head, so feel free to pick it.

The reason I'm thinking about it is because it's in the news a bit lately. Tasmania has introduced a bill to finally decriminalise abortion, and there is a bit of speculation swirling regarding the fact that in Victoria, the Liberals rely on the vote of rabid pro-lifer and perks-enjoyer Geoff Shaw, and that if Tony Abbott becomes prime minister he may have to rely in the Senate on the DLP's pro-life, pro-insanity Senator John Madigan.

So it's a bit topical. And really, it's always topical, because there are always people who won't let go, and keep trying to wind the clock back.

But here is the thing: I feel like a lot of the arguments go in the wrong direction, and they tend to go in the wrong direction because the anti-abortion lobby knows just which buttons to push. I think there is a line of thought which is not used often enough, and this is important because to me the real battle to defend abortion rights isn't in trying to convince pro-lifers to change their stance, but in the big middle ground of "don't-knows", the people who maybe haven't put much thought into it, but are ripe for the convincing by a pious-looking politician with a sincere-sounding speech.

First, we have to recognise that "pro-lifers" fall into two broad categories: real pro-lifers and fake pro-lifers.

The real pro-lifers are a minority - most "pro-lifers" are faking it. Real pro-lifers are the people who genuinely believe conception is the beginning of, not just life, but personhood. They sincerely believe that a foetus is a person with all the concomitant human rights that you or I have, and that aborting a foetus is the same as killing an actual child. They really believe the rubbish they spout about "the rights of the unborn child", and they won't listen at all when you point out that this is an oxymoron and there is actually no such thing as an "unborn child", given a "child" is someone who has been born. They also won't listen if you tell them that abortion can't be "murder" because murder is by definition illegal. Basically they won't listen to anything, so it's pointless to even try with these people.

And that pointlessness is, in fact, the point. The REAL pro-lifers are batshit insane. These are the ones who end up bombing abortion clinics and shooting doctors, and why wouldn't they? If you heard that down the road there was a government-sanctioned facility where doctors were shooting five-year-olds in the head, wouldn't you say some pretty extreme measures were needed to stop this? Wouldn't you, even if you lacked the courage to directly attack the child-killers yourself, heartily applaud those who did? How could you look negatively upon someone who stepped in to prevent children being slaughtered?

Well, that's how real pro-lifers see it. They are insane, and therefore their insane actions seem perfectly reasonable. And so naturally, there's no point trying to reason with them. They're fringe lunatics: we don't need to argue with them, we need to ignore them.

But then there are the fake pro-lifers. These are the ones who claim to be concerned about "the rights of the unborn child", but when faced with what is purportedly a nightmarish holocaust of kid-slaughter, say things like "safe, legal and rare", or demand that Medicare funding be removed.

I mean, imagine! Imagine believing that children are being murdered, but wanting it to be "safe, legal and rare"! Imagine saying, "Child murder is OK, but don't use taxpayer's money on it"! Come on.

Look at the debate that flares sometimes over instances of rape or incest. If you genuinely believed that foetuses were people, how could you make exceptions for rape or incest victims? "I don't think we should kill children except when their father's a rapist - babies need to be punished for that!" Please.

But a rape-incest exception, in fact, betrays a fake pro-lifer for what they are: a woman-punisher. The reason many "pro-lifers" are willing to entertain exceptions is because those exceptions deal with women whose pregnancy is not their fault.

And there is the key. The vast majority of "pro-lifers" are frauds who are simply out to punish women for having sex. They don't care about the "unborn children", or else they'd be marching with burning torches in the streets, storming abortion clinics daily. They will say their concern is for the poor dead babies, but then they'll go ahead and push for measures that allow abortion, but make it more expensive and difficult for a woman to access. Or they'll push to make it illegal, but exempt those women who came by their condition through "no fault of their own".

It is quite clear what these people are about. They are about ensuring that women don't "get away with it". They are about ensuring that if a woman DOES have the irrepressible audacity to have sex, she damn well better suffer for it. Either through a pregnancy or making abortions so difficult, expensive or dangerous that it turns her life upside down. The important thing is that women are made aware that their sin will not go unpunished. The important thing is that women NEVER feel free to enjoy sex without the threat of dire consequences.

And so what I say is, let's call these fake pro-lifers out. Every time a politician or a commentator or an activist claims they want to stop the killing of unborn babies, let's point out just how hypocritical they're being. Let's point out that if all they're willing to do is talk about it, call for cuts to funding or reductions in the numbers, they surely cannot be serious about considering these to be actual children.

And let's make sure those in-betweeners who haven't made their minds up and are just now looking curiously at the issue realise that the "pro-lifers" they see in the papers and on TV are full of disingenuous and malicious cant, and that if you want to be a pro-lifer, you can either join the lunatics or the liars.

Call 'em out, guys. The only way to make sure women retain control over their own bodies, is to make sure the other side doesn't get away with pretending that's not the field we're fighting on.

MR BEN'S SEX QUIZ!!!!!

Hey there readers! Are you feeling loved up? Or are you wondering whether you're as spicy a fajita as you always thought you are?

Thank goodness there's an easily accessible Web 2.0 solution for anyone looking to ascertain whether they're an Enrique Iglesias or an Olive from On The Buses. And that solution is right below, in the form of my scientifically formulate SEX QUIZ for Lovers and Swingers. Just answer these simple multiple choice questions, and you'll quickly know whether you're HOT, or just sweaty.

1. On average, I have sex:
    a) Once a week
    b) Eight times a week
    c) Less than three times a decade
    d) Every few minutes

2. I believe the secret to great sex is:
    a) A strong emotional connection
    b) A powerful erotic odour emanating from the armpits
    c) A willingness to experiment with borderline racist roleplaying
    d) A stuffed marlin

3. I lost my virginity:
    a) Before I was 18
    b) After I was 40
    c) In a refrigerated truck
    d) To a Blakeney twin

4. The sexiest animal is:
    a) The tiger
    b) The wolf
    c) The mosquito
    d) The sea cucumber

5. Foreplay is:
    a) Absolutely crucial
    b) A complete waste of time
    c) A kind of fish
    d) An offence against God

6. How long should a penis be?
    a) More than fifteen metres
    b) Less than half an inch
    c) Two and a half hours
    d) It depends what kind of wood you're making it from

7. What is the most erotic dream you've ever had?
    a) The one about Graham Kennedy and the ride-on mower
    b) I'm being chased by angry ballerinas but their knees have faces
    c) Will.i.am hiding under my bed softly reading Dr Seuss while I'm trying to sleep
    d) The one where I find out my gynaecologist is an elk

8. How long does it usually take you to have an orgasm?
    a) Less than a second
    b) More than a second
    c) At least until my sixteenth birthday
    d) Between one and three Pirates of the Caribbean movies

9. What part should pornography play in a healthy relationship?
    a) It should be banned
    b) It can really bring people closer together and also you can have a wank
    c) It can be useful, but better as a supplementary source of income rather than a full-time job
    d) Ideally it should overwhelm every aspect of your life until you know nothing else

10. How many times have you had sex while doing this quiz?
     a) Four
     b) Five
     c) Twelve
     d) The sea cucumber


HOW TO INTERPRET YOUR RESULTS:

Mostly As: You are a sexually normal, healthy person, but you smell a bit and need to shower more.

Mostly Bs: You are probably gay, but refuse to admit it, even to yourself, but your wife suspects, because when you talk in your sleep you keep mentioning someone called "Declan", and it's tearing your marriage apart, but neither of you are willing to discuss it. It's pathetic.

Mostly Cs: You are a wanted fugitive. You mostly only have sex with wild grasses.

Mostly Ds: Your relationship is passionate and loving, but prone to outbursts of irrational rage and inexplicable itches at inconvenient times. You and your partner are both happy to experiment and be open about your fantasies and fetishes, but it will turn out shortly that your partner is imaginary. Sorry.

Intemperate Overblown Rant No. 2

In which Miss Josephine Asher expresses her wish for a simpler time.

I am going to come right out and say it: Josephine Asher is RIGHT.

Yes, the pursuit for gender equality IS sucking the life out of relationships.

Just the other day, I was about to go out hunting, when my wife said, "Don't forget to vacuum", and I was reduced to a blubbering wreck. "Stop sucking the life out of our relationship!" I screamed, putting down my crossbow and going for a good lie-down.

It seems these days that all I ever do is wear aprons, push trolleys, do my own ironing. It's so humiliating for a man like me, who has such masculine potential if only he were allowed to express it instead of being constantly forced to do the washing up and arrange flowers attractively in vases. Like Josephine's friend "Dave", I feel like I have surrendered my balls. Surrendered them to a vast and evil army, made up of feminism allied with housework and armed with sharp, pointy equality-spears that are stabbing me right in the balls, except they're not because I surrendered them, so they are stabbing me right in my smooth, sexless groin.

Are you happy, feminism? Happy you have reduced me to a Ken Doll with an open wound? Me and "Dave" both?

To be blunt, feminisn:



Thanks to feminism I have failed to master basic masculine skills, which has caused a catastrophic decline in my self-esteem. Thank God I found out. For years I felt bad because I couldn't change a tyre or put up a shelf or kill a jaguar with my bare hands. I thought it was a failing in myself. Only now do I see: it was FEMINISM all along. Those accursed harpies insisting on equal status just drove the usefulness right out of me, and now I am good for nothing save baking scones and braiding hair.

Why, Feminism? Why do you insist on making me less of a man? Why can't it be like it was in the old days, when men were men and women were women and everyone was happy with that, and if they weren't they took powerful anti-depressants and repressed their feelings in a healthy and socially lubricative way, and there were never any arguments over who was going to go out and earn a living at the steelworks or merchant bank and who was going to stay home tending to the children and honey-glazing a ham? Don't we all yearn for those days? I know I do.

Just think of how it makes us feel, when we see a woman, say, build a house, or fire a gun, or drive a car or wear long pants. It makes us feel small. It makes us feel insignificant. It make us feel weak and effeminate. Let's not beat around the bush here: every time a woman picks up a briefcase, a man's penis turns to dust.

I yearn for a time when I wasn't surrounded by independent women. When the females in my circle were not constantly giving me migraines with their carping insistences on having "lives". When relationships were based, as David Deida points out, on "sexual polarity" and we weren't all mixed up and confused by all this sexual equality. Why can't I have a "ravishee", dammit? It's been so long since I felt like a ravisher, like a powerful, confident man making love to a reluctant woman who wasn't really into it. And isn't that what every man wants, in the end?

I'm so grateful to Miss Asher for saying what we were all thinking: independent women abandon their femininity. And what we want are truly feminine women. There is no greater turn-off than a woman who, instead of making herself pretty for you, spends all her time having opinions. What's feminine about that? What's the point of a woman who you can have an intelligent conversation with, if her demented pursuit of equality has caused her to get all mannish on you? What's sexy about a woman who challenges you, who engages you, whose company you enjoy? Why would any man want a woman whose personality delights him? Why would any man want a woman with a personality at all? When did "personality" become so important?

And yet feminism has conned us into thinking we could be happy with this arrangement; that we could be happy with women gadding about the place "independently".

Today it seems the only way you can form a relationship with a woman is by treating her as an actual human being, and frankly, we're not wired for that, ladies. Men are not designed for equal partnerships. We are not predisposed towards mutual respect. We are not genetically structured so as to be capable of acting in a remotely decent manner towards fellow human beings of the opposite sex. When you try to force us to do it, society breaks down, as it is doing right now. Men are reduced to poor, ghostly imitations, hollowly doing household chores and contributing towards the maintenance of the home and family until eventually, they grow vaginas. And all because feminism objected to the ways of life that had served us for so many years, where the man earned the money and protected the family, and the woman took care of home life and didn't get too lippy unless she wanted a black eye.

Not that I advocating violence towards women, obviously. It's just that back in humanity's halcyon days, women were much happier because they didn't have all the pressure of careers and thinking and stuff, and so they were able to take the occasional backhander in good humour. After all, we want men to be manly, don't we? I mean, hitting people is part of what makes a man a man. When did we lose sight of this? Thanks to feminism, I hardly ever get to hit people these days. It's no wonder I've started lactating.

The point is this: we had a good thing going, men and women. Men made the money, fought the wars, ran the governments, owned the businesses, wrote the books, participated in the sporting events, taught the university courses, cured the diseases, built the buildings, explored the world, planned the cities, and massacred the natives; and women baked cakes and provided sexual release. And that worked VERY well. Look at the pyramids. Could they have been built in a world with maternity leave? Don't make me laugh.

So please, let's all take a leaf out of Josephine Asher's book. Men, reassert your dominance. Women, reassert your submissiveness. If we all work together in a spirit of togetherness I am sure we can build a world where nobody will ever have to work together in a spirit of togetherness again.

Then, maybe, we can get that uppity bint Asher to stop writing and get back in the goddamn kitchen where she belongs.

Dispensable Musings

The story of Mr Stephen Fry, who said some silly things and was upset.

It is a shame. You will be unsurprised to know that I am an enormous admirer of Stephen Fry. His writing, his acting, his comedy, his QI-hosting, his documentaries, and even his Twitter feed. I yield to no one in my admiration for the man. And it is very easy in such circumstances to forgive your role model the sins you condemn in others. And it's almost as easy to overcompensate and savage your role model for sins you would shrug off in others. So it's important to note, just at the start, that I am hopelessly morally compromised and my opinions on this matter, as in all others, are worthless. However, here goes.

The fact is that, on face value, these comments are fairly stupid. They are fairly ridiculous generalisations that are untrue and no doubt offend a lot of women, and gay men. And to say, "oh but there's a grain of truth there" is of course what is said about all ridiculous generalisations; maybe there IS a grain of truth, but a good rule of thumb is, if there's a grain of truth you wish to express, then express a grain of truth, not a wheatfield of wild exaggeration.

But Fry says he was misquoted, having given a "humorous interview". OK. I am willing to hear him out here. Maybe with others I wouldn't be so forgiving, and maybe that's the bias referred to above. But Fry has, I think, earned a certain level of esteem from me, so I'm willing to listen to any explanation and accept it if it's, well, acceptable. Some will not grant him the same indulgence - such as Germaine Greer, who replied to his stupid generalisations with some of her own; but that's Germaine for you, lovably ballistic as always. I don't blame them at all, for we each must make up our own minds as to what we accept and what we rail against. But I'll hear him out. Hell, I'll hear anyone out, really. It's only fair.

Because after all, I think I'm right in saying that Stephen Fry has not, in the past, established himself as an inveterate misogynist. Of course, he has established himself as a comedian, so if it was humour, it wouldn't be out of character. Even if you might not think it was very funny.

(as an aside, here is a video from some time ago, in which he speaks along the same themes, and does seem to be having a bit of fun more than anything; the old "differences between men and women" schtick, with a bit of "aren't men ridiculous creatures" thrown in. So if the interview he gave was a reprise of that routine...he would seem to have a case for grievance here. In my own, as we have established, worthless opinion.

But maybe it wasn't really a joke. If not, it did come across as the musing of a man who is somewhat baffled by matters sexual, which is pretty much the way Stephen Fry has come across for many years now. So maybe he needs some education.

And maybe, humorous or not, he was, as he says, seriously misquoted. But if so, I would like to know what he really said. I hope I get to find out. Unfortunately, everyone who says something idiotic always cries "misquote" or "out of context", so one craves something more if one is to have one's fears assuaged. This is terribly unfair for the genuinely misquoted, of course - to have done nothing wrong, and then have people demand you justify yourself for a non-existent act or sommen, is extremely frustrating. But still, these are disturbing comments, and it would benefit us all, including Mr Fry, to know his response in full.

So I hope he doesn't stay quiet. I hope he comes out and engages. I hope this even if he just puts this affair behind him and never mentions it again. Because even idiotic comments, while they may tarnish someone's sheen, don't destroy it. Stephen Fry, even with a blemish or two, will remain Stephen Fry. Much worse has been said by people who carried on blithely and without a care in the world. Basically, one stupid opinion does not a monster make. Even Spida Everitt has his good points. Even Kyle Sandilands...well, no, not really.

I think Fry is fragile and easily wounded, and retreats quickly in the face of attack. And to be fair, when you have 2 million Twitter followers, it must be somewhat overwhelming when the world comes down on you.

But I hope he comes back. And I hope, if he is able to set the record straight. And if the record we have is already straight, I hope he does learn the error of his ways.

And those are my thoughts, presented for your disposal.

EXCLUSIVE: Red-hot Excerpt from John Howard's memoir, "Lazarus Rising"

I sat in my armchair long into the night, knocking back brandy after brandy, smoking endless cigarettes, wondering just how I got into this mess. Back when I first decided to try the Prime Minister game, it had all seemed so simple: the money, the power, the dames. It was only lately that I'd realised what a dirty game this "politics" was. It was full of lies and cheating and double-crosses, and it seemed damn unfair that someone was pointing that out at this late stage.

Maybe...I sighed, brushing ash from my Wallabies dressing gown. Maybe it was time to be a man. To stick to my principles, or at least to remember what they were. Peter had been good to me all these years, what with the budgets and the Guylians every Christmas...maybe it WAS time to give him a go, and devote more time to my true love: walking.

And that's when I saw her. Silhouetted in the doorway like some irresistible plum pudding. "Up late?" she purred, and I suddenly all the reason in me drained away like left-over pasta down a plughole.

She sashayed over to the armchair, her body swaying and slinking like a hydraulic cauliflower. That vegetable shimmy that had always gone to my head faster than a tabasco screwdriver and made me giddier than a cockchafer in an opium den. Whatever that means.

"Can I help you, Janette?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady and deep, as I had the first time I met George. He'd sure seen through me; I knew she would too. I knew that she knew that deep down inside, I was nothing but a scared little boy, playing at immigration policy to disguise the inadequacies that would see me laughed out of caucus the minute I let my guard down enough to allow Helen Coonan to pants me. The day was coming, I knew it, and I felt that certainty like an icy set of eyelashes butterfly kissing my heart.

"I don't know, John," she smiled sardonically. "Can you?"

I cleared my throat, trying to get rid of that damn greasy toad that squatted in my trachea every time this broad walked into the room. She put her hands on my shoulders, and my dog whistle went right off. "I've been thinking," I croaked. "I think I might hand over the leadership. To Peter."

Just for a second I felt her hands tighten on my shoulders, like a vulture with an ice-cream headache. Then she relaxed, and I felt her hot, spicy, parmigiana-tinged breath tickling my earhole.

"Peter?" she purred. "He hasn't got what it takes to be prime minister. He's not a," she drew in her breath with a shudder, "real man..."

She had me. I knew she had me. I had never been able to resist her incendiary rhetoric, since that first day when a young, dumpling-shaped ne'er-do-well had sidled up to my petrol pump, lollipop hanging from her lips, and fluttered her eyelids at me while she asked whether I knew anyone who could help her with a proposal for fundamental tax reform. That day my knees had gone from under me and I'd collapsed in a pool of lust and petrol, and I'd never really recovered. I'd always done her will, and always would.

She walked round in front of and, leaned over me, so close I could smell the Pantene in her irresistibly sensible hair. I could see the blazing, maternal fire in her eyes, and my fingers twitched with longing to reach out for the intoxicating flesh I knew was lurking just beneath that sturdy beige twin-set. She had curves in all the right places, and also quite a few extra ones, and all of my political career had been blessed and cursed in equal measure by my all-encompassing need to access that mesmeric acreage of womanhood and dance hungrily among those dimpled hillocks.

She was still talking, still murmuring into my quivering shell-likes. "I don't know if I could be with a man who...just gave up the prime ministership, John. I don't know if I could respect a man who did that. I don't know if I could...give myself...fully to him." I was beginning to shake, as she circled the armchair, one finger twirling playfully on top of my recently-varnished head.

"You see, John," she whispered hoarsely, "I'm a woman with particular tastes. I like a man who takes control, who seizes power...and KEEPS it. Like Menzies...he used to get me so hot..." It was true. In the early years of our marriage she wouldn't make love at all unless I pretended to check the bedroom for communists first.

"I need a prime minister, John. Nothing else will do for me. I need a man like Menzies. A man who can last. Can you last, John? Can you last longer than Menzies? I could really go for that..."

I was almost done. My resolve was jellied and in a jar on the shelf. "I just thought...Peter had done such a good job," I faltered.

She laughed, a hard, sharp laugh, like the laugh of an economically rationalist hawk. "Too bad, John," she hissed. "That's a real shame. But maybe I'll go round to Peter's place, see what he's got to offer. Or if not him..." she paused dramatically, "maybe...Tony."

That was it. I couldn't take any more. "No!" I cried, leaping from my seat. "I'll stay! I'll be prime minister as long as you want. I promise!"

She smiled, cruelly, triumphantly. She had won, and was revelling in victory like an alligator gloating over a pot-bellied pig. "Good," she purred, and stroked my cheek. "Then maybe we can get down to discussing...workplace reform?"

I gasped. As those words puffed from those perfect, fig-shaped lips, and we melted into each other's arms, I felt the margins suddenly tighten in my southern electorates.

Lazarus was rising. In fact, Lazarus was positively throbbing. And there was only one woman who could truly satisfy him.

For Our Daughters' Sakes, She Must Be Stopped

The modern media has many purposes – entertainment, education, a substitute for the judicial system – but probably its most important function, for me at least, is as an emergency warning system for everyone who is worried about menaces to society. Whether it’s A Current Affair exposing the threat of single mothers lurking in our supermarket carparks, or the Herald Sun reporting that one in every three Australians is now a paedophile living next door to a primary school, the media is invaluable in letting us know just who’s coming to get us.

Which is why Bettina Arndt is, hands down, my favourite journalist in the whole wide world. If it weren’t for her, I never would have known just how badly my life was being destroyed by women’s low sex drive, and this week she’s done it again, warning us all that the new prime minister, Julia “Medusa” Gillard, is setting a bad example for Australian women everywhere.

It probably has not escaped anyone’s notice that the PM is living with a man, without having first consecrated the relationship via the sacred bonds of marriage. Or that, furthermore, she has chosen to live for 48 years without at any time making use of her reproductive system in pursuit of the survival of the human race and Western civilisation.

Of course, this is fine, in and of itself. If a woman decides that she wants to violate all standards of morality and decency in order to satisfy her own unnatural lusts even as she denies her inherent feminine purpose by selfishly putting the hedonistic enjoyment of a materialistic lifestyle ahead of the creation and nurturing of new life that gives all humanity a reason for being and without which a person is but a hollow soulless shell destined to die alone, unloved and without meaningful contribution to the world, who am I to judge?

But there’s a broader significance to the issue of Gillard’s sexual proclivities and rogue womb that goes well beyond the individual. As Bettina warns, it’s all about the example being set. Women are, as we know, easily led and slaves to trends – just look at Twilight – and there is a very real danger that if set a bad example by the most powerful woman in the land, other women, women without Gillard’s political career to fall back on, and without Gillard’s total absence of normal human emotion to comfort them, might find themselves making bad decisions..

And prime ministers are, of course, exceedingly influential in social matters, as we’ve seen time and again, with the likes of the Italian suit craze of the Keating years, or the enormous popularity in the late 1960s of disappearing mysteriously at sea. Why, Frank Forde was only in power for eight days, and yet that week sales of nipple rings rose 400 percent. And that was based on nothing more than an unfortunate misquote from a Press Club dinner. So we see how much sway prime ministers have over the common people.

Prime Minister, or First Whore?

And so what are the women of Australia – bless their little hearts – to think when they see Ms Gillard stand up before them and say, “Yes, I am proud to be a living outrage against social cohesion”? Why, quite naturally they will think, “Hey, if it’s good enough for Julia, it’s good enough for me!” And so we will see the country beset by an epidemic of women shacking up with men they aren’t married to, diving headfirst into the murky waters of shared en suites without the sturdy anchor of a marriage certificate to keep them from drifting onto the rocks of dissatisfaction. “I’m unmarried,” they will think to themselves, “I can leave anytime I want to.” And so, at the first sign of trouble or stress or long-term psychological abuse, off they’ll flit, away to the next “committed relationship”, footloose and fancy-free, totally unaware of the terrible price they will pay later in life, when they will live out their lives pushing shopping trolleys full of catfood around the streets, muttering to themselves and asking passing strangers if they’re looking for a de facto.

And what of any children that might come from these reckless relationships? How horribly scarred will these poor mites be, knowing they are the product of idle whims and experimental co-habitation? How horrible will it be for them to be forced to sit in the Bastard Corner at school, shunned by the legitimate students and mocked by the teachers?

Arndt has many examples to back her argument. Pat Rafter, for example. He had a child out of wedlock a few years back, and the results have been catastrophic. Thank God Bettina Arndt has finally taken the opportunity to expose the trail of shattered lives that Pat Rafter has left in his procreating wake. How many more, Pat? How many more people must you rob of dignity and crush beneath your heel before you’re sated?

Of course, there are worse things than children out of wedlock, such as not having children at all. Imagine at 20 telling yourself you would try to follow Gillard’s lead because she is an inspiration to all women, and all of a sudden, BANG! It’s 25 years later and you’re breaking into hospitals to steal babies to make up for all those who were never born because you thought you’d got a “role model” and that it was therefore OK to go to Bali or buy yourself an iPad instead of putting your ovaries to practical use.

So we can see how lucky we are that Arndt sounded the alarm. But still there is something nagging at me. The new prime minister is obviously an intelligent woman – some commentators have described her as “as smart as any man”, which is as high a compliment anyone could wish to be paid assuming she was a character in a Famous Five novel – and she obviously understands the consequences of her actions. So why? Why has she decided to nudge Australian womanhood in the direction of wanton sin and pleasure-seeking infertility?

It just didn’t make sense to me until…until I heard Gillard this week reveal on radio a rather disconcerting fact: she doesn’t believe in God.

Suddenly everything clicked into place. The non-marital sex. The wasted uterus. The pantsuit. She’s been operating without a moral compass. Flying blind.

I don’t see this from a Christian perspective; I don’t believe in God either. But I know I can handle non-belief. I know I have the ethical grounding and moral viscera to prevent me from running off half-cocked due to my lack of a higher power. I’m not sure this is the case for the PM.

Because sadly, even though you and I know we don’t need religion, most people do. Most people are far too stupid to be allowed to formulate their own moral frameworks and make their own decisions about good behaviour. Most people need to be protected from their own blithering idiocy, something the Labor Party knows all too well – that’s why they’re setting up an internet filter. And God is the internet filter of our everyday lives: keeping a watch on us and blocking us from all the naughty things that we really want to do. Like an internet filter, God also doesn’t necessarily work all the time, and slows us all down quite a bit, but at least he keeps us headed in the right direction.

And I’m afraid this is exactly where Julia Gillard’s problem lies. She answers to no higher power. She used to; and Rudd perhaps managed to keep her debauchery in check. But now he’s gone, she’s accountable to nobody but herself, and so will continue to engage in her perverse, unsanctioned, recreational monogamy, sending the message to all that such behaviour is perfectly acceptable in today’s society and thereby causing the nation to sink under the weight of the fractured relationships and blighted lives that await all who attempt relationships without the proper paperwork.

And so I beg you, Ms Gillard: find God. For your own sake, and for the sake of all the silly, impressionable, scatterbrained young lasses who fail to heed Bettina’s warning, and who look up to you so devotedly as a leader, a feminist icon, and a reasonable substitute for an independent mind.

Don’t let a generation of women slip away from their womanly destinies. Don’t let your own selfishness ruin everything for the rest of us. Pick up a bible. Pick up a nice white dress. Do the honourable thing. Because if our first female prime minister refuses to conform to tried-and-tested gender norms, what’s the point of having a woman there in the first place? We might as well have kept Kevin. At least he could cry like a girl.

Hitting the Big Time

Readers with long memories and dogged senses of commitment may remember a little article I wrote a while back called "Just Done It".

This was an article about Bettina Arndt and her book "The Sex Diaries". It was, to be perfectly honest (sorry to shatter any illusions here), an article that, to a certain extent, made fun of her. That is, it sort of mocked her, her book, her theories, her genitalia. Well, not her genitalia. The editors cut those fifteen paragraphs out. But anyway, it was a somewhat mocking article with a bit of a "hahahaha Bettina you brainless twat" tone to it.

And I had thought that was the end of that.

But if life has taught me anything it is this: that is NEVER the end of that, particularly in Wagga Wagga.

For that august town's Daily Advertiser on the 10th March published an interesting piece about Mrs Arndt and her recent trip to Boorowa (not far from Young, fortunately!) to celebrate International Women's Day and tell women to get jiggy with it more often.

And you will NOT BELIEVE THIS, readers, but the Wagga Wagga Daily Advertiser actually MENTIONED ME!

Little me!

And this is what it said:

"Bettina Arndt has been dubbed `man's
best friend'," Ben Pobjie author of Just Done
It comments. "Every writer knows that sex
sells. In deed when my own articles are
erotically charged each week the better they
are received and when the average person
hears the word sex they think of Bettina
Arndt. She helps people who are having
problems in their sex lives but never before
has she made such a contribution to mass
sexual satisfaction as in her latest book in
which she argues that the greatest cause of
unhappy relationships is the discrepancy
between the male and female libido.

I was very chuffed to see I was big in Wagga Wagga, but I couldn't help noticing...well...I mean...tell me if somehow that excerpt there sort of suggests somehow that I am...kind of...

a big fan of Bettina Arndt? I mean, I can't help feeling that the Daily Advertiser has actually quoted me as a sort of pro-Arndt blurb-writer, taking the quote slightly out of context and ignoring other parts of my article, such as this:

Believe me, I know whereof I speak. Like most men, I have for many years been enjoying sex that I didn’t actually want to have. On several occasions I have enjoyed sex that I didn’t even realise I was having until about halfway through. Because men are troopers. Even when they really don’t want to have sex, they are willing to roll up their sleeves and pitch in for the greater good.

Or this?

There’s no point in keeping your sex-canoe in dry dock your whole life. If you ever want to experience the joys of the river of intercourse, you have to get your canoe off the shores of abstinence, negotiate the rapids of foreplay, and tip yourself over the penetration waterfall. The American Indians knew this, but somewhere along the line we have lost the eternal truth of canoes.

Of course, it is possible that once the canoe is out, the woman might discover that she’s not actually enjoying it. Well, that’s canoes for you. Watersports are not for everyone. But would she rather not have a canoe? Would she rather her husband left her for a woman with bigger oars? In summary, the message is this: boating metaphors are less sexy than you might think.

I just feel slightly misrepresented here. Am I wrong?

Mind you, my feeling of misrepresentation is less profound than my feeling of confusion when I read these words penned by Narelle Ross of the Advertiser:

The story of the sex-starved husband has
struck a chord. For many men - not all by
any means - sexual performance is an issue
of deep insecurity. It starts in the
playground when they overhear older kids
recounting their `so-called sexual exploits'
most of which turn out to be `flights of the
fantasy'.
"We know in our hearts that any woman
lucky enough to experience the awesome
pleasure of our attention should just thank
her lucky stars as she swoons and hopes that
one day she might be allowed some more."
But it doesn't happen like this - very often
most men agree.

Dear Narelle Morse:

What?

I Bet You're Feeling Pretty Low Right About Now

In today's edition of the Herald Sun, it is revealed that Australians (defined in the Macquarie Dictionary as "people who respond to online Herald Sun polls) do not believe Tiger Woods's expression of contrition.

Tiger is reportedly shattered by this news:



The Herald Sun also reports, in its "What the professionals said" section (in which professional people who are professional at something say things) that breakfast radio co-host Brigitte "Brig" Duclos thinks that "All the sex therapy in the world wouldn't allow me to trust Tiger again."

"Brigitte Duclos doesn't trust me anymore?"



Because how can Tiger pick up the pieces without Brig's trust? How can he try to rebuild his relationship with this complete stranger if she does not trust him anymore. From now on, whenever he is playing golf on the other side of the world, or sitting in his house nowhere near Brigitte Duclos, or going out to a function that has no connection to Brigitte Duclos at all, she will have this gnawing doubt..."what's he up to?" she will think. "Is he doing something that is none of my business? Who can tell with a cad like he's been?"

And that's the real tragedy. From now on, there's only one man for Brig.

SEX!

Now that I've got your attention, an article about sex.

And politics.

And how Melbourne sucks.

Another reason Melbourne sucks is like, it just rains and rains ALL THE TIME, but we keep coming in from the rain and reading the newspaper and finding out how we've got no water. What the hell is going on?

Misogyny like Mother used to make

Lincoln Lewis's mother speaks out about her darling boy's charming behaviour.

"I don't want that as a daughter-in -law," she said.

And who would want "that" in their family?

It's good to see that even in these days of extreme feminism and fuzzy-headed political correctness, there are still some mothers willing to parent the old-fashioned way - by excusing their children's actions and teaching them women are things.

Bravo, Mrs Lewis. We could all learn a lot

Lead Me Not Into Temptation

Thank God that someone finally understands. It’s so hard being a young man in today’s society, beset on all sides with pressures and temptations, that it comes as a relief when someone shows their comprehension of the modern man’s struggles the way Miranda Devine did in last week’s Herald.

Miranda, with unerring perspicacity, has pointed out the real root of the issues surrounding footballers and their sexual misadventures. It’s all about society’s failure to teach women how to behave properly. And isn’t that the truth? Oh, it may not be fashionable to say so in today’s anything-goes, teenage-sexting, pass-the-crackpipe dole-bludging tree-humping society, but the fact is it is just plain unreasonable to expect men to know how to treat women when women insist on waving their sexuality in our faces like a red rag to a five-eighth.

As Miranda explains, far better than I ever could, without any “expectation of women to modify their behaviour”, it is “putting unsustainable pressure” on these poor befuddled footballers to expect them to know how to act. After all, they may be “drunk, insensitive or carried away by group dynamics”. Hey, we’ve all been there, right? If I had a dollar for every time group dynamics had forced me against my better judgment to jump on top of a reluctant teenager in a hotel room, I would have enough money to put a whole battalion of young girls in cabs after thanking them politely.

The point is, why don’t women modify their behaviour? Why is it always incumbent on we men to restrain ourselves from groping or assaulting or watching a dozen of our friends copulate with, yet nobody ever calls out women for their deliberate and persistent sexual attractiveness? It seems that our moral compass has spun out of control to the extent where we suddenly laud the sexually active woman, but condemn the innocent drunk insensitive footballer. Has the world gone topsy-turvy? When did the balance of power between the sexes shift to such an extent? When did we decide that avoiding sexual assault was the sole responsibility of the assaulter, with no corresponding responsibility on the assaultee? Aren’t relationships these days supposed to be an equal partnership? Not in the case of the relationships between young girls and entire football teams, apparently. No, in those situations, suddenly everything changes and the footballers have to do all the work. They’re expected to read all the subtle signals, pay attention to all the complex issues of consent, say all the thank-yous, make all the police statements. How about a bit of give-and-take, girls?

After all, as Miranda says, with typical warm, knowing wisdom, today “it is men, alone…who must restraint themselves”, despite the very pertinent fact that “young women are told they can act and dress any way they please”; and if that ain’t nail on the head, finger on the pulse, rolled-gold truth. What mad Marxist social engineer hit upon the idea of women acting and dressing any way they please? Have you seen the way they dress these days? It’s like, ladies, I know you have breasts. You don’t have to draw such obvious attention to them. You don’t have to strut around displaying your bodies, as if they were something to be proud of. But there they go, running about in next to nothing, frequenting nightclubs, drinking and dancing and rubbing our noses in their shameless femininity, and here we are, expected to restrain ourselves. We’re expected to just ignore this wanton behaviour, act as if they’re not shattering all our long-cherished moral codes.

We once had a social contract in this country: women covered up and stayed home; and men agreed not to force them into sex except under extreme provocation. As far as I’m concerned, they broke the contract first. Now we have the absurd situation where women get away scot-free with doing whatever they feel like, while somehow a bunch of fit young men are pilloried for no greater crime than giving expression to the perfectly natural, healthy urge that every man has, the urge to climb through a window and stand around naked with some other fit young men, observing each other’s sexual technique. The fact that these men are highly paid elite athletes, for whom any kind of distraction or media brouhaha could seriously affect their match-day performance, just makes the injustice all the more tragic.

Not that men are the only victims here. As Miranda observes, “our era’s turning point in sexual politics confuses women as much as men”. In all likelihood, that lass from New Zealand was quite confused when she went on Four Corners. So you see, women are suffering too. The sheer confusion must be so overwhelming; that’s probably why they act out by seducing all those footballers, or by reading Twilight, or exposing their midriffs, or any of the other bizarre ways in which modern women demonstrate their irretrievable descent into an inescapable moral vortex.

But there’s a way out, ladies. You can turn things around. You can return to your “natural modesty”. You can stop ruining men’s lives with your thoughtless expressions of sexual identity. You can stop blaming the victim – footballers – and start taking responsibility for your own feminist-warped minds.

Just thank God that Miranda came along to save us all, before it was too late.