Put it in mothballs

Autumn winds make me extra allergic to the online world of success coaches with glow in the dark teeth, perky personal fitspo gurus with Instagram famous bodies and shiny women with trout pout lips on an endless loop on Youtube. A generation of children are growing up with mothers who’ve had so much Botox put into their faces that these women cannot express the full gamut of human emotion on their dials. These zombie women scare me but I can’t stop staring, wondering when the fillers will stop working.

Then I get scratchy when I hear the words mastery, motivation, personal best, inspire, disrupt. Show me the leaders in lethargy, excellent examples of ennui, successful sloths, wonderful worriers. These are my people. To mangle Kerouac: the only ones for me are the crazies, the Bukowski drunks, the shabby, the borderline criminals, the drop outs, the dribblers, those grungy, suffering, unshaven cats who get thrown out of the best parties, the ones who always yawn out loud, the rambling, boisterous messes who convey every sloppy human emotion on their cracking apart faces. These are the people who make me feel good about myself, as I hide away at home reading, not wanting to face the world or climb any ladders.

Growing up into a cranky old cat lady, I’m pondering the autumn and winter of my life with a countenance that moves. As I slip under the radar with a face that loses its sheen every day, I think I like my mangy self best.

Art or Competition?

Today I am indulging my combined love of the bard’s verse and hip hop by competing / performing / appearing in Shakespeare Dance Party, a sharp new show presented by The Leftovers Collective. Fancy.

In a small bar in Redfern, 16 actors will compete for our audience’s love to see who best performs a short Shakespearean sonnet or monologue. Each performer will slam to a beat laid down by a live DJ, not knowing in advance which track will be chosen for them. If the audience likes the art, they will dance. If the audience dislikes the performance, pies will be thrown. The eventual winner receives a part in a web series. The losers need to bring a towel.

In an era of social media starlets, where few skills are needed to become a YouTube star, are actors necessary?

16 tracks

16 artists

A rap roulette

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

40 sparkling years

Here’s to the magnificent 78’ers, those brave souls who stood up for their rights and tonight celebrate 40 years of Sydney Mardi Gras. These civil rights champions were brutally bashed, arrested, taunted and harassed and still they marched for their friends, for the freedom to be their magnificent selves, for equality, for  ‘the love that dare not speak its name.’ Thank you to the warriors who fought for the freedom to love freely and to be equal citizens. Rainbow beauties I salute your courage. Your selfless actions made Sydney a more fun, more colourful and more inclusive place. I can’t imagine dancing on Oxford Street in 1983 without you.

As I hope for glitter not blood on the streets tonight, I’m shedding a few tears for the beautiful loved ones we lost when AIDS ripped through our lives in the 80s and 90s. I know tonight they will be there in spirit. I’m also thinking of the people who work so hard for Bobby Goldsmith and ACON and my friends decorating floats. Party on beauties. I feel nothing but love and pride when I see you shining.

Divine – You Think You’re A Man



Beetroot stains

It’s been a bloody grouse week for those of us who speak fluent Strine. We’ve had ripper new words and phrases added to our lingo:

Rejoyce – lying to your constituents then getting re-elected

Beetrooter – older white male who preys on young female work mates

Beetrorter – doing dodgy deals to ensure a parliamentary pension

Fang a Canavan* – protecting your mates despite their ability to act like a dickhead

Go Full Barnaby – chucking a sickie when the top job awaits

Ucken Joyce mate – to flick your wife and kids with no wucken furries

Chuck a Vikki – to root someone whom even Stevie Wonder would find fuggly

*See also nepotism & cronyism


Machine Gun Fellatio – Pussytown


This week a friend who is not a fan of social media asked me: Why do cute pooches and pussy cats have more social media followers than most humans?

Why? Because we love them. Pooches believe in unconditional love. Aspirational humans do not. Cats have attitude and don’t give a shit. I love dogs of Instagram because dogs are pretty. Dogs on insta don’t have bad plastic surgery, fake boobs and plastic nails. They’re not going to take cheesy selfies with trout pouts at monasteries and mosques. Dogs don’t take photos of themselves doing cartwheels at sacred sites. Dogs don’t pretend to be social media experts, they’re not trying to improve our lives, help us reach unattainable goals, sell us products or help their owners train to be ultra fit marathon runners and brag about it. Dogs just are. I love dogs.

Cats aren’t trying to mary football players, flog baby clothes or inspire us to upgrade to a better lifestyle. Cats hiss and bite when they’re pissed off. Cats are cool.

But I do wish dog owners would post more photos of mutts with fleas, mange and weeping eyes. Cat owners could oblige by sharing their scratch and sniff cat pee in the corner of the living room snaps more often too.

I’ll keep this rant short, I must dash, my cat needs to meet up with her personal trainer.

Growing old disgracefully

My oldest childhood friend is about to turn 50 and realising I have elderly friends has made me think about what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Middle age can be about making time for personal growth and wondering what sort of human you want to become in the second half of your life. Once my kids have moved out of home, I want to inspire people, live well and have fun, so when I grow up, hopefully I’ll still be young enough to:

Care about my fellow humans like Sam Newman
Be open-hearted like Prune Macsween
Dance like Peter Garrett

Have the compassion of Miranda (Not Really) Devine
Pop pills like Ben Cousins
Manage my hair like Donald Trump

Tolerate people like Peter Dutton

Possess the humility of Malcolm Turnbull

Be open-minded like Andrew Blot

Be submissive like Eddie Maguire

Be as sexy as Bronwyn Bishop

What’s on your life goals bucket list?

I’m Too Sexy – Right Said Fred










Wrinkles where smiles have been

Dementia is:

Adding water to plastic flowers in a vase
Putting the TV remote in your handbag
Storing cutlery under the pillow
Folding undies and carefully placing them in the fridge

Dementia is my mum’s gift to me. She can’t remember what my children are doing this week, but I’m hearing loads of stories of her long ago boyfriends before my dad.

Dementia is my mum in tears when she can’t remember how to listen to phone messages

Dementia is 4am phone calls when she can’t remember if it’s my sister’s birthday or her wedding anniversary today

Dementia is finding pleasure in patting a kitten for hours at a time

Dementia is not knowing about Facebook or Snapchat or being contactable 24/7

Dementia is driving to the favourite places of my mum’s childhood

Dementia is sitting quietly doing puzzles that aren’t challenging

Dementia is telling all the staff in her nursing home that she is Polish, when her grandmothers were Irish and Welsh and her parents were born in Australia

Dementia is keeping her here long enough to value and appreciate and say thank you and goodbye

Linda Ronstadt – When I Grow Too Old to Dream


We have been gay
Going our way
Life has been beautiful
We have been young
After you’ve gone
Life will go on
Like an old song we have sung

When I grow too old to dream
I’ll have you to remember
When I grow too old to dream
Your love will live in my heart

So kiss me my sweet
And so let us part
And when I grow too old to dream
That kiss will live in my heart