Bishoz

I giggled in my sleep last night.

Pauline told me this when her alarm went off this morning. Even though I was still half-asleep and still had my eyes closed, I smiled.

I smiled not only because it’s an amusing thought but that it’s a great indication of what sort of day was ahead of me.

A good day.

That’s important.

I like good days.

When I was young, like so many young people before me, I explored many different avenues that offered at least a scrap of the question to the answer; which is 42.

To those who find the last sentence somewhat cryptic, I refer you to this.

One of the avenues I explored was “Dream Interpretation”. I don’t remember why I went down this particular road. It was probably a girlfriend. That’s what many of those early relationships did for me – they encouraged me to explore aspects of life that I had never previously considered – or in some cases – was even aware existed.

I can hear the suggestive chuckles from here and yes, some of my education involved certain recreational activities that I had only previously explored on my own but quite a lot of it was just carefully listening to another person as they revealed parts of their mind that were not usually explored in a normal social setting.

I was young so I gave serious thought to astrology, homoeopathy, the world of spirits, angels and ghosts, patchy understandings of eastern mysticism, dream catchers and, as previously mentioned, dream interpretation.

 

I am glad that I did not learn to become cynical until much later in life. I am glad that there was a time when I felt that every avenue was worth exploring, that every philosophy was worthy of consideration, and that, if I opened my mind wide enough, eventually I would achieve some form of clarity. Of course, life teaches us that there is no one single answer to the question of “Life, the Universe, and Everything” and that in fact there are more questions than there are answers but, for a time, I didn’t believe that this was so. I think that was a time of true innocence. I am grateful that I was born into a society and was the child of parents that allowed this to happen.

Anyway, back to the dream stuff.

I explored Dream Interpretation (note the capital letters) with much gusto, as is my nature. I borrowed books from the library and even purchased a few.

I’ve just had a quick look through the non-fiction section of my library and it would appear that I gave them all away. I don’t throw out books – I give them to friends or to “Vinnies“. A symbol, perhaps, of how my mind closed off the avenues as I got older.

 

Eventually, through the simple process of recording my dreams (yes, I actually did that – but you already know I’m a nerd) and subsequent observation, I figured out that dreams do not contain symbols or portents and that my subconscious is no more capable of predicting the future than is my concious mind. It was fun trying to figure out the symbolism behind dreaming of spiders or cats or other things but really that’s all it was – a bit of harmless fun.

However, I did work out that dreams can often be a powerful indication of what you truly fear, what you truly desire, or some other powerful emotion kept suppressed during the day by your concious mind so that you can live your everyday life. Dreams are, perhaps, the voice of the “Id” mixed with the memories of the “Ego“. That has been my experience anyway.

I’ve had erotic dreams that would make a porn producer blush and I’ve had dreams more terrifying than any of that rubbish on Elm Street. Mostly, however, I have mundane dreams about being late for class, arriving at a new school and not knowing the location of my classroom just as the bell rings, or more frequently, standing in front of a new class not knowing what subject I am supposed to be teaching. I have never spoken to another teacher about this subject but I would think that the latter dreams are probably fairly common in my profession – especially as a supply or emergency teacher. I’ve never talked to anyone about the other dreams either. Some of them would probably get me locked up…

With the onset of my illness (yes, we’re going down that path again – sorry), I began to have a new type of dream. This dream involves some distressing, horrifically negative, and above all, inescapable emotional circumstances that invariably culminate in suicidal thought patterns, or in some cases, actually dreaming of committing suicide.

As I write this, thoughts of one particularly powerful, awful dream fill my mind – I can still feel the noose around my neck and the emotional jerk as I woke up – just as I kicked the box out from under my feet.

These “suicide dreams” have occurred on a  regular basis for the last ten years but I suffered from them regularly (once or twice a week) last year. Sometimes I wake myself up crying and other times Pauline would wake me up after being awoken herself by the dreadful sounds of distress beside her. The worst ones are when I don’t wake up until after I’ve jumped off the cliff or whatever other sick method I’ve concocted has been enacted. They always leave me shaken and desolate – not just after I wake up from the dream but for the remainder of the day ahead – even if I go back to sleep. They have become a powerful and genuine indication that the day ahead is not going to be a “good day”.

So, I’ve learnt to listen to these dreams. If I get a phone call to work in the morning after such a dream, I’ve learnt that it is best for all concerned if I don’t accept the day’s work. One or two times, maybe more , I ignored the portents and went to work anyway. Each time, I exacerbated the situation and not only had a bad day at work but also ensured that I put myself “in a bad place” for a longer period of time. A hard lesson to learn.

Last year, the medication I had been taking for much of the time since my primary diagnosis stopped working. I spent the rest of the year not only trying to dig myself out of a very deep hole but also, to continue to metaphor, trying different ladders and different shovels – most of which failed to work – or at the very least worked a bit but with unacceptable side-effects.

The medication I am currently taking is a combination of Desvenlafaxine (Pristiq) and Agomelatine (Valdoxan). The Valdoxan has worked well enough that I no longer require Temazepam to go asleep at night. I still take Diazepam (Valium) every day but only to alleviate my underlying persistent high levels of anxiety. Unfortunately, Valdoxan (the core of my current treatment) is relatively new (2005 onwards) and is not listed as a part of the PBS despite repeated recommendations by the Australian Society for Psychological Medicine that it is useful in cases of long-term, severe depression. Normally, I vote Labor in Federal elections. Next time, I’ll be voting otherwise – the current government is costing me an extra $130 per month for indispensable medication (pun unintended) just because they spent too much building halls in primary schools.

O.K., there’s more to it than that but I’m cranky about spending so much on pills when 99% of other anti-depressants, including my Pristiq, cost $5.65 per month due to being listed on the PBS.

But I’m not really cranky. The pills work. A day’s work covers the cost of two month’s medication. Maybe I’m just pouting. I still have “bad days” but they are not so bad and I “bounce” quicker. This year is going to be a good year.

I’ve only had a few “suicide dreams” so far this year and only one in the past month.

Last night I giggled in my dreams.

Now you know why I smiled.

 

 

 

I don’t like the Australian Flag.

There, I said it.

I don’t like the Australian national anthem.

I said that too.

Before I proceed further, I shall quote myself from a recent Facebook comment:

This is the best country in the world to live in and I am very thankful to my parents for having the guts to shift here in 1980 (as you too should be).
It’s certainly not a day for insulting minorities but it is certainly a day for celebrating multiculturalism in our wonderful polyglot society.
Australia was founded by an English-speaking nation and was predominantly settled by them for a hundred years or so but now we have all manner of folk from all parts of the world who have come here to share the bounty. Some don’t speak English amongst themselves but that’s cool – if I had spoken Gaelic natively as a child, I doubt I would speak English to my parents – I would probably chat in Gaelic – and that’s OK!
I absolutely agree that we should all celebrate being Australian and how lucky we are to live in this great nation. All of us – no matter where we originally came from.
Oh, and let’s not forget the Aboriginals. Sometimes we have a tendency to forget that they are Australian too….

I love living in Australia and am proud to hold Australian citizenship.

I have a large (1.5m x .75m) Australian flag furled up carefully on the top shelf of my library. I bought it for Nicky to wear as a cape when I took him to see Australia play Paraguay in October 2006. At the time, I was aware of it’s misuse by thugs during the Cronulla Riots but I figured a seven year old boy wearing a flag much bigger than himself was not relevant to those morons. It took some time, but even when Ireland play Australia, I am fully behind “our Socceroos”. In rugby, I don’t give rats arse who wins and the mutant AFL-Gaelic football game is too silly to contemplate.

I hold an Irish passport and thus would have no difficulty moving to, or living in, any country in Europe – assuming I wasn’t sick and could find work. And yet there is no way I would live in any other country but Australia. It’s not the “land of milk and honey” that my parents came to in 1980 but it’s still a wonderful place to be.

I have objections to some aspects of what it means to be Australian. I believe it is my right, as a citizen of this country, to voice these objections.

Australia Day

While I recognise the need for a “National Day”, I object that “Australia Day” is on January 26 – commemorating the arrival of the First Fleet at Sydney Cove in 1788 and the proclamation at that time of British sovereignty, and therefore the Aboriginal dispossession, over the eastern seaboard of what was known to the English as New Holland.

This whole thought process was instigated by two separate incidents that occurred on Australia Day, and then finally brought to life by this opinion piece in today’s online version of Melbourne’s Age.

The Americans celebrate their national day as a commemoration of their independence from Britain; many other ex-colonies do likewise. This is appropriate. The Irish celebrate their national day on a particular saint’s “Feast Day” – in this Case St. Patrick on March 17. Given the stranglehold of the Catholic Church on my native land, this was inevitable. Besides, that day is now all about parades, drinking, and bugger all to do with the eponymous saint.

The Australian national day commemorates the dispossession of one group of people and the invasion by another. On Australia Day, Pauline and I were musing on how Aboriginal folk might feel about today – Pauline referred to the tent embassy and the aboriginal term; “Invasion Day“. Then, my nephew, Seán posted the following on Facebook;

Today is Australia day. It’s not multiculturism <sic> day. It’s the day where we celebrate the colonisation of the country that I have lived in my entire life. It’s not “Fuck the Muslims” day, it’s not “Aboriginals suck” day. It’s Australia day. We celebrate being Australian. If you live here, you’re Australian and we shouldn’t be afraid to offend by celebrating our country. It’s Australia day. Let’s celebrate being Australian.

Seán’s main beef, which he didn’t mention in his post, was that there is a movement to rename Australia Day as “Multiculturalism Day”. I absolutely agree with him – the point of any national day is to celebrate being Australian (in this case) – not where you came from or where you’ve been – but all of us being Australian together. The point that I picked up, and found noteworthy and objectionable – even if he was absolutely correct – was “we celebrate the colonisation of the country that I have lived [in] my entire life”. He’s right – and that’s wrong.

Australia Day should be moved to another day.

Flag-Burning

On Australia Day this year, a young aboriginal fellow chose to burn the Australian flag as a protest for the conditions that aboriginal people endure in this country.

This sparked outrage and pictures such as the following on Facebook:

I don’t want to enter into much of a debate about the conditions that Aboriginal folk endure in this country; the causes or the continuing difficulties. The causes in this case, and in others across the globe, are outlined in an erudite and comprehensive fashion in books such as Jared Diamond’s “Guns, Germs, and Steel” – in short form – the conquest of the Hunter-Gatherer Aboriginal society by a more modern society was inevitable and if it hadn’t been England, it would have been the Dutch or the Portuguese – more than likely the Dutch. The ongoing poverty and social issues related to the Aboriginal sub-culture in this country would bring a tear to the driest eye and this young man was simply protesting.

Why not burn a flag? Why should it be a crime? It’s a powerful symbolic action and well within the limits of free speech by deed or action that we cherish as a nation. Some cried out that the lad should be jailed but by following that through to the logical end, an article such as the one I am writing could be deemed treasonous or against the “national interest”. I defend my right to my opinion and I defend the right of that individual to show dissent by any form of non-violent action. Old soldiers decried the action saying it was an insult to the soldiers who fought and died under that flag. To be picky – most soldiers fight under a regimental flag, not the national flag. Also – the Australian flag contains the Union flag – the symbol of the British invasion of this country. The chances are good that this was the main motivation behind the boy’s flag-burning protest.

This brings me to my opening statement.

The Australian Flag

The flag of Australia is a defaced Blue Ensign.

The Blue Ensign is a British Ensign – a military flag flown by British naval vessels or as a British military flag. The defaced part refers to the Union Flag in the top left quadrant and to the southern cross emblazoned on the blue background. So – we have a British military flag with another British flag in the top left quadrant. The only concession to the location is the Crux, or Southern Cross – a constellation visible mainly in the Southern Hemisphere so it could easily refer to Argentina, or Tahiti!

Where is the Australian identity on our flag?

When I became a citizen of this country in 1986, I said the following words:
I solemnly and sincerely promise and declare that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, Queen of Australia, Her heirs and successors according to law, and that I will faithfully observe the laws of Australia and fulfil my duties as an Australian citizen.

I was not impressed by the reference to the Queen but it was more important to me that I become a fully-fledged member of this country I had come to love and was on the verge of  joining as an adult. The reference to the crown was not removed until 1993. The full history of the statements of allegiance can be found here.

I made an affirmation, not an oath. I am loyal to this country but not to the Queen, and certainly not to Great Britain. I object to the strong references to Britain that form the basic foundation to our flag. I’m Australian, not British. There’s nothing wrong with being British – if that’s where you come from or indeed that’s where your true loyalties lie – but I’m Irish by birth. There’s history behind my objections. It’s not an Australian flag and therefore it’s not my flag. In my opinion, it is time for a new flag.

This brings me to the national anthem.

Advance Australia Backwards

Did you know that it contains the following words?

From England, Scotia, Erin’s Isle,
Who come our lot to share,
Let all combine with heart and hand
To advance Australia fair!
In joyful strains then let us sing
“Advance Australia fair!”
Shou’d foreign foe e’er sight our coast,
Or dare a foot to land,
We’ll rouse to arms like sires of yore
To guard our native strand;
Britannia thee shall surely know,
Beyond wide ocean’s roll,
Her sons in fair Australia’s land
Still keep a British soul.

So – firstly it ignores those who of Aboriginal heritage – and then it ignores the huge number of folk from all across the globe who have never even been to England, Scotia, [or} Erin's Isle. Also - what about the Welsh? Poor Taffies.

Then:

Her sons in fair Australia's land
Still keep a British soul.

What the fuck? I don't think so.

Those who defend the choice of anthem may state that only the first two verses are sung in primary schools and at football matches but they are ignoring the truth - this song is blatantly pro-British and is miles out of touch with modern Australia. Like those who pick and choose from the Bible, you can't just pick and choose from this song. It's a song that celebrates Australia's history as a part of the British Empire. This is not relevant to modern Australia and is certainly not relevant to me.

Finally, to all the flag-wavers and those who may venomously disagree with what I have written, please be aware that I'm not a fan of jingoism at the best of times. When I listen to the Anzac Day speeches proclaiming the glories of war, I cannot help but think of

"The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori"

This translates as "It is sweet and fitting to dies for one's country".

This haunting poem, along with more modern odes to non-patriotism such as "No Man's Land" and "The Band Played Waltzing Matilda" - both by Eric Bogle - another naturalised Australian, along with the poignancy of "The Last Post" speak more to me than the patriotic fervour beaten up on Anzac Day in speeches and school parades. I recognise and cherish the memory of those who have died for our country - even if it was, as in the first war, merely to provide cannon-fodder  for the Empire. I have more admiration for those who fought during the second war in south-east Asia to stem the Japanese advance - they were truly defending our nation against a dreadful foe. However, I deplore the use of words such as "glory" and "noble" as well as terms that imply that death on a battlefield is a positive thing. As John Shumann writes in his beautiful song, "A Walk in the Light Green";

And the Anzac legends didn't mention mud and blood and tears,
and stories that my father told me never seemed quite real

Those who have not gone to school in Australia may not be aware of the iconic "My Country" by Dorothea McKellar. The entire poem is magnificent but most Australians are only aware of the following verse:

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror –
The wide brown land for me!

This verse, and indeed the entire poem, speak to something that all Australians could recognise. The overwhelming impression I have always had of Australia is of a massive, powerful land with the capacity to inspire both awe and terror. Australia is a truly magnific country and it’s resplendence should be celebrated in our national anthem minus any reference to the Brits. If somebody could put “My Country” to music, or perhaps write something inspired by similar imagery, I would be very supportive of any move to replace the current dirge.

Patriotism

Patriotic fervour may be appropriate when you’re sitting in the stand watching your country play sport, or sitting with some friends from “the old country” in a far-away land, or even when going to a BBQ in the park on your national day, but it is not an excuse for racism, racist behaviour, or intolerance of those with different opinions about your flag; it is especially not a reason to point a gun at another person just because your government told you to do so – defending your family and your home is different to political expediency or the interests of oil companies. Having said that however, I applaud those Australian soldiers who went to East Timor and helped that country to free itself from Indonesia and somewhat undo the injustices of 1975. That was almost a genuinely humanitarian mission – I say almost because of the possible (likely?) motivations of the Australian government may not have been entirely pure. Read more here and here.

I titled this blog entry as “An Inflammatory Statement” because i know that there are many who will disagree with a lot or even all of what I have written. Please remember that this is an opinion piece. I would vote for a republic if that referendum was re-introduced minus the last messy riders, but I recognise that not everybody agrees with me. I only ask that you allow me to express myself. I haven’t burnt any flags.

In conclusion then. We need a new flag, a new anthem, and a new national day. Gallipoli was a mess, but it was significant to us as a nation. We were misused and abused by the British government who deployed the cream of our nation carelessly upon the cliffs of that dreadful place. More than anything, it demonstrates the birth of our nation and to me, signified a need to cut the umbilical cord of an uncaring “mother country”.

Anzac Day should be our national day.

“My Country” by Dorothea McKellar or similar should be our national anthem.

That awful ensign needs to be replaced by a flag that truly reflects my (our) Australia.

EDIT:

A suggestion by my mother for a better national anthem – and after reading all the words, I absolutely agree.

How about this one?

Lyrics are found here.

I have been promising – or threatening depending on your point of view – another sizeable rant similar to the one on racism a few months ago. This one is in a similar vein but sparked by religious intolerance of homosexuality based on selective reading of the Bible -  triggered, as loyal readers would know, by a continuing and dismaying public display of bigotry and discrimination against the gay folk in our community by not only the lunatic Christian fringe groups who nobody with an iota of sense actually takes seriously, but also by the mainstream religious groups.

I am dealing with other, more personal, issues at the moment but I couldn’t sleep again tonight so I thought I’d use my time more constructively than lying awake wishing the hell I could sleep.

Anyway – back to where I was. I’m awake so  I may as well write. My sleeping hours appear to be based on Dubai time at the moment, despite the fact that I go  to bed at about 11, absolutely knackered, but the “off button” in my Amygdala (I put the link in so that folk didn’t think I was making stuff up) refuses to co-operate despite my regular Temaze pill. If I take two sleeping pills, I still don’t get to sleep for ages but I’m even more Zombie-like the next day  so much so that I can see Ciarán eyeing me off and reaching for an imaginary shotgun. That joke didn’t work but I’m leaving it in there. In fact, I think it was an act of desperation and taking two sleepers for two nights in a row that has me on Dubai time. I think. It’s either that or it’s yet another fucking side effect to these wonderful drugs in my system.

Where was I?

Oh yeah – why haven’t I done my promised rant?

A few reasons.

I have written an entire introductory chapter in my mind where I discuss Dawkins’ atheism coming from a geneticists background, Hitchens’ stance from a well-travelled intellectual polyglot, and well, I’d have to re-read Sam Harris because the last time I tried to read his book, my brain wasn’t functioning and I couldn’t take it in. I then use this as a stepping-off point to a vituperative attack on religion – of all stripes – using only my own personal experiences and observations of life around me in Australia and Ireland.

Yes, I used the word chapter.

I recognised that I would also have to include the fact that I once thought I would become a priest myself; that I spent a year (or even more in reality) working with a religious order with priests and brothers for whom I still retain immense fondness and respect. I also spent a number of years as a specialist in religious education and thus have a fair theoretical grasp not only on Christianity but also the other major religions and even some of the lesser known ones. Jainism in particular entranced me for a while. I also studied Theology and Scripture at a post-grad level so there’s lots to discuss in that regard as well.

I have seen wonderful work done in the name of the Church and I have seen horrible shit too. I have a story about the local Catholic school, St. Joseph’s, where the Christian ethos was followed through in glorious fashion when shit hit the fan in my own life – I’ll never forget their kindness. This would all need to be discussed to balance the story.

I have seen spectacularly unfair injustices committed in the name of the Church – all based on selective readings of ancient texts. I’ve argued Scripture with those who purport to be committed christians and realised that they have only read the bible in the same way I have read the Qu’ran – I’ve been through it but I have only a very superficial grasp of it and of the background, the history, or the culture of the people who wrote the book. These folk say they base their lives on this stuff but they have no knowledge of the obviously loony bits that their  church realises nobody will swallow and some of them actually believe in shit like Noah’s Ark, the parting of the red sea, Adam and Eve, and all the other stuff in Genesis and Exodus which has been proven, over and over and over again (And over again) to have no more historical veracity than Hansel and Gretel. I am not a biblical scholar – not by a long shot – but I have a far firmer grasp on that particular set of tales than most of the head-cases I have met – the ones that come to the door and the ones who proselytise to me at various times.

I’ve worked at, and been a student at, Catholic schools – hell I went to school in Ireland where the state schools are ALL catholic schools where religion is not taught – it is stuffed into your brain, down your throat, up your arse, into your eyes, and you are taught from a very young age that if you don’t be a good little boy or girl and do exactly what you’re told (and I mean precisely what you’re told – none of your fancy individual critical thought processes thank you very much we’ll be having none of that nonsense now, d’ya hear me boy?), you’re going to burn in fiery hell for eternity. I spent years worrying about mortal sin. That’s a chapter just begging to be written.

Oh and then there’s the whole “For those who believe, no proof is necessary. For those who don’t believe, no proof is possible.” bullshit. This sort of crap implies a spiritual high-mindedness that has absolutely no basis except self-delusion. An early post in this blog was attacked based on this sort of logic. At the time, I backed down – as I had done previously with this person because I essentially had to prove that there wasn’t a God. I have come to understand that this kind of logic is dishonest at best and would like to flesh this out and fully come to terms with such fallacies. Again – another chapter. I also continue to be intimidated by folk I deem smarter than myself and fear to press the point in case I am revealed as the intellectual fraud that I believe myself, at heart, to be. This should probably be faced as well.

I was brought up in a home where tolerance was never discussed but was modelled. I never learnt to be intolerant and have always been mystified by those who are. When I went to University and participated in debates with peers, I learnt that I’m not always right and that the points of view of other people are often well worth listening to.

(By the way, I’m aware that my grammar sucks in most of tonight’s writing but think of this as more of an exercise in allowing thoughts to flow from brain onto keypad and stick with me.)

At Uni, I also mixed with a few more cultures – even if such a thing is possible in cosmopolitan Melbourne and I also travelled around Europe and learned a bit about appreciating the culture of other countries.

So, I know that I am not always right and I’m aware that there is value in the cultures of other people.

This is partly why I am hesitating to write anything of consequence because more than anything, I would need to come to terms with two contradictory patterns of thought which currently co-exist in my mind.

I fully believe in freedom of speech, freedom of thought, and the practice of religious freedom. At the same time, I have come to the conclusion that all religion-based schools should be banned, that religion should not be taught to children until they are old enough to think for themselves (or at least until their teens where there is hope for some critical analysis), and that no religious institution should receive funding of any description from any government sources at any level – federal, state, or local. Any charity based on religious backgrounds should have their license removed if they place any conditions on their beneficence based on their belief system. I also think that if anybody uses biblical references, or indeed any references from any of their moldy old texts, to justify bigotry and intolerance, then they should be called on it in public forums by newspapers and other public critics and commentators without fear or being labelled discriminatory themselves. Now  I know that’s all not really clear but I promise I would achieve clarity if I fleshed out the thoughts.

There’s a whole book just waiting to be written but I’m not sure I could maintain the rage long enough to create a coherent whole – it would probably turn into a collection of incoherent ramblings. Harris, Hitchens, Dawkins , Nietzsche, Bertrand Russell et al have said it all before – and said it better.

So – a lot to be said and not sure if it’s worth the effort. One thing I have learnt is that books about atheism are mostly read by those who are already convinced of their non-theist stance (edit: a clumsy avoidance of re-using the word Atheism- where’s my red pen?). Most of the pig-ignorant lunatics such as those who picket funerals of dead soldiers, who say that Christopher Hitchens’ cancer was a punishment from God, (Unbelievable but true – one such fuckwit can be found here), those who claim (quite rightly I might add) that “God hates fags” and thus their brutal bigotry is justifiable, and to top it all – those presented with irrefutable evidence against the often gory and usually outlandish fairy tales found in the bible – especially the Old Testament – refuse to acknowledge logic and appear to all intents and purposes to be incapable of intelligent thought in this regard due to the overwhelming effects of brainwashing by their parents and their immediate community – or something anyway. How do you explain why smart people still believe in this shit?

Mind you, websites like this one are worth a visit just for the laugh.

Mostly, books, or indeed blogs, on atheism “preach to the converted” if you’ll allow the pun – I doubt very much that any committed christian apart from my Mum reads this stuff.

See?

I have barely scratched the surface. What I have written tonight is really an abstract, or summary, and I’m way past what Meehawwl would call an acceptable length for a blog (average reading time should be the time to have a crap – an interesting and as-yet unexplored unit of time) – unless you are having serious problems with your bowels.

Maybe I’ll leave at that. It’s nearly 5am and the dawn is starting to break. The birds are beginning to sing. At least I did something constructive with my insomnia. Incoherent at times and definitely in need of some fine (and gross) tuning but I took some stuff out of my head and put it on paper (a redundant yet useful term) – kind of like using that pensieve yoke from Harry Potter. Some brilliant concepts in those books – bloody awful prose but great ideas. Mind you, if I was one eighth as successful as Ms. Rowling, I’d be a happy lad.

What a ramble. That was fun.

 

 

I’m tired.

I’m a man who is tired.

I’m a man who has had enough.

Sometime in 2001 I was diagnosed but I had been going downhill for a year or even more before then.

That’s more than 10 years!

I’m done now.

I’m a man who is tired of others making excuses for him.

My children can’t have friends to stay over. My children struggle to cope with me. How will other kids cope with the mad fucker?

Excuses are made.

I was meant to go to a funeral of a significant person in the community on Tuesday. She didn’t like me very much but  I always admired her a lot. She was a clever woman. She died at 48. Breast cancer. I changed my facebook picture. An empty gesture. I wasn’t there to say goodbye because I couldn’t cope.

Excuses once again.

I am a man who makes excuses.

I can’t go to training because I didn’t sleep at all the night before.

I can’t work because I can’t cope.

I play computer games because I can’t bear to be alone with my thoughts.

I drink too much because it numbs the pain.

I’m far too overweight because I drink too much to hide the pain.

I am tired of excuses.

A real man does not make excuses. I’m 44. I’m meant to face life.  We all know it’s hard. We all know it can be tough. We all know that there is misery and suffering. Why do I make excuses and hide behind this illness?

I can’t see it? Can you?

I look at the mirror. I see a fat fucker staring back at me. I was never fat. I was fit. I was never fast but I could run all day. 5 k run? No problem. Run for 90 minutes? No problem.

I got fat. I drank too much. It coincided with being overwhelmingly sad and needing to hide.

Excuses.

Enough.

I’m a man who makes excuses.

I’m a boy who is frightened.

I’m a child who hides under the blankets because there’s a monster under the bed. I cry and I quiver until I go to sleep because the child knows that the monster will be gone in the morning and everything will be OK.

The child thinks that.

The man knows the monster will still be there.

The days are bright and the sun is shining. I celebrate being alive and being happy. I never, ever, ever take being happy for granted because the monster is still there. Waiting. Not today, maybe tomorrow. The hammer will fall.

He’s here now.

I’ve had enough of excuses.

I’ve had enough of hiding from the world.

I’m 44 and I hide from the world.

I can’t watch movies that make me cry because it is dangerous for my health. Fuck off. I watched Scrubs last night and it made me cry. For fucks sake – what man lets a silly, overwrought sitcom make him cry?

A man who makes excuses.

I drink.

I cry.

I rely on the strength of a girl who looks at me with confusion in her eyes – she does not speak because she is afraid to talk to the monster – to give him ammunition and poison to inject into my mind. So she stays silent. Her silence makes me weep. Her strength makes me weep. Why doesn’t she run? Why does she stay with the man who makes excuses? Why doesn’t she leave? No judge in the world would give me custody.

She doesn’t go because she knows I love her. I love my children and they love me. I’m lucky. I am surrounded by love and it is my lifeline.

I figured it out tonight. I know how I will go. I won’t share. I might need it yet.

I was jealous of Gary Speed. I wrote something on Facebook but those who read it missed the point. He followed through. I want to follow through. But I can’t.

I would attack anyone who harmed my kids. Even if I knew they could beat me with a flick of their wrist, I would still do it. I will not allow harm to come to my boys. I will not allow them to blame themselves for my death. I don’t know that they won’t so I can’t risk it.

I hugged my boys tonight and told myself that I was saying goodbye. I didn’t have the courage to tell them that. But in my mind, I said goodbye. That’s not right and it shouldn’t happen. But it happened.

Melodramatic fucking spineless toad speaks his mind.

I’ve had enough.

I’m stuck.

There are folks who say “I’ve got depression” because they have felt sadness, and they have cried for no reason, they have felt feelings of self-loathing, and they have slept more than is healthy.

They haven’t got a fucking clue.

This illness will kill me. It’s just a matter of time – and of rationality. I am smart and I can often rely on that little voice to tell me to step back. But tonight that voice was silent.

I write this so people know. So people understand. I am ringing my metal cup against the prison bars of my mind. I’m here. I’m locked up. I’m in pain. I want to be let out. Nobody will release me. The key is in my hands. It’s a rope. It’s a pill. It’s trying to figure out the most effective and quickest means of crushing my own skull so that survival is impossible.

I don’t want my stomach pumped, I don’t want to survive. When I go, there will be no attempt – there will only be a jail-break.

I write this because I’m crying to a world who doesn’t know what it feels like to feel this pain. I annoy the crap out of myself and I hate myself for doing this. But I can’t show them a scan. I can’t point at a cast. I can’t show them the wounds. I am weak but I hope that when I go, people will understand why I did it. The whole exercise is futile. Kind people will post their concern. But in the end, it is me lying awake, trying to hide in the oblivion of sleep and wishing, really, that I don’t wake up. Hey, no fault, no foul – he just didn’t wake up. But I will wake up.

I will wake up in a community that I gave everything I have and it was deemed insufficient. Why? Don’t know. I’m weird. I don’t belong. I don’t get invited to watch games with the crowd, I don’t get told when an important person has died, I don’t get any phone calls any more because I can’t do anything for anybody anymore. I have been exposed for who I am – a fucking weirdo.

Excuses.

Go for a walk.

Look at your children.

Think of all the people who love you.

I scream “Fuck off!”

My soul is screaming. I’m an atheist but whatever it is that used to be Robert Bishop is gone. Whatever is left is screaming at me.

I had so much promise. A turn of phrase,  a witty retort, an ability to actually intimidate with my intellect. Would you believe that? I don’t but I’ve been told it’s true.

I was fit. I was healthy. I coached a group of 15 year olds and taunted them when they couldn’t keep up with me in fitness drills. Now. All gone.

I am told I need to lose weight. Really? Didn’t know that. Diabetes? Not yet but inevitable. Unfit? Yeah, well. True.

Don’t tell me I’m fat. I fucking know that. He knows that and he reminds me every day when I shower. I wince at the bathroom mirror at the horror that is me. I know. Tell me. Remind me. It’s all fuel for the fire. The fire burns me. One day that fire will go out.

Not soon enough.

In the meantime, the child hides beneath the blanket, making excuses, crying, waiting for the monster to leave and knowing that he never will.

I’m tired.

 

 

 

 

I spent all day today working on what eventually will be my first novel.

Unfortunately, I am better than Douglas Adams when it comes to procrastination and writing.

I thought I might drop the first chapter onto a wider reading audience and ask for some feedback.

The writing style is intended to be read by, or out loud to, a child of an age between about 9 and 12. I have tried not to use big words when smaller words will suffice but I may have done this at the expense of either clarity of flow. I’m not sure. I’ve read it so many times now that its like looking at a painting with your nose two inches from the canvas.

I need feedback. Any feedback. If it’s negative, please be polite. Do not feel that I will be offended if you are constructive in your critique. This will eventually be published and I need an idea of how it will be received.

I wrote this book for Ciarán, my eldest son. I am aware that this is not a common name and thus will probably replace the name with Bill or Matthew or something more palatable to the general populace.

Start:

Ciarán lay awake. It was hot. The doors and windows to his bedroom were wide open but there was no wind outside and even though his ceiling fan was set on the highest setting, it did not seem to be cooling the room at all. He didn’t have a doona on the bed, just a single top sheet. He just could not sleep.

On a normal night, this would not matter. He would simply lay awake listening to the frogs or toads outside in the garden calling to each other. He would imagine what they might be saying to one another.

“Hey, got a really damp spot over here!” said a toad near the crack in the drain pipe.

“Do you want to be my friend?” said a frog near the dog’s water bowl.

“Are we having a party later on?” said a toad somewhere in the grass.

This usually kept him entertained until he fell asleep. Sometimes, he would listen to the cicadas until their humming and whirring sent him off into dreams about flying machines and fast cars.

Tonight, however, was not a normal night. It was Christmas Eve and Ciarán was feeling very uncomfortable about it all. He was really looking forward to waking up in the morning because he knew he would find presents in the stocking at the end of his bed. He remembered from the previous years the giddy feeling of anticipation as he picks up the full stocking, feels the weight of the toys inside, and then surprise as he draws the toys and sweets out one by one, savouring the moment and the awed wonder of knowing that something magic had happened overnight.

Now, Ciarán had watched “Harry Potter” and “Aladdin” on DVD and knew that there was no such thing as witches, warlocks or genies. Or magic.

This raised in him other questions that he did not like to think about. He wondered how Santa got into the house because the front and back doors were always locked at night. The front windows were also locked. If he tried to come in through the back windows to the bedrooms, the dogs would hear him and bark so loud that they would wake everyone in the street.

If Santa tried to land a sleigh in their big back yard, maybe the dogs would attack the reindeer and hurt them or maybe the reindeer would kick the dogs. He did not like that idea at all.

Santa could not come through the roof. He was too heavy, he would break the tiles, and anyway, walking around on a roof at night was not very clever and very dangerous.

Of course, the biggest question was one he really did not want to ask; what if Santa wasn’t real?

Ciarán did not often receive high grades in school. His writing was not very neat at all – in fact it looked like an ant had meandered around the paper while dragging a blue line behind it. He had never been able to stop his crayons go over the line; he never remembered how to spell words properly; all he ever understood was numbers. Numbers were easy because they followed rules. He was good at remembering rules and so long as he had a piece of paper, a pencil, and the rules, he could work out answers to even the hardest sums.

He knew he was a bit different to the other kids because his parents had told him he was something called autistic and because another teacher often came into the classroom to help him. This teacher would help him with his work and then would take him to another room where he would learn other things such as rules about how to talk to people by speaking clearly and loudly while looking at them somewhere near their face, and not to walk away in the middle of a sentence just because he knew what he was going to say and so he didn’t need to say it. Ciarán didn’t like to look people straight in the eye and he didn’t really understand why people didn’t know exactly what he was thinking about. School could be very hard for Ciarán but he was very good at one thing and that was what his teachers called “logic and reasoning.”

Ciarán called it “working things out.”

He lay there and tried to work out “The Santa Claus Mystery”.

On Christmas Eve, the carpet beneath the Christmas tree in the lounge room was awash with brightly wrapped gifts. There would be presents from Mum and Dad, presents from his uncles and aunts in Dubai, Melbourne, and Ireland, and presents from his grandparents. The presents from Santa Claus were never under the tree but would appear at the end of his bed while he was asleep. How did that happen?

On one hand, his parents and teachers were telling him that he lived in a world that was huge and had millions of people in it. His Dad had a huge satellite map of the world hanging up in his study and it showed that although Australia was a big country, it was only a very small part of a very big world.

Also, he had flown to Europe for a holiday last year with his family and it had taken ages to get there. He had found it very easy to sleep on the comfortable aircraft seats but his Dad was very tall; his legs were too long to fit between the seats and so he hadn’t slept at all. When they arrived in Athens, Dad was in a bad mood and kept moaning about not sleeping for twenty four hours. After the holiday, Ciarán had looked at the big map on the study wall and realised that the flight to Athens had only taken him half way around the world but had taken thirty hours in a really fast jet that had only stopped in Singapore and Dubai for a few hours. If he was to fly non-stop in a fast jet all the way around the world, this would probably take more than forty eight hours. Forty eight hours was two full days but his parents and teachers told him that in just one night, Santa managed to personally deliver presents all over this huge world, eat tons of biscuits, cookies, or carrots left out by children, and to top it off, was never be seen by anyone at all! (Ciarán preferred to leave Santa carrots or celery because Santa obviously had a problem with his weight and being fat is not good for you).

When he asked his parents about this, they talked about the fact that it took time for the earth to spin and the middle of the day in Australia is, in fact, the middle of the night in Ireland where Dad comes from, and nearly the day before in America. Ciarán had thought about this for a long time and although he knew that this gave Santa a longer time frame to work with, it was still a very long way to go and there were an awful lot of children to visit. It didn’t make sense.

He was not sure how Santa Claus managed to do something that seemed to be magic but couldn’t be because there was no such thing as magic but there must be because Santa Claus delivered all those presents every year. This made his brain feel woozy. This woozy feeling was made worse because he was very sure about some other things. He knew that his parents wouldn’t lie to him. He was sure that his teachers wouldn’t lie to him. He knew his parents and teachers told the truth about everything and as well as that, they were always telling him about how important it was to be honest.

He was never quite sure what to believe what he saw and heard on the TV because most of it wasn’t real; it was actors playing a big game of pretend. However, some of it was real. The news was real, even though it told stories that were a lot scarier then any movie he had ever seen. Tonight, the news lady had said that Santa had left the North Pole and was heading south to start delivering presents. Why would she lie?

Ciarán really wanted to believe in Santa. He felt that if he stopped believing, he would lose something; he had no idea what it was that he would lose, but it would be something that he would never get back again and he would be very sorry it was gone. He knew all this but didn’t know how he knew it. That didn’t make sense either. He was very confused.

He laid there on his bed, staring through the darkness at the ceiling but looking at nothing, his face screwed up in concentration as he tried furiously to figure out how the “Santa Claus Mystery” worked and how presents would end up on his bed by the morning.

He heard his Mum and Dad start getting ready for bed. His Mum came into his room to gently kiss him on the cheek as she always did before going to bed. He pretended to be asleep. He heard his Dad say that his younger brother, Nicky, was asleep. He held his breath so that he could hear them whisper and waited for them to say something else, maybe about Santa or about Christmas presents, but they didn’t. Soon, he heard their bedroom door open, and then the sound of running taps as they brushed their teeth in the bathroom next to their room.

Then the house was quiet and once again, Ciarán was left alone, lying under his single sheet, the fan blowing warm air, and he couldn’t sleep.

Ciarán picked up the little hand-mirror that was lying on the small set of drawers by the side of his bed. His Mum had used it the other day to show him the spot on his nose, removing it with her sharp nails while telling him to wash his face properly and more often. Ciarán didn’t mind washing his hands before eating, or having a shower most days (well, when he was reminded at least); but washing his face twice a day, in the morning and before bed, seemed a bit excessive. He played with the mirror, making the reflections from the moonlight dance around the room while he hummed a tune in his head. He tried to stop thinking, to make all the thoughts go away so that he could get to sleep.

There was a sudden movement in his room near the door. Ciarán sat up, startled. At the end of his bed stood a tall, skinny shadow, a figure so black that Ciarán really had to focus carefully to make sure he wasn’t imagining it. The shadow moved, silent as an unspoken thought, his ominous presence filling the small room with a dark and faceless menace. Ciarán was terrified, eyes wide open and riveted to the shadow, too frightened even to scream, his mind a blank except for a tiny thought hiding in some corner of his brain that couldn’t help but wonder where the figure had come from. It had just appeared out of nowhere.

Ciarán, despite his fear, was still processing information and worked out from the size of the figure’s hands that it had to be a man. A big man. A very big man who was now clearly looking straight at him. He could see his face now. His eyes were dark and his skin was brown. His face was camouflaged like a soldier in a movie, black marks on his cheeks, chin, and nose so that it was hard to figure out exactly what he looked like in the dull moonlight of the bedroom. Ciarán suddenly realised with a kind of relief that the man’s face was not scary. In fact, he looked like a rather nice person, but he had that sort of annoyed look that Dad sometimes got when Ciarán would keep asking questions while Dad was busy working on the computer. The man raised his arm to reveal what looked to Ciarán a lot like a gun. He was jolted out of inspection mode straight back to abject terror, throwing the handheld mirror aside as he ducked his head under the sheet in a fruitless attempt to avoid whatever was happening.

Under his sheet, Ciarán saw a bright blue flash that made him feel a bit dizzy, then there was a thumping sound as something hit the wooden foot of his bed very hard, making it shake. He carefully peeked out, raising his head above the sheet. The man was gone! Hardly breathing at all, Ciarán crawled towards the foot of his bed and peeked over the edge. The man was still there, but lying on the floor. He looked like people did in the movies when they were meant to be unconscious. This meant they were a lot asleep and were usually badly hurt. Ciarán didn’t want the man to be hurt, even if he was scared of him. He got out of the bed very carefully and slowly approached the prostrate figure. He picked up the thing that he had thought was a gun but upon closer scrutiny looked more like a long silver torch. He noticed there were three buttons on it. One of them was bright red. Ciarán didn’t really think about the silver torch much more; he just wanted his Mum and Dad and he needed light so he pressed the bright red button.

Suddenly the floor dissolved beneath him and Ciarán found himself scrabbling around in mid air, unable to touch anything with his hands or feet. Just as his brain figured out just how terrified he was, he found himself standing on a cold, hard, slippery floor. Unable to think, trying to breathe through huge sobbing gulps of air, feeling really sick, really dizzy and really, really frightened, he stood there; swaying. His brain couldn’t decide what to do – to cry out in fear or vomit so it sat him down and did both. It then decided that it was really fed up with everything being so strange, that it couldn’t be having all this, and maybe it was time for a nice quiet nap. Ciarán fell backwards into the pool of his own vomit, his head cracking into the steel floor, unconscious.

Nicky plays for, and within, the Hervey Bay basketball association. This association has a facebook account. Last week, the president of the association used this page to place a link to a site calling itself the Australian Marriage Forum.I requested that the link be removed because it was inappropriate for a sporting organisation to display political or religious information that is not directly related to the actual sport. To be fair, I did get the reply “your opinion is noted” but the article remained for a while until, at the urging of Pauline as treasurer of the association, and of the VP of the organisation, it was shifted to the personal account of the president where he railed against Pauline and I for being intolerant and discriminatory and compared our request to remove the link as being akin to the actions of Hitler in censoring the press in pre-war Germany.

I have studied this forum at length and have decided that I was wrong. It is I who is intolerant, discriminatory and just like Hitler. Except I don’t like his moustache.

I have not allowed room for people to go off half-cocked about issues that I perceive as restricting the personal freedoms of other people but in truth, this does not allow room for a fair percentage of the population. Thus, I need to learn tolerance myself. I need to stop thinking of them as fundamentalist loonies, racists, or misogynists and come to embrace the fact that it is very much part of the human psyche to deny others the rights that I enjoy if they are different in terms of skin colour, sexual preference, or gender. Until I do,  I will continue to frustrate myself by attempting to argue with these folk when in fact I should show more tolerance of their incapacity to reason, of their inability to create a logical and coherent argument, and of their self-contradictory and facile statements. It is OK to make statements that don’t actually make a coherent whole just so long as you use emotive clichés and people know that you are right because you read the bible. The fact that your IQ is equal to that of a turnip is irrelevant and I must start taking these people seriously so that I’m not intolerant any more.

I have learnt all of this from the Australian Marriage Forum website – which calls itself a forum despite the fact that there is nowhere within the site to place a personal opinion. This is obviously a misunderstanding of the meaning of the word “forum”. Thus i sent the following email to the site’s author:

You are aware, are you not, that using the the word forum as a part of the name of your website implies many voices discussing a particular topic?
I have included the following link for the sake of clarity: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/forum
I note that there is, in fact, no section within your website for anybody else’s view but your own.
It is hoped that this situation can be rectified so that others may voice their opinion on this issue.
Regards
Robert Bishop

I am looking forward to the time when the site is changed so that I can discuss some of the statements made or implied on the site.

For instance, the catch-phrase is that they want the conversation to happen – for everyone’s sake. This is accompanied by several flash graphics – my favourite of which is a graphic of a young lady with band-aids over her mouth. I can assume that this means she is not being allowed to talk. It’s either that or she has really bad ulcers on her lips. I hope she doesn’t – the poor girl.

The text on that graphic reads: “Are Aussies really free to talk about same-sex marriage?” Well, obviously Aussies are not allowed to talk on that site – but as I have said above – this will probably be fixed soon. As for a free discussion about the issue; this discussion has been going on for some time in the newspaper that I read every day – Melbourne’s “The Age“. There are 1040 articles on that issue – opinions, news items, and letters from the public. I also read “The Guardian” – it has 11,200 articles. Obviously, such dreadful left-wing liberal newspapers are not presenting the right views and so I understand that Australians are therefore being muted – makes sense. I am a bit confused though – if you google “same sex marriage” and restrict the results to Australian domains, there are about 475,000 results. Since Australians have band-aids over their mouths, I suppose they are restricted to typing articles rather than actually saying anything. Either that or there has been an epidemic of mouth ulcers.

This is quickly followed by a graphic of a rather odd-looking child and text reading “And the kids”. That’s good – it’s always relevant when somebody asks “What about the children?”. You don’t have to be specific about anything – you just need to ask “What about the children?” and you are automatically morally unassailable. It was silly of me not to have read this brilliant observation before and asked myself: “What about the children?”

The last graphic is really nice. It has a picture of two men – nicely separated along a nice big couch – and one man has his hand on the knee of another man. Both are quite good looking and well-dressed so they obviously must be gay. The hand on the knee is a dead give-away. If a friend of mine touched me on the leg, I would know immediately that he was gay and would read Paul’s letters to the Romans and the Corinthians (along with a nice refreshing review of Leviticus) so that I would know what to do. This way I would know that Paul uses homosexuality as indicative of man’s deep seated rebellion against God and that my friend should be cast out and shunned by the community. It’s in the Bible so I know it’s right.

As I read further into forum website, I nodded my head at such sage statements as :” if it is inherently discriminatory to deny marriage to some people, why isn’t it inherently discriminatory to deny marriage to all people?  If we redefine marriage to be between two people regardless of gender, why would we not widen the definition even further? What about people who love more than one other person? What about people love each other dearly, but who are related through birth, such as a brother and sister?”
This is true. I would have to marry my children, my parents, my family, my close friends, and my dog! I just can’t afford such a number of weddings. Besides – the honeymoon has the potential to be rather awkward and embarrassing – not to mention crowded. This logical argument has swayed me even further from my silly intolerant views. I have read many “discussion” papers written by Year 8 children over the years and this argument would definitely get a B+ if I was to mark it. That’s a good mark.

The wonderful concerns that this forum shows for the rights of those silly gay people is underlined by a quote from “Australian human rights lawyer Frank Brennan AO, former Chairman of the National Human Rights Consultative Committee, [is] an expert on discrimination.” It is strange that the quote does not reference the rest of Frank’s speech so that we could read the full context of the selected content. This was obviously overlooked. Another thing that was overlooked was to acknowledge that Frank Brennan is a Jesuit priest. The article acknowledges that he got the Order of Australia at one point but ignores his life’s work by not putting the letters “SJ (Society of Jesus)” after his name. I’m sure that once again, this was just a silly mistake. I’m sure that a Catholic priest of the strictest order within that church would always provide a nuanced and balanced view of such topics.

The website is great in that it has “expert commentary”. They “want to present the voice of the voiceless and the views of those social commentators on this topic who have views that don’t often get seen or heard. [They] have access to academics, doctors, lawyers, scientists and more who contribute thoughts in our blog for your pondering“.
This is wonderful. The voiceless people (maybe they have been shouting a lot?) and social commentators who obviously don’t know how to speak, write letters to the editor, write letters to their MP, or create websites are therefore represented by this wonderful website. This is nice. Also – because the experts are doctors, lawyers and scientists (strangely – nobody is actually named), we should listen to them because they are obviously very smart people. Everybody knows that only smart people are doctors, lawyers and scientists and that their opinion carries great weight. It would be nice to know who they are. Also – pondering is a great word.

“The Australian Marriage Forum (AMF) is an organisation that has been set up to encourage Australians to discuss the issue of same-sex marriage with some discernment and caution.” This is good. We really need to exercise caution. If gay people get married, then this means that hetero marriages are of less value and that any husband and wife who are currently married are now also automatically gay. I think. I’m not really sure about this point. I just know that if gay people get married, it’s a very bad deal for hetero married folk. Just take my word for it – it’s bad.

Discernment is good. We should always be aware of how people are different to us – not how they are the same – that’s just silly and undiscerning. Maybe we need to be cautious that all the gay people will move next door and turn our children gay. Or maybe they will rip apart the fabric of a society so carefully designed by our forefathers into shreds with their loving relationships and their colourful yet stylish clothing.

As for caution, you can never have enough caution. Some people (again – no names – I don’t have to – just take my word for it) believe that caution is the underrated but I’m always very cautious. Caution. It’s good. It means that you distrust change. That’s good. My caution means that I know that if I read enough articles on the web, I will find something clearly indicating that married gay people eat babies. This is OK for me as my children are already teenagers and would be too sweaty and spotty to eat but I understand that we must exercise caution in these things.

“It’s important to note that legislation to support same-sex marriage may have enormous consequences on our culture“.
Indeed it may. The same-sex couples who currently live together all over the nation will have a marriage certificate in their drawer (or even worse, on the wall) and this will change our culture a lot. I mean a real lot. We might no longer be able to make jokes about muff-munchers, arse-bandits, poofters, fudge-packers, and all those other commonly heard expressions about gay people indicative of the culture of gay bashing that is pervasive and prevalent in Australian society. We don’t want that changed.

Deriding gay people is very much part of our Australian culture and an important part of growing up as an Australian male. I learnt this at my Catholic school and so we all continuously ostracised a boy in our year by the name of Tony Grant because he openly acknowledged he was a poofter. Thankfully, Tony understood that the dreadful life choices he made were unacceptable and committed suicide at 21 years old. He is definitely damned to hell because he was gay and because he killed himself. Serves him right. I regret now all those conversations I had with him, trying to understand his point of view, trying to reduce his feelings of isolation, and trying to understand how a person could be gay when all of society stands against them. He was a coward for not changing his ways and finding a nice girl to marry. After all, there are plenty of girls who look just like blokes.

If we accepted gay people for who they are, and allowed them to marry, there would be tremendous changes in Australian society. The website says so. I have been scratching my head to think of how it would change but I know it would dishonour the spirit of Anzac (after all – no Australian soldier would be gay – “Lynchie” who plays football is only a member of the army reserve).

Gay marriage would deface the glorious Australian flag too. The Union Jack and British society are bastions of heterosexual society. After all, they jailed Oscar Wilde. Mr. Wilde never contributed to British culture. His writings may have been witty and insightful but I have no doubt that they must have been stolen from a straight man. Graham Chapman was gay and a founding member of Monty Python – but he often poked fun at religion so he deserved to die an early and painful death with throat cancer. God smote him good.

Most people are convinced – and consistent social and developmental research suggests – that millions of Australian families would be worse off if marriage laws were further diluted.” John Heard, Writer, Academic (Identifying as Homosexual)

John Heard has a law degree and an arts degree so he is obviously an academic. He is also the author of Dreadnought – a blog that explores sexuality from the point of view of a catholic homosexual. His deep-rooted Catholicism and his status as a celibate gay man makes him a role model for the gay community. He also writes articles. All gay people should have the self-discipline to not succumb to their sinful ways that inevitably turn into a massive same-sex orgy of writhing bodies, twisting like so many sensual intertwining snakes… (sorry – got carried away there – you see how gay people influence me to become sexually perverse and full of wanton desires?). Great word – wanton. A homophone – especially considering the topic. Also – how does one “dilute” a law? Add water? Hot air? Also -”further diluted” implies some dilution has already happened. Sadly, Mr. Heard is once again non-specific about his meaning and we cannot bask in his queer-but-it’s-ok-because-he’s-one-of-us wisdom.

Did you know (and you should know from the lovely graphic on the front page with knee-touching men) that not all gays want to get married? Therefore – none of them should be allowed to get married. That stands to reason.

From the ABC’s Hungry Beast (2009): “If more than half of all Australians support same sex marriage, you’d at least assume that gay people would be in favour of it, right? Monique [Schafter] found out this isn’t always the case. She spoke to a selection of gay people opposed to same sex marriage to find out why they held this view.” Everybody knows that if you speak to a selection of any one community, but don’t define the criteria upon which you made your selection, then that selection’s opinion is indicative of the overall communities view on a specific issue.

To put the nail in that coffin, the site’s author then states: “But Monique isn’t alone, and for the record, I sincerely doubt that most Australians believe in “gay marriage,” although I do accept that some polls are laughably unscientific“. The author, whose stance is undoubtedly neutral on the subject, doubts that Australians believe in gay marriage and that all polls indicating the opposite are all laughably unscientific. They disagree with him – so they must be laughable. All polls lie. All of them. Especially the ones with which I disagree.

Eve Tushnet, a self-identified lesbian states: “ Same-sex marriage is just the next step in the divorce culture. The belief that marriage is merely the way that our culture expresses its approval of atomistic adults’ sexual and romantic partnerships isn’t new – it’s the same “me generation” worldview that produced “fatherless America.”
I am not sure how Ms. Tushnet makes the journey from the first sentence to the final conclusion and precisely how a “fatherless America” can be connected to gay marriage but as she is a lesbian that agrees the views of the AMF, then obviously what she says is right. I’m just haven’t figured out what she said yet – but I’m sure that this is because of my intolerance for nonsensical arguments – another deviant flaw in my character that I vow to fix.

It is my contention that some left-wing homosexual activists are hungry for approval, and that they’re consciously or subconsciously trying to mirror traditions.
Nobody should ever seek the approval of society or have a desire to fit in, or be regarded as “normal”. Straight people would not do that – and even if they do – that’s OK because they are normal and everyone knows that gays are not normal and that their fruitless search for the approval of society is a pointless and vain exercise. Thankfully, the lack of acceptance in society does lead to an inordinate suicide rate among young gay people that is not reflected in statistics regarding young heterosexual people. People who are dead cannot get married and so it removes them from the argument. This is good.

Thankfully, the website addresses “What about the children?” – the catch cry of those who are rightly concerned about … well… the children!

Firstly: We would suggest that one of the reasons there is social discomfort with same-sex  marriage is because so many people realise the foundational nature of the concept of marriage and the way it is intrinsically connected to the fabric and strength of our society. Marriage is the foundation of our society – it can also be democracy, religion, capitalism, free-markets, language – it all depends on how you are using this wonderful (not hackneyed) phrase (definitely not cliché) in order to shore up your argument. The fabric of our society …. what does that mean? I once thought that the weft and woof of our pluralistic, multicultural society had as many strands as there are cultures, attitudes, and points of view (maybe even sexual preferences?) but I was wrong. The only fabric worth considering are the Judeo-Christian strands and all the others are just wrong. After all – some of the people in our society are not only gay – they are also darkies!

Our society has always recognised this relationship as the unit around which society is built. After all, it’s opposite-sex relationships that produce children, and as children are born, a society grows.
This is good. Our population is now around 7 billion and God will provide for all of them – once they have accepted him as their lord and saviour. Muslims and atheists will have to starve. After all, God only looks after those who say nice things about him at church every week and say lots of prayers to him. He always answers their prayers – even the ones made by parents of children dying in hospitals – but he will ignore all those nasty atheists, Muslims, and all the silly and completely-off-the-mark religions. Serves them right too. Society should keep on growing and using the environment for their own uses – never mind the impact. Genesis says that God made the earth for us to exploit so this is what we should do.

Same-sex relationships cannot produce children. This is not a statement of prejudice or discrimination, simply recognition of the limitations inherent in same-sex relationships.
Wow. Didn’t know that. Did you know that? What about adoptions? Oh – silly me – hetero people raise kids better than gay people. Stands to reason, what with all the orgies and stuff. Of course, loveless hetero marriages, hetero “quickies” at the office Christmas party, or hetero divorces have never impacted negatively on the lives of millions of children. Only gay marriages threaten the happiness of children. Stands to reason, that.

While no one is naively suggesting that opposite sex relationships are always idyllic, there is still a fundamental agreement that this is how our society best works – generationally.
Recognising and legalising gay marriage will mean that hetero couples will never have sex again and there will be no more children. Obviously.

The many things that make it a challenge to maintain strong healthy marriages are not reason to abandon the idea. To legally change what we recognise as marriage and marriage-like relationships is a defining moment for a nation as it is such relationships that we entrust to the next generation.
Sorry, what? I’m sure that this would make more sense if I wasn’t so intolerant.

It’s not wrong, or hateful, or fearful, to want to proceed cautiously and carefully with any changes to the accepted and endorsed family structure. It’s responsible and wise.
Yes it is. It was the same with regards to the civil rights movement in America and apartheid in South Africa. The accepted structure and culture should not be labelled as wrong, hateful, or fearful. It is merely the accepted norm in that society and any changes to people’s preconceptions must be made responsibly and wisely. And slowly – if at all.

Of course, the best wisdom is found in the Bible and we should always follow it’s teachings. I’m not sure Pauline likes the bit about my ability to sell her into slavery to cover any of my debts or the undeniable fact that she is my property. I don’t think my sisters like the bit that says they are the property of my father or if he is dead, my brother and I. So we’ll ignore those bits. I’ll remain healthier that way. There’s also bits about circumcision. Scary – don’t like that bit. There are bits that say I can’t eat pork. I eat ham and cheese sandwiches so I’ll ignore those bits too. There’s also lots of bits about killing the enemies of god but I think the American army has that concept well in hand so I’ll leave that to them. I’ll just pick the bits I agree with and declare them to be the inviolable word of God. The other bits that I don’t like are violable because I said so. You’re allowed to do that you know – it’s like a smorgasbord of traditions – take the bits you like and leave the other bits for the Jews and the millions of other variations on Christianity. Of course, they’re all wrong and chose the wrong bits.

The UN Declaration on the Rights of the Child (PDF 164KB) affirms that a child must not, “save in the most exceptional circumstances, be separated from his mother”, and yet ‘marriage’ of two men and subsequent surrogacy will do exactly that, in a premeditated way. A little girl must live without a mother, purely to satisfy the desire of two men to have a baby of their own. What then of the rights of the child?
The two gay men are being very mean and selfish. The mother probably put the baby up for adoption on the understanding that only hetero couples could adopt the baby. The fact that she was 16, or had been raped, or couldn’t afford the baby, or was so emotionally devastated by the circumstances of her life that she couldn’t face raising a child is all irrelevant – she would have only been thinking about straight couples raising her baby. If she knew it was two queers that were offering her child a loving home and a life where the kid would be doted on and every need would be met, she would still want the baby back. The statement above implies such a situation and therefore it must be true – also it quotes from a UN document  and that’s very significant – unless you’re the government of the U.S. or North Korea. Also – surrogate Mums become pregnant without having intercourse with a man and everyone knows that only God is allowed to impregnate unsuspecting young virgins in this manner. It’s a creator’s prerogative.

It also stands to reason that a little girl would never learn how to be more feminine from a gay man. Only a mother can teach her that – so even if the Mum never wears dresses and only wears tracksuit pants and a flannelette shirt – she would be a better role model than any nasty gay man – no matter how stylish his wardrobe. Funny thing is – the statement only talks about little girls. It doesn’t tell me what to think about little boys so it must be OK for gay men to have little adopted boys. I’m not sure. I’d ask on the forum but there is no way to post a question.

So, in conclusion, I must sign lots of petitions to ban gay marriage because I am perfectly entitled to foist my views on anything onto other people and thus force them to live in a manner of which I approve. I am not restricted just to voicing an opinion, I have to make sure everybody else lives according to my opinions. The fact that these opinions are based on my selective reading of the Bible – which we all know was the word of a God who just has a poor idea of timing. He made lots of appearances to a bronze age society of goat-herders but hasn’t been seen since. This is a pity because now he could now do a talk-show live via satellite and really get his message across. He might even give Letterman a run for his money. Silly deity.

I am not intolerant of other people any more; I just know that I am right and that the constitution says I’m right (well – not really – it’s very ambiguous but it sounds pompous and makes people think I’ve read it), and that our forefathers made the country the way it is because they were much wiser than any of the following generations – especially the current generation of young people (they don’t respect their elders and they are terribly naughty all the time with their noisy cars and crazy hair styles).

Change is bad because I am scared of change.

And finally, won’t someone please think of the children?