This Poison Apple

Talking contraception with my teenage daughter

2011-11-03T01:16:00.000-07:00

So this piece I wrote based on how I broached the subject of contraception with my teenage daughter was posted on Mamamia today.

Some interesting reactions, to be sure.

And just for the record, my daughter was OK with the piece being published.

A Guide to the Brisbane Writers Festival

2011-09-08T13:38:00.000-07:00

This appeared in the BrisbaneTimes.com.au - It's just a bit of 'go-to' guide to the Brisbane Writers Festival. Please take with a sizable grain of the world's favourite seasoning (in shouldn't have to be said, but some people...sigh.)

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof - Review of QTC/Black Swan Production Aug 18 - Sept 4

2011-08-23T22:33:00.000-07:00

Amongst amateur theatre companies Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is something of a staple – the Brisbane Arts Theatre, for example, staged two productions within 10 years of each other. And with good reason, the roles – by virtue Tennessee William’s exquisite writing – are virtually actor proof (providing the southern accent is mastered) and it is considered a perfect example a classic three act play. With the professionals – QTC and WA’s Black Swan State Theatre Co. – taking it on as a co-production you would hope for a lift in quality, particularly in the production values, if not the performances and, thankfully, this production delivers on both fronts.

Setting the tone is Bruce McKinven’s design – it’s fresh, concept driven and delicious on the eye, as befitting a modern main stage production, but the reverence for time and place – William’s atmospheric 1950s Mississippi Delta plantation – is all pervasive. McKinven pays homage to the iconic 1958 version with some carefully handpicked elements – Maggie’s dress design, for example, and Big Daddy’s cashmere robe – but he was not visually enslaved to it, either. Aficionados of the film will spot the markers, but hopefully appreciate the differences – Maggie’s dress, while modelled on the version Elizabeth Taylor wore, is dark green and it’s s winning change. McKinven’s use of colour -- greys, dark blues and greens – plays to the darker themes in the play, with his use of Spanish Moss an inspired touch.

For the actors, the spectre of the film is arguably harder to discard. Audiences don’t want imitation, but there’s only so much room for deviation when characters are so deeply ingrained in a collective psyche. The casting of Cheree Cassidy as Maggie the Cat – coming via television’s Underbelly: The Golden Mile and Paper Giants: The Birth of Cleo – has been well-publicised and, no doubt, Cassidy felt the weight most keenly. Elizabeth Taylor may have made the most indelible mark on this career highlight of a role, but it’s also been played by such luminaries as Ashley Judd on Broadway and Francis O’Connor in London’s West End.

Cassidy opened the play in battle mode. She tackled the first act – essentially a monologue delivered to her unresponsive husband, Brick – with all the right lines and actions, but you could see the rehearsal process. Conceding opening night nerves, she wasn’t quite there to begin with. Her accent was too restrained, as though she feared drawling out her vowels in case of exaggeration. She needn’t have worried, when dropped in and relaxed – about twenty minutes in – the hard working actress disappeared and a convincing, sympathetic and enchanting Maggie emerged.

As Brick Pollitt – the dissolute ex-footballer, drunk and younger son of plantation owner, Big Daddy – Tom O’Sullivan (Cassidy’s fellow Underbelly: The Golden Mile alumni) serves the role well. Playing a disengaged character is difficult – while Brick is indifferent to his wife’s emotional and sexual needs and everybody else around him, the actor must still be engaged with the ensemble and the audience. O’Sullivan managed this dichotomy nicely, delivering his best moments in his lengthy scene with John Stanton as Big Daddy.

Stanton’s Big Daddy hit all the right notes, so it seems picky to point out his lack of’ stature’, however, it was hard to dislodge the feeling that he wasn’t ‘big’ enough to play a character called Big Daddy. Perhaps it’s the very large shadow of Burl Ives, but silver fox Stanton looked altogether too trim and healthy to be a man on the verge of death as the result of his appetites.

It’s a minor gripe in other wise perfectly cast play. All the support roles were well cast with the actors easily finding the cadence and lyricism of William’s dialogue. Hugh Parker and Caitlin Beresford-Ord portrayals as Gooper and his wife Mae, respectively – whether intentionally or not – were very close to the film version, but they worked, never-the-less. Likewise their four no-necked monsters – they didn’t have a lot to do, but it’s important to the play’s continuity that the children are convincing, which they were.

Carol Burns as Big Mama, however, was the standout. All the usual superlatives apply to what was a flawless performance by this veteran of the stage. Maybe unfairly, but not surprisingly, she received the loudest round of applause at curtain call.

For film and theatre buffs, the plot of Cat needs little elaboration. It is a play relished for its characters and themes, not for cathartic resolution or an unmasking of who dunnit. However, for those who are only familiar with the film version, the stage version can be a revelation. The references to homosexuality – namely Brick and Skipper’s ‘friendship’ – are far more overt in the play, whereas the film is so obscure about the issue it’s easy to miss what the problem at the heart of Maggie and Brick’s marital discord actually is, such was censorship in the 50s. Ironically, it’s this very censorship that contextualises how taboo talking about homosexuality was at that time and which aids understanding of Brick’s self-destructive behaviour.

Ultimately, Cat is a play that demands fidelity to its setting and the time in which was written. Like performing Shakespeare, embracing the language of the play is paramount. On all levels this production is faithful enough to please purists – especially lovers of the film version – without kowtowing to a preconceived idea of how it should be. Director Kate Cherry’s reverence for this play and Williams’ writing is evident, but it’s her intimacy with its characters and her ability to nurture the relationships between them that make this a must-see for lovers of Tennessee Williams’ plays.

If Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is already one of your favourites, you will have every reason to enjoy – and relish – this production. For younger generations who may be unfamiliar with Williams’ seminal play, there will be no better introduction. QTC/Black Swan’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is quality theatre which has landed on its feet running.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof runs from 15 August – 3 Sept. Tickets are available through QPAC.

Getting Personal

2011-07-06T03:37:00.000-07:00

My intention for this blog has always been to keep the 'personal stuff' out and to only post polished pieces of writing -- published or unpublished -- but due to the lack of movement and activity here at This Poison Apple (which is due for the most part to my own lack of movement and activity on the writing front, full stop), I've had a bit of rethink about what should and shouldn't be allowed here. So, I've decided that some personal stuff should be allowed to make it's way on here, providing it has some kind of point to it and fits in with the ambiance of the place.

If any of you fair readers have had the displeasure of reading my other (all but defunct) blog, Blakkat Ruminations back in its hey day, then you'd be aware that it largely featured my adventures as a 30-something singleton living in Sydney. Well times have changed -- I'm not single, I'm a baby's gestation or two away from 40 and I don't live in Sydney any more. As one half of a happy and conventional defacto couple living in suburban Brisbane, my love life would, frankly, bore you into a good night's sleep. But we wouldn't want that, so I'll keep my love life out of it this time.

This other reason for this change of heart, is that I have a bona fide professional website now -- Blakkopykat --which is essentially a portfolio for my published features and what-not, so what you'll probably get here now is the odd book review, some opinion pieces with my trademark wit (even if she says so herself), some funny stuff and a bit of guff, if I feel like. I think you'll like it and I think I'll probably keep up appearances a lot more. It's a win-win for all us, really.

Natural Disaster Watching

2011-01-13T01:00:00.000-08:00

A rarity of late, it’s a nice Brisbane day – temperate conditions and mostly sunny skies – and from where I’m sitting, in the now dry suburb of Stafford, you’d really have no idea that a grand scale natural disaster was unfolding only 10km away. Except for the non-stop television coverage, that is. After two days of continuous Karl, Leila, Anna, Julia, Campbell and all those perky-faced young women reporting from various scenes of the wet or the newsroom, cabin fever did take hold and I jumped at the chance to get out and tag along with my partner who, as a press photographer for Fairfax, was on flood paparazzi duties.

A flood paparazzo for the Financial Review

We headed first to the safe vantage of Kangaroo Point. The rising torrent of the Brisbane River was certainly a spectacle, but what intrigued me more was the sheer number of people, with cameras in hand, who were out to witness it wreck havoc on the city. This is not a judgement, merely an observation, and while Queensland Premier Anna Bligh may be on the record as saying, “This incident is not a tourist attraction – this is a deeply serious natural disaster”, I think these pictures prove that the first half of that statement is patently false.

Flood tourism flourishes at Kangaroo Point. The media has set up camp overlooking the Brisbane River beside Lick Café (below), which was swamped with customers, not water.

There’s a great view of the Brisbane River from Kangaroo Point.

Of course, Kangaroo Point wasn’t the only place people – or rubber-neckers as they’re known to crowd control professionals – were gathering to witness this once-in-a-generation natural disaster. Closer to the action, down by the base of the Story Bridge, you could get up close and personal with the swollen river as it lapped onto the grass of a popular outdoor park.

Police tape is not an effective barrier to stop the serious flood spectator.

Yes, you see correctly. They’ve brought along an Esky full of beer and an iPod dock.

In the CBD, it was a similar story. Cafés, restaurants, shops, banks and offices were all closed for business, but the city was far from being a ghost town. People gathered down by the Eagle Street Pier, or as close to it as police would let them, to take in the novelty of water creeping towards the doorstep of big business (see below).

This was Alice Street the day before the river was set to peak. Turning 180 degrees from where this photo was taken, you could be greeted by this welcoming sign, below.

Natural disaster watching, when you are not personally affected (and I don’t think a one carton limit on milk/customer at the local IGA really counts as ‘affected’) is very closely related to that other voyeuristic past time – slowing down to a snail’s pace at the site of car accident. I always like to pretend that I’m not the one deliberately holding up the traffic so I can have a gawk, but as we all know it’s very difficult to look away, even if you do zoom off after you can’t strain your neck anymore from looking over your shoulder.

Whether you sat glued to your box or ventured out for a front row/in-the-flesh experience, the reason is the same – you did it because natural disasters are fascinating, especially when they’re in your own backyard. Yes, they are devastating, destructive and heart-breaking – that goes without saying, really. But who among us, even if loved ones and friends were in the flood’s sight, can say they weren’t just a little bit fascinated, flabbergasted and, dare I say it, entertained by the spectacle? I’m not suggesting this is a case Schadenfreude on the part of the high and dry populace of Brisbane, not for a moment – and I think any decent person would be appalled by the idea that anyone would take delight in the terrible misfortune this flood has wrecked – but it’s difficult to deny that we – the rest of Brisbane and Australia – haven’t been willing and transfixed spectators to the theatre of this event. It doesn’t make us less human and, hopefully, all this voyeurism will stir enough compassion within us to compel us to donate money or volunteer our time to help the people who have been affected and, in some cases, literally gutted by this flood (and probably haven’t found it quite as entertaining to watch).

Personally, I’m very grateful my 16-year-old daughter, who was stuck out at Ipswich at her father’s place, is safe and their house made it through with nothing more trying than having the power cut off. I am now waiting patiently until the Centenary Highway and Ipswich Motorway are open again so I can go and get her and give her a very, very long hug.

Feature Article - Coastal Assassins Roller Derby

2010-11-28T18:10:00.002-08:00

I should probably come clean about this feature – yes, I did write it and yes it was published legitimately – but I am a member of the Coastal Assassins Roller Derby league and I’m also their marketing officer, so I did have something of an ulterior motive for writing it. Never-the-less, this is the full version of the one that was published in the Sunshine Coast Daily on Sunday November 28^th, in the lead up to CARD’s inaugural bout on the Sunshine Coast – ‘Deck the Halls with Blood and Glory’ – which they are co-hosting with the Brisbane City Rollers on December 4^th, 2010 and which I am officially bouting in for the first time myself. The feature itself is a profile piece on our league’s president – Cecilia ‘Dee-Dee Dainja’ Morton. My derby name, btw, is Scarlett Scr’apple – which probably won’t surprise you.

Cecilia 'Dee-Dee Dainja' Morton - President of the Coastal Assassins Roller Derby league

Totally original, it’s that rare sort of tattoo that arouses your interest and makes you want to ask its owner what it is all about. And like its owner, Cecilia Moreton – aka ‘Dee-Dee Dainja’ – there’s more to it than meets the eye. An arresting night sky envelopes her entire upper right arm, replete with Jupiter, Saturn, all the other planets and a smattering of five point stars. But it’s the scroll with a passage written in ancient Greek-like symbols that I ask her about.

“It’s something my mum wrote on my tenth birthday.” Moreton explains she found the passage years later when she dug out an old autograph book – of the sort that was popular in the ’80s – from storage. Translated it reads, ‘I shall pass through this life but once, therefore whatever good I may do let me do it now for I shall not pass this way again’. At the time it was written Moreton asked what it meant, to which her mother replied, “One day you’ll understand.”

Moreton well understands now and as a guiding motto it prompted her six months ago, along with two friends, to start a roller derby league on the Sunshine Coast. By unanimous decision, Moreton was nominated to be president. “They picked me because I was the one who ‘did’ things. I’m the make things happen person,” Moreton shrugs. She’s not boasting, just stating the way things are and like most of her answers it comes with a self-deprecating laugh. Of the other two, Leigh ‘Buzza’ Barham serves as the league’s secretary while Sam ‘Slam von Carnage’ Ryan is currently on a leave of absence as treasurer. What started as three is now the Coastal Assassins Roller Derby League, affectionately known as CARD, which has almost 40 skating members and is set to host, in conjunction with the Brisbane City Rollers, ‘Deck the Halls with Blood and Glory’ – the first modern all-girl flat track roller derby bout to hit the Coast on Saturday December 4.

Roller derby, in case the bandwagon going left of centre has passed you by or you missed Drew Barrymore’s directorial debut Whip It in 2009, is, some claim, the fastest growing women’s sport in the world. Australia alone has over 30 leagues in various stages of development and there are no signs of the roller girl train slowing yet. Often fast and brutal, each team sports five players – a jammer and four blockers who all skate anticlockwise on a standard oblong track. The jammer’s job is get past the opposing team’s blockers and score points. The blockers are out to stop her. While booty blocks, whips and spectacular falls might keep the crowd entertained, the game, Moreton assures, is about strategy as much anything.

Strategically, joining an established league and working towards playing on a team is one thing, starting your own league, however, is quite another and is an enterprise that requires gumption, drive and the love of a challenge to make it happen. Moreton would add naivety to that list. With over 800 jumps to her credit as a skydiver, however, there is something about Moreton that seems right for the role. That her moniker – all girls choose a unique name as part of their derby personas – is Dee-Dee Dainja is fitting, however, Moreton is surprisingly mild mannered and considered in contrast to her derby ego.

Demonstrating a blocking drill for the ‘Queens’ – the league’s more advanced skater –Moreton reprimands a couple of girls who are talking, but is faintly apologetic demanding everyone’s attention. She is nice to the core but knows nothing will happen without dedication and hard work. In addition to two scheduled training sessions a week, Moreton spends up to 15 hours a week ‘doing derby stuff’. “I think everyone is sick of my emails,” she laughs, but Dee-Dee has ambitions for CARD.

Beyond being a competitive league, which requires having two teams that are good enough to bout each other, Moreton hopes for CARD to compete nationally – the Great Southern Slam held this June in Adelaide was a huge success – within two years. Long term, her vision is to see CARD sport a team internationally and be associated with the Women’s Flat Track Roller Derby Association (WFTDA) – the sport’s official governing body.

Then there was the matter of which charity to sponsor. Set up as non-profit organisations with their DIY grassroots ethic and community-minded spirit, most leagues consider giving back in the form of sponsoring a local charity to be an integral part of their operation. Moreton wanted to sponsor a group that specifically helped women.

It was the league’s ties to Burnside High School as their Wednesday night training venue and one member’s involvement as a mentor that led to the decision to sponsor STEMM – Supporting Teenagers with Education, Mothering and Mentoring – the unique school-based program designed to assist young mothers reengage with education. “After all,” Moreton says, “derby is about empowering women.”

With their reputation for knocking each other flat to the floor adorned in tattoos, thick eyeliner and fishnets, derby girls are – not without cause – known for their feistiness and attitude, but Moreton believes it’s more than that.

“Derby attracts all kinds of women,” she points out. “We have students, doctors, teachers, nurses, single mums, lawyers, everything.” She credits its appeal to being a contact team sport that ‘ticks all the boxes’ in terms of fitness, fun, stamina and skills. It has the “hard core aspects of male dominated sports with a feminist twist,” Moreton adds, “and women can really excel at it.” The body image message is, “hugely positive”, she says, because “it’s for women of all shapes and sizes”.

By day, Moreton is a clinical coder herself – she codes patient information for hospital costings – and massage therapist and an exemplary example of derby girl duality. Further investigation of her night sky panorama reveals two fairies. The red one represents her good side, ‘the healer’; the blue one, perched on sky surfboard, her mischievous side. Whether CARD makes the tattoo roll call depends on its success in becoming a solid league.

Moreton’s mother – not a fan of permanent ink – upon been shown the inscription on her daughter’s arm, remarked, “You should have told me you like that passage. I would have made you a tapestry.” One can’t help thinking a tapestry lacks the sort of commitment necessary for Cecilia.

'Wheel Women Play Tough on Derby Days'
Sunshine Coast Daily 28th November, 2010

Motherhood

2010-10-25T03:11:00.001-07:00

This is a personal essay I wrote as an assessment piece for a subject on non-fiction writing (Reality Bites: An Exploration of Non-fiction). I received a high distinction and the only feedback from my lecturer (the wonderful and brilliant Clare Archer-Lean) was 'A near perfect personal essay, Mel'. Naturally, I was pretty chuffed. I've vacillated (for sometime) about posting it here, not because it doesn't fit the tone of this blog, but because it reveals an aspect of myself that some people will find confronting and it opens the door for criticism of personal my choices. I've decided, however, that I'm OK with that. I'm a writer and that's part of the gig, isn't it? The essay is modelled on the style of Adrienne Rich (part of our assessment brief was to model our 'creative exploration of genre' on a master essay writer) and I have used her as a source reference, as well. I don't want to say much more about it, because I think it speaks for itself.

Pg.1

I can’t pretend this essay will be easy to write. It requires brutal honesty and the condensation of many thoughts I’ve had on motherhood over the years; for I have been a mother for over 15 years now — most of my adult life. Yet, ambivalence towards being a mother has never left me.

When I was 30, I relinquished majority-care of my then 9-year-old daughter to her father. I was certainly not declared unfit for the role and no formal parenting agreement was ever made to enforce the change: it was simply a triumvirate of conditions — financial, circumstantial and my own ambition — that led me to agree it was “her father’s turn to have her”. A year later, the circumstantial took a stronger position and I found myself living in a different state to my daughter. Four years on, I was forced to take circumstances into my own hands — I moved interstate to bring some proximity back into my relationship with my now teenage daughter. As far as mother and teenage-daughter relationships go, ours is one to envy and I find myself relating to this near adult creature better than I ever did when she was a child.

As for how unusual it is for a woman to be the “non-custodial parent”, the Child Support Agency* claims, “In about 8 per cent of cases the receiving parent is female and in 12 per cent they are male”. The implication is that approximately 12 per cent of women do not have majority care of their children. I do not know any other women who fall into this 12 per cent. What I do know is, even the briefest inquiries by complete strangers into my personal life brings out a compulsive need to explain in exacting detail why my daughter lives with her father. It’s nobody’s business, of course, so it stands to reason why I should examine this need to explain myself with such tedious attention to particulars. By way of a neatly packaged answer, Margot Cairnes† — a mother who left her two children in their father’s care for a year — says, “Society judges mothers far more harshly than it does fathers. ‘Good’ mothers are not supposed to leave their children”.

If ‘good’ mothers do not leave their children, I must either choose to identify with the ‘bad’ mother persona or question what it is about the expectations of motherhood, generally, that I have come to feel so alienated from.

_____________________________________

*Child Support Agency: Facts and Figures 08-09 PDF document, Commonwealth of Australia, 2009; p. 35

†Ita Buttrose & Dr Penny Adams, Mother Guilt: Australian women reveal their true feelings about motherhood, Viking, 2005; p. 265

Pg2.

Feminism, and in particular, the assertion that women are entitled to carve out an identity independent of motherhood has afforded me some comfort with my choices. As far back The Second Sex*, Beauvoir offered these encouraging words for women who found the traditional expectations of motherhood to be problematic:

“… the woman who works — farmer, chemist or writer — is the one who undergoes pregnancy most easily because she is not absorbed in her own person; the woman who enjoys the richest individual life will have the most to give her children and will demand the least from them; she who acquires in effort and struggle a sense of true human values will be best able to bring them up properly.”

Whatever comforting truths can be extracted from Beauvoir, however, modern feminist debate around motherhood is still firmly fixated on notions of “having it all”, that is, family and a stellar career or the insistence of “choice” for women who want it one way or the other. By choice or contraceptive failure, however, a woman is still either a mother or she is not. The choice itself becomes a kind of identifier, which once it is made you cannot simply change because it no longer suits you like blond highlights. Motherhood — rightly or wrongly — imposes identity the way race, gender and sexuality do, so to choose motherhood is to take on centuries of expectation, ideology and myth.

In the words of Adrienne Rich…

Like most other platitudes, those on motherhood largely go unquestioned. French novelist and playwright, Honore de Balzac said, “A mother who is really a mother is never free”. Contrary to personal reality, there are times when I forget altogether that I am a mother. Can I admonish myself for not really being a mother then? I’ve never heard another woman make this cool admission. I do not refer to the fundamentals: I have never forgotten to pick my daughter up from somewhere or administer to her basic needs, but when it comes to declaring the make-up of my identity it does not always cross my mind to “mention” I’m a mother. In private, this amounts to my thoughts being entirely my own and they do not always concern my daughter’s welfare or even an awareness of her existence. There is no question of my love for my daughter, but I struggle to identify with the sentiment expressed by the actress Sophia Loren that, “When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.” I am often alone in my thoughts.

In regards to my mothering, my own mother has told me that I was often “distracted”; not fully present, absent. Perhaps it was because I was young and wanted to do the things other young women do who are not mothers in their early 20s; but honesty compels me to admit, rather, truly involved motherhood bored me. It was a chore to commit to game of hide and seek or to take her to the park. I did it these things reluctantly, but the games were short and I always took a book to the park. Over the years I have rigorously pursued my own intellectual and social interests, at the expense of spending time with my daughter.

Now — as her need to play childish games is gone and she is more inclined to intimate, stimulating conversation — I relish any time spent with her. She is funny, articulate and offbeat; her conversation is almost like that which I would have with a close friend. Being in my mid-30s, some retrospective gratitude has crept into my attitude toward being a mother. There is a sense of relief that I got it “out of the way”; the aching desperation of the “empty womb” felt by close single friends my own age compels me to be grateful that I will never know — what they experience as — the sickening possibility of childlessness. But to claim I share in their longing, for second child, would be disingenuous. I feel no such thing and I expressed this sentiment as part of a piece I wrote a few years ago*:

“I do realise the fact that having had a child, I haven't actually had to entertain the thought that I may miss out on this experience entirely. But even if I hadn't, I am not a particularly maternal person and the whole child rearing epic leaves me a bit numb. Babies don't make my womb do somersaults and toddlers give me the heebie-jeebies, quite frankly, with their snot and their tantrums and their shit and their limited vocab. And yes, I'm well aware that it's different when it's your own — I had one upon’ce a time, I remember (and she was so cute I could have eaten her with a spoon). But no — and I say this looking out my bedroom window and watching a playgroup in action in the grounds of the Scout hall below — very no, thank you. I would wither from boredom if forced watch toddlers eat sand and talk with under stimulated mothers with insular lives about quantities of teeth cut, toilet training regimes and how to make mushrooms palatable to a two year old.”

As part confession, part feminist discourse and even part memoir, there is no real conclusion to this essay. Despite what feminism has told me, as a mother, I will continue to seek reconciliation with the ideal of motherhood. My continuing ambivalence and feelings of inadequacy as a mother may even be considered quaint and out-of-date in the early part of the 21st century, yet, they still linger, so what of that? The final judge will be my daughter, who, once equipped with the hindsight of adulthood will be able to reflect on what sort of mother I was and deliver her own verdict — the only verdict that really matters.

Murdering Stepmothers: The Execution of Martha Rendell

2010-07-14T07:03:00.001-07:00

If ever there was a book review that belonged on this blog, this is it. I wrote this as part of my involvement in the Reality Bites Nonfiction Writing Festival which is being held on the Sunshine Coast from July 23^rd – August 1^st. There are a diverse range of topics and some great authors on board, so check it out if you're in the area. I will also be on a discussion panel called True Stories and Storied Truth: Connections between nonfiction and fiction.

Long before Disney cashed in on her notoriety, the sinister archetype of the murdering stepmother has held the collective psyche in thrall like no other villain. In an intriguing interlacing of fact and fiction, Anna Haebich takes this morbid fascination as her premise to investigate the trial and execution of Martha Rendell — a Perth woman convicted of poisoning to death three of her stepchildren in the early 1900s and the last woman to be hanged in Western Australia.

Rather than a straight forward fictionalised biography, Haebich has chosen to narrate the story through a succession of characters either lifted directly or composited from the historical record. These multiple points of view give a Haebich a nuanced means of conveying the prevailing attitudes (particularly towards women), bigotry and religious dogma of the time, whilst entertaining variously informed opinions on Rendell's guilt or otherwise. Rich in detail, it is a narrative devise calculated to show what a woman in Rendell's position was up against and how she was unlikely to have ever received a fair trial.

The detail comes as a product of Haibich's meticulous research which she uses to close the gap between the known facts of the case and what could have just as likely have happened. Haebich articulates possible theories, alternative scenarios and the forensic and psychological thinking of the day through the speculative musings of her narrators. It is a display of knowledge that makes for interesting reading, but it does stretch the bounds of credible characterisation at times.

Haebich's formal prose is in keeping with the era, without being unnecessarily flowery. After four male voices, with their necessary, era-specific sexism, however, there is a strong desire for the author to speak for herself and lay bare her own conclusions on Rendell's trial and execution. Haebich satisfies this need by writing as the fifth and final narrator —'The Researcher' and only woman to offer her opinion.

Ultimately, what Haebich achieves — through her own voice and the cumulative effect of her male narrators — is a persuasive argument against trials by media, public hysteria (witch hunts) and the malignant employment of stereotypes to condemn a person, all of which resonates as being just as applicable to the modern age as it was 100 years ago. It is also the closest thing to a fair trial stepmother and convicted murderer, Martha Rendell, will ever receive.

2010-05-30T23:37:00.000-07:00

I posted this some time ago on my other blog and decided, because it's relevant - to this blog, that is (not to any current 'news' item) - and I like it, to re-post it here.

What a of load schtick! Pole dancing for the under aged masses

Lady wrapped around a pole (now there's an original idea)

I think the pole has an image problem right now. Pole dancing - once the preserve of strippers and now just another fitness bandwagon - is at the centre (as poles are apt to be) of another real-news-deprived media debate. Yesterday's air wave filler had us all outraged (or indifferent), one way or another, because apparently "girls as young as seven" have been learning the ways of the pole. And just to clear up any confusion, I don't think the Fundies and the Family Firsties are assuming that learning to pole dance means this:-

Would you let your 7yr old daughter do this?

What I think those with issues of the family values kind are concerned about is that all that good exercise and strengthening espoused by the pole proponents actually means that little girls will learning this:-

And of course, once they learn this move it's only a short step before they can do this:-

"My daughter can do the upside down spinning spread-eagle with one hand now. How's your little one going?"

Of course if this trend continues and pole dancing lessons for the under 10s comes to a church hall near you there will be a corresponding rise in a far more insidious phenomenon - The pole dancing mother. No longer will this term mean a flabby housewife and mother of three desperately trying something to divert her husband's attention away from the pert thing about the office. No, the pole dancing mother will be a grotesque 21st century hybridization of the soccer mum, the stage mother, the figure-skating and the ballroom dancing mama. If we are to evolve as human beings we should selectively discourage this species of woman from breeding. Society does not need this creature. For humanity's sake DO NOT let your daughters learn to pole dance before they are 18.

Seriously though, putting aside for a moment that this 'story' is an overinflated media concoction, the wowsers do have a point. Which genius thought, "I know! Pole dancing is such fantastic exercise and everybody is getting into it now days, not just strippers! If it's good for the mums and the office girls and the hairdressers and the teachers, why not let 10 yr olds have a go as well?" ? Ah, because 'the pole' is representative of a giant penis, maybe? Old fashioned pole dancing - the sort strippers do - is by and far and away the most overtly sexual display of physical prowess there is, aside from bedroom gymnastics. Childhood obesity is best tackled with lots of running around, ball sports and games of Marco Polo in the pool. Not by learning to spin spread eagled around a freakin' phallic symbol.

Then again, the humble pole is just that - a long skinny thing made of metal - and really just as innocent as this circa 1959 picture:-

As my mother commented - she just called and I mentioned I was working on this post - what's a spot of exercise with a pole compared to the sexual abuse of girls that goes on behind closed doors? Like most things, it's all relative. And my mother is a social worker - and inclined to think sexual abuse goes on behind all closed doors - so from her point of view, coming as it does from the things she has seen and heard whilst on the job, this media generated furor around children learning to pole dance does seem a little trivial.

And yes, there's probably not a whole lot of difference between the littlies learning to pole dance and learning regular 'modern' dancing (as I've seen it performed recently by primary school age girls anyway) in terms of 'sexualisation'. Think of the pole as just another prop, like a hat & cane. And if you've ever seen a 12yr old female trapeze artist or rhythmic gymnast then, well, I think you know where I'm going with this - it's a show of physical dexterity with a fair bit of flesh on display - but one that we grant innocence to all the same. Can we grant under aged pole dancing the same distinction? Perhaps, but maybe not. In pole dancing, traditionally speaking, the invitation for sex is overt - usually by virtue of its context and optional use of costumes - rather than covert or not at all (as with gymnastics or acrobatics). It is probably fair to say, too, that the conductors of these 'pole dancing for kids' lessons are more focused on teaching the gymnastic qualities of the pursuit rather than the sexual. Let's at least grant them some sense. What's more, little girls wearing leotards and shaking their non-existent booty is a time honoured tradition - and didn't Little Miss Sunshine make this point so exquisitely - but at some point there is a line, or a pole, and maybe for the sake of all childhoods we could just let the pole be something a kid can slide down while she's pretending to be a fire woman.

"Mum! Dad! Look I'm going to put out a fire!"

BUT... and there's always a but, isn't there? This alarm bell over underage pole dancing is being cited, of course, as another example the sexualisation of young girls - along with Bratz dolls, size 6 bras and miniature cowgirl boots. And I don't think you have to be card-carrying Christian to be concerned about this either. There is enough emphasis on sex and 'being sexy' once you're an adult so, why oh why, are we pushing this onto our little girls while they're still wanting to be Disney princesses? Fairy tales with princesses in pink dresses will - and should be - grown out of all in good time. Can't dressing and acting like a cheap hooker at least wait until they're 15?

Even without weighing in with the paedophile argument, by forcing a culture of sex and the male gaze upon girls - before they are emotionally and mentally equipped to grasp the implications of these things - is potentially setting them up for abuse, teenage pregnancy, STDs, low self-esteem and all manner of consequences brought on my mixing emotional immaturity, irresponsibility, unscrupulous predators and sex. Under aged pole dancing, as insidious as it may seem to some, however, is such a minuscule part of this equation (who even knew about it until the 'story' broke yesterday?) that it can hardly be held up by itself as a flag pole (ha hardy ha!) for all that is polluting childhood in this ridiculously over sexualised culture we live in. The makers of those revolting Bratz dolls have far more to answer for on this score than the lowly, or the high, pole.

I've been thinking of giving this pole dancing thing a whirl myself actually, just for shits & giggles of course. However, I won't be asking my 12yr old daughter to join me so that probably gives you some idea on which side of the pole I'm erring in this debate.

Group Fitness 101

2010-03-13T02:09:00.001-08:00

This is an article I wrote for Fitness First magazine – the free glossy for FF members. This is the version I submitted to the editor, which is sans the liberal sprinkling of exclamation marks that were added to the final published copy and which upped the cheese quota by a factor of 1o. My rationale for including it in a blog dedicated to feminism and writing is that health and fitness is related to body image and body image is to feminism what whaling is to Greenpeace.

Group Fitness 101

You've got the Fitness First membership – that's the first step - and you tell yourself you're going to do at least 3-4 sessions per week. You're feeling really motivated. The 9-5 crowd are emerging from the change rooms in their ¾ tights and stretch lycra singlets, with drink bottles and towels, primed for a midweek workout. It's busy, it's sweaty, there's high voltage music escaping from the spin studio - in short - there's a great vibe and you feel energised just being there. You peruse the group fitness timetable. So many choices! There's a pump class at 5:30pm on Wednesdays. What about Body Attack on a Monday night? Or there's Body Jam on Thursdays…

Two weeks later and you've tried that Pump class. The human body has around 700 muscles - you know this because everyone last one of them has been the subject of excruciating pain since. Body Attack? You were embarrassingly uncoordinated - Supermanning left when everyone was going right or forwards or backwards on the diagonal. And that last track – Rockett hell – a never ending litany of high kicks that turned four minutes of your life into an eternity of torture by cancan.

Your motivation is fading faster than Nana's curtains during daylight savings. This group fitness thing is just not your gig, you decide. You've still got your membership though – for a whole year – so luckily, there are plenty of treadmills. Who needs Les Mills to get a bikini bottom before mid-October when you can put one foot in front of the other - over and over and over again –instead?

Then you think, somebody likes group fitness - lots of people, in fact, or there wouldn't be so many classes or as much variety to choose from. Millions of people the world over can't be wrong and you'd like to be one of those people, really you would. So, how do you transform a communal chamber of jumping jack horror into a must-do, this-is-too-much-fun-to-be-exercise way to pass an hour or two?

It's just a matter of the right mindset. And to that end, here are some helpful tips for getting in the door, staying to do the class (without resenting every agonising second of it) and then finding the incentive to do it all again in two days time.

Everyone has a first time

Siobhan Kent, a group fitness instructor of five years, says the main reason people get put off group fitness is because "they think they're uncoordinated and they're embarrassed they'll get it wrong. Everyone feels stupid the first time and heads to the back of the room".

That girl in the front row, just right of centre (who gives you envy of the buns)? That's her spot - she as good as calls shot gun on it. There are wear marks on the floor that match the tread on her trainers. Even she had to take that first leg curl. She didn't know a repeater knee from a double knee lift, either, when she first started. But, she went back a second, third and fourth time until it became a habit like coffee in the morning.

Persevere

Siobhan advises that "to really get a grip on it you need to do about five classes". No grapevining around it, perseverance is the key to getting you through those initial classes when you feel like the bent spoke on a bicycle wheel. As your fitness improves and you get to know the structure of the classes, you'll know what to expect next and how to pace yourself.

Don't compete

Les Mills GF classes are designed to cater to all fitness levels. There will always be uber-fitties who spring off the floor like it's a BBQ plate at a P&C sausage sizzle because that's where they're at. If you're not there yet, listen to the instructor when he or she gives you lower impact options and go with them. "There are always options - basic, intermediate and advanced. The beauty of Les Mills," says Siobhan "is that the classes are accessible to everyone." Most FF gyms also offer technique classes for first timers in Pump, and sometimes even Body Jam and Combat. Siobhan advises taking advantage of these technique classes to make the experience less daunting.

Of all the group fitness classes, Body Pump is the most individualised. The whippet in the middle with 10kg on the bar for biceps has worked her way up to that by burning through pump classes like they're nylon pyjamas. She's too busy psyching herself through 16 singles to think lesser of you for lifting only five. Weight selection is as personal as passwords, but if you're not sure, look at someone around the same age and fitness level as you and select a weight that is similar to theirs. You'll soon know, for next time, whether it was too much or too little.

Choose what works for you

Pump it, jam it, thump it, balance it, combat, RPM, step or attack it – just take your pick and then do it. You can't say group fitness lacks variety. There is literally something to suit everybody. Read the blurbs on the back of you gym's timetables or FF website to get an idea of what each one is about. Stop wondering if you can dance and do a Jam class, or if you'd rather style it like Bruce Lee, try Combat. Siobhan recommends doing a good mix of 4-5 classes a week.

Connecting with your instructor

GF instructors love what they do. They're there to motivate you to get fit and they want you to have a positive experience so you'll go back again. Most instructors welcome questions and they love getting a response from you. They've usually had a hard day at work, too, and now they have to gear themselves up to exercise and motivate you! Don't be afraid to give them a smile, a 'yes' or even a groan, especially if it's at they're lame jokes!

Let yourself have fun

Group fitness - aside from getting you fit - is designed to be fun. No really, it is! It's no big deal if you don't get the moves exactly right, just as long as you're moving and having fun. You may not love every single track on one release, but there will always be several that give you disco fever and put the spring into your step class. Stick at it and you'll soon be getting 'high' on exercise.

The Writing Class by Jincy Willet

2010-03-10T18:44:00.001-08:00

I adored every syllable of this book. Pure reading pleasure loaded with lots of clever word-play on a satisfying acidic base.

Writing a review of Jincy Willet's The Writing Class is something of a self-conscious exercise, given that the book is structured around the students of a creative writing class critiquing the work of their fellow classmates. Through the advice Willet dispenses via her main character Amy Gallup – a lonely, widowed and long past her peak author who takes this Adult Education Creative Writing 101 class – it is patently clear that Willet 'knows her way around a sentence' as one character intones in the book. She's also a master at lessons 1-9, which form the chapter headings of the book: Making Stuff Up; Showing and Telling; The Will Doing the Work of the Imagination, etc. Willet, a creative writing teacher herself, practices what Amy teaches and to extend using 'the inexorable logic of metaphor', she wields her creative writing talents like a practised psychopathic killer who doesn't want to get caught. As testament to her own craft, Willet recreates a plethora of good and bad writing samples to represent the range of her character's abilities, styles and personal agendas, which she then offers up for meta-analysis by Amy and her students. It's clever stuff and somewhere amongst the creative writing jargon, cliché traps and bad prose there is an unpublished author whose big sum of rejection letters has unleashed a wacky and very nasty streak which eventually leads them to commit murder.

This is a 'who-dunnit?' with a twist on the usual cast of stock characters, because while Willet plays on the notion of 'types' – as the cover artfully conveys – her 'types' are as real and diverse as any members of an adult education class you could hope to find (or perhaps avoid) and if you've ever participated in such a class you'll know where Willet plucked the inspiration for her characters. As to the clues, they're all there – in retrospect – but not where you think they are and you'll be hoping, like Amy - who's only just behind you as detective - that none of the suspects are the killer because you like them all too much and you'll probably be as surprised as she is when the murderer is revealed.

What makes The Writing Class such a reader's delight is Willet's deliciously caustic and book-smarts wit, which, for the lion's share becomes Amy's acerbic, 'been there, done that' wit. Having asked the class to nominate their favourite writers, Amy then translates this information into amusing, short-cut personality descriptions which becomes a useful a reference guide for keeping track of the thirteen students/suspects taking her creative writing class. Amy also keeps a blog, the contents of which are all for your reading pleasure and if 'hybrid book titles' and their one sentence plot summations - Gone with the Windows for Dummies: Starting the Civil War;
Customising Your Decimated Plantation; That Scary General Sherman, for example - don't tickle your cerebral funny, then you're probably not a book lover or children falling off swings while the camera is rolling is your idea of a laugh.

The Writing Class doesn't fit easily into any one category of popular fiction. It's comparable to The Jane Austen Book Club in that it brings together a disparate group of people that share a common interest: the ambition to be a published author vis-à-vis a love of Jane Austen. Parallels also reside in the thoroughly modern day California setting, the shameless appropriation of references to well-known authors and the use of emails and other internet interfaces throughout the text, but the comparisons end there. The Writing Club bears no resemblance to a romantic comedy destined for a Hollywood screenplay and, if anything, takes its plotting and suspense cues from an Agatha Christie, without so much as a boy meets girl subplot to spark off a red herring.

Brilliantly original, The Writing Class gives creative writing – and popular fiction - a good name with its galloping rhythm, pointy humour, embarrassing all-too-human characters and unexpected plot twists that don't stretch the bounds of the credibility – including The Epiphany – as lesson 9 instructs. For anyone harbouring that clichéd ambition of 'writing a novel one day', The Writing Class will be two parts inspirational, two parts instructional, three parts reality check and four parts pure reading pleasure. Enjoy and then hope Willet - unlike her memorable creation, Amy Gallop - knows how to keep those creative writing juices flowing well into the future.

Reunion by Andrea Goldsmith – A Review

2010-03-06T19:19:00.001-08:00

Here's another book review - 'Reunion' by Australian novelist, Andrea Goldsmith. I had the pleasure of listening to her speak about this book at the Sydney Writers Festival way back in May and as a result went out and purchased a copy. It's not Steve Toltz's 'A Fraction of the Whole' but it is quality Australian fiction, never-the-less.

Four friends – Ava, Jack, Helen and Connie, their bonds formed in their early, idealistic years at university – are reunited after 20 years. Ava is a bestselling novelist, Helen a world renowned molecular biologist, Conrad – Conny – is a philosopher with a popular following in the mould of Alain de Botton and Jack is an expert – albeit an underachieving one – in comparative religions and, a now in demand, authority on Islam. Their careers and intellectual pursuits have taken them to institutions the globe over but with an opportunity to become part of a new all-Australian think tank, NOGA - headed by Ava's barely tolerated husband, Harry - they have all been brought back together in Melbourne, hoping the proximity will be enough for them pick up where they left off.

The reunion itself is merely Goldsmith's starting point for burrowing into each character's life as they are now, what they were 20 years ago and how they might possibly end up tomorrow. The connective tissue of story is each character's contemplation of their present circumstances in relation to their shared pasts and uncertain futures. Their plaster-cast middle aged temperaments, insecurities and foibles feed into the dynamics of the relationships between them – particularly Jack's resilient love for the married Ava – and is what drives the narrative tension. Personable and flawed, you come to accept and understand these characters as you do your own best friends without their social veneers, but you also know when they're likely to falter on a misplaced hope or an act of self-delusion.

Each character's points of view and their back stories are entered into seamlessly, but there is not enough differentiation in style to lend each of them a completely unique voice. They are all flawlessly educated, knowledgeable and articulate - their thoughts crafted by a very competent novelist, but not a novelist who is willing to compromise the finesse of her writing technique to effect more than subtle change between characters or risk a messy, repetitive paragraph to a stream of consciousness of a character on the edge.

Universities provide a natural backdrop for novels that want to grapple with ideas and higher order thinking within learned domains and Reunion is perfectly at home in this setting. Linked to that, older men in academia justifying sexual liaisons with much younger women under their tutelage is almost a staple of well regarded, thinking person's fiction. J.M. Coetzee has used it, as too Zadie Smith and Helen Garner. Goldsmith follows a different tact by allowing just such a relationship to be dissected without the immediacy or intensity of the present tense, or even the recent past. Through selective disclosures from Ava's memory, her relationship with a much older man while she was a teenage undergraduate, is filtered through a circumspective, mature-age female lens and avoids being occluded by moral absolutism. The relationship gradually takes more primacy as the novel unfolds and its heartbreaking intimacy lingers long after the last paragraph. To cover her bases, as if perhaps the retrospective romance of Ava's relationship might condone the union and its power imbalance, Goldsmith burdens the character of Conrad – Connie - with a short attention span when it comes to relationships with women and a penchant for much younger ones. Unless you are a man with a similar predilection, then sympathy is too strong a word for what Conrad elicits from the reader as a character, but certainly Goldsmith allows him to be understood and pitied, and not too reviled, particularly as he is eventually met with some due comeuppance.

Reunion is equally a love story and a treatise on love - both the kind that is fossilised in long term friendships and the passionate, consuming kind. Through its characters exploratory, analytic ruminations – who given to examining the lives of each other as much as their own - it artfully avoids being waylaid into easy sentimental traps, but neither is it dismissive of high passion and emotional extremes - just circumspect and very, very thoughtful. The book fairly teems with ideas to be mulled over and the benefit of writing about smart, high achievers with differing fields of interest is that these ideas - on friendship, memory, nostalgia, romantic love, marriage and fidelity, religion, philosophy, humanity, science, professional ethics and integrity – can be weighed up, drawn out, examined, turned over and evaluated, without steering the narrative off course. It is the discussion and play with personal, moral and ethical dilemmas that paves the way to the book's climax and as a reader you are primed to go there with both your heart and your mind well and truly switched on.

‘Stick or Twist’ by Eleanor Moran – A Review

2009-09-03T16:57:00.001-07:00

I reviewed this for a reviewing competition, but didn't enter it because I knew the book wasn't 'literary' enough to warrant serious consideration. As 'Chic-lit', much like, 'Chic-flicks' are fairytales brought up to the times with iphones and Jimmy Choos it made sense to post it here instead.

For the formulaic and prolific genre that chic-lit has become in 'the naughties', the better examples of it are not served well by twee covers that use hot pink curly font, love hearts and pale blue flowers to sell what's between the pages. The cover of 'Stick or Twist' (not to mention the title) does it a huge disservice because Moran's debut novel is not just another Bridget Jones bland-off that takes us down into the dirty, desperate world of man-trapping when a woman is over the age of 30. Certainly, as plot device, single women on the prowl past their supposed prime, shows no signs of fading – they just turn 40 and turn a television series into much hyped film – and Stick & Twist is not defying the rules, but Moran has brought the genre up to date. Her references to the 'self-help witches' playing their mantras in the heroine's head need no explanation for those likely to read her book and they're also very funny, in contextual way.

Determined to do as the adage says and not judge a book by its cover, I flicked to the first chapter to discern whether I could spend a weekend in bed – and give up sleep into the wee hours – for Stick & Twist. The opening gambit - 'Saturday mornings are the most menacing time. Teeth brushed and genitals soaped, this is the moment when 'monogamous man' stalks his prey' - convinced me to buy a bottle of red to go with. Tick box one for engaging chic-lit – lots of pithy one-liners, wry observations and self-conscious clichés worked over with an original twist. Box two is a heroine 'just like us' (or close enough to relate) – Anna Christie has a job she's unsatisfied with, but she's still within a professional cooee of the glam and vacuous and she has a small circle of flawed and interesting, but loyal girlfriends. It sounds like a write-by-numbers book about a single and 30 something girl finding love in London and it is, but Moran starts the book off on a more original premise than most and she imbues Anna with so much emotional integrity that to say this book is a 'good' example of its genre is to woefully undersell its charms, much like the cover does.

Unlike Bridget and her moan clones, Anna has a great guy (an Aiden if you need a SATC point of reference) – a boyfriend of 10 years that's just proposed to her – only trouble is she's bored as flying marsupial droppings with him and the thought of marrying 'the one' is looking more like marital penury that happily ever after. She's not the dumped – a refreshing change in itself – but the dumpee and all the wretchedness that stems from leaving a long term partner for greener and steamier pastures is weighted with its due and true sentiments here, as Anna enters the inevitable dating fray for the first time in 10 years. The strength of Moran's writing is her ability to convey the mental and emotional anguish Anna is experiencing - picking up on those little things that anyone who's been there only knows too well - post break-up, without diffusing it too much with over-clever humour or sarcastic asides. Marian Keyes has virtually created a monopoly out of the style, but Moran does it just as well. She also gives Anna – the cocaine snorting scene being a good example - those shifts of perspectives and a burgeoning maturity that happens once someone is over the age of thirty, without patronising those in their twenties, at the same time. Writing in the first person like Keyes often does, Moran is similarly able to give Anna perceptive insights into her own behaviour and self-absorption, making her an all too relatable mix of goody too-fabulous-shoes (shoe worship being mandatory in this genre) doing battle with her inner selfish minx.

The other characters are just believable and well drawn, even the ones who are observed as humorous foils – Horst, the flatmate from Stuttgart is particularly endearing. Refreshing, also, is the nice guys outnumbering the bad boys – or at least matching them numerically - and it's no give away to say Anna has a fling with the later and ends up with the former. Other threads of the story are invariably as predictable but there are still enough twists to make you want to stick to the end to see it conclude happily before the weekend is out. This is book you'll devour and then pass onto a girlfriend with a - 'I think you'll really like this one.'

Footballers & Sexual Misconduct - The story that just keeps coming

2009-05-13T18:24:00.000-07:00

Since allegations were first sniffed out by the media in 2004, Footballers & Sexual Assault has retained the sort of word-pair association power usually reserved for couplings like salt & pepper, ebony & ivory or Columbians & cocaine. As with this last example, the partnership is certainly not applicable in the majority of cases, but there is never-the-less more than a line of truth in it and, for the rest, the taint remains by affiliation. An affiliation with violence against women is something the AFL - as a corporate entity (in collaboration with other institutions) – has developed a player-training program¹, an interactive educational DVD² and a ‘Respect and Responsibility Policy’3 in a bid to rid of. The development of these player-centred strategies to curb what the media-eating public perceives as a big, sordid problem has kept university faculties4, the Victorian Government and Police, women’s groups and assorted committees well occupied, but it remains to be seen whether all or any of these measures will create actual institutionalised change in a sporting culture where misogyny is as molded into the fabric as tight shorts and revelled in like Mad Monday.

In his article, Football, Culture and Sexual Assault (2005) - a lengthy, intelligent and reasoned dissertation on the subject – Ian Warren highlights this particular problem by saying, “Greater education for young, naïve athletes, emphasising the value of women in football beyond their exploitation as tools of recreational enjoyment, juxtaposes problems of male group culture and female temptresses” (2005: 140). In fact, most public discourse on the subject over the last four years, which has spanned the spectrum of television, online and print medias, has failed to move much past the problem of ‘female temptresses’ at all. Quoting Warren again, “Masculinity, fame, athleticism, and notoriety feed discussions of female attraction to football. Innuendo highlights ‘loose women’ and groupies compiling records of sexual conquest like kicks on Melbourne Cricket Ground wing” (2005:135). Discussions on ‘female attraction to football’ themselves, however, are worth examining for the ways in which they put up reasoned arguments for deflecting responsibility for the sometimes brutal and abhorrent sexual practices of individual players and how they fail to recognise that these young men - under the influence of culturally entrenched hyper-masculinity (and alcohol) – become versed in misogyny and willingly participate in practices conceived to humiliate or degrade those whom they negotiate sexual relations with.

Never at a loss for a bad word, The Sunday Mail recently - and blatantly - headlined, ‘Sexual attacks blamed on fans’ (Oct 10, 2008). Citing a Deakin University study, co-authored by Dr Kim Toffoletti and Dr Peter Mewett, it was found and put into tabloid speak, that ‘Female football supporters blame predatory fans for seducing high profile players accused of sexual misconduct’ (Oct 10, 2008). The research, dubbed as ‘startling’ by reporter Clair Weaver, revealed ‘groupies who “throw themselves” at footballers in nightclubs are viewed as responsible for inciting alleged rapes and sexual assaults’ (Oct 10, 2008). What the study also revealed, which The Sunday Mail omitted, was that “female fans held complex, often contradictory, views about sexual misconduct by footballers” (Sept 30, 2008) so that while, as Dr Toffoletti explained, female football supporters did perceive that “a victim could be complicit in their own abuse… players were also seen to be part of the problem” (Sept 30, 2008). The reasons offered by the women interviewed ranged from elite footballers believing ‘they were entitled to women and could do whatever they liked’ with alcohol and team bonding seen as prime factors in ‘cultivating this behaviour’. Other contributors included, such behaviours being ‘part of the man’s biological make up’ as well as being a by-product of ‘team pressure’. Not so surprisingly, the study also found that, “Fans believed that club culture also plays a part, suggesting that initiatives that address player attitudes toward women are a step in the right direction” (Sept 30, 2008).

As band wagons go, The Sunday Mail’s alacrity to highlight the conundrum of ‘loose’, predatory women as being at the root of all sexual misconduct by men is tired one, albeit with a long, seemingly logical and credentialed history. ‘Hell hath no fury like a groupie scorned’ (June 15, 2006) opines – and scorns – sports journalist Jaqueline Magnay from The Sydney Morning Herald. Barely concealing her contempt for this subset of her own sex, that is, girls “who shamelessly describe themselves as groupies”, Magnay says, “Their unrelenting quest is to bed a football hunk, preferably one of those higher up the desirability scale, to have their own status fly sky-high... These women”, Magnay generalizes, “ - usually in their 20s, pampered and indulged – are used to getting their own way.” The scathing continues further on, “Despite all the evidence showing that the blokes rarely enter a permanent relationship with a groupie – preferring links with women met at school or through friends – their aggressive efforts to be the chosen one continue unabated. To progress from a footy chick to a footy wife is to achieve instant fabulousness, and win the golden award for perseverance along the way” (June 15, 2008). It is precisely these arguments - dished up as popular opinion with the added appeal to reason - however, that can’t move past groupies being the augmenters of their own fates and rapes and in doing so fail to hold individual players as being accountable for their own decisions. The fact is ‘these women’ never stood a chance in a culture that systematically compartmentalises and demeans women for the purpose of servicing men’s egos. “There is a notion,” feminist and social commentators Deborah Hindley and Tara ‘sorry-I-curve-there’ Brabazon write, “that if women are involved in the footballing codes – rugby league, soccer or AFL in particular – they must be groupies, consenting to sex with their celebrity sporting heroes. Women’s roles in sport are written for them before they pull out the pom poms or paint their faces: supportive Brownlow wives, soccer mums or sexually available flakes” (2004, May 4).

Even groupies come in all shapes, cup-sizes and motivations and it is unlikely that the woman who willingly offers an orifice as a victory cup to be passed around from player to player sees herself as the next Rebecca Twigley – Chris Judd’s lithe lady in red at the 2006 Brownlows. Arguments involving low self-esteem, father issues and previous sexual abuse might well be valid for explaining a girl’s willingness to bed an entire football team, but if that was her intention and she enjoyed the experience, then there is little room for condemnation, however distasteful the serial monogamist majority might find it. If she is aware of how little she matters as a person during a team-bonding group sex exercise, she may simply not care - the visceral experience, thrill of sexual association, groupie credibility and, possibly, even actual sexual pleasure are probably more than enough reasons to justify the multiple encounter. For it is a gifted lady, indeed, who has the stamina (and the stomach) to offer the whole bevy commiserative blowjobs after a grand final loss, but that, according to one ex-player - who denied participation but still begged not to be name - is exactly what happened in 1996. Around 15 players were consoled accordingly and perhaps learned something about staying power at the same time.

Less titillating, yet still illustrative, the same ex-player offered accounts of ‘away from home’ girls who could be counted on with the summons of a text message and others who willingly extended invitations to team mates merely passing by the bedroom door. The only story to which the player admitted personal involvement – perhaps because of his own perceived blamelessness, even though he was married at the time – was the night a fellow teammate came back to their shared hotel room (the player himself having already gone to bed) with two girls and proclaimed, “Hey *****, I’ve got something for you.” The extraneous girl then got into bed with the player and they did what came naturally. He knew neither her name or, through not turning the lights on, what she looked like. The generic nature of these off-field shenanigans would suggest that these seemingly sexually savvy women, or the majority there of - ‘who throw themselves at players’ and who could not consent more if they charged an admission fee - are only bringing the sexual conduct of players to the attention of the police, the media and the public when it is warranted. As a group though, they are certainly marking their fair share for the unpalatable, sometimes criminal, behaviour of some players and, in the most venerable of misogynist traditions, are being blamed for leading otherwise good men astray. The trick, of course, to blaming and shaming these women - or any homogenous group we like to vilify - is to metaphorically keep the lights off and not give these women a face, a name or any distinguishing personality features beyond being a stupid slut.

The 2006 documentary, Footy Chicks, was an attempt to put a face to a groupie and shed some personalising limelight on these women, that is, girls – with names like Erika and Christine - who seek out sexual liaisons with football players. In terms of what one would expect from such a documentary, Footy Chicks pretty much covered the whole ground: there were in-depth interviews with two groupies, one NRL - Erika, the other AFL - Christine, and an NRL cheerleader - Hayley; as well as professional sound bites from a former player, David Millwood; Gender Studies lecturers, Dr Clifton Evers and Dr Catherine Lumby and Karen Willis from the rape crisis centre. There was no demonising or moralising and the girls were shown to be equal parts sexually ambitious and vulnerable – that is, not always emotionally blasé about their pursuit of footballer booty. In contrast to the popular media, the documentary seems to align itself with an orthodox feminist view, which says if a girl likes having sex with lots of men – footballers or no – then why shouldn’t she? Just make sure you use protection and pay no mind to the ‘pig on a spit’ and ‘mattress-back’ labels. The problem is, as Dr Lumby points out in Footy Chicks, “women who enjoy sex are seen as lesser human beings”. A little simplified, given the general popularity of sex – even for its own sake - amongst women. The clause I would add is, women who enjoy having sex with many or multiple partners are seen as lesser human beings.

Not all feminists, however, are willing to toe the ‘if it’s good for the goose, why shouldn’t the gander?’ line. Largely because when it comes to footballers and sex, women and men are playing on a very lopsided field to begin with and when sex is as available as oxygen, the sexual veneration most women enjoy amongst ordinary species of men becomes virtually null and void in the skewed sphere of elite football. Germaine Greer has no compunctions using the term ‘rape fodder’ to describe women who “climb through ventilators to get into toilets” and who “will perform any sexual service no matter how debasing” (March 23, 2004). Greer in ‘Grubby sex has just become a bit nosier’5 (March 23, 2004) - which was published in the Fairfax media only days after St Kilda’s Steven Milne and Leigh Montagna6 were named in sexual assault allegations – argues that footballers behaving badly is inevitable and immutable. “One of the most important mechanisms for binding any company of men involves shared transgression and mutual guilt… there is nothing new about “roasting”, the sharing out of eager women between sportsmen, nothing new about the women feeling humiliated and used, nothing new about the contempt and hostility that sportsmen who are abusing complaisant women express (March 23, 2004)”. What seemed to be lost on many who read the article and blogged their outrage accordingly, is that Greer was not expressing her contempt for ‘these desperate creatures’, she is rather highlighting, in the most demeaning terms, the way these girls are viewed by the men who use and abuse them: a point that was glossed over, or deliberately side-stepped, in Footy Chicks.

Although the contribution of alcohol was rightly considered in Footy Chicks as was the murkiness of what can constitute consent, what was missed when it comes to actual sexual assault – and is absent from most media debates on the subject – was the issue of naivety on the part of some young woman who find themselves in the company of, and simultaneously celebrity struck, by young, virile football players (who can be as equally naïve). Not every groupie is a wizened good time gal and not every woman who fancies good height and tight buns in a team jersey is prepared to join parts in a sexual factory line or is wanting to tick off another team number on her ‘to do’ list. More often than is credited by the groupie-sneering media, naïve girls give their alcohol-induced consent, which is predicated on the hope of something more than a one-night stand with a good-looking footballer. She may have already decided what colour gown she fantatises about wearing to the Brownlows, or she may not, but if she doesn’t know the deal with footballers then she may find herself in deeper – by two or three players, sometimes – than she knows how to deal with. And it is by this stage, or perhaps in the aftermath of it all, that the humiliation sets in for the girl who now realises she was no more than a sperm extractor and Johnny Football is no more interested in her as a person than he is in learning how to crochet.

Consider the case of a woman who agreed to accompany a player to his hotel room and have sex with him. The sex having been had, the player told the woman he was going to out to get something and would be back shortly. The player never returned. What ensued was a charge of sexual assault – not because the woman was raped or subjected to a particular act she didn’t consent to – but because she felt used and humiliated. An emotionally fuelled over-reaction, yes, – the charges were quickly dismissed - but it is demonstrative of the way women, even when physical violence does not become part of the agenda, are regarded and treated by a large subset of elite footballers. The presence of actual sexual assault or violence is just a far more obvious and insidious demonstration of the objectification of women in this context and the lack of empathy and respect women garner from their sporting idols.

In 2004 – the season of footballers and sexual assault allegations – following on the heels of the Milne and Montagna scandal, another woman came forward, alleging she was gang raped by two AFL players in an Adelaide park in 2002. The Bulletin (March 30, 2004) – quoting Melbourne’s Herald Sun – reported that a $200,000 payout was made to the woman, who said “she was drugged, then raped and sexually assaulted, by two AFL players.” Some insider hearsay, by an elite former player (who is in no way was connected to the case) but who claims to be privy ‘to what really happened’ spins the story another way. The woman in question consented to sex (with at least one player) and both she and the player convened to a nearby park. Alcohol was involved, naturally, as was the great outdoors, two other players - who were, for the time being at least, relegated to spectatorship - and the cover of darkness. What she didn’t consent to, so the story was retold, was intercourse via another portal, which the player chose to use anyway. The truth, of course, is as allusive as anal sex to garden-variety heterosexual men, but the case itself is a can of worms whichever sorry tale you choose to accept. Worm 1, being the wriggly line of what was consented to and what wasn’t; Worm 2, was this sexual assault or humiliation after the fact or both? (with the comfort of possible monetary compensation?); and Worm 3, shouldn’t these players know better and are they stupid or what?

No, they don’t know better - unless they’re explicitly told otherwise - is the professional opinion of Michael Hall, a former policeman of 23 years and now a behavioural consultant whom The Bulletin (2004, March 30) credits with informing “just about every NRL and AFL player” on sexual assault and who has, reiterates The Daily Telegraph, “lectured thousands of professional football players from all codes on acceptable forms of behaviour” (Sept 17, 2008). Writing for TDT, with their feel for the inflammatory, Hall says, “When it comes to sexual assault, footballers can be misunderstood – and anyone who thinks differently must be living a very sheltered life. Now hear me out…” While making sure not to excuse violence against women, Hall is of the ‘rotten apple’ school of thought and is quick to reassure us all that, “… there is nothing overly offensive or shocking about football players. They are no worse than anyone else of that age group when it comes to alcohol, drugs and sexual assault…” (Sept 17, 2008). Building a career out of lecturing elite footballers on the ins & outs of sexual assault, however, would appear to flatly contradict this claim. Micheal Moller, researcher and gender studies lecturer at The University of Sydney, claims “A great deal of critical and popular material on male athletes, sexual violence and their attitudes towards women holds that professional team-sport athletes are more likely to act violently towards women than the general population of young men” (2008: 16). As to why this is, Messner (2005), an American sociologist, writes “There is no single factor that explains how male athletes come to assault women… Rather, a combination of several group-based factors create a context that makes violence likely: misogynist and homophobic dominance bonding, a learned suppression of empathy for others, a “culture of silence” within the group, and an institutional environment that valorizes and rewards the successful utilization of violence against others” (2005: 318).

Without those conditions then and without the ample opportunities available to them - particularly those ‘in which females are willing to accommodate numerous men at the same time’ (Sept 17, 2008) as Hall puts it - footballers probably ‘are no worse than anyone else of that age group’. Focusing purely on the opportunistic then, Hall sees his role as instructing these guys on ‘Where do you draw the line?’. “In terms of sexual behaviour, I teach them exactly what rape is, what sexual penetration is and what indecent assault is. I give them instances and examples of each of those and give them practical advice, tell them how to avoid finding themselves in those circumstances, and if they are, how to make a quick exit.” What advice would Hall give his pupils in regards to video footage that was circulating depicting a 17 year old girl who had been urged into role-playing various pornographic scenarios with multiple players/partners? Upon receiving a copy of his team mates’ amateur filmmaking efforts, the ex-player who related this questionable venture, advised the player who passed it on to him to get rid of it on the pronto. The girl, now in her mid 20s, recently contacted (via Facebook) the former footballer who disclosed this story, to express her gratitude to him for never treating her or using her like the other players did. There is so much more to this problem than just consent.

As Hall is working in a forward position his work is commendable, however, he is primarily focusing on behaviour management, that is, the outward manifestations of football players treating women as sexual accessories. Hall is about player self-preservation, he’s not calling into the question the first-place premise of women being considered objects or property by elite sportsmen, the ways in which women are characterised within these settings and the attitudes that stem from these fundamental assumptions.

Sport sociologist, Dr Drummond (2008) makes a similar point in regards to the AFL’s recent ‘interactive DVD’ release which has been ‘designed to improve player attitudes to women’ (Feb 2008). While he supports the idea, and commends the AFL for being serious about the matter, he says that, “it needs to be part of a more comprehensive and ongoing approach” and “a change in the overall culture of AFL clubs is paramount and leadership must come from senior players within the clubs… a simple DVD in isolation is too easy to walk away from; there are 17 -18 year old boys who are likely to giggle and laugh about it and then just walk away… What we want to do is create young men who are understanding and respectful in all different forms” (Feb 2008). The producer of Footy Chicks, Michaela Perske, in an interview for The 7.30 Report (2006, June 13) doesn’t see change being that instantaneous either, saying “I think it will take about another one to two generations to actually see that change because you’ve also got to get rid of a whole lot of deadwood… it takes sort of two or three generations to change a culture.”

It also takes an all hands on deck approach to change a culture. “Extensive collaboration,” Warren (2005) concludes in his own work on the subject, “between the leagues, players’ associations and various federal, state and local organizations are leading to detailed codes of conduct over this problematic issue.” (2005: 142). Since 2005, the AFL has certainly made a genuine show of wanting to implement long term change in the actual attitudes of players towards women. Chief Executive Officer of the AFL, Andrew Demetriou, is most confident in the measures the AFL is taking – particularly as regards its ‘Responsibility and Respect Policy’3, of which he says, “The Policy’s strength lies in its recognition that real change will depend on tackling the culture at a number of levels. In particular it will be about changing attitudes… and will include educating all of our players, executives, coaches, support staff and board members about respect – respect for themselves, for their relationships and respect for the women (and men) around them” (2006-08:1).

When asked, the same former player - who generously and candidly offered his most lurid and confidential anecdotes for this paper - did believe that the player education that has been implemented so far ‘has been effective’ and that with the penalties being so severe, that is, the threat of suspensions, fines and dismissals, it ‘is more trouble than what it’s worth’. “Heavy fines, victim compensation orders, mandatory deregistration, and compulsory player educational programs” (2005: 142), are all being employed to tackle the problem head-on, but – to quote Warren again because he puts it so succinctly - “The impact of these measures in preventing future cases of sexual assault and related anti-social behavior remains to be seen and is best evaluated with ongoing informed critical research” (2005: 142). However, there is certainly enough interest, initiative, public awareness and actual groundwork (much of it from academics in Gender Studies departments) being done to be optimistic about long-term change within this particular sporting culture and salt & pepper don’t have to go together, either.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Notes
¹ A media release on March 23, 2005 from the Minister for Women’s Affairs in Victoria announced that the State Government, Victoria Police and the AFL had developed a training program for AFL players, which was aimed to improve ‘understanding of sexual violence and encouraging respectful behaviours’. The initiative was endorsed by the minister for women’s affair, Mary Delahunty.
² In February 2008 the AFL also released an ‘interactive DVD’ aimed at improving player attitudes to women.
3 The Respect and Responsibility Policy which the AFL established with VicHealth can be accessed via the official AFL website under ‘Women & Girls’ which in turn is accessed via the ‘Development’ tab. According to the site, ‘The Respect & Responsibility Policy’ represents the Australian Football League’s commitment to addressing violence against women and to work towards creating safe, supportive and inclusive environments for women across the football industry as well as in the broader community.’ The 6 key components of the program are:-
1. The introduction of model anti-sexual harassment and anti-sexual discrimination procedures across the AFL and its 16 Clubs
2. The development of organisational policies and procedures to ensure a safe, supportive and inclusive environment for women
3. Changes to AFL rules relating to ‘Conduct Unbecoming’ which cover the specific context of allegations of sexual assault
4. Education of AFL players and other club officials with avenues for dissemination of the program to the community level being explored
5. The dissemination of model policies and procedures at the community club level; and,
6. The development of a public education campaign.

The site also explains the aims and means of the player education program with links to several PDF documents available for download, including the ‘Practical Education Respect and Responsibility booklet’ which is has been designed specifically for clubs and players.

The Respect and Responsibility Program also includes as 48 page document entitled ‘Building cultures of respect & non-violence’ prepared by Drs Sue Dyson & Micheal Flood from La Trobe University, which reviews the literature available, outside of football cultures, that deals with anti-violence initiatives and violence prevention programs already in place throughout the wider community.
4 A Working Group on Sexual Assault and Football convened by Professor Jenny Morgan from The University Melbourne Law Faculty, for example, drafted a 12 page ‘Discussion document re development of AFL response to the issue of violence against women’. Much of the measures outlined in the document mirror those in set out by the AFL in their Respect and Responsibility Program, but it is unclear whether the UM discussion document or the UM Law Faculty were officially involved in the development of the R&R Policy.
5 Greer’s central point in ‘Grubby sex has just become noisier’ is that the only thing that has changed in terms of footballers and ‘grubby sex’ is that women are more willing to speak out now and are less ashamed of admitting they consented to sex with one player, but not necessarily another. She credits this trend to the ‘indecent amounts of money’ that are ‘sloshing around’ and that is available for redress in cases of sexual assault, where often the law fails.
5 Stephen Milne and Leigh Montagna from the St Kilda football club were accused of sexual assault by two women who had gone to one of the player’s home. The allegations came only weeks after the NRL Canterbury Bulldogs were embroiled in a gang rape scandal, but were eventually dropped. The St Kilda football club took the unusual step of naming the players involved (in contrast to the NRL and its code of silence surrounding players named in sexual assault allegations).