Say When by Catherine Deveny

So, first book of the year. A birthday present from you, Nik, which I have been patiently waiting to read. I think that golden time of post-Christmas indulgence come-down is best sated with a good book, and, having devoured two Agatha Christies between Christmas and New Year, I was on a roll.

Having not lived in Melbourne for some years, my relationship with Catherine Deveny’s column has been mostly through you, Nik, sending me links. It’s not like I’m leafing through the Age on a daily basis, after all. And, I guess, for some things, not being in Melbourne means I have no idea what she’s talking about (football or Mayoral related things, for example).

That said, I mostly enjoy her column when I do read it, and I felt much the same about this collection: most of the time I enjoyed it. Highlights were: ‘Jamie Oliver’ - about Jamie selfishly saving us from eating shit food; ‘Weasel Words’ – a topic Don Watson did much better and more fully but which it never hurts to be reminded of and this is a great example of such; ‘Dog Whistling’ – which is a phenomenon I’d never heard called that before but which is hilarious and poignant; and ‘Nigella Lawson’ – on how every girl’s got one: a woman they would lick like a cake bowl.

It so happens that Catherine and I see eye-to-eye on many, many topics, and I often, while reading this found myself wanting to shout things like ‘Yes! I know!’, as though we were actually sat across a table talking to one another. And yet sometimes, I felt like I wanted to kick her in the shins. Sometimes I just think I’m mad at her because she gets paid to think these things and I don’t, but other times I feel like she’s harming the cause. Honestly, going after Sam Newman for being a misogynist cunt, while true, is a cheap shot. There are other, more productive ways to highlight the social crisis of patriarchy surely, than sticking Sam Newman in a mulcher (though that would also be quite rewarding, I don’t disagree).

Her diatribe on about how debutante balls are an outmoded crack fest for boring middle-class idiots, while also possibly true, is completely superficial and fails to seriously ask what it is about these rituals that has ‘sixteen-year-old girls volunteering to be reduced to nothing more than gender stereotypes and sex objects judged on their looks, not their brains, creativity or ability’. Even though I could, in all honesty, write these exact words myself:

‘And no. I didn’t do my deb. At the time I proclaimed to anyone who would listen that it was nothing more than a meat market. Truth be told I didn’t think any bloke would partner me. Thank God for my teenage angst and poor self-confidence.’

I don’t think my mates who did it are dickheads. What is it about these things that young women, and young men, enjoy? That would be a more interesting discussion. This just-add-water feminist angst is a cheap shot. Which I wish I had been clever enough to figure out how to get paid for.

Much like I love Judith Lucy, I love Deveny’s alcoholic, acid tongue approach, and more than once reading this book I laughed out loud. The lady has the skillz. And, it’s nice to be preached to by someone singing from the same song sheet as you, but it’s not challenging or even very useful. And I think Catherine could do more.