Baby Dance Party with a Vaginal Sound System or What Else Can I Shove Up My Whelp-Hole?

New tech is SO cool. And it's everywhere. Like, Sunfire Built A Machine That Transforms Water Into Fuel And It Works Perhaps you're looking for something for your hospital? Coat Your Walls With Paint Shield And Turn Them Into Germ-Killing, Anti-Microbial Surfaces or more importantly, Scientists Invent Slow-Melting Ice Cream. Not to brag, but I have a new 6" smartphone that is so smart, it's graduating from college early with a PhD in Wikipedia and there's a magical box in the kitchen that washes my dishes! Impressive list. 

Then, there's stuff that you can't believe you ever, in your stupid life tried to live without. A Spanish gynecology clinic wants to tap into the early tech fetal-music market with Babypod, a speaker that expecting mothers insert IN TO their wedding caves to play songs for their unborn babies.

Babypod claims its device "stimulates the vocalization of babies before birth through music and encourages their neural development." Now sure, that sentence is a massive payload of horseshit but if you want to sit around, gestating with a couple of Bose headphones crudely taped to your belly - you go right ahead and not really give two shits about your unborn progeny.  It's not like you ever wanted to raise talkers, anyway. 

Babypod state, “By placing a speaker inside the vagina, we overcome the barrier formed by the abdominal wall and the baby can hear sounds with almost as much intensity and clarity as when emitted.”  I know! Here! Take ALL my money [$187.64AU]. And to share the experience, your partner can shove a sound bar up his/her puckered anus as you both blissfully blast the baby with some Nickleback or Drake - let it know what it's in for when it arrives. 

Plus, it's pink! They sure do know how us ladies love pink things. Especially things for shovin' up our grumpshens. I don't know about you but I'm disappointed that this tech wasn't around when I was preggo with my boys. It almost makes me wish you could shove 'em back in. Both were caesarian births so my pelvic floor has not needed restumping or shoring up. Think woman, THINK!


Non Je Ne Regret Rein, get yours now - before they discover Bluetooth technology shatters the growing nails and teethbuds of a developing foetus. 

Yeesh! When I think back... in MY day we had to be content with my dumb analogue husband shouting down the ear trumpet we kept in my fecund pants. No wonder my kids think Psy is music. Such a failure.  Still, we never planned them anyway so you take what you get if you're not invited. 


2015, Our Year In Review

Although, it has been a shit one for many. We remain pretty lucky. Skating through the year with only flesh wounds, 2015 has been ok. The boys have now finished grades 1 and 3 respectively !! (excuse me while I have a little lie down) and are looking forward to bigger, better new year adventures. Me thinks surely ONE of them will get a job this year?!

Ben catapulted us into the future with the long-wanted purchase of an all-electric car, named Claude [we didn't name him, he came that way]. The perfect to and fro car. Zippy as hell up our hills and saving us $100's a month in petrol. As soon as we throw a few more solar panels on our roof, Mr Helios can start fully paying for our transportation (and the use of our microwave and washing machine). 

In April we acquired a new fur baby - who ironically is probably the oldest thing in the house - Mr Boyd Harris you slipped in, seamlessly. If you could just sort our your shedding problem... ;-) 

Linda/Arnie and I have performed a bit more than recent years. Such wicked fun and an extra delight to work with SO many new (& old) pals.  Miss Itchy remains the best fun you can have in a tight taffeta frock with your very bess fat fren. THE. BEST! 

Mum AND Dad have frequented the Eye & Ear and Eastern hospitals at a rapid clip this year, earning them both designated parking spots right at the front door.  However, an end of year clean bill of health makes it OK. [We wont even bother bringing up MY ridiculous hospitalisation this year!].

Noel and Julie got married, on Mum and Dad's 50th anniversary! A very relaxed, casual fun day. Angus summonded a Dr Who vibe as he played the role of Best Li'l Man and Tild was resplendant in blue teeny bridesmaid of honour. And now there's another Julie Younger in the world. ;-) 

And Helen finished off the year with a last minute trip to ER to get 4 stitches in her hand! That's why she can't have nice, shiny, crystal things. Onya, Sis. 

We've had holidays, fun, LOTS of sport, great food, fun adventures and indulged great art - in all it's forms. Thanks 2015 - we're done with you now, please shut the big brass door on your way out. 

Here's our year in review [in 350 odd pics] - you'll might even see yourself. 


The Great Bum Off, 2015 (what else would you call it?) Oh wait, "BUMGATE"

A few nights ago, late, we had a knock at the door. Shortly after, Ben had cause to tweet;

Now, let me back up a bit here... a few days before The Great Cop Off, 2015 - the 6yo had taken his camera to school. I know. I perhaps should have stopped him but I thought, if it gets taken away, he'll learn a lesson...

Oh someone learned a lesson, the answer may surprise you. 

Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the work of 6 & 7 year old boys? You don't necessarily have to have your own to be even, vaguely clued in.

Bart Simpson and Co. roughly approximate the collective noun of little boys. Such a group is called a Fart or perhaps, a Snot.   They're silly. Loud. Grubby. Adorable. The very height of hilarity centres around the aforementioned.  Farts and bums and wees and snot. Hilare!

So - Mr 6 takes his camera to school. There's a couple of wild jerky video of little boys (primarily) hauling ass around the sandpit. Yelling out to each other. Throwing sand and sticks.  Lot's of "look at me" and "watch this!" There's half a dozen photo-bombed selfies. Some taken by my Mr 6, some not. ALL photos and videos contain the gooning, mugging expressions of the utterly joyous and unrestrained.  Then, there's the last shot. It's the one that prompted a bemused and amused Vice Principal to call.

"Hi Fahey, I have some news, I'm sure you're going to find a bit amusing but here's what I've done about it... " One of the kids had dropped trou and called out, "Take a photo of my butt!" You generally don't have to ask that question twice.  It is a Kodak moment. Mo - ment. Geddit?  Geddit?!  "Show me!" "hahaha!" "Hey, come and look at Mr 7's butt!" "Hahaha." "Show me!"  And so it went on. Then someone who had wanted to see it, told the teacher. Probably a sensible, mature little girl. 

So, Mr Vice Principal, a delightful, fair and decent man who all the kids like had a chat to our boys. "... you can't go around taking photos of each others bottoms! That's inappropriate."  Followed by the perennial, "Just because someone says, 'Hey do this' - doesn't mean you should." etc etc.  Mr VP and I had a little chuckle and we ended the call and all got on with our lives.  We spoke to Mr 6 about at the end of the day. He was embarrassed - to have been told off - and said the lesson he'd learned was, "Not to take my camera to school." And you know, he's SIX, so we're happy with that. We told him we weren't mad at him, or angry. He'd done something that at the time would have seemed irresistibly funny but sometimes, you have to pick your moments and be aware of your surroundings. And encouraging anyone to drop their pants at school, isn't a good idea. He was quick to quip, "I didnt encourage him! He said, take a picture of my butt, so I did." We confiscated the camera for a while, he agreed to be more thoughtful and we went to soccer.

That was the end of it.


You'd think so... let's get back to the knock at the door. Two of Melbourne's finest boys in blue - although they were plain clothed asked, "Is this the Scott residence?  Can we come in for a while, we need to talk..."

They asked, if there'd been a incident at school? "Oh I'm sure there are many, on a daily basis. If you'd seen some of the knuckle dragging mouth breathers who drop their kids off in the morning, it's not a question you'd ask, lightly.  Oh specifically? With our youngest??"

How old is your son, one asks. Mounting defensive anger makes me say, "Six!" The cop rolls his eyes, "Six?" He looks at his partner. "He's six." "Yes, SIX." says his mother swallowing the urge to say, "What the actual fuckity fuck is wrong with this entire picture?!"

The cops were wonderful. Embarrassed to be there, apologetic. One quickly says, "It was not the school, who called."  "Who did?! Who in their right mind thought this was a police matter?"  "It was the mother of the boy." To say, I'm staggered is an understatment. To say my jaw has carpet burn, would be accurate, if we had carpet.

"I'm sorry, the woman with the neck tattoo and the blue hair extensions called YOU, gave you MY number and the correct spelling of my name?" One checks his notebook. "Ah, yes."  "She called you, but didn't call me. She had my number, cause that's how YOU got it." "Right," one cop shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "She did. Do you still have the camera?" 

I look at them both. "It's here somewhere, let me go wake young Master Mapplethorpe."  

 Of course, we can't find the camera then. So we're rummaging through the house. The cops are making small talk. "Thanks for being so understanding... but given the nature of the photo... you know... How do you find the school?  My nephews go there..."  We find the camera. They switch it on. It opens on the last photo taken, the offending blurry half a plumbers crack. Not even the full Bart Simpson, Eat My Shorts. One puts his notepad away and says, "Ok, we've seen all we need to see here. We'll just delete it." It took some help. "Do you know how to do it?" They then surf through the other half dozen or so photos of silly faces and blurry action. The unwatchable video footage of yelling, laughing boys.  Then they hit the 180 photos his older brother had taken at Healsvillle Sanctuary.  The only bare asses there, are on the wombats. 

"Look thanks so much for your time. We're sorry about this. Thanks again and sorry it's so late."

So you know, if you HAVE to have the cops visit about your sons, it's about the best possible visit to have. Save for them arriving to pin a bravery award on his chest. 

I'll just say, "What the fuck, Neck Tatt Mum?  What the actual wet fuck?"  They're six and seven years old. Your kid has been over to our house before. We've been to each other's kids parties. They were at school! It wasn't a porn shoot. You couldn't pick up the same phone you used to call the cops and perhaps give ME a two second call if you were so concerned? What are you over compensating for?!

I'm not insensitive to the treatment of kids. To the vast array of boogeymen out there, ready to pluck our precious off the street. I'm neither naive or deluded. But I am utterly disappointed. Oh and not above totally throwing this back in your face when our kids hit their teens and go off the rails. Talk to ya later! I'm sure. Oh I'll talk to you then. I'm positive. 

F xxxx


PS yup, I'm pretty chuffed with the Robert Mapplethorpe joke I made. I'm gonna go have a rest now that one was so nice. ;-) 


Look At Me Suddenly Giving A Shit About Soccer!?

FIFA's head penis, Sepp Blatter. His name has been all up and down everything you pick up, listen to or walk by over the past few weeks. I first heard of him on my favourite podcast, The Bugle. John Oliver and Andy Zaltsman are both, let's say "keen" soccer fans. Soz, football fans. They call it football even though we know it's not really. it's soccer. Andy and John have been Mad About Blatter* for as long as I've been listening to The Bugle. 

When his name came up, I did not give many brown shits but I did enjoy the vehemence of the hatred. Who can't get behind some o' that? :-) It wasn't the same as their vitriol for Silvio Burlusconi - Italy's own worst person on earth. Blatter had sullied something they loved. Soccerball. Their hatred was palpable. And it was/is delicious to listen to.

Then news broke last week about the FIFA arrests. $150 million in bribes and kickbacks over 24 years for media and marketing rights to soccer tournaments and I could NOT have been more excited. The thought of Andy and John also hearing this news was just too wonderful to anticipate. Especially noting that Blatter himself, had not been arrested. Of course he wasn't. Not now, not before, not then.

In 2002 he was accused of bribery by the then FIFA Secretary General. He said Blatter had paid a FIFA referee named Lucien Bouchardeau $25,000 and promised him $25,000 more for information on a Somali soccer official, Farah Addo, who had accused Blatter of bribery in his first election bid. Blatter didn’t deny the payment but said at the time he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart. Funnily enough, when Blatter was reelected the secretary general was shown the expensive, marble door.

That's some spectacular ball handling skills there. Lugging those giant man-nuts around, indignantly and aggressively denying corruption. "How very dare you, Sir." as he tucks another $10million is his back pocket.  The list of Sepp Blatter's Offensive Tidbits is both long and fruitful. One of my faves included that time he interupted a minutes silence for former South-African president Nelson Mandela, who had died the day before, after just eleven seconds. Eleven. Glorious!

John Oliver called him out, perfectly on his HBO show - you MUST go watch the video. [It is region locked so I suggest using Hola VPN. Easy, quick and smart as nice cups.] 

It will fill you with joy and put you on a righteous path of Sepp Blatter fury. He reminds me of Donald Trump. If Donald loved himself just a little bit more.

Keep your eye on Sepp. Keep your ears tuned to The Bugle. And if you can, your whole head facing towards where the TV rays shoot John Oliver's Last Week Tonight into your house. It's the best medicine. If by medicine you mean blood pressure raising, umbridge poking fury then yes. The Best.  

[Screengrab from Wikipedia]

*Worst sitcom, ever!

Til next time. 


fahey x


Doug Stanhope's Podcast - Where I Outed A Criminal (Who Just Happens To Be My Ex-husband)


So, this was cathartic. Very. Doug Stanhope's Podcast  

Doug is an old friend. An unrivaled comedian and beautiful human. I got to do a bit of time up before him when he toured Australia which I wrote about back in November. I got to play to 1800+ of his die-hard Melbourne fans at Dallas Brooks Hall. Stupendous fun and a great experience. Before the show, we hung out together, day-drinking and he recorded our chat for his podcast

Even though we have been friends for a bajillion years, Doug didn't know I'd been married to someone else before I met and fell in love with my lovely, Ben. (Clearly I was some kind of teen bride.)

I was married for 8 months and 1 day to Craig Jazownik. A sub-human version of the species. Someone so vile and reprehensible I've done my best to eradicate all vestiges of him from my life.  Easier said than done... he cut such a egress of destruction through my life, my family, and friends the remnants of which hang on like the festering parasite he is. This all happened more than 20 years ago now and the day before I opened for Doug, I went for my first therapy session to try and deal with the worst of the shit-hangover from Craig Jazownik (it's important to get the spelling right). 

Sheesh lady, you sure sound like a jilted, ex. Well, it's more than a little complicated... I don't want to rehash the story here on my pristine website, so if you're interested, go have a listen to the podcast. What I'd like to write about is, the aftermath.


      Doug and I  (photobombed by Bingo) ......................................................................................................... Doug and Andy Andrist

I have zero contact with Fuckface (that's J-A-Z-O-W-NIK). Once the police had been called and the case went to trial and I sat in the witness box to give evidence against him, I never spoke to him again. Not face to face, or over the phone, by suicide bomber or carrier pigeon. There is nothing i care to say to it.  Needless to say, he got a small smack on the wrist for his crimes, and time served so he ran home to Mumsy and Father to Sale, in country Victoria and that's the last I knew.

I moved on with my life. Some days more successfully than others. 

Cut to 20 years later - one of the triggers for me, was listening to the first episode of Doug's podcast where he talked to our friend and shambolic human comedian, Andy Andrist.  Doug and Andy had gone to Florida with a cameraman to confront the man who had repeatedly molested Andy as a kid. It's powerful stuff. Really powerful. 52 podcasts later, it's my turn. 

So - the aftermath. Doug's engineer, Chaille released our episode the night before Xmas. Hilarious turkey-stuffing listening. Gather round kids, shit's about to get dark... My inbox and twitter feed immediately exploded. "How do you spell the fuckers name?" "Where does he live?" "Doug has crazy fans, in basements." "Your ex-husband story on Doug's podcast made my skin crawl." Someone found his LinkedIn profile. "Is this the kid fucker?" That screen capture was shared dozens of times. Some one else found an Aspendale Gardens community newsletter that mentioned him as resident. That got shared. A photo was posted. "Is this it? Yes. No" Lots of messages of support. LOTS. Loved hearing your twisted story, if I'm ever in Australia I know one cunt I'd like to meet in an alley. Someone else found his blog; his new wife's Facebook account; [good lord he remarried and has children *shudder*]... And someone found where he'd posted his mobile number online! I don't know how many times that got retweeted and shared but I saw messages from people saying they'd left him a voicemail. "Funny, it keeps going to voicemail?!" "Me too!" Message after message from screennames and people I have never nor will ever meet in my life. My favourite retweet, Jesus fuck. Mebee the @DougStanhope poscast with@faheyyounger wasn't the most festive choice for some lighthearted background noise tonight.

I'm not going to share any of the links. Nor did I click on any. I want to keep my no-contact pact, intact. Jack. There is nothing i care to say to it.

All this activity happened in 24 hours. These basement dwellers were FAST. Those Cold Case people just need to take details of any unsolved crime to Doug. If he puts it out to his Sausage Army, they'll have that thing sewn up before Detective Lily Rush's close up can be focus-pulled.

Doug asked me how I was feeling, after we'd finished recording (proving he's a tender lover). He wanted to know what felt better, talking about it in therapy or on stage? I thought about it. Both offer relief but I'll say this, pity my therapist doesn't have a nice shiny Yeti mic on her desk.

Thanks Doug and thanks Andy, for the push. Free falling is not as scary as I thought. 

If you need help - there IS, HELP.




Kids Help Line

Hope you never need any of those links. Ever.

Til next time! ox