I want to have Arj Barker’s babies, but I wouldn’t take them to his shows

Dear Arj Barker,

We have never met. I’ve never seen you perform live, and I detest stand-up comedy, so I couldn’t say whether your routine involves improv, interpretive dance, or the weeping ghost of Craig McLachlan’s singing career. Before yesterday, for all I knew, you could’ve been a brand of sneakers, the title of a Taylor Swift song, or one of the grooms from an upcoming MAFS episode.

No laughing matter: Arj Barker and Trish Faranda with daughter Clara.Credit: Andrew Murfett

Having established my bona fides, Arj, can I just add this: I think you are my spirit animal, I am in love with you, and had I not already donated my reproductive organs to science, I would happily have had your baby.

But, having previously given birth to four others, do you know what I would not have done with our beloved (and thankfully for humankind, entirely non-existent) offspring? I would not have taken it to your show. Not even if your script called for it to be dangled from a balcony or sawn in half by a magician’s assistant or fired from a cannon as part of a spectacular finale involving pyrotechnics.

All of which is why, my dearest Arj, I thought I’d inadvertently stumbled across one of your punchlines when I discovered you were forced to stop one of your shows at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival to ask a mother and baby to leave. I was further horrified to discover that, instead of flinging their underwear onstage and nominating you for immediate citizenship and/or canonisation pending papal approval, a group of 10 or 12 audience members got up and left in solidarity.

Wait. What?

Worse still, instead of acknowledging her embarrassing misstep and taking deep cover by camouflaging herself with nappy rash cream yesterday, the mother in question, Trish Faranda, along with her cousin, Danielle, doubled down on their righteous fury at having been ejected in the first place, with Trish reporting that her seven-month-old daughter had “had a bit of a whinge – nothing super loud”, before being given her marching (crawling? bum-shuffling?) orders.

Danielle, meanwhile, took to that renowned hotbed of critical thought and reasoned argument, X – formerly Twitter – to implore you, Arj, to rethink your actions, apparently because they constituted a human rights violation.

“With all of the hatred and violence women are faced with, among the countless atrocities happening in the world today, I ask you to simply take a long, hard look at yourself,” Danielle wrote.

Now obviously, Arj, since you and I are kindred spirits on this matter, I read that and decided I’d better take a long, hard look at myself instead.

So, I did. Other than establishing that I needed an urgent eyebrow wax, I came up with the same opinion: you were entirely justified in throwing Trish out, and I have no idea why you didn’t slap a lifetime ban on her in the process.

Motherhood is life-changing and wonderful and isolating and euphoric and lonely and brilliant and terrifying and gratifying and hard and easy and gross and beautiful. You lose yourself for a while. You come back changed. But the metamorphosis – just like the decision to have children in the first place – is yours alone. Once you step out of your front door, you have to make all sorts of decisions about what venues are appropriate for a “not super whingey” seven-month-old. Hint: If the ticket site says the Arj Barker show is “strictly age 15-plus”, which it did, that’s a condition of entry, not grounds for affirmative action legislation. Trish should assume her new daughter is more than welcome to attend, provided she’s successfully been weaned and has a free weekend in September 2038.

Back to you, my darling Arj.

I know I started this column with a declaration of my undying love and fidelity, despite having never met you, which I accept has a passing whiff of eau de romance scam about it. As such, I think we should probably meet in person. I’ve just realised you’ve scheduled more shows in August, so I’m booking tickets as we speak. There’s only one minor hiccup in that my sister is going away then, and I’ve agreed to look after her treasured cockapoo for a couple of weeks. Just FYI, the dog (who you’ll totally love, I promise) can’t be left with strangers because she gets diarrhoea when she frets. Also, she needs her anti-anxiety meds hand-massaged down her oesophagus at regular intervals by a crack team of soothing mantra-chanting dog whisperers. Oh, and she sometimes gets triggered by conjunctions, so if you could just be a love and deliver your entire performance without using the words “for”, “and”, “nor”, “but”, “or”, “yet”, or “so”, everything should be peachy. You won’t even know she’s there, I promise.

Looking forward to meeting you, Arj! Can hardly wait!

Michelle Cazzulino is a Sydney writer.

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