I'm currently snotting about the side alleys, coughing up gouts of organic blu tack and blowing out (in a free to air concert of freaky nose jazz), what looks like the filling for Satan own country style Vanilla slice.
But I digress...
Is there anything actually happening in this town at the moment?
Sure.....the Discount King is still pumping out bilk cheap flatscreens, Duke Hootch is selling a garbage bag of Jimathon Beam for 20 bucks and the Pregnancy seems to be thriving.
But if you're reconciled to the fact that tele is crap (may I implore you to dial up Rahsaan Roland Kirk blowing a coke solo at Montroux and compare it to a bunch of terrier brained gooseberries shitting us to death in Big Bother 65 and tell then try to tell me it's not all over for free to fuckin' air . C'maaaaaaaaaan.........).
Or if your not interested in drinking your bladder to bursting point and grinding off those odd angles of your brain with the Big Brown Bag Of Bland.......
Or aren't quite ready to join the Alien Club and watch your self (or a another) burst apart at the spaceman seams with new, mewling puking life (to quote the Bard)....
Then, pray-forth, what do you do to fill in the long lonely hours between finishing your crap job and getting up for your crap job?
Case in point.
Myself and a lassie (whom we'll call Honeypants Jones. You can hum the 007 theme if you like), decided to kick up our tam o shanters the other night and go out on the tear.
After a few heart starters at Pad Dog (a little joint i dig that makes Jazz noodles), we jiffied off into the wild black yonder in search of moonlight, good times and boogie.
Our first point of call was at the funky Quinn the Eskimo bar.
We scampered in from the cold and stood in it's nuevo Igloo stylee barn with a throbbing throng of four other people.
A D.J spun his platters, but in all honesty, he looked like he was down at the 12 grooves or less isle at Colesway.
We pushed our way through the teeming, hotpants masses (not) to sink a few brews.
After a learned discussion (choosing which one of the 20 empties was quite the drama) we then plonked (figuratively and fluidly) and sat chatting about this and that.
Hoopla! Frugalicious! What a happening thang!
It was then suggested we sneak down to the Combover Bar to check out what the young saucy types are doing with their fuzz-boxes in this libertine age.
A quick stroll down the Poof St. precinct and there we were, standing solo in the joint, the bouncers outnumbering the band, punters and bar staff.
Five minutes of groovy awkward later and it was back to Quinn's for a night cap.
Highlights included some pissed chick trying to dry hump my leg while Honeypants was having a wizz and the magnificent Agwa (Spirit of Shambolic Kings).
Honeypants and I exchanged glances, had an executive and it was decided that we could probably go home and have more fun watching the tea towels dry.
And, if this wasn't rubbing salt into and already inflamed and crusty dude of a night, we foolishly stopped in at the ol' Bottom of the Ballow Hotel to see we couldn't get one last desperate drink and giggle.
We could and we did (sorta).
However the young goon yowling his Pearl Jam cover over his tinny arse guitar (aurally imagine a cheese-grater in amongst broken glass and coat-hangers) was enough to make me tip my glass of cheap sauce on the pot-plants and suggest to Honeypants we catch the next flight to somewhere where a night out still correlates with Steppin' Out! rather that a night out being equal to puttin' the bins out .
Shame Ballarat. Shame.
I'm old enough to remember when party meant kit off craziness.
When bands were keen to blart out one more bit of snazzy caper and when you danced, you fruged until your could steam a dimmie with your eyebrows. No sweat!
Where you would run (yes you heard) to the next event because you didn't want to miss any of the life affirming shenanigans taking place on Fri and Sat (usually Sun and always Monday).
I'm had more of a randy toot watching Question time. I've been more razzed reading soup instructions.
I've had more jive from a jar of pickles and more hep from a typhoid immunisation.
Piss poor, Goldtown city.
You have been warned.
Mick 'I remember Coles cafeteria" Dog