Firstly I’d like to thank all those involved in the bid to put The ShowWith No Name up there with such television classics as The Collectors and "The Twiddlebugs go to Indented Head".
We can’t disclose too much at this point, (what with nothing having actually happened and the Pigeon that we tied our hopes and electronic dreams to possibly crashing into some power lines round ACDC lane), but it is good to have actually been part of licking a self stamped and popping stuff off to a bunch of grey headed people, who hate this confounded modern age, but love a good panto with Kevin Rudd dressed up as Luscious Lillypad, a transvestite frog who’s off to see the Emperor! (Cymbal crash!…cue piano.)
Ahhh….the smell of the greasepaint….. Lube me up Charlie! I’m ready to rock. (Cash, cheque or money order)
But I digress…..
How lovely is it to be frozen stiff in the mornings? How wonderful to see the Walrus lolling about on the council steps, their gritty flukes tapping away at water rates and the like?
How delightful is it to see mercurial hump bunnies fused at the frozen dude outside gaily-lit nightspots?
Yes indeedy, Winter in all of its floral shirted goodness is here.
How I love to see the flakes of exhaust fumes settling on the children, their cak handed attempts to make a petroleum snowman being thwarted by motorists scooping the carrot nosed busts into gleaming automobiles and chugging along to work on crap and steam?
How I adore the happy panted choky scrufflers, scooting about with the monthly horde, the Vinnie Barbawino’s emerging all smiles with their crisp bags of new goon, the pleasant singing of pregnant teens, like tender mother buffalos, bellowing to their squat progeny down Central Square, their jammy Longbeach fingers poking into bargains and what not.
Yes…. It’s certainly Poetry in some sort of motion (perhaps Poetry at Bingo nite or stuck in traffic in Mossman), but indeed I truly think (conditions apply) that of all the wonders of God’s green tea bag, that Winter in Ballart puts the gleaming stars to shame and makes the beanies hide their furry heads in awe.
As a pup, growing up in this Alpine light, we would be huddled into a room with the livestock, perhaps a few old blankets and then we would set fire to the unused wings of Doggly Manor, (Central heating still being a pipe dream in 73’).
We’d sing songs into a Cb radio and it was wonderful to hear the truckers fill our cold little chicken roost with odd, dreamy far away sounding names such as Boort and Maldon.
It was cold, colder that the teat of a cryogenic Witch (Moly! Dat’s cold!), but we laughed and died, like soldiers in a drink tray together.
We’d skootch under four metres of doon at night and back in the day we had tame Elves, (except for that one got rabies and took out the dog before Dad clubbed it to beans), who would drive weenie snow ploughs, so you could get to school and be cold there for the day.
Our beloved lake Wendouree would freeze and we’d skate, happy as horny Larks until the Ice Pirates came in July and stabbed you with a swan if youtried to get to the kiosk for a cup of warm mulch.
Ahhhh…Winter. It’s like the frozen things your lover pokes up your bum on one of those night where you are both feeling co-sassy.
Sure, it’s a shock at first and one is almost tempted to pull away, (perhaps to Brisbane), but after a few deep breaths and a little melty patience, soon Winter is as snug as a bug in a bog roll and you just await the comforting melt while your lover tightens your saddle. Yee Har!
In fact I’ll go as far to say you can keep you balmier climbs, what with all the Secession talked about the Colonel Jo.
Sure, it must be bearable to waddle from the waterbed with a “Free pass to SeaWorld with every dressing gown” dressing gown on, make your lackadaisical way to some squid vendor and go the morning chomp while naked young’ns catch the tram to their get fit fondles.
It must be passably to sit at night with nothing but a flimsy chenille on, sipping on some sparkling liquors while some sort of Afro Jazz plays to the freakish skies, the night breeze flunking through the drying washing and the nymphs from next door have a “Nude against Mug!” contest on their frilly trampolines.
It must be o.k. to have endless sunny skies and that “Tie me Campervan down, sport!”, you beaut Ute Aussie dinkum sports drink attitude that seems to come easily to our northern neighbours, but given the choice I’d like nothing more to stand on the top of Sturt street, my dude whipping about in the frigid air singing “Counting the Beat” by the Swingers and then rubbing myself all over with the moist, carbon smelling soil of my lovely freezy burg.
Of course, after certain court orders have now been freed from their envelopes (rather like that scene where NASA smashes the prison prism in Superman III and the bad guys who can kick superman’s ass get out and wreck terrible havoc setting fire to Buicks and the like, but Superman gets better lines and Lois won’t root the beardy henchman and the leather dominatrix chick falls in love with Kurt Cobain’s country cousin, Capt. Kyle Cobain Jr and the really smart guys with the evil eyebrows gets his own show called “Punch in face for a million!” , where ex-wrestlers get punched in the face by a man who excerpts more force than a steam train being dropped from space when they can’t answer questions like “What is the mathematical representation of the code needed to seed other planets with sentient life?”), then the above mentioned nudie duding won’t be appearing at an Arch of Victory near you soon. Pity………..
Still……it nice to be cold. (sorta)
I find it brings out the resilience in a person. An attitude where you have keep your wits sharp and your eyes open lest you blink and they freeze together.
All for now!
Mick ‘Wimmens is better that electamatrical blankets” Dog.