Hello Fans,
Just popping in to let everybody know the good news.
According to some chick I met in a Pub who reads Ralph magazine while she's at the dentist, (or some such) I can now confirm that it's become official.
Ballarat is now the easiest place in Australia (I'm saying all of Western Culture) to pick up.
Not the Town itself, (the buildings and surrounding land weighing many millions of tones and being a large logistical feat to move), but rather if you're suffering from the dreaded midnight horn and need some relief, then you're living in the Town where it's now quicker and simpler to find a drunken hussy than it is to pop a Panadol.
Now, I don't know about you, but having been born in this buggered burg and having flung my oats as every passing paddock, but this news bought a tear to my eye and I'm all choked up with civic pride.
I was sure Geelong would have held the title, what with the Grand Final final and everything, but there you go.
We, the Good citizens of Ballarat, are town of mythically easy roots.
What surprises me is the lack of coverage of what must be the town's greatest achievement since all those crazies staring digging up the joint and screaming for the right to get pissed at lunchtime (or whatever is was. I was behind the shelter shed having a squiz at a young ladies credentials when they were teaching all that guff. No regrets).
I'm also surprised that when Ballarat had a shot at being a Tropical Paradise (thanks to Global Warming's gentle tourist tantalising touch ) the beloved Courier trumpeted the possibility loudly and proudly.
And that was just pure conjecture! (as far as i know the aforementioned tropical haven may occur sometime in the next five hundred years, but whether or not the possibility that all of humanity will have all been eaten by some sort of huge irradiated space wombat and that might somehow curb the tourist revenue is yet to receive the same serious editorial consideration).
But now that our young lads and ladies have actually gone out and shown unsurpassed hospitality to visiting locals, regardless of the weather conditions, you would think our beloved Courier would confidently promote Ballarat as the Amsterdam of the South, a wondrous place where you can buy a slab and get your doobries fondled by the time you've knocked back the first sixer.
But no.....I'm putting it down to a quiet silence that bespeaks volumes of our accomodating character.
Now, to be fair, I'm not sure how this accolade was arrived at.
Although the writing staff at Ralph magazine are peerless journalists, like any media outlet, some scrutiny is required.
But let me say this......
If I'm caught in a tricky conversation as to whether or not it is possible to have a drunken three-some with coked out swimwear models and still come up for the perfect excuse as to why I can't show up on Monday to pitch my new advertisement for New Aussie Tampons (Get 'em up ya!), then Ralph is my first port of literary call and they are yet to lead me astray.
Tremendous fellows all.
So I'm quite sure the research crew where meticulous in their fact finding mission to find the Australia's Easiest Town.
Perhaps a well built young man walked into drinking establishments in various cities and yelled through a megaphone "The first young lady with legs akimbo wins a quickie and a coupla lines" and then a cohort (probably a sub editor of some sort) would hit a stop watch to time how long it took for some Gal to back up beeping.
I'd guess that in most other towns the Young Gentleman had to finish his amplified speech, perhaps even buy a drink or two, but rumour has it that when they were about to run the tests in Ballarat, a young lass (who'd worked her way through the Breezer rainbow and had been freshening up at the Hamburger Cart) approached the Ralph Rep and offered him the old Hong Kong Hammock as he was getting out of the car (apparently his ability to reverse park was the sexiest thing any male had ever said to her. )
There was no time for stop watches. Or flowery speeches. Just good old Goldtown spirit.
So. A quick be-fannying later and the record was ours.
Viva Ballarat! A place where where you can get your bits wet in minus ten seconds as long as you don't mind the car smelling mildly of dimmies.
Once again I'm swelling with pride (easy....).
I've long regarded this place as a kind of weird, free wheeling libertarian utopia, where love flows through the streets and we can all be as one. Where the Squares will just have to dig it coz we got a Great Big Convoy chugging back the fine liquors and thrusting their reproductive organs at anything that can stand upright or at least fall over in a co-operative manner.
And now that a reputable bunch of loveable larrikins like Ralph have officially given us the nod all I can say is Ladies, I owe you a beer.
That's all for now,
Mick "The pre-mix King for Mayor!" Dog
Oh... the synchronicity. The strange and beautiful Ballarat madness of the December calendar where, in the same week 154 years ago in the town where some blokes had stood on a hill and asked about getting a fairer deal from the guys they were paying all the taxes to... (then got a right bollocking one morning after a largish pissup at the Stockade)... the hyper fit/fat/fried/funky/fucked up folks of fair B-Town did crushingly kick their former local government rep
resentatives in the goolies.
you wonder what phone calls Balla's last serving Liberal senator might be making to the Olde Money about his Nouveau Cached Uppe Riche young apprentice...
