Seasonal Affected Disorder. The feeling that winter has gone on for long e-fucking-nough. It's hit Ballarat. And I shit ye not - a bomb has just gone off in the carpark not far from the Hamburger Cart. That's how shitful Ballarat is at the moment with this cold weather.
In tribute, the Show With No Name is back on the interwebs. From Redan to Sebastopol. From Alfredton to Golden Point. Ballarat's biggest little blurters of the truth on a transmitter you can't hear...
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Friday, July 4, 2008
Happy 4th of July
Today, someone asked me what's good about America. Y'know, bein' fourth of July and all.
Pictures speak louder than words. First, the insanely good:
Then the howlingly good:
And the ridiculously good:
And the bad? Hmm. There's the obviously bad.
The just plain bad.
And the really, really bad.
Send in the clowns. Norman, bless America, please:
Pictures speak louder than words. First, the insanely good:
Then the howlingly good:
And the ridiculously good:
And the bad? Hmm. There's the obviously bad.
The just plain bad.
And the really, really bad.
Send in the clowns. Norman, bless America, please:
Friday, June 27, 2008
Take me to funky town...I beg of you....
Hello Fans,
Ahhh Winter.
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!
So......
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).
But now..........
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
Ahhh Winter.
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!
So......
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).
But now..........
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
The ugly truth revealed
This is what it looks like from inside the Dim Sim Research Production facility...
Apologies for the three people who've been watching our stuff online. Youtube production has dropped markedly since I forgot to pay my interweb fees and got cut off....
At the moment I'm blogging by throwing five cent coins through a partially opened window onto a keyboad at the Snake Valley Primary School. It's tricky.
We shall return as soon as possible - until then, think about this for a red-hot rumour:
Premier Brumby Stallion comes to Ballarat to open the special Water Pipe to save the town. Only problem is, it wasn't finished. But people were starting to panic. So, a tankerload of water is purchased, one pump is turned on up the road a bit, and the awaiting hawk-eyed journos taking pics of themselves near Brumby Stallion get to see some water coming out.
'Strue. I heard from this bloke who knows this bloke.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Culture belongs in yogurt
Hello Fans,
Well you can't say that we here at The Show With No Name blog-a-ma-doodle
don't bust out the freshest jive since Will Smiff left Bel Air.
I, (and by that I mean me), can break it to you (etc.) that our beloved B-Town is due to get a new Arts Precinct within the near future (geologically speaking).
The juicy prune goss is that the Old Railway building (down in the old Railway Yard, on Old Railway St, in Railwaystopol) has been ear marked, (like a wandering Beagle), to be turned into some sort of magic playground of imagination, so the residents of our town can git along and look at some purdy pictures of gum trees on a widescreen digital format.
Sources close to the Proj. can reveal that it's some sort of State initiative and (in the infinite wisdom of the bureaucrat) it's been decided it's best if the whole thing is keep a secret from everybody.
As you read, development/funding/consultation etc. is being undertaken by industry profs who wouldn't have a clue as to where the Albert St bogs were even if they were having a shit in Albert St. at the bogs.
Which is tremendous stuff. Just what we need!
Another Arts Precinct designed by people who know about nothing but Art! Yay!
Who know nothing about Ballarat and it's curly inhabitants! Whoopee!
And probably find the fact they don't have hot cold and cold running wank in their rooms (like they have in yon big cities) a thrilling brush with colonial life! Gasp!
I suppose it will follow on from the fabulous success of the Camp St Arts precinct.
My heavens...hasn't that changed out cultural landscape?
Indeed there's nothing like heading down to Camp St, gliding along the glitteringly lit paths, watching the beautiful displays of local sculpture and endeavouring screevers, sitting down to be tempted with the fine and luxurious foods from our district and then being swamped for choice as to whether or not to enjoy the world of film at the University's Independent Cinema or to head off to the Ol' Helen McPherson McSmith McBuggeryTheatre for some excellent type of wonder music or challenging new theatre, then shaking one's rumpa to some imported boogaloo from interstate at the heated outdoor Venue-ma-tron and truly feeling the life of this funky town pump through the floorboards till the sun comes up, so we can all troop happily along, hand in hand, to the French Breakfast restaurant where it's always Croissant o'clock.
Why, we're spoiled for choice here that to that Sparkling Beacon of Wonder!
When someone says "What's going on Dude?" those two bounteous words "Camp St" are all you need.
It's the happening place Daddy-O!
Why the millions of dollars thrown at the re-vamp have paid off in spades!
I can't think of a more happening joint, right through the week, but especially on the weekend.
The variety! The inventiveness! The ever changing surprisery! The Goodwill! The sheer magnificence of it all!
Berlin can go to buggery. Tokyo's for tossers. New York is Old Hat.
Camp St!
It's got the buzz, friend.
Up there with Beale St, Soho and Carnival!
So yah-boo sucks to those nay sayers who said "The the entire joint was a poorly designer three legged white elephant that nobody would ever go to and would primarily be used as a walk through and spew stop for late night alcho monkeys"
.
A big bite yer bum to those negative types who said "The University is run by a bunch of nepotistic fossils, who's tenure means they can be a bunch of incompetent hacks, grimly ignoring the 21st century and not giving a shit about their work reaching any further than payday, who've never ever been interested in a wider community (what would those philistines know anyway)...and run a third rate bag of guff Uni"
Go to buggery for those who said "Helen McPherson McDonalds Theatre? What? Where? Who?"
Up ya clack to those who skyted "With so many musicians and theatre types supposedly hanging around, why is it we never see any thing good? Why are there no independent companies producing modern work? Why are the same old hacks producing shit that was crap in the 40's?"
Go to steaming Hell those never satisfied types who said "Another bloody Arts precinct? What in the fuzzy muffin would we need one of those for, when our current Arts Precinct, which was touted to be a fuckin Mecca of Western culture's greatest achievements, is nothing more that a huge albino mammoth, squatting like a bored cane toad, inhabited by nitwit kids and senile staff, ignored by the locals, laughed at by visitors, a place that begrudgingly squeezes out a small shiny nugget of dancy poop (to be watched by the people who are studying Dancy Poop Squeeze 101 and associated relatives) twice a year and is nothing less than a complete and utter fucking debacle that has successfully alienated anyone who could have breathed some life into it and whose only redeeming feature is it's ability to relax while the icy cock of corporate culture jams another inch in?"
Ha! You were wrong. All of you.
Camp St!
Wow!
And on a personal note, I'd also like to point out the fabulous success of the Music Festival held at Sovereign Hill last year.
A triumph of planning!
Why putting a festival in a rickety old joint where you can't touch anything was genius! Charging people their superannuation to see the cream of 80's folk really made me feel like I'd sacrificed for culture.
Getting the kids up to run around in the land of rusty spikes was a touch of brilliance!
And placing that roped off area for councillors, developers and associated cronies in the middle of the festival made me thankful that people (superior in all ways to myself and most others) were generous enough to let me wistfully gaze upon their grace and allowed me to furtively photograph them enjoying their trays of delicious sandwiches.
Indeed, there's nothing that says "Eureka Spirit" to me than spending a mortgage payment to gaze at the musical past and give silent and respectful regard to my betters who can proudly say "The Birthplace of democracy means I'm free to say get the fuck away from me you filthy fucking urchin. I bet you can't even name Max's merits!".
So....New Arts precinct....
I've said it once and I'll say it again......
When it comes to building Arts and Culture that reach out to plain old dumb bunnies like myself, that subtly and amazingly make me proud to live here, then Ballarat is number one.
The Big Cheese so to speak.
With the Wonder of Camp St and the Folks responsible for incredible Events at Sovvy Hill (for which the financial figures speak for themselves!) at the Helm, how could this new Art Precinct Endeavour be anything but the envy of the World?
Face it.
All past achievements have been met with resounding success and the next time you pass a group of carolling singers who warm your heart with generous song, while strolling your way to The Camp St Art precinct in the Christmas like hope of being thrilled to bits again by Art (or the twinkly Elves of creation), you can squeeze your honey tight and give thanks that you don't live in a place where our poor ignorant forebears had to eat a crap Italian sandwich, sink a jug of cheap hooch and try to con onto something with a pulse at a crowded, pestilent nightspot run by a belligerent Mafia in order to have fun.
We should all thank our lucky stars.........
All for now
Mick "Does anyone have the Events calendar for the Pre-mix King?" Dog
Well you can't say that we here at The Show With No Name blog-a-ma-doodle
don't bust out the freshest jive since Will Smiff left Bel Air.
I, (and by that I mean me), can break it to you (etc.) that our beloved B-Town is due to get a new Arts Precinct within the near future (geologically speaking).
The juicy prune goss is that the Old Railway building (down in the old Railway Yard, on Old Railway St, in Railwaystopol) has been ear marked, (like a wandering Beagle), to be turned into some sort of magic playground of imagination, so the residents of our town can git along and look at some purdy pictures of gum trees on a widescreen digital format.
Sources close to the Proj. can reveal that it's some sort of State initiative and (in the infinite wisdom of the bureaucrat) it's been decided it's best if the whole thing is keep a secret from everybody.
As you read, development/funding/consultation etc. is being undertaken by industry profs who wouldn't have a clue as to where the Albert St bogs were even if they were having a shit in Albert St. at the bogs.
Which is tremendous stuff. Just what we need!
Another Arts Precinct designed by people who know about nothing but Art! Yay!
Who know nothing about Ballarat and it's curly inhabitants! Whoopee!
And probably find the fact they don't have hot cold and cold running wank in their rooms (like they have in yon big cities) a thrilling brush with colonial life! Gasp!
I suppose it will follow on from the fabulous success of the Camp St Arts precinct.
My heavens...hasn't that changed out cultural landscape?
Indeed there's nothing like heading down to Camp St, gliding along the glitteringly lit paths, watching the beautiful displays of local sculpture and endeavouring screevers, sitting down to be tempted with the fine and luxurious foods from our district and then being swamped for choice as to whether or not to enjoy the world of film at the University's Independent Cinema or to head off to the Ol' Helen McPherson McSmith McBuggeryTheatre for some excellent type of wonder music or challenging new theatre, then shaking one's rumpa to some imported boogaloo from interstate at the heated outdoor Venue-ma-tron and truly feeling the life of this funky town pump through the floorboards till the sun comes up, so we can all troop happily along, hand in hand, to the French Breakfast restaurant where it's always Croissant o'clock.
Why, we're spoiled for choice here that to that Sparkling Beacon of Wonder!
When someone says "What's going on Dude?" those two bounteous words "Camp St" are all you need.
It's the happening place Daddy-O!
Why the millions of dollars thrown at the re-vamp have paid off in spades!
I can't think of a more happening joint, right through the week, but especially on the weekend.
The variety! The inventiveness! The ever changing surprisery! The Goodwill! The sheer magnificence of it all!
Berlin can go to buggery. Tokyo's for tossers. New York is Old Hat.
Camp St!
It's got the buzz, friend.
Up there with Beale St, Soho and Carnival!
So yah-boo sucks to those nay sayers who said "The the entire joint was a poorly designer three legged white elephant that nobody would ever go to and would primarily be used as a walk through and spew stop for late night alcho monkeys"
.
A big bite yer bum to those negative types who said "The University is run by a bunch of nepotistic fossils, who's tenure means they can be a bunch of incompetent hacks, grimly ignoring the 21st century and not giving a shit about their work reaching any further than payday, who've never ever been interested in a wider community (what would those philistines know anyway)...and run a third rate bag of guff Uni"
Go to buggery for those who said "Helen McPherson McDonalds Theatre? What? Where? Who?"
Up ya clack to those who skyted "With so many musicians and theatre types supposedly hanging around, why is it we never see any thing good? Why are there no independent companies producing modern work? Why are the same old hacks producing shit that was crap in the 40's?"
Go to steaming Hell those never satisfied types who said "Another bloody Arts precinct? What in the fuzzy muffin would we need one of those for, when our current Arts Precinct, which was touted to be a fuckin Mecca of Western culture's greatest achievements, is nothing more that a huge albino mammoth, squatting like a bored cane toad, inhabited by nitwit kids and senile staff, ignored by the locals, laughed at by visitors, a place that begrudgingly squeezes out a small shiny nugget of dancy poop (to be watched by the people who are studying Dancy Poop Squeeze 101 and associated relatives) twice a year and is nothing less than a complete and utter fucking debacle that has successfully alienated anyone who could have breathed some life into it and whose only redeeming feature is it's ability to relax while the icy cock of corporate culture jams another inch in?"
Ha! You were wrong. All of you.
Camp St!
Wow!
And on a personal note, I'd also like to point out the fabulous success of the Music Festival held at Sovereign Hill last year.
A triumph of planning!
Why putting a festival in a rickety old joint where you can't touch anything was genius! Charging people their superannuation to see the cream of 80's folk really made me feel like I'd sacrificed for culture.
Getting the kids up to run around in the land of rusty spikes was a touch of brilliance!
And placing that roped off area for councillors, developers and associated cronies in the middle of the festival made me thankful that people (superior in all ways to myself and most others) were generous enough to let me wistfully gaze upon their grace and allowed me to furtively photograph them enjoying their trays of delicious sandwiches.
Indeed, there's nothing that says "Eureka Spirit" to me than spending a mortgage payment to gaze at the musical past and give silent and respectful regard to my betters who can proudly say "The Birthplace of democracy means I'm free to say get the fuck away from me you filthy fucking urchin. I bet you can't even name Max's merits!".
So....New Arts precinct....
I've said it once and I'll say it again......
When it comes to building Arts and Culture that reach out to plain old dumb bunnies like myself, that subtly and amazingly make me proud to live here, then Ballarat is number one.
The Big Cheese so to speak.
With the Wonder of Camp St and the Folks responsible for incredible Events at Sovvy Hill (for which the financial figures speak for themselves!) at the Helm, how could this new Art Precinct Endeavour be anything but the envy of the World?
Face it.
All past achievements have been met with resounding success and the next time you pass a group of carolling singers who warm your heart with generous song, while strolling your way to The Camp St Art precinct in the Christmas like hope of being thrilled to bits again by Art (or the twinkly Elves of creation), you can squeeze your honey tight and give thanks that you don't live in a place where our poor ignorant forebears had to eat a crap Italian sandwich, sink a jug of cheap hooch and try to con onto something with a pulse at a crowded, pestilent nightspot run by a belligerent Mafia in order to have fun.
We should all thank our lucky stars.........
All for now
Mick "Does anyone have the Events calendar for the Pre-mix King?" Dog
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Crazy town needs town crazy
Hello Fans,
A bit of sad news this week.
Our beloved town oddball, Mr Bill Morrell, finally shuffled off to the great big brightly colored hat in the sky.
For those of you who may not be in the know, Bill was the guy who walked around town, usually smoking a pipe, sometimes holding a fuzzy bear of some sort, sometimes wearing a giant novelty hat and most of time with a open gladstone bag that contained God knows what.
I had a squiz one day and it looked like a show-bag you might be given at the Dementia Show.
Just bits and pieces of things and stuff.
I'd known Bill for nearly 20 years and met him when I was a wee pup serving glutinous pancakes at one of our beloved franchises.
He'd come in and order a cup of black coffee, every day, at about 1 o'clock.
Without fail.
This went on for months and one day, when I was so presumptuous as to take down the usual order before he'd actually ordered it, He looked at me and said "Actually, Mick.... I'll have a Swiss Shake!" (a monstrous milkshake thing with about a litre of ice cream and enough chokky topping to get a Primary school off chops).
I bought it down to him and he sucked the pint glass dry and then never ordered anything else but coffee after that.
Zen humour? Low blood sugar? Birthday celebrations? I'll never know.
But, it must be said, that even then you could see the crack in the glaze of his eyes.
Other, more free wheeling dudes (who cooked the pancakes) would goad him into singing Opera (which he loved) and we would stand around in the faux wooden acoustics listening to the tremulous warblings of an Old, sad man having a crack at Puccini and the nasty cooks would piss themselves laughing.
Bastards we all were.
Still, every town has its colorful residents and without wanting to hang shit (which is odd for me) and with due respect, it is sad when a town loses its Town Crazy.
Before Mr. Morrell there was Radio Dave, a bloke whose life story was nothing but shite and tragedy, but still cruised about, blagging tapes and having the dubious distinction of being the guy everybody knew but no one wanted to know (this awkward attempt at sincerity makes me sound like Anna Coren. Forgive me, Zombie Jesus....).
Dave was one of those guys who was never really going to fit in anywhere, but none the less, I've heard crazier shit come out of less damaged people and at the heart of it all, Dave was an o.k guy (once again I'll admit that about 20mins was my limit. After that one of us left)
A champion bot and an enterprising dude who sold music from various bags from corner to corner, He always carried a large Boom Box (as it was known before these accursed MP3 toys turned us all into selfish shits).
Indeed, if Dave wanted to flog some merch, he'd whack it in the tape player, give it a crank and we'd all enjoy the goodness (conditions apply. See Ramones for details).
Cash would change hands. The Taxation department could go fuck itself as I don't think Dave had any sort of ABN or even a last name that I knew of.
Big Guy. Too loud. Too awkward.
Shuffled off to the big street in the sky a few years back.
Before him there was a guy called Herman The German, who was another trench coated guy who just hobo'ed around, not really doing anything but smelling odd.
A fixture of my childhood Ballarat, I don't really know what he did.
Rumours abounded that he had everything from Nazi Gold to Phyllis Diller sewn into the mattress and that he chose to live in odd shambling poverty.
Of course, there wasn't and he didn't, but when he died the whole town turned out. Why? I dunno.
Guilt? A sort of weird pre-B-Brother celebrity reality before television?
Beats me. But He's gone too.
And now Bill Morrel.
I can't lie and say I didn't cross the street when I saw him coming up the road in the last year of his life.
Previously, I'd often stop and have a chat to the old bloke, but then one day he just gave up washing and eventually started exuding a uric odour that was like a Hyena trying to hump your face.
I couldn't hack it. I'm shit with smells. They just make me chuck.
But he's gone too. Poor bugger. (He looked awful before he died. Really bad.)
So.
Here's the ad you won't see down at Centrelink but none the less is hanging somewhere in the continuum, (or maybe on the City of Ballarat website) and is yet to be answered by the next strange candidate
Wanted.
Town Crazy.
Must be largely benign but obviously completely off chops.
Ability to politely/emphatically ramble to anyone who listens a plus.
Must have own clothe (pref. one set) and distinctive prop or icon (music player, large hat, trenchcoat etc.)
Duties include walking endless loops of Sturt St and staring into space.
Benefits include polite cafe owners, passing interest from humanitarian types and first name basis with staff at Base Hospital.
Experience with young yelling pricks helpful, but can be learnt on the job.
Chance of promotion non existent, but successful applicants will be provided with ample sun if it's a nice day.
Salary- Nuttin'
Apply - Sturt St C/o Any Lamppost.
Successful applicant will start immediately. We suppose. (Sort it out amongst yourselves).
All for now
Mick "Today Tonight is my Bitch" Dog
A bit of sad news this week.
Our beloved town oddball, Mr Bill Morrell, finally shuffled off to the great big brightly colored hat in the sky.
For those of you who may not be in the know, Bill was the guy who walked around town, usually smoking a pipe, sometimes holding a fuzzy bear of some sort, sometimes wearing a giant novelty hat and most of time with a open gladstone bag that contained God knows what.
I had a squiz one day and it looked like a show-bag you might be given at the Dementia Show.
Just bits and pieces of things and stuff.
I'd known Bill for nearly 20 years and met him when I was a wee pup serving glutinous pancakes at one of our beloved franchises.
He'd come in and order a cup of black coffee, every day, at about 1 o'clock.
Without fail.
This went on for months and one day, when I was so presumptuous as to take down the usual order before he'd actually ordered it, He looked at me and said "Actually, Mick.... I'll have a Swiss Shake!" (a monstrous milkshake thing with about a litre of ice cream and enough chokky topping to get a Primary school off chops).
I bought it down to him and he sucked the pint glass dry and then never ordered anything else but coffee after that.
Zen humour? Low blood sugar? Birthday celebrations? I'll never know.
But, it must be said, that even then you could see the crack in the glaze of his eyes.
Other, more free wheeling dudes (who cooked the pancakes) would goad him into singing Opera (which he loved) and we would stand around in the faux wooden acoustics listening to the tremulous warblings of an Old, sad man having a crack at Puccini and the nasty cooks would piss themselves laughing.
Bastards we all were.
Still, every town has its colorful residents and without wanting to hang shit (which is odd for me) and with due respect, it is sad when a town loses its Town Crazy.
Before Mr. Morrell there was Radio Dave, a bloke whose life story was nothing but shite and tragedy, but still cruised about, blagging tapes and having the dubious distinction of being the guy everybody knew but no one wanted to know (this awkward attempt at sincerity makes me sound like Anna Coren. Forgive me, Zombie Jesus....).
Dave was one of those guys who was never really going to fit in anywhere, but none the less, I've heard crazier shit come out of less damaged people and at the heart of it all, Dave was an o.k guy (once again I'll admit that about 20mins was my limit. After that one of us left)
A champion bot and an enterprising dude who sold music from various bags from corner to corner, He always carried a large Boom Box (as it was known before these accursed MP3 toys turned us all into selfish shits).
Indeed, if Dave wanted to flog some merch, he'd whack it in the tape player, give it a crank and we'd all enjoy the goodness (conditions apply. See Ramones for details).
Cash would change hands. The Taxation department could go fuck itself as I don't think Dave had any sort of ABN or even a last name that I knew of.
Big Guy. Too loud. Too awkward.
Shuffled off to the big street in the sky a few years back.
Before him there was a guy called Herman The German, who was another trench coated guy who just hobo'ed around, not really doing anything but smelling odd.
A fixture of my childhood Ballarat, I don't really know what he did.
Rumours abounded that he had everything from Nazi Gold to Phyllis Diller sewn into the mattress and that he chose to live in odd shambling poverty.
Of course, there wasn't and he didn't, but when he died the whole town turned out. Why? I dunno.
Guilt? A sort of weird pre-B-Brother celebrity reality before television?
Beats me. But He's gone too.
And now Bill Morrel.
I can't lie and say I didn't cross the street when I saw him coming up the road in the last year of his life.
Previously, I'd often stop and have a chat to the old bloke, but then one day he just gave up washing and eventually started exuding a uric odour that was like a Hyena trying to hump your face.
I couldn't hack it. I'm shit with smells. They just make me chuck.
But he's gone too. Poor bugger. (He looked awful before he died. Really bad.)
So.
Here's the ad you won't see down at Centrelink but none the less is hanging somewhere in the continuum, (or maybe on the City of Ballarat website) and is yet to be answered by the next strange candidate
Wanted.
Town Crazy.
Must be largely benign but obviously completely off chops.
Ability to politely/emphatically ramble to anyone who listens a plus.
Must have own clothe (pref. one set) and distinctive prop or icon (music player, large hat, trenchcoat etc.)
Duties include walking endless loops of Sturt St and staring into space.
Benefits include polite cafe owners, passing interest from humanitarian types and first name basis with staff at Base Hospital.
Experience with young yelling pricks helpful, but can be learnt on the job.
Chance of promotion non existent, but successful applicants will be provided with ample sun if it's a nice day.
Salary- Nuttin'
Apply - Sturt St C/o Any Lamppost.
Successful applicant will start immediately. We suppose. (Sort it out amongst yourselves).
All for now
Mick "Today Tonight is my Bitch" Dog
Monday, June 16, 2008
Peakin oil in Ballarat - the extended club mix
It's late. I'm almost out of petrol vouchers. Just time enough to push this downhill:
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