The Show goes off to the calisthenics

It is now 6.30pm on a Sunday night and the final of the 14,458 events that make up the South Street competitions have finally ended. Just in time for the beginning of the Amateur Highland Brass Debating and Musical Interpretation for Organ Solo section to open, heralding the beginning of the next 18 months of South Street 2009.

We pause a moment to reflect on the grand institution of Ballarat's hallowed South Street competitions... where young women folk are told to stand up straight and not wince when the makeup shotgun gets pointed their way.

Show With No Name podcast November cleanout

And yes, it has been a bit weak in the pants with not putting up audio, and thankyou to the two guys in Creswick who found my email and sent the photos of their arses in respect for the creative process.

So anyway - let the good times roll and the deebs bounce.

Here's the stuff...



Part one, in which in which Lenny and Mick chew over the new Rollins rant, pick over the bones of the new Guns n Roses album Chinese Democracy, peer in trepidation at the latest sex film starring Gene Simmons and wonder why Ballarat Council is not supporting its posties with better, tougher motorbikes.

And after the halftime oranges:



In which Mick reveals the new cooking tips from Gordon Ramsay for Australia; Lenny explains how he's being assailed by bread products; the Vatican apologises to John Lennon for him saying God is a wanker and the lads discuss the Christmas bargains and fabulous entertainment yet to arrive upon our doorstep.

Slaughter on Sturt Street, or Bakery Hill Blues

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 representatives in the goolies.

The fleeting moments - so special. Seeing that awkward, bustling handshake between former Mayor Quimby and The Constable on WIN TV. It was all in the eyes... Good luck with the charges, Quimby... yeah - and the Constable was one of the very few from the Good Old Dick 'Cock Swingin' days of yore, when the money flowed free and it was about trade trips to India and Community Fact Finding trips to East Timor, who didn't get a bollocking.

Of being told by one of B-Town's fair citizens that it was Punchin' Jude Violin who was to thank for the 'monstrosity' on Bakery Hill, Australia's holiest of democratic turf... no, not the Mickey D's (which tends to find its way into every shot of the big Eureka flag on the roundabout)...the huge Gay Tent City store. That's Ballarat for ya.

Miss Desperate High School Musical Housewives got in, too - and she apparently used get all switchblade and West Side Story with Violin not long after joining the Party... makes 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...

And Dusty Ned from the Sex Pistols - who lost his seat but maybe kinda knew you can't become a mayor if you're a bankrupt, and um... who knows? Maybe you're ahead of the fashion and bankrupt elected officials will come into vogue, but... true to form he stayed on message, saying it was those fuckers who read the newspapers wuz wot got 'im in the end. And I agree.

Here's what the Ballarat City Council website has to say about the matter when you go looking for the new team...

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Page last updated: 28 November 2008, © City of Ballarat 2008

It's been a big week... and it's only Wednesday...

Happy Eureka Day, all you great Australian trouble makers