Australia Day: miss the start, miss the end

Well that was Australia Day 2014 and it passed in a pleasant haze of vodka lime and soda because someone told me you don’t get hangovers.

‘All that soda keeps you hydrated,’ someone said with the authority of a medico, or someone who’d done it before.

‘What about all that vodka?’ I should have asked. And also ‘ Do we really need a third bottle of vodka?’ And ‘ Why the hell is the bottle shop open on this most sacred of goon days?’ And possibly ‘Why can’t I feel my legs?’ before I tried to stand up at the end of it all.

But the day is done and the hangover put to bed. Our houseguests have continued on their way to Weipa which is nearly as far North as they can go in our wide brown land before they arrive in Papua New Guinea. He’s a diesel mechanic heading for the mines, unemployed, and she’s my wonderful niece, unemployed, on a year of adventure. Or two.

Or until a bad argument in a room with no air-conditioning.

And the blog begins, and the year to colour it in. My partner Wallington has started with bright pencils. She bought a red ukulele after seeing Amanda Palmer at the Sydney Festival last week and a few days later she bought a mannequin born in the 40s, we reckon. A ukelady!


I’m feeling for all the Australian hipsters now that climate change has turned the thermostat up to 40 here in Australia. There’s the beard and the beret and the artful small backpack, the sunglasses but no shade. I predict this summer will be the first to set a hipster’s beard on fire, just the heat. No bright spark or worthy cause. Do hipsters feel pain?

I don’t think so. And in a beard no-one can hear you scream.

Meanwhile our national broadsheet – curiously named The Old American – continues to publish the tripe of climate denialists as if ignorance is science, and bliss. White, sunburnt, mad, selfish old men the lot of them. Shrilling to themselves.


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