Election night at the Trades Hall bar

A perfect night. Could there be a more ecstatic place to be on election night than the beautiful old Trades Hall bar, where the faithful could feel free to scream profanities at the pleasing vision of a humiliated Howard on the big screen as the press administered his political last rites?
































I've just realised that there is a hard and fast formula to having a brilliant night out - remove all Liberal voters from the venue. Trades Hall is like one giant, pest-controlled sanctuary unblemished by that nasty breed, and as a result, true camaraderie flowed freely as we all danced and sang to the classics of the pre-Howard era - Billy Bragg, The Pixies, The Beastie Boys, The Smiths, Midnight Oil (screaming along to 'Beds Are Burning' was fun, but, disappointingly, there was no 'US Forces'!), Blur, The Clash - ecstatic on the drug of hope (and endless stubbies of Melbourne Draught). No sleazebags, no spiky-haired posers, no uptight Cosmopolitan drinkers, no plastic surgery or fake tans, no pushy, aggressive bogans, no hostility. Just a feeling of absolute joy and love for every other human being in the room.


















There were a few craggy old John Halfpenny/Bill Kelty looking union blokes; there were a lot of gorgeous, ecstatic bright young things who have never seen an ALP government while they have been of voting age; and then there were the troupers of a certain age, those of us who saved Keating in '93 only to see him fall to a man who was not fit to stitch his Armani suits at the following election, who cried with disappointment just as those before us had cried with recognition and those after with frustration through three elections where we hadn't managed to budge the rodent. A cross section of generations and communities all united and singing the words of 'Common People' by Pulp. Conservatives can't party like we do.

I haven't been that drunk, or stayed out that late, or danced that euphorically, or hugged that many strangers for many, many moons - since the days of my teens and twenties before the blight of Howard.

Now the hangover begins... both for me, and, potentially, for all who believe that things might be any different. There's so much for Kevin to prove, and so many doubts we all have about the man. But for one marvellous night, we danced on the spectre of 11 ugly years consigned to history.

More rage against... you guessed it - The Machine. *Parental Advisory on this one.

A list of ugly, useless places that peddle mind-numbing crap and/or are backed up by shady organisations just waiting to strip away your rights and/or turn Melbourne into dullsville:

Sexyland. Everytime I pass one of these on a highway out in the burbs, I want to smash its stupid displays and fuck its shit up. I don't object on moral grounds - I object because people are boring and tasteless and need plastic toys to express themselves sexually and don't seem to mind the dearth of other sorts of outlets that might cater to their other needs - like bookshops and stuff. I also think they're a monumental waste of flashing lights and PVC.

Gloria Jeans Coffee. Anyone noticed the Mercy Counselling (for young - read 'pregnant' - women in crisis) collection boxes they have the audacity to keep at the counter? It's a thinly kept secret that this company, with its lousy coffee, is bankrolled by some sort of shady anti-gay, anti-choice right-wing Christian organisation. I want to scream this at every sap who approaches their counter to buy something, and to slap the cups of coffee out of the hands of those who just have. The more mess and embarrassment this causes the better.

The BASTARDS who bought the irreplaceable Punters' Club and turned it into a fucking pizza joint; the same bastards who then bought the Duke of Windsor and turned it into... oh yeah, another pizza joint - the same pricks who are now planning to do the same thing to one of the last bastions of sticky carpet in Melbourne - the Tote. Does nobody care? Will nobody say anything until it is no longer possible to see live music in Melbourne but infinitely possible to eat cheap pizza? Who is letting these arseholes do this to our town? Why is there an endless parade of quasi-coolsies and fat pigs who just want to eat pizza and drink disgusting flavoured vodka? It is an established fact that they aim to target every last venue that means something to Melbournians, because they are trying to shore up the loyalty of the punters. People have very, very short memories. It breaks my heart.

Years ago, the local shopkeepers of Lygon Street used their combined weight to shut Macdonalds out of the precinct. Since then, a Starbucks and a Borders have appeared with nary a whisper. What has happened to people? Why isn't there more noise about this???

STOP GOING TO THESE PLACES PEOPLE!!! If you don't, the Northcote Social Club and the Espy will be next. And then, it will be possible to feed your fat, soul-less body full of pizza wherever you are, but there will be no more music - only endless Sexylands littering the highways for all your vacuum-packed requirements.


*Dear regular readership (three at last count) - the raging fury is obviously not directed at you. But if I don't take it out on the keyboard, I'm liable to tip a Gloria Jeans coffee over the head of the next bullfrog in a suit I see popping his spare change in their coffers.

This morning I am having a bit of a minor personal crisis. I did this test.

Weird isn't it? ...and of course, as anyone who has read my blog in the last few weeks could tell me, I am a left brainer. A rational, reality-based, facts and figures nerd. This has never been the case in the past and I'm starting to wonder how it has come about. Shows you what happens when you open a News Limited link - bad bad karma man... but I digress.

None of my recent posts have contained anything of myself in them - my personal political beliefs, yes, but nothing of my creative inner life, my relationships, my observations, my brain noodlings. I haven't intended this to be the case - like most of the other bloggers I read, I have found it near impossible to ignore the current big, fat, scary, future-determining battle to oust one bespectacled man and replace him with another. One of my real life friends, who, I bizarrely discovered, moves in these same blogging circles recently linked to me as a 'political blog'. This is not something I ever set out to do or be, but there you have it. It will be over soon.

What a sorry couple of days it's been for Victoria. Justin Madden, who obviously knows all about planning and the environment given his illustrious erstwhile career as an AFL player, has sold Port Phillip Bay up the river. Sorry for the crap, unintentional pun - nothing about this situation is funny, or hopeful.