Canberra Rocks. Two words you will never hear.

canberra_feature

NEW York. They say if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. Which explains why I’m still here and in the last week have done gigs in Fawkner, Scoresby and Eildon. And why I spent today in Canberra. For work. No one comes to Canberra for fun, just porn, firecrackers and to see if the serves of beef stroganoff in the Parliament House canteen are as stingy as reported. After a day in Canberra I’ll no longer die wondering what it would feel like to be bound, gagged and trapped in a toilet with Wayne Swan. Don’t ask.

The alarm went off at 6am. I didn’t know that 6am existed. The only reason anyone should be up at that hour is if they are coming home from a rave dressed as Tinky Winky, giving birth or dying. On the 7.05am flight to Canberra I’d never seen such a miserable bunch of grey-suited trolls in my life. No one watched the safety demonstration. Everyone was praying the plane would go down and we’d all die. Which you kind of do when you arrive. Canberra’s slogan should be “Save the Airfare. Just Kill Yourself”.

Canberra’s a giant office. No one lives here. People just work here. It’s so squeaky clean and Truman Show-esque I spent the day fighting the urge to make with a spray can and defile the place with dick and balls. People in Canberra don’t have a sense of humour. Well, the ones I caught the taxi from the airport with didn’t. A cabbie pulled up to the rank and said, “Parliament House.” I was one of three randoms to jump in. The driver said, “Does everyone know what multi-faring is?” The other two grunted. I said, “Is it like group sex with cab vouchers?” No one laughed.

After checking out the “night life” and deciding there’d obviously been a biological attack and I was the only survivor, I returned to my hotel room and flicked on the tube. Nothing to watch. Apart from commercials for Magnet Mart and an ad for a store called Bing Lee to the tune of I Like Chinese.

When there’s nothing to watch, I switch to Channel Nine, pour a glass of wine and feel superior. I was sucked into homeMADE by the trendy typography and the name Chontelle. I’d love to tell you it’s a new show but it’s just every makeover show you’ve ever seen but worse, with less money and people who don’t even annoy you enough to hate. homeMADE may as well be called We’ve Given Up. You’ll Obviously Watch Anything. Now It’s Just a Dare.

Two groups of “hot designers” provide renovation porn as they “do up” suburban homes. There are budget blow-outs, spats, feature walls, deadline panics and horrible, horrible makeovers. It’s a great opportunity to see what’s hot in Bacchus Marsh interior design. If someone did that to my place I’d have them sent to Canberra for the term of their natural lives.

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