I was in Sydney during the Berejiklian landside and the tyre burning that followed and I stayed in a cheap hotel with an italicized sign that read ‘love is love’ which is something Kylie Minogue said to Richard Wilkins during her 2018 boot-scooting tour.
It was March and I couldn’t sleep because of the autumn heat and the Oxford Street ambulances howling as they chased the client base from the nearby shooting gallery. I counted tiny Richard Wilkins in my head like red velvet sports jacket wearing sheep until I dozed off during his world exclusive with Delta Goodrem.
On Federal election eve I watched a Greens voter celebrate the impending victory by doing white lines off a red Stop Adani cornflute and the sudden rush as she started hyperventilating about the Adani convoy as a mainline into the bigoted veins of Hanson-Land or something. One month later and she’s clean but like any addict can’t really give it up. Screaming ‘Hallelujah!’ and asking for the superglue as we attach her face to the intersection at Swanston and Flinders right next to the chained vegetarian and the free-range ducks.
It’s a week since the Election Catastrophe and my fingers are bleeding like stigmata from tweeting. It’s not easy threatening to move to New Zealand in 250 or less characters when you’re pissed at a wedding. It’s hard to keep still in this agitated state, ‘fucking knuckle-dragging idiots….’ I type but lose interest before I hit send. My heart isn’t in it. I think of typing ‘love is love’ but realize Kylie said it first.
Bob Hawke died and this isn’t the thing I wanted to hear this beautiful Friday morning. I always thought I would go before he did and I always thought it would be Karl who would announce it maybe during a cooking segment but Karl is long gone from our screen hosting tequila parties for a depressed James Packer who keeps listening to his Mariah Carey Spotify list despite professional advice.
Existentialism 101: I’m no Jean-Paul Sartre but why is everyone in the hotel foyer running around with their crockery and French toast saying how great it was when Hawkie was around but then trying to make sure Hawkies can no longer exist?
During the election campaign, I was approached by people hanging around like prostitutes at the railway station and maybe some of them were prostitutes but it’s hard to tell these days when you’re half asleep and without a sustainable erection. They are all shiny and beautiful as they give out how-to-vote cards, their capped teeth radiating like they were manufactured in Chernobyl during filming of the Foxtel series, their orange T-shirts match their sun-lamped personalities and botoxed charisma. Many of them have successful careers in marketing or attend narcissism help groups.
I see Lisa Wilkinson has written a post-election letter to the nation. Lisa says she speaks for all Australians which is a strange thing to say for the highly paid host of a low rating television program that uses stand-up comedians for their political analysis. Maybe she is depressed. I shouldn’t judge – it’s not like I’m Waleed Aly.
Last week I met Generation Careful as they marched through the streets of Melbourne with packed lunches and notes from their parents. They are very disappointed by the result and want a responsible adult or Sally McManus to teach them karate.
Three am and I haven’t slept. It’s ScoMo time but its Albo who’s tucking me in and Nurse Kristina with the needle. I’ve taken pills and try to avoid the nagging doubts by counting cartwheeling Karl Stefanovics in my head.
Michael Scammell is an insomniac.
Got something to add? Join the discussion and comment below.