Reasons you will hate me

Things about writers.

Last night I went to the Australian Writers Guild Awards. They were held at the beautiful Regent Theatre ballroom so everyone could pretend they were sex-kittens at the Oscars instead of drunken scribes with their flies undone. Here are some things that happened:


- No Bob!
Bob Ellis can usually be counted on to rock up when there's free liquor and lady-writer cleavage. But he wasn't there. Nor was his wife. I know this because I obsessively and somewhat creepily scoped the table settings list, looking for their names. The most famous person there in my eyes was John Safran , but he doesn't count as intimidating because we almost kissed each other a couple of times in the past and I totally know him. Do you love how I threw in that casual anecdote to impress you? In more horrific truth-telling, I have also pashed Rove . For which I am truly sorry.


- Crazy wine guy!
It is kind of weird to be mid-sparkling anecdote and turn to find the wine waiter bent almost double to be at eye level with you about three inches from your face. He was like Lurch from the Addams Family but with more alcohol and a vaguely psychotic air. We grew slightly addicted to the way he exhaled wetly in your ear before whispering: 'More wine, madame?' So we took his photo and tried to touch his bottom. Precious memories.


- Blog stalker!
A man ran up to me. He was wearing bright red lipstick. 'Oh good,' I thought mildly, 'A roving street performer sent over to entertain table 16.' Then he grabbed me by the head and planted an enormous red kiss on my cheek. Then he took my hand in his. Then he winked rakishly. Then he leaned in close to me and said meaningfully: 'That's from Red Betty Black '. Then he ran away from the table, wiping the lipstick from his lips.
My friends were both stunned, impressed and appalled when I turned to them with wide eyes saying: 'I think I just got blog-stalked from Sydney.*'


- Bron-Bron!
WHY. THE. FUCK. WAS. BRONWYN. BISHOP. AT. THE. AWGIE. AWARDS??
And why the fuck did my fellow writers enthusiastically applaud when her name was mentioned? You'd at least imagine that in a room of scribes you'd be surrounded by rabid left-wingers. Was I the only one who booed and hollered?
She was at table six. I made my plans to go up to her and at least tell her that I'd much prefer it if she died. Perhaps I would also do a headbutt. Then my friends became suddenly and wholly intoxicated and started heckling the winner of Best Documentary and I had to get them the fuck out of there and steer them in the direction of the Sleepy Jackson gig at Hi-Fi. I know this sounds kind of gay but when you're surrounded by work colleagues and the people you're with start to make loud and obnoxious jokes about Electric Convulsion Therapy, you're best off elsewhere.




It was a weird night for many reasons. I was not nominated this year so I was not that interested in proceedings. I more wanted to go home and look at my Jesus light.





*But I see RBB's stalking and raise her. She is fucking dead with the knowledge I now have at my disposal. And by 'dead' I mean 'alive', for obvious legal reasons.




22 days til Gabi comes home.
1082 days til the next election.

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