Greetings from Miss Shitsville

Greetings and salutations my sweet readers and sycophants. Recent events have brought it to my attention that this blog has been sadly neglected of late. You might have imagined, being a dedicated reader, that I abandoned the thing when my life became utterly peaceful and pleasant and I had nothing left to bitch about. That is not so. One thing that I have learned trekking lonesome through this appalling world is that there is always stuff to bitch about, points to belabour, and – of course – that whenever you feel like you actually might possibly be starting to feel happy, there’s always some dick on the horizon just waiting to come along and fuck it all up for you. Trump or whoever.

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It’s another blue blue cloudless day as I sit up here in my rooftop garden looking down through the palms at the shabby figures in the street. It was about this time last year my cousin Frankie Shitsville and I moved into a new apartment together. This as you can imagine was a necessary move since I had solemnly sworn never to visit Shitsville Ranch again while my father Archie Shitsville lived there (or lived at all). The place we found was top floor of a glorious Art Deco apartment block, built on a corner, which in typical deco style has some bizarre sculpture on the front that looks like a radio antenna Frankenstein might have harnessed for his electrification experiments. We can see the city skyline above the green green green of two parks lined with old established trees; directly opposite are some fresh minted apartments in a pseudo-historical style – sloping slate roofs, arched windows, rows of chimneys (chimneys!) – vaguely reminiscent of the rows of white Regency houses you might see in London, all renting at over $1000 a week to doctors and lawyers and the well-dressed elderly who don’t see any contradiction in wearing bedroom slippers and pearls on their days out, or the fact that a row of genuinely old houses was no doubt demolished to make way for these sparkling, faux-ancient abodes for the dull faux-gentry. Looking right there is a railway bridge and a wall of Russian brutalist style, and a row of park benches where one likes to sit and sip and smoke and watch pedigree dogs cavort through the blue shadows and autumnal leaves.

Two blocks up there is what Frankie informs me is a world famous icon in sport, and signs pointing every which way attempting to engage my interest in visiting something called the MUSEUM OF SPORT (shudder); in fact it’s so world-famous that red double-decker buses trundle round my apartment block every half hour thirty-six times a day. The recorded lecture drifts up to me as I smoke on my balcony looking across at the faux-chimneys. Often I notice the tourists craning their little heads to peer up at me in my finery and disdain before the bus mows on. I suppose they imagine they are getting a glimpse of local colour. But God only knows what the world would be if I was truly representative of the population.

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