Story by Emmjay
Every New Year’s Eve, I ponder the enormously wasteful spectacle of the New Year’s Eve Fireworks display over Sydney Harbour. I think about how we are colluding in the sending of 6 tonnes worth of exploding air pollution over the magnificent Sydney Harbour Bridge and environs.
And I think about the huge cost of the fireworks that might otherwise pay for a bit of accommodation for Sydney’s homeless folk. Yes, yes, I get it – tourists will spend millions of their hard earned cash to crowd the foreshores to watch the same crap year after year after year. Fortunately this year, there’ll be some kind of allocation of paid perv spots, assiduously policed to make sure that the great unwashed and mostly tanked up masses play by the rules of Covid commerce.
But then… somebody has come up with the brilliant multi-functional use of skyrockets to send grandpa and grandma’s ashes into the inky near-blackness of a Sydney night sky – for distribution all over the Bridge and environs – and hopefully on the bonces of the nonces in attendance. Of course they wouldn’t do that, would they ? Sydney councils being what they are, I’m betting that an exceptionally low orbit arc for Nan and Pop might more likely end up over the municipal tip, or just outside the metro area. A shot into the hinterland, if you will.
The above photo is real ! Courtesy of the Marrickville Metro carpark. I put it down to somebody with a friend in the car sign-writing business watching too much Netflix.
For those of us insufficiently well-heeled to spit a bit of our ancestors into space, the final send-off might well be … light the blue touch paper, stand back and see off a rello … a few hundred feet up, up and away. Not with a whimper, but a bang – or a starburst or whatever. And heaven forbid if your Pop’s celestial vehicle is a fizzer.
The world we seem to be living in is bizarre beyond belief. You couldn’t make this shit up !
This year I am determined to not watch Jeremy Fernandez, Zan Rowe and Charlie Pickering pushing barrow-loads of faux mirth up a very steep hill, introducing B and C grade performers blasting it out in front of the Opera House. My resistance tank is empty. I just cannot face this again.
But in the spirit of camaraderie of the patrons and contributors to the Pig’s Arms, I wish you, one and all, a far less crappy 2022, a bucket of Pink Drink or Trotter’s Ale and immunity to whatever you need to be immune.
Stay tuned for our latest Pig-Tel development – Pig-Tel Bullshit Repellent.