Sydney Part Two:
Since Part One’s unmitigated succes, I’ve decided to continue most logically with a second part, entitled Part Two. In this detailed and well crafted essay, I’ll show you the Nightlife, Public Transport and Cemetries of Sydney, and convince you, in thirty seconds or less, to conduct a religious pilgrimage to Iran and convert to the ancient and most venerable faith of Zoroastrianism.
Sydney’s nightlife is famous for it’s exuberance, tenacity and excessive use of Rufalin. Much like Finland in the 1940 Winter War. Apart from Kangaroo mating and Ivan Milat, the first thing that the average person will think about when the term “Sydney nightlife” is mentioned is King’s Cross.
King’s Cross, also known as the Golden Mile, is a section of pubs, clubs and petting zoos, mostly running along Oxford Street in Sydney’s CBD. King’s Cross is famous for it’s drugs, prostitution, and bouncers recruited from various ethnic origins. A series chronicling King’s Cross in the ninties was produced that contained all three of these features in great abundance. I would say that the show contains more nudity than you can shake a stick it, but then again, I’m very good at shaking sticks.
In Australia's King's Cross, Platform Nine And Three Quarters Is Actually A "Massage Parlour"
I only passed briefly through King’s Cross, on a public bus, packed with half asleep, wide eyed bush kids from my Modern History class. A couple of locals gave me disdainful looks when I stood up and shouted “Hey, there’s my old house!”. My class mates either ignored me, acknowleged my statement politely, or commented on how “povo” my house looked. As a young impoverished socialist, I pointed out, I had no option but to live my life in the slums inhabited by my ancestors. But every had stopped listening by that point, so I just started playing with my phone.
Public transport in Sydney is slow, muggy, stinking of stale piss, cigarettes, and filled with foreigners. Also on the ferry you can get wet. The pampered decadent bourgeois of Western society might criticise these unique values and “digusting” but so is commercial radio. And starvation.
I for one like public transport in Sydney. The slowness means you have more than enough time to gawk at your fellow travellers, perhaps identifying potential serial killers, or chatting up people of indiscriminate gender (see King’s Cross). The mugginess allows a traveller to descend into a strange state of trance, where the aformentioned odors of piss and vomit enter one’s nostrils like prahna energy, changing brain wave patterns and opening previously unlocked corners of one’s mind. Several lucky folks have actually achieved Nirvana on inner city buses. The fact that they were mugged soon after did however somewhat mar the holy event. Nevermind.
Spot The Error!
But I hyperbolise! Public transport in Sydney is actually quite nice. You get to talk to and familiarise yourself with a variety of people you might not meet in ordinary life. A lot of good stories also come from public transport. Like how Darren from PR slipped over in a pool of Ouzo flavoured vomit last year and had to get stitches. Unfortunately the wound became gangrenous. Good times.
The perfect segue between these paragraphs would involve me saying that Darren died and had to go to a cemetery. I am however above these things. The next part of my post will concern cemeteries. Those cute little showgrounds of death and melancholia. There are lots of cemeteries in Sydney, and space is limited due to the city’s large population. People are practically dying to get in…
The biggest cemetery in Sydney is Rookwood. The Rookwood necropolis is home to one million people, most of whom are dead. Rookwood has it’s own postcard, and places cost so much, that only the most elite corpses can gain entry into its hallowed dirt. This lethal combination of features that means in the event of a zombie apocalypse would be one of the worst places to be in the Southern hemispheres. That of course depends if you’re dealing with a situation in which dead bodies come to life, or one where the living are infected. If the latter is true the worst place would probably be King’s Cross, where biting people and running around groaning are so common, that depending on the time of day, the outbreak probably wouldn’t be noticed.
The Tranquil Start of a Zombie Movie. (All Royalties To Wikipedia)
In conclusion. Nightlife, Public Transport and Cemeteries form an exceedingly vital part of the belonging felt by Sydneysiders to the urban environment and aides the capitalist system to exploit the individual. Nightlife provides a healthy distraction from the specialisation of labour symptomatic to capitalism as we know, while Cemeteries, now similar to an industry, provide a place to store the remains of the system’s discarded tool and facilitate in the decisively bourgeois and subversive “grieving process”. Public transport forms the last link in this unholy trinity, providing the means to ferry the lifeless worker to both Nightlife and his meaningless occupation, and then finally to his place of eternal rest. The cemetery. Truly the only way to end this endless cycle of oppression and listless destruction is a Zombie Apocalypse, in which the undead arise to create a classless, stateless and decidely equal society. The Decaying Worker’s State.