WHEN Silly editrix Amanda Wilson was shown the door some
weeks ago, hope soared that the newspaper’s in-house chapter of UOOO -- the Union
of Overpromoted Ovary Owners -- would shed a memberette or two. Surely, it could only be the bonds of sisterhood
that had sustained the thick ranks of giddy gals at Fairfax World HQ, for how
else to explain the likes of blonde economics writer Jessica Irvine, cut-and-paster
A Dill Horin and the mystery of pretentious incoherence that is Betty Farrelly? Alas, several weeks have passed and each member of the trio continues to give
womankind’s intelligence a bad name, Farrelly yesterday breaking fresh ground
in the quest to write the
most obnoxious and patronising drivel
about those not blessed to reside, as does she, in the inner city. Her
opportunity to do so arises from the NSW government’s decision to make some
changes to the way it operates its archives.
Apparently, up until recently, there was a reading room at
The Rocks, where sensitive souls like Farrelly could poke about in the past
without having to leave their urban comfort zones. How the reading room
operated is a mystery to a Victorian, but one images that visitors would
request records and have them couriered into town. If this surmise is wrong,
readers are invited to set a Bunyip straight.
Those records are now available only in the suburb of
Kingswood, near Penrith, and Farrelly does not like it one bit. Here is how she
describes her visit to the suburb, where one guesses she held her nose with one
hand while shielding her sophisticate’s eyes with the other:
Kingswood, five minutes short of Penrith, is a place less forgotten than forgetting. Not to be confused with the Holden of the same name, though of roughly that era, it comprises dozens of lookalike orange-brick bungalows of no particular distinction or offence, neither loose nor organised, untrammelled by any apparent cognisance of either past or future.
How many bong hits
went into paragraph? Whatever the number of cones, memories of her Kingwood
safari clearly ruined Betty’s buzz, as she won’t let up about the “synchronous
barrens” that is Kingswood, which seems an unfair description of homes like these.
Modestly priced, yes they are, but not without their charms – one of which is
the fact that, sooner or later, the locale’s scorned residents are going to
turf out local MP, Labor up-and-comer David Bradbury, on his ear. Gillard’s mob
hold the seat of Lindsay by just two-and-a-bit points, so Bradbury’s fate is sealed.
And that is the difference between Babbling Betty and the
little people she so contemptuously dismisses. They are smart enough to
recognise a loser when they see one. Sadly, the Silly has yet to acquire the
same nous.
