Barry
Humphries was mametic, memetic, mometic, mumetic, sorry mimetic. The choir
ladies of St Mark’s Camberwell didn’t have words for him, nice ones. He
transferred his animus, as mimetics do, to Moonee Ponds, the Camberwell of the
West. He was unforgiving and unforgiven. John Brack perceived Collins Street
the same, closing time a file of drab convention, chilly as July. The Yarra
may’ve been walled but Collins Street was still a Brackish backwater. Barry, on
the other hand, was a symphony of pink, a rattle of pearls, a hat of blue
roses. Later, Brack regretted. Who was he to judge?
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