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?