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Nothing – absolutely nothing – happens in Western Australia.
It’s boring.
It’s so boring that most of us spend much of the year saving money to get out of the place (half of Perth seems to be in Europe right now).
Did we really notice any difference during lockdown?
And that, dear reader, is a good thing.
Things that make us go “Ooh!“: it doesn’t take much to thrill us and that is a good thing.Credit: iStock
While the rest of the world grapples with major problems – economic turbulence, political chaos, social disruption, one natural disaster after the next – our lives are as stable as the price of iron ore, as predictable as the Fremantle Doctor and as certain as Lord Mayor Basil Zempilas keeping his job after the upcoming election.
“May you live in interesting times,” goes the ancient Chinese curse that in no way afflicts us.
It’s little wonder that when a barnacle-encrusted cylinder washed up on our coastline the media stopped talking about the Barbie movie and started breathlessly speculating on what it was and where it came from. Our readers couldn’t stop clicking on the stories.
While the Northern Hemisphere is seeing such extreme temperatures I’m sure I caught a glimpse of the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse sunning themselves on the Cote d’Azur, we are obsessing over a piece of detritus as if worthy of kicking off a Stanley Kubrick movie (cue Thus Spake Zarathustra).
In the same year the world was enthralled with 2001: A Space Odyssey all we could talk about was a modestly sized earthquake centred on the Wheatbelt town of Meckering that had me and my primary school friends looking at each other with wonderment and joy. At last something was happening, even if it did involve death and destruction.
Actually, in typical Western Australian fashion there were no deaths, the destruction was minimal and the bump that was left at the Canning Bridge end of the Kwinana Freeway was an enormous source of delight for kids being tossed around in the backs of cars bouncing over it (in WA even the bad stuff turns out to be good).
A decade later I was so desperate to get out of a place that counted the opening of El Caballo Blanco as a major cultural event I moved to London to soak up all it had to offer.
A hunk of junk: A piece of the Skylab was part of the ill-fated 1979 Miss Universe at the Perth Entertainment Centre,Credit: National Archives of Australia NAA: A6135, K19/7/79/2
When news of what was happening in Perth finally came through I was so embarrassed I was tempted to throw myself at the mercy of the British government and ask for asylum.
NASA had blown up the ageing Skylab, with several pieces unexpectedly surviving the tumble to Earth and ending up scattered across the state.
Everyone was so enthralled at WA being fortunate enough to catch the debris that the organisers of the Miss Universe contest, which was being held at the Perth Entertainment Centre, displayed a piece of the Skylab on stage alongside the contestants and guest Donnie Osmond.
However, celebrating a piece of space junk wasn’t embarrassing enough for a state with an endless capacity for cringe: the Entertainment Centre’s stage collapsed, sending a bevvy of ballgown-wearing beauties tumbling into a hole and those awkward images beamed to 700 million viewers around the world.
I was desperate for something to happen in Perth, but did we really want to be known as the place where we couldn’t build a stage that would safely support a group of impossibly thin women? It wasn’t like they’d all been stuffing themselves with Krispy Kreme doughnuts, which happens to be next in my list of non-sensations.
For years Western Australians returning from the East Coast landed with boxes of Krispy Kremes as we had no local outlet (I too am guilty of being a Krispy Kremes mule and feeding the addiction of my children, who in years to come could sue me for endangering their well-being).
Then in 2014 Krispy Kreme opened its first store in Whitfords and the people of Perth went nuts (with extra sprinkles).
It’s here! The arrival of Krispy Kreem had Perth doughnut fans camping out over night.
Dozens camped outside for the privilege of getting the first bite of the locally baked version, 100 staff were put on to handle the rush and a brass band was brought in to entertain the salivating mob.
Over 73,000 doughnuts were sold between 9.30am and midnight – a world record, according to news reports, but not one you’ll find celebrated on WA Health pamphlets.
Who needs a visit by the Berlin Philharmonic or to be selected to host to the World Economic Forum or secure a Taylor Swift concert? We have now four Krispy Kreme outlets in Perth – classy! – and we are providing GPs and heart specialists with plenty of business.
Loosen your belts, Perth, and take a bow!
Perth’s desperation for an event to shake up our pleasingly dull lives hit a new high in 2017 when 20,000 people made the trek out to Perth Airport to watch the arrival of the world’s biggest plane, the Antonov An-225 Mriya.
“Thousands of people peered through barbed wire fences as if waiting for the second coming or some galactic prophet to pass on his or her infinite wisdom. Motorists literally abandoned their cars on the side of Tonkin and Great Eastern highways leading into the airport,” wrote an incredulous Brendan Foster for WAtoday.
“When the Antonov finally came into view just before midday, I expected some revelatory moment to render me catatonic, and I would collapse to my knees and instantly become converted to the church of plane spotters. Instead, the plane looked like an obese angel, drunkenly wobbling its way to a kebab shop.”
Despite the disappointment over the visitation of the Antonov the thrill-starved folks of Perth were once again sucked into looking to the sky salvation when thousands obeyed the orders of a PR agency and line the foreshore to watch Singapore Airlines plane cruise above the city.
Perth plane spotters were out in force to get a glimpse of the Antonov An-225 Mriya.Credit: Brendan Foster
“Perth pauses for plane flying lower than usual,” wrote my WAtoday colleagues Heather McNeill and James Mooney.
Those who weren’t looking up at the sky for awe-inspiring arrivals were staring down at a seal dubbed Steven Sealberg who caused a traffic jam in Sorrento while making its way to the ocean. Now if Steven Sealberg was on motorcycle like Tom Crustacean in the latest Mission: Impossible I might be interested, but not a seal lolling on the beach like he’d eaten 72,000 Krispy Kremes.
But this is Western Australia and nature rarely delivers the on the spectacle it promises, which is what happened when Cyclone Ilsa wandered off course and reneged on her promise wreak havoc across the North-West. We watched and waited and hung on every ominous report, of which I wrote one or two, only to wake up to pictures of a single wrecked roadhouse.
Finally, there is the great culinary battle of 2023, which involves not a fight for a Michelin star or pushback against a review from WAtoday’s taste-making titan Rob Broadfield but a meat-loving cook and an attention-hogging vegan.
Their spat has gripped the Perth media for the past few weeks.
We’re all gobbling up the footage of activist Tash Peterson pushing her way into a restaurant demanding to be served (like she’s going to sit down and eat a salad amongst all those carnivores) and John Mountain and staff confronting the protestors as if they were on the battle lines in Paris.
It’s wonderfully entertaining, totally trivial and just how I want Perth to be.
As predictably bland as a veggie burger.
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