Shot To The Heart

Last night at Trades Hall the party was like the worst bogan party I ever went to in 1995. Leith and I (and later Nat Hendry) danced anyway; we danced like idiots to The Offspring with communist girls wearing noserings; like we were in the Big Day Out Boiler Room to Fat Boy Slim with Greens candidate for the seat of Melbourne Adam Brandt; like we were mildly interested in all of humanity when they finally played The Clash. The party had a lot going against it, yet the fact that random people kept hugging me on the way to the bar, coupled with the overall sense of goodwill and non-sketchiness that Nat later reported on, meant that we stuck around til last call. It was like our football team had finally won the grand final, only this time, winning might actually affect us. So we danced.