That’s simply offal

Bruce behaved himself last night, despite Fran’s fears he might succumb to fame haggery. She should have known better. After all, it was her who clasped her hands over her face in that gobsmacked manner when she spied smiley Gary Bourgignon at Taste Melbourne recently, not he, so why should an unexpected invite to spend the evening in the company of Masterchef Chris be any different. What’s more, in their own ways, Bruce and Chris have the same mission at heart: converting Aussies from the horrors of Carlton Draught to the wonders of good beer. And, when you’ve shared the Albert Hall stage with Wayne Coyne, there’s little to get starstruck about.

And so it transpired, Bruce the model of good manners while several other attendees at the Lort Smith Animal Hospital fundraiser posed for pics with fellow Mastercheffer Julia. He got to sample miniature versions of some of Chris’s dishes, with the salmon tartare, roast pig cheek with crackling, offal balls and duck neck sausages going down a treat. He won’t be hurrying back for bone marrow spring rolls, however.

Aside from supporting a good cause, eating new body parts and sampling some of the Courthouse Hotel’s fine range of Victorian craft beers, he got to see firsthand what Chris does when he’s not on TV or appearing in tabloid gossip column – the Beer Masons Beer Appreciation Society. The raffle’s first prize was a Beer Masons’ pack – a mixture of great beers from all over the world with a guide on how to enjoy them and become a true beer lover – and what a beautiful thing it was. It’s a great thing they’re doing and hopefully will help swell the growing tide of appreciation for proper beer rather than “yellow fizzy stuff” in Australia. After all, what better to wash down a mouthful of trotter than a gobful of exquisite ale?

The saviour of The Age?

It’s well documented that Fairfax, owner of The Age and Sydney Morning Herald among other things, has been struggling for some time. There’s even talk that those two papers might disappear with only their mastheads retained into the future. However, after Saturday night’s experience, Bruce and Fran believe there may yet be a solution: they just need to put the right man in charge.

For the time being, the right man appears to be wasting his time driving taxis around the CBD. Said man, complete with greasy mullet and forthright opinions (which should help the paper in its ongoing efforts to become more like the Hun), in the space of a ten minute journey displayed a knack for not only having his finger on the pulse but for finding snappy headlines. After a debate over the likelihood of Bruce and Fran’s Pies overcoming his Saints (the less said about this the better…) talk moved to CBD violence.

“It’s a load of rubbish,” he said when Fran rehashed the State Government / Police / media line on increasing troubles. “It’s no worse than it ever was.”

“Really?” said Fran. “So why is there so much being reported about it?”

“It’s a distraction. They want people to worry about something that isn’t there so they don’t pay attention to what’s really going on, like the way they’re treating taxi drivers in this city.”

He paused for effect.

“The headlines should be about the cuntsacks they’re doing to taxi drivers,” he explained.

With a tip and a wave, they sent him into the night and headed for yum cha enlightened. Give that man a job. What a way to start the week that would be:

“REVEALED: THE CUNTSACKS BEING DONE TO TAXI DRIVERS”

I’d buy it.

Smith Street never offered up that!

Rare are the times Bruce or Fran spend more than a minute on Smith Street without raising a smile or being stopped in their tracks by the extremes of humanity that parade there every day. They even know people who will travel there under the pretense that they’ve come for coffee when actually it’s just to be reminded how far the species has evolved (mutated) since crawling from the primordial gloop to the strains of Manu Chao.

Still, for every man carrying spray-painted rats on his shoulders, every dazzling old Mustang, every loon walking backwards while abusing the air in front of them, every member of the angry Village People tribute band that seems to call Collingwood home, it’s never coughed up a woman with a goatee, at least not in front of Bruce or Fran. So all praise to the East Brunswick Club, which last night presented them with a woman with not just a goatee, but a mightily impressive one too. In fact, she reminded them of an old American colleague of Bruce’s who liked to sport a rather thick version himself.

Truth be told, last night was a learning experience all round. Having got to know a couple of lesbians over the past few months – and forming a quiz team with them – they were invited to the Rosie Burgess Trio’s final Aussie gig before heading to tour the States. Being very openly lesbian and vegan (the band, not Bruce and Fran) they attracted a certain crowd. Now dykeling (or duckling as Fran prefers) has been added to vocabulary, Fran finally has an interest in sport having met the world’s number seven wheelchair tennis player (who hates sport – go figure…), they know what a faux chicken parma tastes like, Fran’s seen the Rosie Burgess Trio in various states of undress and they now understand that Smith Street by no means has all the answers.

In fact, after enjoying a thoroughly delightful set of bouncy, folksy numbers from the Trio, with Rosie’s beaming parents and her baby boy George sleeping in the arms of the other of his two mums, they learned that bearded and moustachioed ladies were quite commonplace around those parts. Fran, however, doesn’t really have the chin for it.

The day Eddie said “cunt” on telly

Given Bruce had never actually watched Millionaire Hot Seat quite why he agreed to be part of the audience is unclear. Perhaps it was the slim chance of being pulled from the crowd for the opportunity to win $1,000 / shame himself, although one lesson from today is that his lack of Australianism meant he would have been screwed over by the quizmasters’ obsession with Aussie colloquialisms in the early rounds: “A shag on a rock”; “You’ve got tickets on yourself” – you what? “Get fucked” he understands, but beyond that…

Anyway, having genned up on the format over a parma at the Fox on Sunday night, he rocked up at The Bridge for a pre-Channel 9 lunch and the warning: “The memo said no checked shirts”.

“There was a memo?” said a bemused Bruce.

“Something to do with the cameras not liking them,” said his fellow audience member, a veteran of Sale of the Century and Deal or No Deal and clearly someone who knew what he was talking about.

Saddened at seeing the prospects of returning to Collingwood a millionaire recede yet further, he plodded to join the line outside 9’s crumbling Richmond HQ: a collection of pimply media students, Pies fans desperate to bask in the presence of Chief Pie and the unemployed / unwashed (NB – the aforementioned categories did overlap) awaited. The sadness was soon multiplied when the forms were handed out regarding confidentiality.

“Are you connected to any of today’s contestants?” they read.

It meant only one thing: the contestants were already chosen; Bruce and friends had been dragged along under false pretenses. Rather than sit through five shows like obedient Pavlovian mutts with the prospect of one of them getting on the show they faced sitting through five shows like obedient Pavlovian mutts without any prospects whatsoever.

Once waved into the studio, things took a further turn for the worse. The warm up guy appeared, a former children’s television performer (apparently) now plumbing the depths of comedy with repetitive digs at the Kiwis in the crowd, references to his wife and slightly seedy chat up attempts with a ditzy blonde media student. And boy did he go on, encouraging us to practice the various forms of clapping, cheery and commiserating that would be required during filming while displaying a Greyfriar’s Bobby-like devotion to King Eddie.

Finally the pain ended (or at least took on a different form, somewhat like the effect of morphine on a burst appendix). The Clown moved off stage, the lights dropped and the audience erupted. Eddie appeared, started his spiel, stumbled over his words and the teleprompter stopped working. Genial Eddie wasn’t happy, indicating he might not be the sort of person you want to mess with, then disappeared. Take two went more smoothly, the contestants proved mostly useless and a guy walked away with $1,000.

The Clown’s promise of major prizes for audience members – which were later revealed to be $50 notes by a mountainous walking tragedy who has attended every Millionaire screening since day one (and received our raffle tickets out of thanks / pity) – weren’t enough to prevent plans to escape before the second show. They were foiled nonetheless as, barring time for a suit change for Eddie, there was no break. In the end, however, it was worth staying.

Between shoots, Eddie likes to take the mic from The Clown and banter with the audience. Here are three examples of what ensued:

“What’s going with you then, Snowy?” to an albino schoolkid.

“You can give it to him tonight” to the partner of a failed contestant from Sydney.

“An ammeter measures electric cunt. Er, current” to a female publican in a dazzling, sparkly – some might say electric – red blouse.

The first one set two of Bruce’s companions into fits of giggles while the second spread the fit to Bruce and his other companion, leaving all four doubled over trying to suppress snorts while a young woman attempted to win several thousand dollars like naughty schoolkids trying not to get caught in assembly. As for the third, well, it’ll be interesting to see if the producers manage to edit out the time Eddie said “cunt” on telly.

Is it wrong?

Never one to trouble himself with being up to date, on the ball, fingering pulses or any such thing, Bruce has fallen in love several aeons after the fact. Driving through town listening to the RRR signupathon yesterday, patiently waiting for the presenters to shut up and play some tunes, he was rewarded with a truly sublime track – a remix of Noiseworks “classic”* Reach Out (Touch Someone) by RRR presenter Faux Pas. Some follow up enquiries were in order and now Bruce awaits with baited breath the announcement of a live show or two.

Until then…

* Yes, those are fingers in the air speech marks