Sydney Festival 2010

Dear Sydney,

In the wake of what was another, amazing Sydney Festival; I have a special message for every Gen-Y Sydney Sider that crossed my path over the proceedings: “Fuck – you.”

You pretentious, arrogant, cultureless, uneducated bag of backward bogans! You are all responsible for fucking up just about every gig, film, show and sun-ray I attempted to enjoy over this year’s festival – and I have something special to say to each of you.

To the people who were swing dancing at Big Bad Voodoo Daddy,
For making my date give me that look like “Why don’t you dance like that?” – fuck you.

To the people who talked through Grizzly Bear,
You bandwagon hopping, scene swimming, Triple J stalking cum-stains. If you’re not into the band enough to shut the fuck up while they’re playing, then don’t come to the gig. Period. If you must be seen doing something cool, then grab your short-brimmed fedora, don your purple Cheap Mondays, then ride your fixed-gear-Deuce down to Side Plate and slit your wrists while downing your double ristretto.

To the members of Middle East who got sick,
Thank fuck you were too unwell to play that night. If you hadn’t pulled out; we all would have missed out on seeing Patrick Watson.

To the girls who got angry at me for pushing in during Patrick Watson,
I’m down with equality (so… fucking… down), but the next time you feel the urge to lecture me on proper crowd etiquette, understand that chivalry does not exist within 100 meters of a live band. And before you waggle your finger and squeal in my ear – know that I’ve back-handed men for less.

To the loud laughter at Six Characters Looking for an Author,
Yes, we all understand – you find stuff funny and you want us all to know it. However, have you ever stopped to think that the bits you’re laughing in, aren’t fucking funny? No one thinks you’re fucking intelligent just because you let out a 98db laugh at some minor witticism about existence. Secretly, we’re all thinking about how it would feel to grab you by the giggly neck and choke you ’til our knuckles cramp.

To the gossipers at the Spiegel Tent,
If I had things my way, each and every one of you would be water-boarded, slapped, fucked and burned; then posted on stakes along Hyde Park as a warning to other, potential gossip queens. I get to enjoy this ridiculous tent only a few days a year,  and my idea of good entertainment isn’t listening to the gaggle of you compete to see who was the biggest trash bag last night. I honestly hope you all get breast, cervix and tongue cancer.

To the boyfriend of the question asker who sat behind me at Oedipus Loves You,
Mate, instead of taking your girlfriend to another play, please consider taking her to community college.

To the short bloke at Breakestra who complained he couldn’t see,
I’m assuming that you didn’t get short over night, which means you’ve have quite some fucking time to come to grips with the fact that you are a short cunt. So please plan your evening so that you get a prime position. Ideally, somewhere the fuck away from me.

To the newbies on drugs at Becks Bar,
Every time I go drinking these days, I feel like an old sheepdog surrounded by tiny, tiny, terrier puppies. Just as I expect to be able to down a nice glass of red without being pestered by a sweaty eighteen year old wanting to play ‘Goon of Fortune’ I would love to be able to get high without being bugged and hugged by these newborn fuckwits who still have all their serotonin receptors left.

To the people who whinged about ‘Unprofessional Themes’ at Rogues Gallery,
You fucking retards. It was a pirate show featuring ex-drug addicts, sex-fiends and dried-out alcoholics; and you were expecting Andrew Lloyd Webber?

To the rest of Sydney (and the organisers),
What a brilliant year. See you at Tropfest.

All the best,
George Bannister