It’s 2046 and it’s my job to entertain the rat-children whose parents are stabbing each other with sharpened cricket bats in the fighting pits of Neo-Melville. I have made a crude Craig Reucassel puppet out of a broken lamp and am riffing on the price of gas masks. One of the children pipes up with “tell us the tale of Nanette again!”. For the first time since we ate Peter Helliar for sustenance, I weep.
This is the future of Australian comedy. It’s bleak.