Fanatical Sydney-sider Stephen Corby dumps on Melbourne like a, well, like a Melbourne Winter. Stand well clear.
Picture a sagging, hairy-chinned chubby woman, wearing enough makeup to coat the surface of the moon and hosting a particularly vile collection of venereal diseases, plus pink eye and gingivitis, and you’ve pretty much created a personification of the shitty city that is Melbourne.
Here, clearly, is a city past whatever best it probably never had, a city that tries far too hard because it’s older yet vastly prettier sister, a leggy, lusty model who still struts the global stage by the name of Sydney, puts it so deeply in the shade.
Look! All of our freeways have colourful bits of plastic on them! It’s like street-art installation wankery! We think we’re Barcelona!
Melbourne’s architecture is a horrific hodgepodge of appalling apartment buildings, each trying to be funkier and slashier than the one next door, and its tallest building, the one with a name so uninspiring I can’t even remember it, nor be bothered to Google it, somehow manages to look short and uninspiring all at once. And like a broken crutch.
The skyline has no grandeur, and God knows it needs it because it might distract you from the sky, which is almost universally the colour of pants. Grey, miserable school uniform pants to be specific.
People joke about Melbourne’s weather, but it’s not funny, it’s just woeful, and sad and fucked up.
It’s an urban myth that dentists have the highest rate of suicide – why would they, charging what they do – because the highest recorded rate in the world is in the Bureau of Meteorology’s Melbourne office. Predicting the weather in this blighted bastard of a place must be harder than juggling polar bears. And every time they tip a sunny day, it rains, then hails, then shines, then blows. Mostly, though, it just blows. And is cold. Except in January when it’s hotter than an autoclave.
I’m forced to go there a lot for work and I can honestly say I’ve never visited and not been rained on. And frozen, even in summer. Living there must be really bad for your health, and clearly it drives people insane because all the locals are so barracking, bollocking proud of their crappy city.
They’ll tell you that it’s the world’s most livable city, an award clearly voted for by cyclists who love the fact that Melbourne is flatter than Greek interest rates. They’ll bang on about how Sydney actually gets more rainfall annually, a “fact” they all seem to know but which sounds like utter bullshit.
If it is true, it’s because Sydney has proper, manly rain, while the daily dribble of pisscipitation in Melbourne is like those stray drops of wee you shake off your penis at the end of a stream of micturition. Pissy, pathetic mizzle.
Melbourners are so deluded they think the word “beach” applies to any kind of sand found near any kind of water — like their sweaty-sock-smelling Port Phillip Bay. The playground in my street has a sandpit and a bubbler, does that make it a beach?
All Melbourne cab drivers are assholes, but you have to be lucky to even cop their abuse, because there are no stinking cabs. And don’t try and drive yourself, because the rash of speed cameras they’ve given themselves up to make it a hell hole to traverse, with everyone driving like they fear being shot if they traverse the limit by even a tidge. Considering the reputation of the Victorian Police, they probably will be.
Sure, there are worse cities in the world — Auckland makes Melbourne look like New York for a start — but there isn’t a single one that’s so annoyingly deluded about itself.
I vote we bulldoze the whole place, shoot all its skivvied hipsters and start again.
Who’s with me?