The Hobart Chronicles XXXVI: Beautiful People

Beautiful people
They haven't really much to say
- Australian Crawl, Beautiful People, 1980

What a performance
What a cheap tent show
- Australian Crawl, The Boys Light Up, 1980

There is something both satisfying and disturbing about having a set of inner - and irrational - prejudices confirmed as true.

I've decamped from Slobart temporarily, to make a flying visit to the Gold Coast for a friend's wedding* (and to try to forget that on Tuesday I have six outdoor broadcasts. As you can see, that bit didn't work.)

Anyway, it's been roughly a decade since I was last at the Gold Coast, and really I don't remember a lot about that trip except that the place seemed to be as hideous as any black-clad Melbournite might expect. (And I ended up having to ditch the 5-star accommodation for a hospital - but that's another story).

An infinitely more tolerant and enlightened individual these days (ahem) I truly hoped I might appreciate the place from a whole new perspective this weekend.

Here's what I saw within half an hour of arriving: no less than THREE people wearing white shorts and gold sandals. Uh huh. It's the new white-shoe brigade.

And really, you just can't get away from that stuff. It's as though the place attracts the in-yer-face crowd of all ages like a Narre Warren piss-up attracts hooded bogans. In fact, I think it's the same crowd up here, on holiday. Tattoos, bad hair with product, tattoos, stupid sunglasses and more tattoos. LagerlargerlargerSHOUTING. It's bound to provoke a range of reactions in right-thinking people; in me, disgust is quickly followed by a desire to dispense a good smack in the head. Shame it's illegal. Adding to the clamour is the drone of construction, as perfectly serviceable establishments are razed and replaced by multi-story horrors, all the better to feed off the annual Schoolies debacle I suppose. I passed at least four active construction sites within a block of Cavill Ave, so it's on for young and old.

Perhaps my least favourite moment this afternoon was seeing a large, black, stretch HumVee. I had no idea such abominations existed, and I had to do a double-take to ensure I hadn't imagined it, which of course is exactly what the damned thing is designed to do. No doubt the insufferable occupants thought I was ogling them with envy. I could kick myself.

How did it happen? The place has every redeeming natural feature: golden sand, warm sea, a climate to die for - mild temperatures, a bright sunrise, endless sunshine and beautiful sunsets.

So I wandered down to the beach for a short while this afternoon to try to find some of that Gold Coast magic. I sat upon an unoccupied spot on the sand, pulled out the weekend magazine and read for a little while. Mind cleared, I looked up and gazed into the middle distance. There before me stretched a glittering vista: a wide variety of adults and children playing happily in the waves, the sails of dozens of para-surfers weaving in a colourful dance overhead. Close by, a family of overseas tourists forgot their uncomfortable formal clothing and splashed in the shallows, collecting seashells in a bucket. A determined surfer struggled in the sloppy waves, and a girl nearby read a book while a veiled matriarch lifted her modest long skirts to wash the sand from her feet. It was enough to make the hardest heart sing.

Then suddenly I felt a little chilled. Why did it all go dim? I looked around, and sure enough, the hotel towers were casting their inevitable pall, throwing the entire beach into shadow. It was just half-past three.


* yes, I know Gold Coasters, but it really was a quick visit, no time for pleasantries, so don't email me any abuse, okay? Next time we'll catch up, I promise.