OH BABY BAY, IT'S A WEIRD MADCHESTER PARTY EVERY NIGHT WORLD 

 (Dr Pullen is Professor of Advanced Psychotronics at the International Jim Jones Mail Order University and the shameless inventor of the worlds first clip on, "no frills", liposuction attachment for the family Electrolux.)



LIFE, they say, is fraught with the scent of its own bitter irony of which the stench of death is perhaps the most ironical twist of all. Yes, even Madonna, for all her glamour and success and incredible wealth will be one day but a mere mouldy skeleton, slowly decomposing in hey own customised Iint free crypt no better, or indeed no worse than any other old bag of bones. Here at the Jim Jones University, burdened as we are with the problems of eliminating the Bogong moth, we like to take time out to dwell on some of life's more bitter ironies.

ONLY the other day, as I began to fry yet another wretched Bogong over the bunsen burner, somebody remarked (with just the faint hint of a chuckle) on the plight of Sydney's groovier night clubs.

"IRONICAL isn't it;" they proclaimed. "Remember the days when these clubs rigidly enfored just who they wanted to let through their hallowed doors. Hell if you were Aboriginal or horribly disfigured or not suitable to have your photograph splashed across the pages of 3D, there was no way you could pass the security of the style enforcer."

"HEY, what was that awfully elite businessman's club in Melbourne that for many years never allowed Jews to join?" I quickly joined in, as our learned gathering searched for new analogies to explain the indignity of it all.

"WELL it really was the worse kind of cultural apartheid;' I added. "I mean Nelson Mandela would have been knocked back for not wearing Doc Martens. And most of those respon sible for the style enforcement would easily find jobs policing the now private swimming clubs of Capetown and Johannesberg:"  

SUDDENLY there was along pause in the conversation. All at once I could feel a simmering undercurrent of near hysterical laughter followed by what seemed like an explosion of atomic proportions. No, we hadn't blowup the goddam lab. We had merely trig gered the biggest chuckle bomb this side of o Lenny Henry concert.

TEARS bubbled from our eyes. Our bodies literally shook with mirth and we had great difficulty in containing the contents of our bladders. With all the clarity, the infallible logic and the sheer scientific beauty of the most tested equation, we had stumbled on one of the greatest ironies of these troubled times.

YOU see, for a number of years the groovy nightclubs took almost a perverse delight in turning people away. Their prevailing ethos was indeed sacrosanct and to allow anybody into their tacky confines who might violate that cool (particularly by their appearance alone) was tanta mount to having opal sex with a giant clam. Now, in these savage times of the unrelenting economic crunch, the bitterest irony of them all has been laid ever so obviously at the feet of these evil style enforcers.  

NOBODY wants to come in at all! Get it. I'II repeat, nobody wants to come in at all! And try as hard as they can the remaining groovy nightclubs can't even attract the people they once took great delight in turning away. And as the nightclub barons cry tears of blood into their overpriced Coronas, lamenting the fact that "nobody is going out these days'; here at the good old Jim Jones University all we can do is roar with laughter as the Iiquidators move in.

MEANWHILE we have managed to package a cheap, ozone friendly, aerospray repellent that is guaranteed to blind a Bogong at up to thirty metres. The poor demented creature then flies around in what appears to be absolute darkness, crashing into all manner of nasty objects and finally collapsing in a bloody heap on the empty, strobe lit dance floor.