Month: February 2016

Deck the halls with boughs of folly

I was delighted to hear that students at the University of Cape Town were burning paintings last week. I have been wanting to do this ever since my art teacher gave me an F for a heavily stylised depiction of my, well, we needn’t go into details. I deserved at least a B+.

Art is responsible for so many terrible things in this world. World War Two, for instance, was a direct consequence of Hitler being a frustrated artist. “Nobody understands my art! Ich habe genug gehabt! Mutter, wo sind meine Unterhose? I am invading Poland in the morning!”

The paintings were ripped from the unsmiling walls of Fuller Hall, Smuts Hall and Jameson Hall. What’s with all these halls? Halls must fall. I admit to never having been inside UCT. I walked in the grounds once late at night, thinking I was in Kirstenbosch Gardens, and haven’t been back since.

Truth is, I’m a little disappointed that nobody thought to do a painting of the students burning paintings and then burn that painting while painting another painting of that painting burning. That’s what I would call art.

At least nobody was burning books. They often don’t catch alight properly, especially the thick ones, and there is nothing worse than a half-burnt book. Now, if you want to talk about oil paintings, those babies really go up. Rookies sometimes try to burn watercolours. Shame. They have so much to learn.

Quite frankly, I am in favour of all art being destroyed. This should preferably be done by the artist the moment he or she has finished creating it. This would save us from getting petrol on our hands and … no, wait. If the artist destroys his own work, that becomes a statement of its own. And statements are art. Well, not the statements issued by the ANC Youth League, obviously. Gibberish can never be art, unless you are a gibber, in which case you should worry more about improving your standing in a society where gibbers are taken less than seriously.

I went to Paris in my early twenties and wandered into the Louvre hoping to buy some cigarettes and a beer. From the outside it looked like an old hotel. Eventually the French had to put up a giant glass pyramid in front to indicate that this was an art gallery and not some sort of maison de mauvaise réputation for impoverished tourists.

Anyway, I ended up standing in a queue for what felt like hours. Knowing how much the French love their wine and fags, it didn’t surprise me in the slightest. What did surprise me was to get to the front and instead of finding a bisexual maître d’hôtel waiting to take my order, I was confronted by a smirking tart called Mona. She was of no use to me or anyone else. Who cares that she was painted by Leonardo di Caprio three thousand years ago? They’re all dead. Most of my morning had been squandered and I was still no closer to a beer or a cigarette. Of course I was angry. Anyone would have been. Well, maybe not the idiots who wasted half their day queueing up to look at a stupid picture of some French chick not even wearing makeup or showing her boobies. No wonder they lost the war.

That’s why I think it’s a good thing the students are burning paintings at UCT. Art doesn’t make you drunk or high. I can’t see the point of it. Statues are the worst. They actually take up space where real people could be standing.

After Paris I went to Florence. I was hitchhiking and didn’t care where I was going. If someone picked me up, I’d go wherever they were going. Some Italian pervert picked me up in a Jeep and said he was going to see Florence. I asked if she had a sister but he pretended not to know what I was talking about. That’s the Italians for you. The city itself was rubbish. Too old, for a start. And you could barely walk for fountains and statues.

There was this one dude called David carved out of some kind of rock by Michael-someone-or-other. He had his willy out right there in the open. David, not Michael. I reckon Michael is probably dead by now. Or living in Benidorm. Same thing.

People say you shouldn’t burn pictures of dead white people because they represent history. I say that’s exactly why you should burn them. History is more evil than Creationism and madder than Scientology. It shouldn’t be taught in our schools. Having to learn history is like having to talk about yesterday the whole time. I don’t care what happened yesterday, and I’m not just saying that because I can’t remember what happened. Terrible things took place in history and the whole filthy business is best forgotten. We should start every day as if we’re seeing and hearing everything for the very first time, like Alzheimer’s patients do.

Lying in the bonfire of last week’s vanities was a bronze plaque of Jan Smuts. He was either a hero or a traitor, depending on who you talk to. I have no intention of ever talking to anyone who knows anything about Jan Smuts. I do, however, think his plaque should have been melted down and beaten into tiny swords and distributed among the protestors. They could then symbolically stab university management without inflicting anything more serious than a scratch. Guns could also be redesigned to fire foam bullets, like NERF guns, causing little more than a light bruise. I think I just solved the problem of violent crime and it seems likely that if I pursue this, I will be in line for a Nobel Peace Prize. Then again, FW de Klerk got one so maybe I won’t.

The good news is that an online site called Joy Digital is calling on Christians to “pray for our nation, pray for our students and future leaders, and pray for the protestors”. To be honest, I prefer religions that don’t simply pray for absolutely everyone. I like the ones that say, “Don’t pray for that lot, because they’re utter bastards.”

They also said, “UCT has coined the name ‘Sodom on the Hill’ as it is filled with sin and debauchery, and many sins of the fathers have been passed down.” UCT coined the name? It seems unlikely. In a burst of defiance that would’ve made Jesus proud, they said, “We cannot turn our backs on UCT and return to our Christian bubbles. We need to be informed and involved.” Is this a threat? I can’t tell. To be on the safe side, it’s probably best you all go back to your bubbles.

The students also erected a tin shanty with en suite portaloo at the bottom of the Jameson Steps, which are well on their way to resembling the Eastern European Steppes. The point they were making was that white students were getting preferential treatment when it came to accommodation.

Vice-chancellor Max Price, going greyer by the minute, told reporters there are 6 800 beds in the universities residences. “Over 75% are currently occupied by black students.” I’d be interested to know what percentage make it out of the beds and into lectures on any given day.

Price needs to toughen up. He needs to come steaming into his parking bay in a jet black Ford Mustang with 375 horses under the hood and a blood-red boot-mounted spoiler. The first thing the protestors see when he opens the heavy door and slowly steps out is a pair of steel-capped crocodile skin boots. His sealskin pants are tight – not gay tight, but tight so he can kick people in the face. He is bare-chested. In one studded gloved hand is a briefcase. In the other, a World War Two flamethrower left to him by his grandfather, whose portrait is now just a pile of ashes blowing across the M3. Mad Max – The Final Chapter.

A word for those Rhodes Must Fall oiks. In the last five years, 95 000 whites have left South Africa. That’s an average of 50 a day. I know it’s not happening fast enough, comrades, but be patient. One day there will be nothing left to burn and nobody left to blame.


An open letter to Donald Trump

Hey Donald!

Or should I call you President Trump? It certainly has a magnificent ring to it. Magnificent, obviously, in the way that a tornado heading for a redneck trailer park in, say, Texas, is magnificent. On second thoughts, president is not a powerful enough designation for a man of your caliber. In the parlance you’re comfortable with, president is a pussy word. A lot of terrible people have been and still are presidents. Nixon, Mugabe, that North Korean lunatic, Caligula, Zuma. The list is endless.

When you win the elections, your first executive action must be to declare martial law. Impose curfews. Roll out the tanks. And forget about the White House. That’s for gay liberals like George W Bush. You need to move into the Pentagon and get fitted with a uniform made of Kevlar and lion skins. Maybe get a bandolier of solid gold bullets to string across your chest. Since you’ve never been to war, you’ll have to make some medals of your own. The centrepiece could be an Iron Cross studded with rubies. Your new title could be something like Field Marshal or, even better, Führer. You will also need to declare yourself President for Life. The sooner the proletariat know where they stand the better it will be for you. In fact, don’t let them stand at all. That just encourages the swine. Keep them on their knees.

Like you, I, too, am something of a racist, sexist, homophobic misogynist. You’re a professional, though. I simply dabble. This is why you’re going to be the most powerful man in the world while I remain the most powerful man in my house. I live alone. Hopefully that will change once you bring me on board as your chief advisor.

One of the reasons I want to work for you is because you’re not an intellectual. You tweet while others read. You talk first and think later, if at all. Thinking is heavily overrated. Winners like you act purely on animal instinct. The only point of having an opposable thumb is to help you sign cheques and death warrants. And pull triggers.

Speaking of which, how are the boys? The last time I saw a picture of Donald Jr and Eric, the naughty little scamps were holding up bits they’d hacked off wild animals while hunting in my country. Does Eric still have the elephant tail? I bet he uses it to whip his boyfriend’s ass when they’re home alone. Fair play to him.

I would vote for you in a heartbeat because you are so full of brilliant ideas, among other things. Your notion that America should ban all Muslims was a stroke of genius. Are you really a genius or did you just have a stroke? I apologise. This is not the time for jokes. Not that there ever really is a time for jokes. Jokes are for losers.

I also applaud your stance on climate change. If the climate has a problem, then the climate must change, not us. We were here first, right? That’s the problem with the environment. It’s always doing something dramatic to get our attention. Worse than a needy child. When you’re in charge, I hope you punish it with loads of pollution.

Well done on winning New Hampshire, by the way. What was second prize? Vermont? In South Africa, we can’t be trusted to nominate a presidential candidate of our choice. This is done for us by others. We’re not entirely sure who they are. Some say they are extraterrestrials similar to the giant prawns in the nature documentary District 9, only less articulate.

You have much in common with our president. Well, just the one thing, really. You both lack any sense of shame. I think that’s because you both have a background in reality television, except Jacob Zuma who has no grasp on reality and doesn’t watch television. Not the news, anyway.

Big Don, you have this one in the bag. Your nearest rival in the Democratic camp is Hillary Clinton. As you know, she has strong and weak points. Her strong point is that she’s a woman. This is also her weak point. You have nothing to worry about there. Nor do you have to worry about Rubio and Cruz. Goddamn immigrants. Them rummed-up Cubans are worse than them mommy-jabbing Mexicans, I tell ya. Once you’re done bombing the shit out of ISIS, bomb the shit out of Cuba. Then turn it into a giant theme park. Like Disneyland but without all those homo cartoon characters. And have guns. Lots of guns.

Also, you need to replace your Supreme Court judges with the people who run your casinos. Justice is a gamble and you’re a five-card stud. With the law in your pocket, nothing can stop you. Scrap the states and make it one big America. Rework the pledge of allegiance. Replace the word “God” with “Donald Trump The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived”. And take out that nonsense about liberty for all. It just confuses people.

How was your Valentine’s Day, by the way? Did you give your daughter something special? I bet you did, you old rogue, you. Well done. The family that sleeps together stays together.

Looking forward to seeing you set some serious snares on the ol’ campaign trail. That ancient commie bastard Bernie Sanders is bound to stumble into one sooner or later.

And good luck for South Carolina. My advice is not to bother going after the darkie vote. They probably haven’t forgotten that slavery business even though god knows they’ve had long enough to get over it. No matter. The Evangelical Protestants are gonna lap you up. Sorry. That sounds a bit faggoty. You know what I mean.

Anyway. I’m your biggest fan. Can I have a million dollars?


SONA – a dull blip on my radar

President Jacob Zuma’s nine-step programme to save the economy has a lot in common with AA’s 12-step programme to save alcoholics. They both rely on the intervention of a higher power and … well, that’s about it.

Watching the State of the Nation address last week was like being on drugs. There was the frisson of anticipation, the big build-up, the climax and the come-down. Maybe I’m thinking of sex more than drugs. I often get the two confused. Would you like to sleep with me? Yes please, where do I suck? It happens.

Helen Zille was there wearing purple and a smirk. I can’t remember when last I heard her barking about some or other issue. Then again, I’d also go very quiet if I was earning R1.7m a year. I’d be so quiet that you wouldn’t even know I was here. Which I wouldn’t be. I’d be in Madagascar. Not among the poor, obviously.

I love the pomp and ceremony that surrounds the State of the Nation address every year. There is nothing quite like the smell of teargas and the sound of stun grenades as one runs through the Company Gardens to avoid being beaten or arrested. It’s what makes democracy great.

There were motorcycle cops, the cavalry and a fleet of black snub-nosed BMWs. Cannons were fired. There was screaming. Ambulances raced through the debris. A weeping mother held her dead child … what? Oh. I sat on the remote. That was Aleppo.

I love how our elected representatives still waddle down the traditional red carpet towards that holy chamber of promises and lies. The early colonialists used a white carpet, of course. They only switched to red when it became too much of a bother to get the bloodstains out.

Zuma and his femme du jour walked grimly down the carpet. I have seen pictures of dictators walking to their executions with happier faces than theirs.

The session started with an “opportunity for silent prayer”. It lasted for exactly six seconds. This pretty much limits you to, “Jesus, please let this be over quickly.”

The EFF behaved like attention deficit children deprived of their Ritalin and Terror Lekota had the good sense to get thrown out just as happy hour started at the pub around the corner.

After watching Zuma pick his way through his speech, approaching every syllable and number with the trepidation of an explosives expert approaching a landmine, I switched off. But not before Speaker Baleka Mbete’s hectoring tone got my skin crawling. Shame. Her prosopagnosia has got a lot worse since I last saw her in parliament. She barely recognises anyone any more.

Anyway. We already know what the state of the nation is. Unlike Jacob Zupta, we actually live in the belly of this savage beast.


Lynch mobs need to get a larf

This last Sunday morning, two cyclists riding in a group on the Ruth First Freeway (M4) near Durban North were killed when an allegedly drunk driver ploughed into them. The following afternoon, East Coast Radio senior producer Kevin Minter-Brown posted this on Facebook: “I’m thinking of starting a running club. I know there’s plenty of other roads, but I think if there’s an opportunity to put us directly in harm’s way, then why not?”

Minter-Brown was fired from his job within two days. His sponsors, McCarthy VW Umhlanga, dumped him moments after.

I’ve never met Minter-Brown. Barely know what he does, to be honest. I found out that he’s been at ECR for almost 15 years. Started a television studio at the station. Does a lot of charity work.

Minter-Brown took his Facebook post down an hour after he put it up and apologised for being insensitive. He explained that, while doing research for his monthly column at the Sunday Tribune, he discovered that eight cyclists had been killed on that stretch of road over the last six years. He said he couldn’t understand why they kept using that road despite its obvious dangers.

Minter-Brown chose to express his thoughts through satire. Well, more like sarcasm, which is a valid and handy weapon in any satirist’s arsenal. The sub-text of his post was clear. Cyclists should consider other options rather than keep using a potentially deadly stretch of the M4 – a stretch that the cyclists were, according to the city police, not legally allowed to be on in the first place.

If he had put it that way, he would still have a job. Instead, he chose to use satire and is unemployed as a result. Obviously I’m not saying the death of those two cyclists is in any way a laughing matter. And I doubt Minter-Brown was going after cheap laughs. I also doubt that he is a psychopath unable to feel empathy for others. Perhaps he is. It just seems unlikely.

He apologised and tried to explain what he had been trying to do. But it was too late. The lynch mob was gathering and the calls for his head grew louder.

East Coast Radio’s Facebook page was flooded with outrage. One woman wrote, “What action will be taken against Minter-Brown? His recent post on Facebook is both distasteful and disgusting! People should be held accountable for their social media remarks! He is a disgrace!”

It’s almost certain that this woman put less thought into her comment than Minter-Brown did in his. Outrage is easy. Especially in a country where everyone seems constantly pissed off about something or other. We are an angry nation and we lash out blindly at any target that comes within range.

I have said far more contentious things, couched in satire, over the 17 years I have written a weekly column for a number of publications. When I wrote my first column for the Cape Times in 2001, letters flooded in over the next few days. Readers demanded that I be fired. They demanded to know why the editor was giving me this space. They were Outraged. Editor Chris Whitfield was smart enough to understand that out of a circulation of tens of thousands, a few angry readers could be dealt with tactfully. He handled it by explaining, in a short piece on the front page, that the paper’s new columnist was, in fact, a satirist, and not really a racist, sexist, homophobic misogynist at all. Eventually they got it and calmed down.

In his career-ending post, Minter-Brown attempted to do what I have been doing for years – writing about serious subjects using humour. Satire is often more effective than bludgeoning. The danger is that not everyone will get it. Actually, the danger is far more insidious.

As I’ve already said, Whitfield and subsequent editors I have written for, including Tyrone August, Aakash Bramdeo and Mazwi Xaba, have defended me against the lynch mobs. They don’t stick around for long, these mobs. Once they see that their shrill cries are being ignored, or once they have been talked off the ledge, they go back to whatever it was they were doing. Or they move on to the next outrage.

In this case, Minter-Brown’s bosses caved in so fast that it makes the head spin. Within a couple of days he had been hauled before a disciplinary hearing and fired. There have been murmurings of outrage at the way he has been treated, but that’s all they are. Murmurings. People don’t want to get sucked in to the madness. They have jobs, families. They don’t want to be condemned by association. I, too, had second thoughts before writing this. Did I want to get involved? Will one of the editors I write for shut me down, too? I don’t know Minter-Brown. Why should I care? Let him fight his own battles. You know what that’s called? It’s called self-censorship. Once that takes hold, there will be no more healthy exchange of ideas. Minter-Brown’s post should have led to a debate of the issues. Should cyclists take more care on the roads? Are the bylaws banning cyclists from freeways unfair? What more can the police do to catch drunk drivers? That’s the kind of conversation Minter-Brown’s comment should have sparked. Not demands that he be fired. That only serves to scare people into silence. Self-censorship has no place in a free society. Freedom of speech is a principle worth fighting for. The government would love nothing more than to shut it down. Let’s not help them do it.

Minter-Brown’s bosses at the radio station are cowards. They reacted out of fear, not principle. And if they caved in because of pressure from advertisers, well, that’s even more despicable. Either way, it was classic knee-jerk fuckery. Besides anything else, they almost certainly did not act in accordance with the labour laws. I expect his lawyer will demonstrate this, just as Dali Mpofu demonstrated it in Gareth Cliff’s case. Insensitivity is not a fireable offence. But if it turns out that it is, I’m fucking off to North Korea.

Minter-Brown’s sponsors – McCarthy VW Umhlanga – are equally craven, because it’s highly unlikely they would have done anything at all had he not been fired. The company said in a statement that while it accepted his apology, it in no way endorses blah blah blah. How can you accept his apology and still dump him? The company also claimed to have acted “on the advice of its attorneys”. Bullshit. They acted on the advice of its PR rep. But they’re car dealers. We shouldn’t expect much honesty from them.

Here’s the thing. We have laws against libel, defamation, crimen injuria, hate speech and more. If Minter-Brown had violated any one of these, I would say charge him and, if convicted, fire his ass. But he hasn’t.

Did Minter-Brown’s two-sentence Facebook post add to the grief felt by the families of those two men killed on Sunday morning? Perhaps. Perhaps not. In the event that it did, he apologised profusely. Was it right that his career and quite possibly his reputation should be destroyed? Absolutely not.

Nobody has the right not to be offended. Try to remember that before you join the next lynch mob.

Anyway. That’s enough of that. Time for a beer.

Bomb the recession

I have been hearing a lot about something called the “2016 inflation bomb” and, quite frankly, it’s starting to worry me. Will it be a barrage of bomblets pounding the price of luxuries like bread, milk and garage flowers, or will it be an all-out carpet bombing to inflict maximum damage on the already shell-shocked consumer?

Nobody can say for sure. Well, I suppose some can. But we don’t listen to those people because they’re dull and there is nothing worse than heading into an economic crisis and being bored at the same time. We should confront it with marching bands and strippers and leopards on leashes. It should be like a Rio Carnival for the doomed. We don’t want to shuffle into a recession wearing sackcloth and ashes, moaning and wailing and dragging our feet while Chopin’s Funeral March sounds mournfully from the church towers. We want to dance naked in the streets as Jimi Hendrix’s Manic Depression erupts from the back of stolen Citi Golfs.

“It is vital that you take immediate control of your financial situation to avoid falling into hardship.” These grim words belong to public policy actuary Niel Fourie. I don’t know what an actuary does. It’s an area so far removed from the chaos that is my life that it may as well involve learning to speak whale. Besides, the advice is blindingly obvious and utterly useless at the same time.

How the hell are people expected to control their financial situation when they can’t even control their children? We can’t control our road rage, our drinking or our wives. Nor can we control our habit of voting for politicians who are murdering the country. We are little more than dumb frogs slowly being boiled alive. Don’t talk to me about control. We have none. We either gave it away or it was taken from us.

Anyway. In case I’m misreading the situation, here are some handy tips on how to save money.

* Instead of going to the movies, have some friends over and act out your favourites at home. Anything by Quentin Tarantino will have the added benefit of the evening ending early, which means a great saving on snacks and wine. Obviously you’re going to have to get rid of the corpses. There are cheap ways of doing this. Be imaginative.

* Sell your television. If you really have to watch something, put up a deckchair in the middle of a traffic circle. It’s like DStv but less repetitive.

* Instead of going to a restaurant, have dinner at home. Eventually all the restaurants will close down and the streets will be full of alcoholic chefs, douchebag managers and gormless waiters all looking for their own ways to avoid falling into hardship. Don’t worry about them. They’ll be fine. Or not. Either way, it’s not your problem. Unless, of course, they make it your problem. You could also invite friends around for dinner. Ask them to bring their own food and then eat theirs.

* Foraging for plants, mushrooms and berries is a fun way to spend a Sunday. Get the kids to try whatever you pick. If it’s edible, you’ll save on your grocery bill. If it’s not, well, fewer mouths to feed.

* Start smoking. This will reduce your appetite and you’ll spend less on junk food. Studies have shown that the most effective way to save money is to have an early death. Smoking will help you achieve this.

* Let your gym membership lapse. That doesn’t mean you should stop going to gym. You’ll need to create a diversion so that you can slip inside unnoticed. Lighter fluid is cheap and easily obtainable. As are matches. BMWs are often parked as close to the gym entrance as possible. You know what to do.

* If you’re looking for cheap entertainment and a free work-out at the same time, you might want to play Tag. This involves removing an electronic tag from an item in a shop and then walking out. The tag will set the alarm off. This signals the start of the race. You win if you manage to outrun the security guard. Losing is not a viable option.

* If you’re a poker addict, you may find it difficult to save money. Your best bet is to play against opponents who stand little chance of beating you. Like blind people. Or fish.

* Weekends out of town don’t have to cost the earth. There are plenty of holiday homes along the coast. Keep trying them until you find one without an alarm system. Technically it’s breaking and entering, yes, but if you just want the place for a couple of romantic nights and don’t steal anything, it’s perfectly legal. The decent thing would be to leave a little money behind for the owner to fix the broken window.

* Don’t worry about switching off your lights to save electricity. Eskom will do that for you.

* If you’re a reader, which you might be considering that you’re reading this, the chances are that you spend a small fortune on books every month. They are ridiculously over-priced. But don’t stop reading. This country is being run into the ground by people who don’t read. Well, one person, anyway. Simply stop paying. Shoplifting books isn’t a crime. The author still gets royalties and that’s all that really matters. Plus, you save the bookseller the trouble of having to return unsold copies to the publisher and, in turn, the publisher from trying to flog remaindered copies back to the author.

* Reduce your transport costs by taking the train to work. Use some of the money you save to buy a Glock 42. It’s a bit of a gay gun, sure, but it gets the job done. It only holds six rounds so try not to get attacked by more than half a dozen bandits at any one time.

* Make your own gifts instead of buying them from a shop. With a little imagination, you can make things like candles, soap, letter bombs and so on. The Anarchist’s Cookbook is full of great ideas.

* Children will break your budget. Try to avoid having any.

* Cut all your expenses in half by getting a divorce.

That’s it. If you still can’t save money, save yourself. Emigrate.


Still want to emigrate to Oz?

Here’s an excerpt from a piece written this week by Matt Barrie, the CEO of You can read the full rant here:


“The total and utter destruction of Sydney’s nightlife is almost complete.

A succession of incompetent governments has systematically dismantled the entire night time economy through a constant barrage of rules, regulation and social tinkering.

And oh, how ridiculous these rules have become in Sydney. A special little person has decided that there is a certain time at night when we are all allowed to go out, and there is a certain time that we are allowed into an establishment and a certain time that we are all supposed to be tucked into bed. There is a certain time we are allowed to buy some drinks, and over the course of the night the amount of drinks we are allowed to buy will change. The drinks we buy must be in a special cup made of a special material, and that special material will change over the course of the night at certain times. The cup has to be a certain size. It cannot be too big, because someone might die. Over the course of the night, this special little person will tell you what you can and cannot put into your cup because someone might die.

It is now illegal to buy a bottle of wine after 10pm in the City of Sydney because not a single one of us is to be trusted with any level of personal responsibility. Apparently there is an epidemic of people being bashed to death over dinner with a bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc that we have all been blissfully unaware of.

Likewise it is now illegal to have a scotch on the rocks after midnight in the City of Sydney because someone might die. You can drink it if you put some Coca-cola in it, but you can’t drink it if the Coca-cola has been mixed previously with it and it’s been put in a can. Because that is an “alcopop” whatever the hell that means. The only person more confused than me is the bartender. The poor sod is only trying to scrape a few nickels to make it through university; not only are they struggling with their hours being drastically cut back with venues shutting, but the government is now threatening them personally with fines if they break any of the rules.

Most damaging of all a 1:30am curfew where you cannot enter a licensed premises, which deliberately aims to kill the trade of any business that operates at night. Everybody knows that the point of going out is usually to bar hop or visit several venues over the course of the night and that for decades Sydneysiders would be busy at work, dinner or someone’s house and wouldn’t even think to go out until after 11pm. The Sydneysider’s predilection to going out late is backed up by the City of Sydney’s own report from 2010 showed that foot traffic in Kings Cross continued to grow until 11pm. This brutal rule pointedly kills market liquidity in an industry that relies upon bar hopping from venue to venue.”