Dame Edna Everage advises against hog bristle colour scheme even in beige old Canberra
For more than five decades the humourist Barry Humphries has tracked the trends in Australia without dutiful reference to any census data.
Unencumbered by the niceties required of the Bernard Salts and George Megalogenises, his observations emerge every so often in his stage shows.
Some are subtle but mostly shocking.
His latest show starts with leaf blower over-usage, then Marrickville, our man in Ecuador, an apology to Today Tonight, fanta pants, estate agents selling Glen Iris to Asian buyers, the downward dog yoga move, beige Canberra, kaftans and all those celebrity chefs like Matt Moran and Donna Hay.
All wrapped within Humphries' unparalleled audience name recall and sharp repartee.
The weekend was the opening shows for his farewell tour, Eat Pray, Laugh.
It was in the nation's capital Canberra – "the gateway to Queanbeyan" – and with a hint of Bollywood Dame Edna Everage was in scintillating form, at one point almost apologising if her pheromones were bothering the nearest of her audience.
There was Elaine from Gundagai. In a "dead end" bank telling job. Living in a two-storey brick house.
"Impossible dream for you," Dame Edna advised the paupers in the cheap seats at the rear of the theatre.
Bernadette from Kambah, one of the few Canberra suburbs not designed according to the neighbourhood philosophy, only had her single-storey brick house.
"Don’t gloat, Elaine," Dame Edna ruled.
Spelling Kambah's final letter left Dame Edna in little doubt as to Bernadette's religion.
"Certainly not C of E," she suggested, before going on to suggest Kambah would be "Aboriginal for meeting of the waters".
"That's what they all mean," she suggested to the groans of the audience, who'd either heard it before or weren't happy with the tone directed towards the Ngambri people.
Dame Edna wasn't convinced that Bernadette's current bedroom renovation ought to be painted in the hog bristle colour.
"It's not likely to be conducive to a good night's sleep," Dame Edna opined.
And despite the mauling – all victims were soon up on stage – on team Edna, participants on Dame Edna's "journey."
Spoiler alert.
Sir Les Patterson, in casual colourful shirt and shorts and sombrero, and just back from the G20 in Mexico, had opened the Sunday matinee show.
The bulge in his trouser pocket comprised Cabcharge dockets.
Either the advance team of the US ambassador aren't that thorough, or Jeff Bleich is a masochist. Bliech was in the middle of the front row of yesterday's performance, so right in the spittle firing line of the diplomat extraordinaire Sir Les Patterson.
The hospitable Sir Les soon had, without much awkward hesitation, Jeff and wife Becky onstage – guests at his suburban backyard barbecue.
Bleich looked a tad awkward in tieless suit, but was soon in charge of turning the meat.
"You seppos call them meatballs, we call them rissoles," Sir Les said.
Given Sir Les has gotten worse over the years, it was very near a degrading experience – but the Bleich couple were good sports.
When Sir Les asked Becky to get down on her knees to scratch his mossie bite, the quick-witted Jeff gave his wife the long barbie tongs to allow her to keep some distance.
However nothing could have prepared the couple for the barbecue blow-in guest, Father Gerard Patterson, the rarely sighted appalling paedophile brother of Sir Les.
Father Patterson yielded just a little information from Jeff – he went to non-denominational Massachusetts college and had never toyed with the priesthood.
By show's end, Jeff was the first to get the gladioli from Dame Edna – which was promptly passed onto his wife. And they participated in the standing ovation.
It all seemed rather cosy, especially as the embassy had quickly tweeted their boss's starring theatrical role.
Bumping into Barry Humphries as he was catching his plane out of Canberra, it was all denied.
A set-up, I asked, with the US ambassador?
"Oh no," Humphries affirmed.
"Was he the ambassador?" he enquired back, barely concealing his delight.
