Brand Bellingen Script

Brand Bellingen; Pip Wilson 6655 2785 Final Stage Draft, Aug 20 08

BRAND BELLINGEN © Pip Wilson, 2008

Cast

Alf Kershaw: A farmer, aged about 50 Wallaby: A hippie, aged about 30 Nicola Rawley: A marketing consultant Wayne Morrison: A rich former farmer Rachelle: Nicola’s personal assistant Mrs Kershaw: Alf’s wife Man: Bellingen local who jumps on stage

Straight Hecklers: Hippie Hecklers: Doctor Hippie heckler #1 Angry heckler Hippie Heckler #2 Straight heckler Hippie Heckler #3 Farmer Funny heckler (Davo, up the back of hall)

Act One

Wallaby (stage right) and Alf (stage left). Background slide-show of 1970s Bellingen, environs, locals and hippies. Background audio of hippie music and Slim Dusty, fading.

A number of hippies are seated mostly together, in the front rows. Two of the women hold

infants. Doctor: (Voice over): Their houses are unsanitary, I tell you. They bury their babies in the bush! Wallaby: Well, I heard it … but I don’t believe it. Alf (laughing, to his mates in the audience): You’d better believe it, old son. (Laughter from hecklers.) Wallaby: Do you really believe it, Alf? Do you really? Alf: Too right! Wallaby: That’s crap, Alf. Do you and most of the other farmers and loggers around here – and not just them – think that that’s what we’ve come to the Bellinger Valley to do? To live in bloody squalor? The good doctor said that our owner-built homes are a health risk. Alf: Too right they are! Hippie heckler #1: Damn, all that Mr Sheen for nothing! Wallaby: And that we bury our babies in the bush! (Hippies laugh loudly.) Angry Heckler: Too right you do, you hippie parasites! Alf: Well what did you come here for? Apart from to use rude words in public? Wallaby: It doesn’t matter what I say. You’ve tried us and found us guilty; now for the execution. Straight Heckler: I’ve got a rope in me ute!


Wallaby: You think we’re so different from you. You want to run us out of town, regardless. That was made perfectly clear in Dr McKenzie’s fine little speech, in which he referred to us new settlers using a nautical term. Farmer: ‘Barnacles on society’ – and he was right! Wallaby: So did the speeches of the councillors, and those of the various representatives of the Chamber of Horro— … I mean, Chamber of Commerce. Straight heckler: What did youse come here for? Farmer: Answer the question! Wallaby: … How can I speak for every newcomer in Bellingen?! Alf: Speak for yourself then, Wallaby. Speak for yourself. Wallaby: I might ask you the same thing, Alf. Alf: Go ahead, young fella. But I arksed you first. Why come to Bellingen? Wallaby: You were in Bellingen before us. What did you come here for, Alf? Alf: I didn’t come here for anything, Wallaby. I were born here. As me father and grandfather and great-grandfather and me wife and me children and granddaughters were born here. Wallaby: A true answer. I can’t fault it. Kershaws have farmed the same property for nearly a century. I know that. Alf: Just go on. Wallaby: Well, it’s not easy … Straight heckler: Don’t wriggle out of it you— Wallaby: I came here, and I think a good many of us came here … because … because …. We needed to get away. We had to get away. (Hecklers laugh hysterically. Funny heckler stands and pretends to play a violin. He proudly sits down to the approbation of other hecklers.) Farmer: Then why not go to San Fran-bloomin-cisco or somewhere? (Hecklers laugh.) Alf: Why here? Why this valley? Wallaby: It had … certain prerequisites. Alf: Aww, big words. You mean the land is dirt cheap and the grass is greener. Wallaby: The very same reason you all came here, years ago, Alf. Is there anything wrong with that? Funny Heckler (imitating a stoned hippie walking): Only when you hippies come here, that’s all. (Laughter from other hecklers.) Wallaby (conciliatory laugh): Haha! OK, OK. The climate’s good. The soil’s deep. Yes, the land is very cheap. It’s far enough away from Sydney if Brezhnev drops the nukes because of some stupid thing that Malcolm Fraser agrees to with Jimmy Carter. Alf: I thought you and old Gough’d be laughing if the Commos bombed us. Wallaby: Nonsense. And if they don’t, the Islamists will. Alf: The what? Wallaby: I can’t blame you if you’re not following the rise of Islamic fundamentalism. Our so-called ‘political leaders’ aren’t, either. But it will affect— Angry Heckler: Hippies – always preaching! Why dontcha wear a dog collar, ya flippin’ scum! Farmer: Get back to the point, damn barnacle!


Wallaby: Why do I want to live here? It’s away from nuclear targets, but close enough to drive to the Big Smoke in a day if I need to. There are Regent bowerbirds, rainbows, peace and quiet, a beautiful quiet river, no subdivisions, no shopping malls to spoil the view … no rich people to spoil the view … green fields … and privacy— Alf: So yez can all grow drugs. Wallaby: Privacy, Alf, is not all about growing herbs that are illegal (but shouldn’t be). There are other things. Privacy’s important. Most of us believe that privacy is being whittled away by the State, and it’s going to get worse in our lifetimes – and our grandchildren’s, if we have them, which is looking unlikely. And your grandkids. I suppose that’s another reason that 100,000 of us have escaped the cities to set up alternative lifestyles in the country. Alf: Alternative bloomin’ lifestyles! Privacy! So you can smoke drugs and swim in the nuddy. I know, I know! Kev Reilly told me. He saw it on Cook’s Creek. Hippies in their birthday suits. Men and women and children together! Naked as the day they were born. He said he saw it for a good hour or more. (Hippies laugh.) Wallaby: Is that what this public meeting is all about? Sex … and drugs? Alf: Not all— Wallaby: No, of course it isn’t. I forgot rock ’n’ roll. Hippie heckler #1: It’s more about logging! Look how many loggers and sawmillers are here tonight! All paid for with a slab of Toohey’s! Hippie heckler #2: And power! It’s about power! And council, and property development! They’re scared about multiple occupancy! If we M.O. this valley, they can’t subdivide it! Hippie heckler #3: They say ten people in four houses on 200 acres is too crowded, but Council’s happy allowing a family of six on a quarter-acre block!! Wallaby: But sex is what precipitated it, isn’t it, Alf? Someone got upset because we had a market day. And Crystal Ravensong had a massage tent, didn’t she. And some people assume massage means sex. Go on! Admit it. That’s the thing that made this town’s so-called leaders call this meeting. That was the excuse, but not the reason. It’s bigger than that. Alf: Well, that massage thing was disgusting. We don’t want that sort of filth in town. Naked as the day they was born. Wallaby: Alf, Alf … Alf Kershaw. No one was naked at that tent! Anyway, this is 1977! Alf: I don’t care if it’s flippin’ 1877! (Hippies laugh.) It isn’t right. And we don’t need markets. We have shops, or hadn’t you noticed? You newcomers will roon business in this town. Newcomers will roon this town’s business, and we’re already battling to keep it going. Wallaby: Alf, half the shops were empty until we came to town! You could rent one for six bucks a week. Farmer: My auntie won’t serve them. Barnacles!! Wallaby: There are other reasons that we came here. Alf: Well, go on ‘Mister Wallaby’. Wallaby (heaving a sigh): I can only speak for myself, Alf. (Pause.) I came here to listen to the breeze in the tallowwood trees.


(Laughter and catcalls from straight hecklers, making wind sounds – “Swish! Swish!” – and the sounds of trees falling – “TIM-BER!!” and kookaburras cackling.) Wallaby: I love it here because the town clock always tells the wrong time— Angry Heckler: Ticking away your time here, hippie! Wallaby: And I hope it tells the wrong time when I’m old. I like the old brown dog that sleeps in the middle of Hyde Street outside the Elite. Straight Heckler: You wouldn’t like that mongrel if you had to drive my timber jinker. Farmer: You would if you were a mongrel yerself, Jack. Funny Heckler: He is, aren’t ya, Jack! (Hecklers all laugh.) Wallaby: I see a place here that can be a centre of Australian and planetary activism, and art and music. (Straight hecklers make effeminate gestures and gay sounds.) Wallaby: And … and … I came here because when I get off at 6 am at Raleigh Station from the Sydney mail train, after 12 hours of sleeping on the wooden floor, I feel I’m free of the city. And when I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk the miles into Bellingen past the green paddocks, at sunrise, through the mist … my heart sings–– (Straight hecklers laugh hysterically.) Straight heckler (sings from ‘Woodstock’): "I’m going down to Yasgur's farm Gonna join in a rock n roll band Got to get back to the land ..." (He forgets the words) Hippie heckler #1 (sings to complete for him): "I'm going to try to get my soul free We are stardust We are golden And we've got to get ourselves Back to the garden". Alf: Ohhh! Sings, does it? Ohhh, you walk into town, do you? And I never picked you up in me truck near Shortcut Road? I suppose that’s why you had the guitar. So yer little beatnik heart could sing. Wallaby (Above the loud hecklers): Yes, mate. You did pick me up in your truck. And I wasn’t even hitching. I still appreciate it. And that’s another reason I want to live here. Alf: Ptuh! Wallaby: And I want to live here because when I drive from Thora into town after dusk, there are no policemen. Straight heckler: That’d be right! Wallaby: And no vehicles in Hyde Street, maybe just one or two outside the Federal Hotel until 9 or 10. And I can have a quiet cleansing ale, and when I walk out of the pub the whole town is dark, and as I go to my car, I look up and because there are no lights on in the street or the shops, I see the Milky Way over my town. My town. Funny Heckler: It’s the Milky Bar Kid! Alf: Oh, for goodness sake! What’s so important about the Milky Way? Wallaby: The Milky Way??!! Alf, have you ever lived in the city? Alf: Not bloomin’ likely. I’ve been there for a couple of Royal Easter Shows, showing one of me bulls.


Hippie heckler #1: Alf’s bull is renowned throughout the land! Alf: Shoosh up, the lotta ya! And the missus showed some marmalade one year and won a ribbon. But why would I want to live in that rat-race? Wallaby: That’s what I’m saying, Alf. Alf: And do you want to know what I hate about the city? Wallaby: Tell me. Tell us all. Alf: They pinch stuff. Doesn’t happen here. Or didn’t used to. Joe Delaney left a reconditioned Holden grey motor on the Church St corner the other night, for Mike Brady to pick up next morning, and some bloke pinched it. That wouldn’t never of happened before you newcomers come here. Wallaby: Alf, five years ago in Sydney, three million people left out two or three dollars each night for the milko. At their front gate. That was millions of bucks a night, mate. No one used to pinch it, not for more than a hundred years … now everyone does. That’s another reason we want to live here. The cities are deteriorating because Western culture is headed for an apocalypse. It’s a global phenomenon. That’s part of our ideology. Alf: Don’t you bring your ten-quid university words here, cobber. And don’t you bring your thieving. Farmer: University dropouts is what they are! (Pointing at Wallaby.) That educated idiot’s mate came up to me on me tractor the other day. He said that I was going to cause the world to overheat because I use diesel! His exact words … (well, more or less). I told him that it were a cold bloomin’ morning and a bit of overheating would be a good thing for the world and he should ‘P. off’ if he knew what were good for him! Educated idiots I call 'em! All Straight Hecklers: Educated idiots! That’s right! Wallaby: Alf, Alf … hippies aren’t perfect – maybe we shoot off our mouths when we should listen – but most of us aren’t thieves. Most of us moved here because we’re trying to make the world a better place. To save our species from extinction, man. A lot of droogs have followed us here. Alf: Droogs, is it? What are droogs when they’re at home? Wallaby: Street kids, down and outs, lumpen proletariat— All Straight Hecklers (laugh, hiss and catcall): Drongos!! Alf (to Wallaby): There you are! There ya go with them ten-quid book-learnin’ words. It’s thievin’ all the same. Old Mrs Campbell’s lawn mower was pinched right from under her house! Drongos, alternatives, whatever yez call yerselves, yer all dirty hippies and and … and … and … barnacles, and this town was better off before you came. And all yer silly names like Wallaby and Summerleaf and Banana Frangipani … or whatever the bloomin’ thing. Funny heckler: (sings) Skippy, Skippy ... All Straight Hecklers: (sing) Skippy the Bush Kangaroo … Wallaby: OK, bro. I chose Wallaby as a name. I had to be free of my given name. Can you understa— Alf: I’d like to be free of ‘Alfred’, but I respect my parents … ‘bro’. Straight heckler (laughing): No generation gap wanted in Bellingen, bro! Funny heckler: Hey, Alf, we could call ya ‘Jersey Hereford Passionfruit Petal’! All Straight Hecklers (chanting): Bro droog bro droog bro droog bro droog …! Then cacophony of feet stamping and ‘Kick em out’ ‘bulldoze them’ ‘barnacles’ etc.


Wallaby: Calm down everyone, stop – listen! Look, let me tell you something else I came for. I can leave my house unlocked, like I could in Sydney five years ago. I leave my car in Hyde St unlocked, with the keys in the ignition— Farmer: Because no one would steal a hippie bomb! Straight Heckler: What’s the noise made when two crummy old cars crash into each other? Funny Heckler: Ka-lang!! Alf: We’ll see how long you can do that before some hippie drongo or whatever you call them— Wallaby: And I came here so I could raise a family away from the rat-race that you and I both hate together. And so I could share some land with other people – get a share for a couple of thousand dollars, and build my home on it, and grow my food on it. Where my kids could be free and live close to the soil. Funny Heckler: You could grow lucerne on hippies. Just add water! (Straight Hecklers all laugh.) Wallaby (Calling to heckler): Ah good evening, Davo, sitting up the back of the class as usual. Jeez, Davo, I wish I could swap dirt with you. When you come in from the mill, you’re covered in ‘honest soil’. (Angrily) When I come into town after fencing all day, I’m a ‘dirty stinking hippie’!! Davo: I guess you’re right. Good point, I’ve seen you working hard. I’m sorry mate. Wallaby: I’ve seen you slave your guts out too, as most Bellingen locals do. I apologise too, Davo. Alf: So, you want your kids to live on the land like you, eh? And put flooded-gum fence posts in like their old man? Posts that’ll rot away in five years? Like what George Taylor told ya would happen? Wallaby (laughing): All right, you got me there, mate. I’m a city slicker, right? I know it, I know it. But I’m learning … (Laughter from straight hecklers.) Wallaby: I like to grow my own vegies, and what I can’t grow, buy from one of the little fruit stalls on the road to Raleigh or Boggy Creek. I like that. I like the way Mrs Bailey wraps a dozen eggs in newspaper, like some sort of origami, instead of using cartons. I like that. And I like having the Comm Centre— Alf: You mean the Old School. That damn Community Centre or Communist Centre or whatever you newcomers wanna call it. I went to school in that building, and now it’s a breeding place. Wallaby: It’s a meeting place, Alf. And a training place, and an information and neighbourhood centre, one of the first in Australia, and a government-funded Community Youth Support Scheme. Alf: Yeah. And what training do you do? How to make solar whatchamacallits for your roofs. Who needs that? We’ll tear down the Old School, Wallaby, just you wait and see. Wallaby: We need a place to meet, Alf Kershaw. We saved it from demolition. Alf: Oh, we’ll demolish it, all right, and put up a brick council chambers. Don’t you worry about that. Wallaby: We’re not hurting you by meeting at the Comm Centre.


Alf: There are plenty of places to meet. There’s the Presbyterian, the C of E … even the Cath’lic if you’re inclined to the Romish persuasion … and I wouldn’t put that past ya. Plenty of choices. Why don’t yez all go to church on Sundy? Heckler: They’re all heathens and pagans. I heard one of them say so meself! Wallaby: We’re not all one thing! We’re not just one thing, any more than the straights – I mean the locals, are! Listen, mate. You don’t understand. You think we don’t like this place and its ways. Alf: Blind Freddie can see–– Wallaby: Maybe Blind Freddie’s wrong. Maybe some of the ways of some of the new settlers are different from yours, but maybe we’re not so different at all. Isn’t this home to all of us. Don’t we all love Bellingen? Man (jumps up on stage): Too right. Just like the first settlers, here – like your ancestors, Alf, these hippies come here to try and get on their feet, build their little places to live in and work the land as best they can. Alf, I don't know what all you silly fellas are whinging about. I remember when we had music – out in Church Street – and these 'strangers' … hippies … turned up, about 10 of them there were – wearing their long, flowing dresses and not much else – they were dancing and swaying to the music, happy and free – it was beautiful. Man: Can't you see, Alf. They bring some brightness and light into the place. Alf: Bull dust! Man: You got me wondering who the blind one is, Alf (exits). Wallaby: Alf, listen. I was in the greengrocer’s on Tuesday afternoon. I was picking out some Granny Smith apples and suddenly the greengrocer ran to the front of the shop and pulled down the roller door and the shop went all dark. Alf: That’d be Mrs Williams’s funeral. Ronnie Barlow’s shop. Wallaby: That’s right! It was Mrs Williams’s funeral! That’s what someone said in the shop. And after a couple of minutes the greengrocer – Ronnie Barlow – lifted up the shop door. And then I saw that all the other shops had closed up as the funeral cortège passed by, and all the other shopkeepers were opening their doors. Halpin's, and Hammond & Wheatley's – all the doors were being opened. Alf: So what’s wrong with that? That’s normal. Funny heckler (imitating a dumb hippie): Duh! Normal? What’s dat mean, man? Wallaby: Nothing’s wrong with it Alf! ! I know it’s normal. But I’d never seen it before, mate. That’s what I mean. I want to live in a town where people close up shop when somebody’s funeral passes by. That’s what hippies want. And we can keep that alive forever, together with the locals! Because if we don’t, you’ll lose it. Bellingen will lose it. It will lose it, Alf. I’m talking about modernity, and globalization, and development, and capital. Don’t you see? Alf: All I see is a youngster out of his scone. Funny Heckler: Too much whacky tobaccy! Farmer: Too many poison toadstools! Alf: I bet the Goof Off Shop didn’t close its doors for Mrs Williams’s funeral. Wallaby: No, you might be right. Because the Good Food Shop people and the rest of us are still learning. But we want to learn, Alf. And we want to have people close their doors when we go by in a pine box, and we want to be buried up there (pointing north), on cemetery hill.


Alf: Not like your babies, then. Wallaby: I don’t know what to say. Alf: That’s funny, for a bloke with a Bachelor of Arts. (Hecklers jeer.) Farmer: Bachelor of Arts? I don’t care if he can paint like Alfred Einstein. Straight heckler: Albert, you nong! Paint like Albert Einstein. Wallaby (to Alf): I know that some of the local people are afraid that we come here and hate your culture, but we don’t, mate – not all of it. Alf: Yez hate most of it. Yez hate logging, and dairy farming, and church, and Lodge … and cricket matches … and just about everything I can think of. Yez all want funny cigarettes and bloomin’ be-bop music and clothes that look like … like my grandma’s. Even the blokes. You’ve got nippers in the nuddy. Youse all use filthy language on Hyde Street in front of good Christian ladies, and some of your womenfolk show parts of their … bosoms … just walking down the street. Do you know how that upsets the ladies here? No, ya never thought about it, did ya, Wallaby? None of you ever think about what you’re doing to this town. Hippies and bodgies and beatniks! You’ve got no respect. Yez all talk about the environment, but you let lantana and privet and saplings grow on your properties where our grandfathers made pasture out of hardwood forest, with their bare hands. (Straight Hecklers call encouragement to Alf.) And on Wensdy nights with that be-bop music yez break beer glasses behind the pub in your drunken state. Don’t tell me it isn’t so, I’ve picked up the glass meself with some of the other blokes, so youse barefoot dole bludgers don’t cut yer feet on Thursdy morning when youse all come poncing into town to the bloomin’ Commo Centre— Farmer: To have ya cups of cheeno!! … (subdued) Or whatever yez call that frothy coffee. Alf: Don’t give me culture, boy, because it’s a ten-pound university word. And what it means to us … what it means to us, is “Goodbye Bellingen”! Wallaby: Alf, I’m sure I’m not alone. I’m sure a lot of newcomers love a lot of things about the valley and its people and their ways. I wish I could show it. Alf: Look, Wallaby, I know you. You’re not the worst of them. I lent you a mallet and froe, remember? Wallaby: Of course, mate. When I was splitting shingles for my walls. That froe was a great tool. I’m still grateful. Thank you. Alf: No need for any man to thank another man twice. It was me great-uncle Wilfred’s froe, and hard to replace. An’ I told ya that. Wallaby: That’s right. I wouldn’t have known what a froe was, or how to split shingles with it, if you hadn’t shown me. Funny heckler: We should froe them out of town! (Laughter.) Alf: And you returned that froe to me sharper than when I give it you, I’ll grant you that. I haven’t forgotten. Maybe you’re not a hippie parasite, but you dress like one and talk like one, and some of your mates sure have a strange way of showing that they love Bellingen. Building hovels in the bush! (Yours is all right, but you haven’t got a clue about 4-be-4 bearers.) Men wearing perfume and jewellery. Only dagoes and poofters wear jewellery, son! Mincing around town drinking cups of coffee at the bakery and telling everyone you’re farmers. Jumping our fences and stealing funny toadstools from our cowpats. Not that we want them, but it’s the principle of the thing and we call it


trespassin’. Women showing their … their … private bosoms and burying their babies in the bush. Littlies outside Hammond & Wheatley’s in the nuddy. Massage … massage in town! I mean, massage in town, mate! We don’t want massage and harlots in this town. (Straight Hecklers jeer.) I’m all for the resolution of this meeting. And good riddance to the lot of you and your thieving, lazy kind! Wallaby: You stupid, ignorant piece— Funny heckler: Peace, man! What happened to peace, man? (Straight Hecklers laugh.) <Hecklers get increasingly loud. They stamp their feet and a deafening sound of feet stamping and catcalling comes over from the audio system, Two hippie women grab their

infants, protecting their ears, and run to the exit, crying and voicing their upset.

Cacophony lasts for at least a minute. building to a crescendo with a loud soundscape of

hippie music and bush poetry/Slim Dusty intermingled with feet stamping and jeering. House lights go on and off. Video backdrop shows rapid countdown of years from 1977 to 2008 through 30 years of news magazine colour photographs. To show passage of three decades past, a chronological audio pastiche (overlaid) of 30 years of news sound

bites and music clips, getting louder with the previous clip of loud feet stamping and

jeering in the Memorial Hall. Build to a crescendo same as ‘Day in the Life’ by The

Beatles, with the final chord of that song. Silence falls. Enter Nicola and Wayne, from

the entrance at rear of hall.>

Alf: Who are those jokers up the back of the hall? Wallaby: Search me, I thought this was your party, Alf. Nicola (at door): I know there’s no parking, Rachelle! Take it behind the pub! OK. Down Church Street. Or behind the Post Office. Oh, for God’s ... It’s not that hard a vehicle to park. Take it back to Oak Street then! Parking in Bellingen. It's a nightmare! I told Rachelle we should bring the Beemer not the Rover. Alf (to Nicola): Don't know who you are but – Nicola: (entering on stage). (To Wallaby.) Hey, nice bling, dude. Alf: Mr Chairman! Flippin’ hell, where’s the chairman? A sheila! You're a bloomin’ woman! Nicola: Last time I looked, Alf. (Wayne and Nicola climb onto the stage.) Wallaby: Look, we ... Alf what’s going on? Alf: Blood ... err … bloomin hell … I don't ..? A woman on this stage … in … in ..what in the hell are you wearing … Wayne: Ah good. I'm in time. Nicola: This stage is our information touchpoint, gentlemen. Alf: What are you— Wayne: The Launch Alf, tonight’s the night of the launch. I got an email from the director. Be on stage at the Memorial Hall at 8:30 pm. For the launch. Alf: You got a what from the director? Wallaby: A knee … mail? What ... I?— Alf: Launch? What boat you— Nicola: I got a voicemail message. Said the same thing. So my PA, Rachelle, she'll be here soon, downloaded the script from the director's web domain.


Wayne: And I jumped into the Merc and here I am. Nicola (introducing herself to Wayne): So we got the same message. I'm Rawley. Nicola Rawley. Good to have face time with you. Wayne: Wayne. Wayne Morrison. Alf: Wayne Morrison? Bull! You look a bit like young Wayne Morrison … but— Wayne: I look a bit older, do I, Mr Kershaw? Alf. Alf: You look more like Wayne’s old man. But he never smiles as much as you do. Don’t blame him, neither, not with all that re-fencing he has to do. Wayne: It’s me, Alf, the selfsame. Remember you got me to clear lantana on your lower forty? And help you pull the poddy calf from the bog? Alf: That was last year. Wayne’s only a lad ... You hippies been putting those funny mushrooms in my tea ... Wayne: No, Alf. This is reality. Nicola: Reality ... check. Wayne: I'll prove it. Remember Mrs Kershaw gave me corned beef and pickles sandwiches that day I was working on your bridge. I didn’t like her cauliflower pickles, remember ... you said “Just scrape ’em off lad, that's what I always do”? Mrs Kershaw (calls out): Is that what you do, Alf Kershaw?! Wait till we get home! Wayne: I’m Derek Morrison’s son, Wayne – the spotty-faced kid from Summerville’s Road. At least, that’s how I was last time you saw me. Alf: But you're … you're ... Wayne: I’ve aged thirty years, Alf. Mum and Dad died in 1998 ... ten years ago … yeah, 1998. I sold the farm. Made a fortune. Now I live mostly on the Gold Coast. Still have a few interests around the valley. Heh heh! What’s your addy? I’ll send you my FaceBook URL. Alf (to Wallaby): Off their blooming tree. Rachelle (Enters): Found a park at last! Memo to self ... multi-storey car park a priority. Nicola: Rachelle, organise the techs, will you. Allow me to introduce myself. Nicola Rawley. Ideas consultant for Bellingen Shire. Formerly of Smart-As Marketing, North Sydney. “For focused marketing, You’ll surely want Rawley”. Rachelle: Faster than a subliminal ad. Nicola: More powerful than a profit margin. Rachelle: Able to lease tall buildings in a single day. Wallaby: Pleased … to meet you. Alf: How ya going? Nicola (exuberantly): I’m kicking it freestyle, buddy, kicking it freestyle! Rachelle (to tech): Manifest this man a mike! My God, I love talking hip! Wallaby: What are you talking about? Wayne: You both are a silly couple of fellas, aren’t you? Wallaby and Alf: What? Wayne: Alf, Alf. You want to run the newcomers out on a rail, do you? Cut off your nose to spite your face. Nicola: What really amuses me is Wallaby, and his talk about the Soviet Union. Rachelle: Though, you have to admit, he had a point about the Islamists. Wallaby: Yes, World War III, and it'll be between the USA and the USSR. Now what are you all laughing at?


Wayne: Wallaby … there hasn’t been a Soviet Union for 20 years, old son. Nicola: Fall of the Berlin Wall, 1989. Dissolution of the USSR. (Hecklers are stunned, and fall silent.) Nicola: That shut them up. Maybe you can stay shut up, fellas. This is the big launch. There won’t be any fisticuffs here tonight. (Hippie hecklers applaud.) Wallaby: 1989? No USSR? What’s going on? Alf (whispers to Wallaby): Just humour them, cobber. They’re mad as a treeful of galahs! Nicola: Look at the date on my Palm Pilot, Wallaby. Wallaby: What’s this? Rachelle: It’s like a small PC. Wallaby: Like a small what? Wayne: What does it say? Wallaby: August 30, 2008. (Shaking his head.) Wow, this is too far out. Wayne: What does it say on my phone, Alf? Alf: Your phone? That little thing? Err ... August 30, 2008. What are you? Dick Tracy or something? Rachelle: Beam me up Scotty! Nicola: So, Wallaby. What sort of music are you into? Wallaby: Huh? Oh, a bit of Beatles, a bit of Stones. Billy Thorpe. Dire Straits. Some Fleetwood Mac. Nicola: Fleetwood Mac! I have all their CDs! We’re going to get along just fine. Do you like Rumors? Wallaby: Love it. See these ... what? Rachelle: Wait till you hear Tusk. Wallaby: Tusk? Rachelle: Sorry. That comes out next year. Nicola: Your next year, that is, Wal, baby. I bet you like John Lennon, too. Wallaby: Yeah, but he hasn’t done anything for years. Nicola: No he sure hasn’t, that’s a fact, Wallaby. Alf (aside to Wayne): Hey, young Wayne, just how much did you get for Derek’s farm? Nicola: Just ballpark it for him. Wayne: Nearly two mill. Alf (whispers to Wallaby): I told you they were mad! Wallaby: I think an explanation is in order. Nicola: An explanation? Let’s close that loop. I’m not in the habit of explaining myself, are you, Wayne? Wayne: Not on your life. Wallaby: You can’t just burst onto our stage and— Nicola: You’re on our stage in actual fact, Wallaby ... in the year 2008. But I’m fair, Wallaby, so … shall we tell them? Wayne: It’s only fair we should tell them a bit. Rachelle: After all, we’ve seen the script and they haven’t. Nicola: OK, but we can’t give the whole marketecture away just yet. Rachelle: That’d be a plot spoiler.


Nicola: Alf. Wallaby. We're here for our launch. Just what we will be launching, well, I’ve put a media embargo on that, so you’ll have to wait a little while and see. That shouldn’t be too hard, should it? We need a bit of Zen detachment from you, Wallaby, and a bit of Aussie stoicism from Alf. Wallaby: Huh? Nicola (affecting a yoga pose): ‘Be here now’. Rachelle: Tune in. Nicola: Turn on— Alf: What? Wayne: Tie it up with wire, Alf. Put a sock in it. Rachelle: A bit of Shoosh-dot-com! Nicola: That’s beautiful. Beautiful silence. Peace and quiet. You know, Wallaby, I’m like you – peace and quiet is one of the things that I came to Bellingen for. Really. Wayne: Strewth, peace and quiet? Never could stand it, meself. You should try living out on Summerville’s Road. Sometimes all ya get is the bloomin’ sound of the breeze in the tallowwood trees. What do you think made me head north ten year ago? (Teenage vandals from street bottles smashing, etc.) Nicola: Perhaps you took the road of flight prematurely, Wayne. Wallaby: What’s all that racket? Nicola: Just teenage vandals. Nothing to worry about. Wallaby: What? Vandals in Bellingen? Nicola: Tell him, Wayne. Wayne: Simple. It’s after sunset. Rachelle: They won’t get in. (Shouts.) Isn’t that right, boys? Guard 1 (at main door): Under control. Only a dozen or so of them, mostly unarmed. We’ve got reinforcements coming from three other command points in town. Cops are on the way too. No cause for alarm, folks. Guard 2 (to elderly guest in back row): Excuse me, madam, I don’t believe we saw your ID. No, madam, if you don’t have a driver’s licence, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. Nicola: (Sigh) The sooner the government puts RFID chips under everyone’s skin, the better. (Speaks into Palm Pilot.) Memo to self: Calendarize meeting with Council on RFID. Rachelle: Nicola, perhaps we should loop them in. Nicola: Right. Mr Kershaw … Alf. I believe that you think the newcomers should be … shall we say … discouraged from living in Bellingen. Alf: Yes. Yes I do. Wayne: You told Charlie Campbell that they should all be run out of town? Alf: Too right I did. Angry heckler: Good job, too! Nicola: And that their homes should be bulldozed? Alf: Yes. That’s the plan. If youse hadn’t of been late you would of heard everyone saying it. Nicola: Late?! I was right on cue. Wayne: Alf, how much do you think your land is worth? Alf: Mind your own beeswax.


Wayne: Let me put it this way. In 1960, your family owned a truckload – a lot of truckloads – of some of the best dairy cattle on the North Coast, didn’t they? Alf: My word. Wayne: And by the mid-1970s, your herd was only about a tenth the size, wasn’t it? Nicola: Haha! All hat and no cattle! Like George Bush. (Alf and Wallaby look blankly.) Rachelle: George Bu— oh, never mind. Wayne: And why was that, mate? Alf: Bloomin’ Common Market. The stupid Poms started buying all their dairy products from Europe— Wayne: The industry up and died, didn’t it? Alf: It weren’t just that. That weren’t the half of it. We used to leave the milk urns out by the road— Rachelle: So that’s what those little wooden buildings are. Nicola (laughing): I thought they were cute little price-optimized bus stops. Alf: Until Norco and the gummint said we couldn’t do that no more, and we had to buy all that new-fangled equipment, worth thousands of dollars. Wayne: Not everyone could buy the equipment, could they? And the town … this town that was once where people came from Coffs Harbour to go shopping … this beautiful town hit the skids, right mate? Alf: My very word it did. Nearly become a ghost town. Same in every dairy town. The butteries closed. People went broke. The towns went broke … Bellingen, Bangalow, Mullumbimby, Byron Bay—All because of co-op managers from Pitt Street who wouldn’t know a cow’s tit from a batsman’s glove. Mrs Kershaw: Alfred! Mind your tongue! Alf: Ohh, sorry, ladies. I beg your pardon. Err … And that were just the start of the troubles. Nicola: How’s that? Alf (pointing at Wallaby): You’re lookin’ at it. This mob what started living in dairy bails and mincin’ around town juggling balls and singing be-bop. Wayne: What, Alf? These velvet-trousered pouter pigeons and their snotty-nosed brats … they spoiled everything, did they? Alf: My oath. Rachelle: We can effect a bit of a scenaro role play on this. Wallaby, if you could play the hippie for us – difficult, I know – and … err, Alf, well you'll be acting as the farmer. Alf: Acting! Never liked actors – all that ponsin' around – all poofters if you ask me. I'm not doing no acting. Rachelle: Alf, just be yourself, OK – and lights, camera, action ... The hippie comes up to the farmer and says ... Wallaby: How much for that fifty acres of river flats? That acreage with the broken-down old cow bails on it? Rachelle: The farmer takes one look at him and says: Alf: It’s not for sale, it’s never been for sale, and never will be for sale. Rachelle: Then – this is my favourite part – the hippie says … Wallaby: How about two grand?


Wayne: And a few minutes after the farmer had picked his jaw up off the ground, and put the money in his hip pocket, he was down at the co-op produce store telling all the other blokes – Alf: Hey, look what that stupid stinking hippie just paid for me land! Wayne: And the next day, from one end of the valley to another, there were a few more fifty-acre lots sliced off. Isn’t that right, Alf Kershaw? That’s right, isn’t it? (Alf silently looks at his feet.) Alf: Well … Wallaby: Listen, I’d like to say someth— Wayne: You’ll get your turn in a minute. Nicola: I think a bit of music is in order while I take a bio break. Rachelle: Can someone facilitate some musitainment please, while Nicola powders her nose? <Musical break.>

Bellingen Song

Lyrics © Pip Wilson, 2008

Music © Josee Hennequin, 2008

Flow down the river, Hmm, hmm, purple haze. Flow down the river. Here’s where I’ll spend my days. The rockets’ red glare Will not touch me, And I will become Pure and free. I will kiss this green Land as my country An ancestor, I will be. And the sting of the city won’t hurt me I will fly with the black cockatoo And the song of my youth won’t desert me And my vision will stay strong and true. I’m in Bellingen I’m in Bellingen I’m an ancestor Strong and true.


In the flood, And in the bright dawning Around my strong fire And the dew I will breathe in the mist Of the morning And my vision will stay Strong and true. And the sting of the city won’t hurt me I will fly with the black cockatoo And the song of my youth won’t desert me And my vision will stay strong and true. I am Bellingen I am Bellingen I’m an ancestor Strong and true. I am Bellingen I am Bellingen I’m an ancestor Strong and true.

Intermission

Act Two

Nicola: Ah, That song has jingle potential. Now, what was it you wanted to communicate, Wallaby? Wallaby: I just want to say … I mean, communicate … that if Alf and Wayne think we’re not paying enough for the land— Nicola (chuckling): Error 404 my patchouli-redolent friend, Error 404. You mean like $38,000 for a square mile, 7 kilometres out of town, with a permanent creek, two farmhouses and 60 acres cleared? Sounds reasonable to me. Oh, those were the days. Wallaby: Yes, that’s what I mean. Split among 20 of us. It gives people a chance in life. Nicola: And what are you doing with the land? Wallaby: We’re going for an MO. Rachelle: A multiple occupancy. Wallaby: That’s right. Hey, what’s with all these questions? What’s your interest? Wayne: Oh, we have interests, all right, mate. Interests all over the valley, haha! All the way to the bank. Nicola: Now, I’d like you to eyeball this news story for me Wallaby. Take a look at my laptop.


Alf: Watch it! We won’t be havin’ none of that stuff here! (Nicola shows Wallaby her laptop.) Wallaby: What is this? Some sort of colour TV? (reading) ‘PROGRESS BEING MADE ON BONVILLE HIGHWAY. The Minister for Roads announced today that construction of the new highway between Repton and Bonville is proceeding well. Many lives will be saved when the Bonville deviation is opened …’ Nicola: ‘Many lives will be saved’. Whose lives do you think will be saved, Wallaby? Wallaby: I don’t know! Nicola (chuckling to Wayne): We do! Wallaby: This plan shows 19 bridges and a four-lane highway! Wayne: Do try to think ahead, my boy. Nicola: See the date. Wallaby: August 25th, 2008. Nicola: So what does this mean, my friend? Wallaby: I suppose it means ‘development’. But they’re selling it to the public in the name of ‘safety’? Nicola: Very good! Very good! Wallaby, you look like a team player. At the end of the day, I like the way you step up to the plate and hit the ground running. You could become part of the human capital of our project. I see a collaborative partnership forming here! Rachelle: The way you think, Wallaby, I’m surprised you didn’t go into consultancy. Nicola: And what do you envisage, Wallaby? Try leveraging a bit of astral travelling, my cheeseclothy friend. That’s a good ‘alternative’ thing to do, isn’t it? Wallaby: I see them curbing and guttering Repton!! Wayne: Nothing new! That started five year ago. You have to put in the infrastructure before the ‘for sale’ signs. What else do you see? Nicola: We’ve done some projective modelling … Wallaby: I see Bellingen … I see a map in Coffs Harbour Council Chambers. It’s dated 2027. What?! This says Coffs has gone from 25,000 to 100,000 people in fifty years??!! Nicola: You’ve heard of sea changers, and tree changer— oh, no, of course you haven’t. Rachelle: Here … let me click a link for you … Wallaby: Hell, Coffs is as big as Newcastle! The shires have been amalgamated! Rachelle: Coffs needs dormitory suburbs, Wallaby. Nicola: You wouldn’t deny people a good night’s sleep, would you? Sleep helps open the chakras. I remember that from a workshop I did in California back in ’87 … or was it Amsterdam? Wallaby: You can’t amalgamate Coffs with this valley! They’re different cultures, different bioregions – different everything. Nicola: You mean like Noosa and Maroochydore? Then you don’t want to know what happened there last year! What else do you see? Wallaby: I see … the old Bellingen population sign … it’s gone from 1,368 to 15,000! Nicola: We’ve been keeping that sign with a low number as long as we can, for tourist leverage. It only says 2,200 in the year 2008 – haha! – but I guess we must have lost control of the illusion by 2027. But, a lovely highway, isn’t it? Shaves quite a few minutes off the commute.


Wallaby: What's this big concrete bridge and a roundabout at the Pacific Highway turnoff to Bello. What happened to the old, little dark side-road? Nicola: FYI – Rachelle: For your information … Nicola: FYI … the bridge and the roundabout were constructed years ago. Proactive planning, that’s the name of the game. Wayne: That was when them blokes from Melbourne come and bought me property. When they’d read the state and council plans. That’s what they do before spendin’ a quid. They get the plans, and they read them like you read your National Times and your missus reads her tealeaves. Wallaby: This can’t be … I see subdivisions all along Bellingen Road. Nicola: We call it Waterfall Way now, my friend. Quite a marketing coup, that name, even if I do say so myself. That and ‘Alternative Avenue’ … Rachelle: ‘Global Grove Estate’ … Nicola: ‘Marjoram Meadows’ – really some of my best work. Rachelle: Nicola, your core competencies are excellent. Wallaby: Huh? Rachelle: Her skillset. Nicola: But let’s go further, past 2008 again. What can you see on these projection models? Data dump me, Wallaby. Let’s do some blue-sky thinking here! Wallaby: I can’t make this thing work. How do you change channels? Rachelle: Touchpad. Let me give you a hand. It doesn’t have a mouse. Alf: I should bloomin’ hope not! Wallaby: All the green pastures along the road – where are they? I heard that that land would never be built on – it’s flood prone. Nicola: Hmmm. So, how do you like canal development, Wallaby? Talk to that. Wallaby: Talk to it? Rachelle: Talk about it. Wayne: I love canal development! Got me one of them happening up in Surfer’s Paradise. Wallaby: Petrol stations? A 7-ll? And a shopping mall? This is wrong! Where’s the little vegie stalls? Nicola: Well spotted, my flair-jeaned friend. Of course, we had to downsize the number of vegie stalls. Rachelle: To zero, actually. Nicola: Occupational Health and Safety. Rachelle: Public liability insurance. Nicola: Council and RTA signage regulations. Rachelle: Food service protocols; you know the stuff. Nicola: The stalls went about the same time as the church fêtes and the lamingtons and the melon jam ... Rachelle: The kiddies’ ballet classes and those dangerous swings and merry-go-rounds in the parks. Nicola: Legal advice. There was no real money in them anyway, Wallaby. Wallaby: But a shopping mall?!


Nicola: Not just any mall. I can see I need to give you a heads up on this. We’re going to call it ‘New Age Hypermall’ and it will have two hectares of shopping for the environmentally conscious consumer, all beneath a geodesic dome – based on a design by your alternative hero Buckminster Fuller himself! Just your cup of lemongrass tea, no? We’ll have an acre of agritainment with an organic baby animal enclosure. Great for the image, yeah? Bound to attract the Double Bay ‘pet parents’. Rachelle: And lots of YAWNs from the suburbs. Wallaby: YAWNs? Rachelle: Young And Wealthy, but Normal. Nicola: And the DINKs, and the Pinks. But mainly it’s the early retirees. Rachelle: The Baby Boomers. Nicola: Then the Echo Boomers. See the layout of the public phones? Rachelle: We engaged a phone shui consultant from Honkers. Alf: Ummm … see any cows there? Wallaby: They can’t do this! Wayne: Yes, we are. Wallaby: There’s got to be a way to stop it! Nicola: No, in point of actual fact, there’s not. But you can help it – you and your friends – and make a motzah for your trouble. No more multiple occupancies. No more $2,000 shares. The bottom line is: Proactive planning! You hippies are always talking about paradigm shifts. Well, let me loop you in – I’m talking megadigm shift and extended price. You’ve got the sausage … Rachelle: But we’ve got the sizzle! Wallaby: But how will poor refugees from the city be able to get a piece of land? Nicola: Yow!! Rachelle: That word!! Wayne: Owch!! Wash your mouth out with soap! Wallaby: What? ‘Refugees’? Nicola: Mate, you’ll have to learn one thing if you’re ever going to settle comfortably in to the 21st Century. Some words that were acceptable in your time, could land you in a lot of strife today. Rachelle: Be careful! There’s two security cameras up the back of the hall. Wallaby: Settle comfortably? It’s never been my goal to settle comfortably, not if it means giving up what I believe in. Nicola: I’ve tried to be nice to you, Wallaby, but when you dialog like that … Wayne: You don’t want to see her angry. Alf: Any cows? Nicola: Look, Wallaby. You seem like a nice bloke. We’re both, hip, man. A bit of sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll is to our taste, no? I used to go to alternative festivals – on weekends, of course, and the occasional flexi-day – I'd even wear sandals, smoke a little weed. I’ve still got a Che Guevara T-shirt somewhere. John Lennon … simply adore Lennon. You’d trust someone who loves John Lennon … (A few lines of ‘Gimme Some Truth’.) Wallaby: Well, of course, but— Nicola: Your “let’s share this” and “let’s grow that”, that’s been betamaxed, you’d better ramp it down. You’ll have to recontextualize that if you don’t want to end up like some..


some Amish anachronism. And forget about Permaculturing the asset that this valley represents! That’s a below zero option. That jumped the shark with your flares. Sure, organic’s got legs. Rachelle: According to the script, Wayne here has investments in some organic, broadacre agribiz proposals. Nicola: And that makes good sense. Good Woolworths fodder. But we don’t want anything radical. If we must have Permaculture for market segmentation, let’s have a little bit in the strip development within 50 metres of the main road, where buyers can see it and bask in the glow of our ‘alternative’ image. Rachelle: Like ‘Woodstock Towers’. Nicola: That should be at lock-up stage by 2015. Herbal-berbal façade … forty serviced apartments, gated community. Rachelle: Solar-powered gates, natch! Wallaby: We’ll stop you. We’ll do a grassroots campaign. Nicola: That would be a career-limiting move, my day-glo postered amigo. Rachelle: You see, we’ll better it with an astroturf campaign, Nicola: We can employ more Mom and Pop letter writers than you ever can. Rachelle: We’ll Dixie Chick you. Nicola: We’ll Hillsong you! You disappoint me, Wallaby. Apparently your outcomes are not the sorts of outcomes we want. We don’t want those sorts of deliverables, unless you can put a price on them. I’d hate to cost manage you before we’ve even engaged you as a consultant. This is 2008, and there’s no escaping it. So, can we sit down across a table on this? Wallaby: This is bullshit, man Alf: Jeez, I’m not so sure that I like the sound of all this meself, Wallaby mate. Any cows? Wayne: Well, you’re just a dill, then, Alf. There's plenty you should have got upset about, but what’s been your biggest complaint? Skinnydipping? Hell, man, you now have a granddaughter swimming in the nuddy in New York. Rachelle: Doing Calvin Klein commercials. Alf: That’s a load of codswallop! And that bloomin’ massage tent! Wayne: Let me tell you something, Alf… I mean, let me give you a heads up. I had a massage this morning before I flew down from Coolangatta. I have one every other day! And I get the de luxe version … the one with ‘happy endings’, if you catch my drift. Only two hundred bucks a throw. The sky didn’t fall in! And I’m getting meself a duty-free bride from the Philippines. Rachelle: Mail-order. Wayne: Yeah, mail-order bride. I got one delivered last year, but had to send her back. She was crushed. Listen, Alf, you could be having that too if you don't stand in the way of these hippies and their land-buying spree. Mrs Kershaw: You even think about it, Alf Kershaw!! Alf: Love, you know ... Funny heckler (imitating Mrs Kershaw’s voice): Wait till you get home, Alf Kershaw! (straight hecklers laugh) Alf: Shoosh up will yez! But didn't Nicola here say that it was a bad thing? Hippies buying land?


Nicola: You misread us, sir. We want the ‘alternates’ to buy the land. Rachelle: Even if – at first – they create their dreary communes. Nicola: This was a broke dairy town, so it was needed to bring in some capital, no matter how small, to leverage value, and it needed settlers – any settlers, no matter how inept. Rachelle: … And (ugh!) idealistic. Wayne: Who else will buy it in the 1970s, Alf? Nobody. Only alternates. They don’t mind pulling out lantana. Rachelle: They love anything organic that rhymes with ‘Santana’. Wayne: They love crummy roads, because it keeps the tourists away. They’ll live in a 70-year-old shed that’s falling down around their ears until they build something. You won’t get someone with real money to do that. Nicola: Think of them as seat warmers, Alf … place holders. No-one in their right mind will buy your dirt until the roads and infrastructure are on the state and council blueprints. And that won’t get traction for another ten years after your meeting, after the hippie advance guard has done its work. It’s evolution, my friends. You have to think ahead. We know what happened, and we’re trying to forewarn you. For your own good. (OK, and just a little bit of ours.) Think USP – Rachelle: Unique selling proposition. Wayne: Do you get it, Alf? First, the hippies come with a few grand. So sell ’em a couple of hundred acres. Nicola: ‘Large’, Wayne. We say ‘large’. We don’t say ‘grand’ any more. Rachelle: It's, like, so yesterday! Nicola: It’s like saying ‘run it up the flagpole and see who salutes it’. Nobody says ‘run it up the flagpole and see who salutes it’ any more. Wayne: They don’t? I only learned that one the other day. Nicola: It’s been in the circular file for years. Try it. Wayne: OK. ‘Run it up the flagpole and see who salutes it’. Nicola: Catch my drift, Wayne? Just giving you a heads up, mate. Keep the lingo current or you’ll never grok the marketing game. Anyway, after the hippies – who are just the low-hanging fruit – come the new stakeholders … the artisans … the potters and successful artists, people with a lot more in their pockets. They move in and double or treble the land values. Rachelle: They cut blocks into fifty acres. Nicola: Some of them intend to stay; others intend to buy short, sell long. Then the smart money follows the signage – the professionals come to town. Rachelle: The shampoo ponytails. Nicola: The early retirees from the big end of town. Toorak and Vaucluse. Rachelle: The McMansionites. Nicola: They want five acres. Then … well, you can work out the rest. Rachelle: Buy short, sell long. Wallaby: What happens then? Far out, I wish I hadn’t asked that! Nicola: Then they switch gears to the next opportunity. And Multiple Occupancy and Permaculture, will terminate of their own accord, Alf – you don’t need to hasten it in 1977, because if you do – if you surplus the hippies in 1977 – there will be nothing to attract the real buyers. They will not come for broke dairy country covered in lantana, gents.


Rachelle: That’s hippie work. Nicola: They will come for another image – an image my people and other people’s people have been working on for years now, and we won’t have you spoil it years before we even thought of it. There’s already too much at stake, too much money tied up, too much value adding. Rachelle: It’s all image. You've seen The Truman Show? Oh, of course you haven't. Nicola: This is the future Bellingen – and we’ve trademarked it. So we need you chaps to look ahead and set the wheels in motion – not bicker amongst yourselves, or you’ll wreck it for all of us. And let me synopsize another outcome for you … I want you to feel this, Wallaby … in 1991, you and your rinkydink commune will vote to raise the price of your shares—

Wallaby: Never! Nicola: Wallaby, in 1991 your members will raise the price of a share from ‘two large’ to ‘fifty large’. Look at today’s price of a mudbrick house on five acres. Now, that’s leveraging assets, because city spenders think mudbrick’s cute. Give me your take. Look here on the laptop. Rachelle: Here, I’ll google Bellingen Real Estate. Wallaby: $600,000?! For five acres? You’re out of your friggin’ tree! Alf: That can’t be. Wayne: It can’t be if you drive the new settlers out of town, you old coot. They’re your future, my friend. Your bread and butter, as long as you both play the game. There’ll be no development blueprints if the population starts dropping again. Sure, you’ll have to put the brakes on M.O. in a few years, but don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Nicola: Can I stir fry an idea in your think-wok? It takes 20,000 people to get critical mass. Like Coffs Harbour in your day. Now that I've commonplated the issue, I hope you'll decide on a reasonable outcome, gentlemen. Alf: Any cows? Wayne: Yup, in a bull market! Nicola: Oh, we have to have a few cows, of course, or it wouldn’t be Bellingen! They’re brandatories! They’re mission critical to get the marketing mix we need. Rachelle: Full buzzworthy! Nicola: Alf, you gotta think tourism, think DCS – discretionary consumer spend – and you’ll be thinking smart. We’ll also promote tourism to bring in new subdivisionees. We’re planning CDM – co-ordinated destination management – for optimum visitation, and we already have our RTO established through Council and other stakeholders. Alf: RTO? Rachelle: Regional tourism organisation. Nicola: Anyway, cows are going to be in the infomercials, so we have to keep a few moo-cows, mate! Rachelle: Part of the Bellingen Brand as it were. Alf: Hey, me cows don't need branding, thank you very much. Nicola: We can insource them … but they’re not really great for the ecology, isn’t that right, Wallaby? Say something, Wallaby! Cat got your tongue? We don’t need more than a few cows, and they’ll be repurposed. We’ve planned for … let me check my Palm Pilot … a flock of fifty-four, just to stay customer-centric and keep that museum chic that pulls the punters in. That’s a good positioning.


Rachelle: Any more than that would be feature creep. Nicola: We’ll park them near Fernmount with a Just-in-Time rotation, for that ‘Wow, cows!’ synergy from the rug-rats when Mom and Pop buyers turn off the highway. Rachelle: Any more than that would be brandalism. Nicola: And that brings us to the most important part of the evening, our launch TCD – target completion date. Wayne, you put up half the money, you’re a major player. Do you want to take this out? Wayne: Your call. You’re the marketing person. Nicola (rubbing hands in glee): Right you are, Mr Morrison. Ladies and gentlemen of the audience. Without further ado or conversating … Wayne: Ta-daa!! <The Brand Bellingen banner is unfurled. Nicola and Wayne sing ‘Hyperreality: The Brand Bellingen’ song, joined by chorus girls.>

Hyperreality (The Brand Bellingen Song) Lyrics © Pip Wilson, 2008

Music © Josee Hennequin, 2008

Arranged by Elisabeth Jurans

<Chorus/dancing girls to be included.> - - - (Wallaby, brightly and loudly:) Promised Land!!! (Alf, brightly:) Diehappy!!! (Nicola, darkly, shaking her head:) Never Never! (Wayne, brightly:) Sunny Corner! (Rachelle, darkly:) Darkwood! (Wallaby, brightly:) Shambhalla! (Nicola, confusedly:) Ummm … McGrath’s Hump?! (Wayne: basso) And Tucker’s … Tucker’s Nob! (Alf:) This is the place that’s in our genes, Only Bello people know what it means. (Wallaby, arguing against Alf:) This is the best, the best locality, Where there’s blue skies, green grass … (Nicola:) We’ll keep them there for … (Wayne and Nicola:) Hyper-reality! (Wallaby:) We come from all points, all points of the compass From every known nationality. You can’t lump us into silly chump-us. We got sensuality and theatricality. (Nicola, Rachelle and Wayne:) And we gonna raise a rumpus!! …

We got hyper … reality!


<Bridge> (Nicola:) We got cows that moooo and vegetarians too Vegans, freegans, Presbyterians,

(Rachelle:) Breathairians, libertarians, Octogenarians, egalitarians …

(Wayne:) And in actuality … loads of – (Wayne basso) Hyper … hyperreality! <End bridge> (Nicola:) We’ll paint the town like it’s 1850, The days when folks were strong and thrifty. (Alf:) Hey, that’s kinda nifty! (Wallaby, questioning:) And full of frugality??!! (Nicola:) Cause we’re selling … (Wayne basso:) Hyper … reality!

(Rachelle:) Or, we’ll paint the town up like the ’60s, Fill the shop windows with Disney hippies! Lots of sexuality and liberality, To bring the tourists … from every city, To buy our subdivisions as a formality, for (Wayne basso:) Hyper … reality! (Wayne:) We’ll make it look just like a bro-chure, And bring in all the entre-preneurs! Come see our postcard municipality. Coffs Harbour’s suburb of spirituality. (Nicola:) Smile for the nice man with the camera. Give us geniality! It ain’t no triviality! Cause we got hyper … (All:) Hyper … REALITY!!! (All:) Let’s hear it for BRAND … BRAND BELLINGEN!! Alf (crestfallen): But, hey, I’ve already branded all me cattle … By the way, ladies … any cows? <CURTAIN>

Brand Bellingen Script

Documents

Transcript of Brand Bellingen Script