ABOVE: The new bridge in Bonalbo.
It’s here! Bonalbo has a new attraction.
Another attraction? you say.
I know. We’ve already got the Bronze Dog Statue; the Hidden Mural; the There is No Air graffiti at the servo; the almost-complete Bonalbo Bird Walk, the famous Bonalbo Beach Houses, and only last week Banksy-like chalkboard art started appearing at the Hall.
What more could we want?
Well, I’ll tell you.
The Singing Bridge. The Singing What? It’s billed as an Observation Platform observing Lake Piddling Pete in the big park, but it walks like a bridge, quacks like a bridge and it sings, so it’s a singing bridge in my book.
It’s part of the council’s MOBA (Make Our Bonalbo Awesome) project. It’s great. You’ll like it.
It was officially opened by a kid on a BMX bike last Tuesday. He cut several disturbing aerial capers across it and pronounced it to be Yeah! before treadling off for an end or two of lawn bowls.
What’s the singing about?
Resonance, that’s what. In a brisk breeze the aluminium pool fence balustrading will commence a sympathetic vibration. The resulting tone is reminiscent of Clocks by Coldplay, without the rhythm.
If you’ve ever skydived with your mouth open you’ll recognise the sound.
There are those who think the Singing Bridge represents something far more sinister than community beautification.
Local postmodern conspiracista and vaccine denier, Flatus Bracing, insists that the singing bridge was thrown up by the open sewer types at the United Nations and World Order muckings-around conspiracy in order to lure aliens, but that’s OK because I’ve amassed a whole shirtload of different probing devices and I’m gonna turn the tables when those green see-through bastards land on the Observation Platform. Oh yeah, they won’t see me coming. Not even with their 15,000 eyes, and I’ll be giving them some of their own medicine, suppository-style. They’ll won’t be probing me again. No way! The shoe’s on the other thong now, Mister E bloody T!
BTW, someone reckoned they found an ancient letter at the Post Office addressed to The Somerton Man. That would’ve been an attraction, but turns out it was just poor handwriting and an address on the Summerland Way. Pity.
But there’s room for more attractions in Bonalbo. I was crabbing off the Observation Platform the other day when it came to me. Bonalbo’s a little town, and therefore a top spot for the MOTT (Museum of Tiny Things).
Here’s what I had in mind. The old Youth Club kiosk in the park has been lying idle for a while. Why not doll it up a bit and use it to exhibit all manner of tiny things from around the world.
How’s this for starters? Scomo’s gift for melody; Fred Nile’s tolerance; Elron Munt’s social conscience; Saudi Arabia’s humanity; Israel’s even-handedness; White Australia’s grasp of history; The House of Windsor’s relevance; Trump’s empathy; Chinese freedom…
But damn! These things are all so tiny none of them would be visible to the naked eye. Damn! The renowned tightwads at the Bonalbo Development Association would never spring for all the electron microscopes necessary to make the museum work. Damn!
Not to worry, I’ve still got the big one up my sleeve. I don’t want to give away too much, but it’s going to be stupendant, huge-erific and breathalysing.
I’m talking about the MONC: Museum of Nissan Cedrics. There. I’ve said it. The cat is out of its litter tray and you can’t whistle it back.
Wes Piddens is donating the land (I hope). The architecture will be inspired by the Waxy Noggins beach houses. It’ll be a giant shed like a lifesaving clubhouse and we’ll call it The Vermilion Pavilion. Inside we’ll display the greatest collection of Cedrics and Cedricabilia in the southern quadrant of the galaxy.
It’s in the bag, man.
And guess who’s going to be opening it? Go on, guess.
Yep, you guessed it: Dannielle Gaha (now DeAndrea) one full half of The Nissan Cedrics.
She is the real deal and loves her Cedrics. She’s living in America now, but I know she’ll come screaming over here like something bit her just as soon as I ask. Such is the lure of Bonalbo.
A lesson to us all.
Bullgoose
