‘What’s it all about, Bullgoose? What gives?’ I’ve often been asked these questions but never more so than during the last fortnight. No, not about the Olympics, nor about exactly when Trump’s mind will go completely “pop!” like corn in an air fryer.
Neither have readers asked about the newly revamped Bonalbo Community Hall, which is now so swank and arresting with the charm of a Slim Dusty love letter and the acoustics of the Beatles’ Abbey Road studio that it makes the Milan Opera House look like an outback dunny.
Nope. Everybody is asking the same question, pretty much.
What gives, Bullgoose? Is it a Waxy? Audit Prowl, 35, cow stylist, Tabulam.
Is it a Waxy, Bullgoose? What gives? Mintie Shudders, 35, betting influencer, Mummulgum.
Waxy, Is it Bullgoose? What gives? Axle Ordeal, 35, stoner, Rappville.
You see, there’s a new house going up in our village.
‘Big Whoop!’ I hear you type. ‘There must have been a new house or two built in Bonalbo, even if it was centuries ago’. Fair point, but this new house is a dead ringer for, wait for it, a Waxy Noggins Bonalbo Beach House! And just as the life and fate of the legendary waxhead builder and visionary are shrouded in mystery like half a government flipper beached in spume at Cheviot Beach, Portsea, this new Beach House is becoming a puzzling poser for the aged, if not the ages.
Who’s behind this new house? Theories abound. Some say it’s Paul Keating.
It’s Paul Keating. Colin Wonk, 35, lottery winner, Tunglebung.
Paul Keating, for sure. Chief Pope Nostradamus, 35, shaman, seer and pensioner.
That’d be Keating, he’s mad for that architecture stuff. Marine Le Pen, 35, maniac, Paris.
Some say it’s quack vitamin supplement heiress and crystal influencer, Quandaree Selflove, furious and vindictive after she was foiled from snaffling the Pink Beach House and trucking it to Wategos for a posing pad.
Pah! It’s got Quandaree Selflove written all over it. Nothing’s beneath that minx. Mandy Viewpoint, 35, shareholder, Bonalbo.
Others say it’s the Chinese, or the Latvians, or the Martians, or all three. These same people voted for King Charles the First at the last Kyogle Council elections. Make of that what you will.
But is it even a genuine Waxy Noggins-style house? I snapped this photo through the electrified fence last week. There followed a prolonged and prolapsive struggle peppered with biffings as the security guard tried to take possession of my phone while pummelling me about the head and shoulders.
I managed to hit him on the fist with my jaw a few times and that calmed him down sufficiently for him to submit to a brief interview.
Is this a genuine Waxy Noggins-style beach house? Dunno.
Can I have a bit of a squiz around? Nope.
Who’s the builder? Read the sign: F. Fargas Constructions.
Are they here? Nope, only work at night.
How come? Religion, photosensitivity, vampirism.
Who’s the owner? That’s their business, mate.
What’s your name? Lonny.
Lonny who? How did you know?
What? How did you know my name was Lonny Who?
Lonny who what? Give me strength! Lonny Who, what is now telling you to POQ!
Ok. One more question. What is your opinion of Steely Dan? Legends. Dead set legends.
He was an interesting cat. Violent, terse, but interesting.
Check out the photo. Ok, the house isn’t a pastel pink or yellow, but it’s got the twin rooflines and a beachy vibe. Now look at the front stairs. There aren’t any. Dead giveaway. That was Waxy Noggins’s signature. He would always omit the front stairs from his houses. Why? Because he wanted home owners far from the sea to fling open their front doors and get the vibe of standing on a cliff top and checking out the surf.
So, I’m calling it. This is a Waxy-inspired house, and that can only be a good thing for Bonalbo and for Australian architecture. Biffo or no biffo, you can count on me to stay on the case and chase down the mystery owner. I’ve got a mint recording of Can’t Buy a Thrill on vinyl to wave under Lonny Who’s nose.
A lesson to us all
Bullgoose
and then