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The Logies.
 Well,
thanks to the unexpected offer of Media Accreditation for the
TV Week Logies ('TV Week' and 'Logies' must always go together
insisted the press pack) I spent a night hovering on the red
carpet as the stars of Australian television arrived; watching
the wildlife, as it were.
Hating the trite, anodyne blandness of Oz TV as much as I do it was a lesson in astonishment to see people brandishing placards cheering "Go 'All Saints' and screaming for Kerri-Anne Kennerley. I mean I know these things are inexplicably popular with a huge number of people but I always figured they were popular like pornography is popular: a guilty pleasure best kept a dirty secret from everyone. Actually, half the time I was more interested in Crown Casino's ostentatious foyer; but I digress.
So what did I see ?
Peter from 'Big Brother 1' chatting with Gav and Waz from 'The Block' - and I imagine the conversation went something like "Nah seriously, you can stretch that fifteen minutes of fame out for years" (and not for the last time that night I had TISM in my head singing "Andy Warhol got it right, everybody gets the limelight / Andy Warhol got it wrong, fifteen minutes is too long").
Here's Johnny, Young that is, smilingly introducing his partner for the evening as his beautiful daughter Fleur lest some of the press get the wrong idea about Young Talent Time. Next to me an embittered photo journalist from Queensland is bitching that most of the unruly phalanx of 'Media' blocking his shots shouldn't be there, and that's true enough: a good half of the mob knocking over the velvet ropes are taking their photos with mobile phones and disposable cameras.
Far from glamourous and proto-Hollywood, the place was seriously over-run with reality TV "stars." Dicko from 'Australian Idol' muttered "There's Millsy over there hugging the girls from 'Big Brother,' probably trying to decide which one he's going to root" into the tape recorder of a nearby journalist.
Why did Jon Stevens ('The Resort') show up? For the same reason as the cancelled cast of 'The Secret Life Of Us,' I suppose: time to beg for work while the spotlight's still (just) on them. There was Sam Newman trying to smile with his weird, frozen face. Then he hugged his "date," Swedish Supermodel Victoria Silvstedt, so tightly for the cameras that her boobs squashed and you could see the back of one, giving some credence to Trevor Marmalade's subsequent on-air crack to Kerri-Anne the following morning that she represented "the work of some of America's finest surgeons."
What else did I see? 'Australian Idol's Courteney Act doing
the delightful drag queen thing of wearing a shock frock that's
as striking as it must be uncomfortable - a split sided gown
sewn from photos of Bert Newton. Oddly she also looked more
convincing than a third of the starved thin real women attending,
although it was tempting to break with decorum and cry out "Show
us ya cock !"
Steve Irwin is really like that all the time.
Nigel from 'Backyard Blitz' is the kind of colourblind tool who'll wear tan shoes with a dinner suit.
They take photos of the couple and then peel away the non-celebrity half for a solo shot of the star whilst their partner stands awkwardly discarded nearby. Even with Supermodel (is anyone just a model now?) Meaghan Gale and her similarly impossibly good-looking boyfriend.
I already knew that I'm about the same height as Rove but I never would've guessed that I can also look Jamie Durie, Larry Emdur and Georgie Parker straight in the eye.
Which brings me to my big worry before the night: given the number of vacuous bimbos on the box whom I find myself routinely hurling abuse at, would I attack anyone? Toni Pearen walked past and I didn't dump a bucket of offal over her. Angela Bishop stood right in front of me and I just couldn't dredge up - well, anything.
Though I spotted Patti I didn't see Bert Newton, the only "talent" attending truly worthy of the term. But then I didn't see Eddie McGuire either and consequently am not presently on charges of aggravated assault.
Still, there's always next year.
Brett Buttfield
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