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steboWhen the lights went out on World Expo in 1988, a pall fell over BrisVegas.

The sky grew dark, and no sun shone.

The city fell into a deep depression, as its alcoholic citizens became oppressed. Denied the opportunity to drink for 24 hours straight in a faux German Festhaus, then fall asleep drunk on the train to Geebung and wake up chundering at the Caboolture terminus, the people descended into a melancholic state of fug as a gruesome gloom descended upon their River City, where mere months before, with a belly full of Bavarian beer, they could drunkenly perform the chicken dance at 4 in the morning.

Now though the Stein-fuelled sedge had withered from the fake lake, and no birds sang.

The BrisVegans yearned for a messiah, a living God who could transform their Grey Street into a people’s place, where all women and men were equal above and below the turf, provided they could afford a million dollar apartment and a $40 steak.

A rich man, known far and wide as the Medici Prince, heard their cries, and like the Buddha determined to forsake his luxurious life  and set out on a journey to lead his people to Nirva. And so he walked through the palace gates and set out on foot to find the tree of knowledge, under which he could sit and meditate upon the sacrifices required to salve the BrisVegan’s beer deprivation and bleeding hearts.

After an arduous journey of about three and a half minutes the Medici Prince arrived at the floodplains of South BrisVegas, but when he reached the edge of the Mangrove Swamps found that there were no trees left under which he could sit and meditate upon the meaning of a life devoid of material gain, for the expositioners of 1988 had cut them all down to create clear space upon which they could build the beer houses that provided the BrisVegans with so much joy.


So the Medici Prince said f*ck it, I won’t renounce a single bloody thing, for $2000 shoes and $10 000 fine silks suits are the true meaning of life. I won’t create a new paradise on earth he thought, I’ll create a plethora of bloody peninsulas!

And so he did, and so the South Brisbane Peninsula was born, and before you could say Chairman of the Corporation peninsulas were popping up all over South and West of the capital city of the Pineapple State, in Hawthorne, and Jindalee, and Graceville, and Westake, and Woodend, and Basin Pocket, and Sadler’s Crossing and beyond.


Peninsulas, peninsulas everywhere, but not a Medici Prince to see

BrisVegan’s on the north side of the river cried foul, and questioned how these once far-flung inland adobes had suddenly become peninsulas, but the Medici Prince stilled the insurrection by explaining that in order to become a peninsula a precinct must simply be surrounded on three sides by water, and unfurled the sacred map proving the BrisVegas River ran not only deep, but in doglegged bends, and thus it became clear to the North Brisvegans that the claims of the newly pronounced Peninsularians were indeed correct.


Frankie on the Mount, listening intently to the sermon of St Kevvie

The plebians were for a fleeting moment puzzled, but then a great man – once a pourer of ale in the hallowed beer house of the Bung –  emerged from the masses and stood before them on the Mount outside the Geebung State School and sermonised, making the now-famous proclamation known to the mug punters forever after as the Humungous Homily of St Kevvie the Great.

‘Anything those c*nts can do, we can do better!’ St Kevvie boomed from his soap box outside the Womble Bar.


‘That Medici Prince w*nker wants a piece of land surrounded on three sides by water? I’ll f*cking give the prick a piece of land and three bits of water! Look around you sportsfans’.

And the sportsfans looked, and to their wonder they saw a peninsula, a patch of hallowed dirt surrounded by H2O on three sides, and with mouths wide open in awe they suddenly realised that the 24 perches of prickles upon which their houses stood was plonked in the dead centre of the promised land, and that St Kevvie was their Moses come to lead them out of perdition and into the paradise of a Peninsula.

What was it the solemn sportfans saw from Mount Bunger on that fateful day that changed the world dear readers? What were these magical three waters that granted these working-class warriors the gift of eternal life as punters living on a Peninsula? What had St Kevvie spied that the rich b*astards from the South Brisbane Peninsula has missed?

Sometimes the simplest things stare us right in the scone, yet our meat pies simply do not see them dear friends. The bodies of water were two, yet they conncected as one.

The Zillman Waterholes and Downfall Creek.

The sacred waters of the Bung.


St Kevvie had worked out what the millionaire Medici Prince could not.

The promised land of Geebung rested upon a Peninsula.

Despite the denials of the disingenous Flaghship Investment Bankers, we were all just Jock Tamson’s bairns after all.