Memorable people, moments and places tend to stick with you for time eternal; the three elements of memory tending to loop around each other in a sort of gestational orbit. It’s hard to remember one without any of the others, though whether that’s a product of ongoing alcoholism or brain by design – that’s up to you to decide.
I’m not as well travelled as some, but at this point in my existence I have been fortunate enough to visit a range of cities around the world. From the sights and smells of Mumbai to the leaning tower in Pisa, or the smoky canals of Amsterdam to the very busy, but orderly Tokyo – I think I’ve seen enough to at least have a slight gauge on what makes an alright city.
Given there’s a scale of comparison across all things, I know I have lived in the world’s best worst city for more than 30 years – an image of expectation perhaps clearest cast upon return to the city’s international airport. At arguably one of the dreariest terminals on the planet, a true microcosm of home is revealed – incomprehensible signage, 1997 decor and surroundings, minimal natural lighting, and horrifically overpriced – and that’s all before you attempt to get out of there. In Australian Border Force’s endless “Don’t be sorry, just declare it” proclamations, the world’s best worst city is sending you a clear message right from arrival.
There are cities whose streets are so bland, long and sun-kissed as to elicit pained groans from even the most seasoned walker – such is the glacial speed of life and investment; some which hang on to memories of world expos as a recent highlight, though nearly forty years have passed; and those whose rivers are so brown, and environmental cleanup so inactive, as to earn the waterway a permanent nickname amongst locals. I have lived in that city.
That city – formerly the red-headed, neglected stepchild of an entire coast, seemingly grew up fast and surprised everyone by getting hot during a wave of global pandemonium. Suddenly, everyone wanted to move backwards in time – literally and figuratively – to the only city in the only state without daylight savings, whose politicians are so bereft of morals and drowning in bigotry that you’d think it was the real life personification of the 1950s Australian wonderland Tony Abbott goes to bed dreaming about. The mass people movement also meant housing became unaffordable basically overnight across various classes of buyer and renter. That’s my city.
It used to have a rollercoaster and cinema on the top floor of the main major CBD shopping centre as a major tourist attraction, and then burned it Uptown (so to speak) almost as fast as a developer who failed to receive council approval for their shitbox apartment building development application on the site of a heritage listed asbestos shack that was once shat in by Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen. Though when we talk about heritage, other famous landmarks include a Hungry Jacks on the mall, a few pedestrian bridges, a homeless guy living in a rubbish pile on a hillside, and another guy who got arrested by an old friend’s dad for the crime of enjoying a succulent Chinese meal in the Valley – that’s about it. My city is one that happily disposes of that heritage and promises the world in its place – but in reality, it is only capable of successfully delivering one of the only casinos in world history which managed to go broke.
Rising from the ashes – a city big enough for public services, but not big enough for them to ever arrive on time. Rest assured though, you can synchronise your watch to the eternally evaporative pledge of east coast high speed rail – a train that can be conveniently caught around election cycles, but which pulls away from the unbuilt station and over the memory horizon in the blink of an eye. It’s a place with some of the world’s worst traffic and roads, but where train ticketing terminals still run on Windows 2000.
International music stars visit and play the rest of the capital cities along the coastline, but avoid home because they can play to 60,000 or more in one night somewhere else. Instead, we produced a 13,500 seat venue in a wetland 15km from the CBD with barely any access and called it a day. While the music was (and remains) out of tune, even television used to be produced on a mountain in my town – a place where a man could wear a sock puppet on his hand and make wildly inappropriate jokes for a kids show that aired very early in the AM, and in doing so, become far better known to the children of that era than any Prime Minister.
My city is a place where government and councils are corrupt, incompetent, inexplicably broke – or all of the above. On a state level, two Premiers even self-immolated (metaphorically) after delivering politically-problematic turd sandwiches of policy around stadiums, fearful of the wrath of both voters and News Corp in the eternal struggle that is the 24 hour news cycle. In my city, if the last political fella commits to something you don’t want, you just hold inquiries repeatedly until you get the “independent” result you want, because who cares? By the time those inquiries deliver, you’ll probably be gone anyway. Vote Quimby.
From one brutalist concrete transit centre (now demolished) to buses masquerading as trains – complete with wheel covers – you can always count on my city constantly delivering below-expectation and well over price. Unless it’s a piece of furniture lugged out to the street with “FREE” written on it – that there is an unwritten, city-wide system which sometimes goes above and beyond.
Anyway, the building of a new, desperately needed, probably far-under-estimated inner-city stadium brings me to the five-ringed elephant in the room – soon, my home will become an Olympic city.
When an Olympics comes home to roost, it often inflicts significant debt, eventually-abandoned venues, and great local hostility. To experience the latter in my city, one only needs to visit Fortitude Valley during the day, which you can already do on any of the 365 days in a year. From one QSAC to another, our new stadium (essentially an Olympic contractual requirement from two Premiers ago) will surely cement in a significant legacy of debt. But you’ve gotta spend it to make it.
Surely to scootch right up into the hallowed halls of Olympic infamy – my city is Brisbane, and it’s ready to overheat under the IOC spotlights.
Paying $20 for a one-way ticket from the airport into town because of an extremely shit, very long-term deal negotiated by a long-dead state government, that’s Olympic-ready. When said train turns up and signals stop functioning because it’s a Wednesday, complete with traffic grinding to a complete halt at a nearby level-crossing, that’s Olympic-ready. When a bus catches fire on the Riverside Expressway closing all lanes and you miss your event, that’s Olympic-ready. When missing one green light means hitting 20 red ones, that’s Olympic-ready. When you get stuck in Coronation Drive traffic because it has rained slightly and you miss competing in your event as a result, that’s Olympic-ready. When the Bruce Highway or Pacific Motorway are down to one lane or closed, that’s Olympic-ready.
On balance it almost certainly sucks, but Brisbane is the city I’ve called home for more than 30 years. It’s reliable like a Toyota Camry with 1,000,000 kilometres on the clock: she ain’t much and the paint’s peeled off, but I wouldn’t change a thing. Hopefully she starts up in time for the Olympics.