Not just another Wednesday in the Nosh Pit

I'm having lunch in the Meatlovers Food Court with my friend, so it must be Wednesday. I don't know about you, but I tire of life's almost constant challenges so, once a week I'm ready for the predictability of the stark (no, not Starck) white furniture; the white bread; the cheerless, do you want butter but it's really margarine; the fruit salad with too much watermelon; the 'Chinese' reminiscent of Hong Ling Cootamundra circa 1958; the hamburgers-with-nothing; and the roast meat so dry it looks like it was carved in the very paddock where it dropped dead from dehydration.

The usual crowd was t: the Beiges in from Denistone with their sandwiches brought from home and cut into quarters for ease of nibbling; the Accounts Rendered clerks from Coca Cola head office eating great mounds of, well, I'm not sure; the backpackers with their North Queensland tans confirming their worst fears of Sydney food; the private school children who could afford to avoid the stuff sloshed up here; and the Catholics who find comfort in the recognisible.

Andrew's salads and coffee are the Holy Grail here. Who else could dispense, with grace rather than grimace, my strong flat white with a splash of cold milk. It's little wonder that the workers from the office tower above swarm around Andrew'a coffee counter; not  those, though, from the Italian Consulate who have the mistaken idea that no one outside Italy can make a decent cup of coffee. They haven't been to Campos in Newtown.

So, there we were chewing the fat, literally. Merchants trading at a trot - saltandpepper? butter (that again!)? have a nice day have a nice weekend enjoy yourself. The slap of slop on plate. Three television screens: two reassuringly showing Dr Phil or the Midday Movie;  the third, and hardest to avoid, assaulting the hungry with sport of all hues of vulgarity. Today's sport offering: championship wrestling and jelly wrestling. Jelly wrestling! Enough to put anyone off their fruit salad (with too much watermelon).

Suddenly, everything changed. The cacophony went down a few decibels, all heads turned as one. A choir had arrived; judging by their outfits I thought, Anglicans. Anyway, Catholics would probably be at the pub or the betting joint and Presbyterians don't sing, do they?
Of course, it's CHRISTMAS when choirs can infilct on a captive audience songs which chisel deep into the brain. You know the stuff: Silent Night (I wish for a silent lunch right now); The First Noel (who was he, and how do we know he was the first bloke to be called Noel?).

It's time I came clean, time I came out. I have sung this stuff in a choir, The Gay Liberation Quire (sic), in the 1980s. We sang at concerts, in pubs,at  trade union events, homosexual law reform rallies and marches. We also busked in the CBD during the Peak Summer Consumer Period (aka Christmas).

Herewith, a sample (sing along to the tune of Hark the Herald Angels Sing)

Hark the Herald Fairies Shout

Hark the herald fairies shout
Gay is good and gays are out
Out of closets out tosay
'Liberation's on its way'
Some they laughed at, some they gagged
Some they sacked but still they failed
To crush the pride that makes us free
Gays in Solidarity
Hark the herald fairies shout
Gay is good and gays are out.

Told us we were sick and sad
Monsters, perverts, sick or mad
Told us we should know our place
Strangers to the human race.
Turned out this was just a rumour
(Glad we kept our sense of humour.)
Smashed the lies and learned to care
Now we've love and life to share.
Hark the fairies shout
Gay is good and gays are out.