Why is it that once a year Hobart decides to remodel itself as the cultural epicentre of the universe but for the remainder is proud to wallow in redneckery?

As the annual cliches of inadequate seating, council backslappery and woeful advertising dissipate, it is time for some dour reflection upon the glorified lamington drive that is the Hobart Summer Festival.

Oh how I enjoy the Summer months in Hobart town, a true time to celebrate mediocrity in all its guises. Commercial television has been swamped in recent weeks with half-arsed bids at promoting cultural and sporting events in the state’s capital city.

Firstly we have an advertisement promoting a culinary event shackled to a TSO performance as the words SOLD OUT flash across the screen. What’s the point in advertising an event that has sold out? Methinks it typical of those marketing/advertising clowns trying to ensure they get the all important small b bang for their very small buck.

Further evidence of this can be seen in the woeful animation that accompanies the electronic media campaign for the summer entertainment program. It bears all the hallmarks of having been produced in a sheltered workshop. Recycle some hackneyed 80s tunesmiths and voila! The congealed icing on a quadruple tiered shit cake is complete.

Secondly, we have advertising for an annual sporting event so dominated by sponsorship logos and groveling thanks for their involvement [heaven forbid it be put out of its misery and removed from its cringeful inclusion on the international sporting calendar] that viewers could be forgiven for forgetting what is actually being advertised.

Message to the marketing and advertising gurus dusting off the cobwebs from another year of pointless promotional piffle and parading their wares as if to demonstrate an effort made, you cannot polish a turd.

I tend to steer well clear of all this nonsense annually. I [like our glorious state premier and many in his cabinet] avoid the sheep deluding themselves on the Hobart waterfront and find myself searching out the dagwood dog stand conveniently hidden from view, lest it at once mess with the cultural sheen heavily lacquered elsewhere in the precinct.

There I order up the said dog and wiping the tomato sauce from my mouth, hands and clothing, celebrate real Tasmanian culture.

Welcome to the New Tasmania and a Crappy New Year to you all!

Warren Perso is an acerbic social and political commentator on oldtt.pixelkey.biz