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459 Fitzgerald Street
North Perth, WA, 6006
Australia

Kipperville (Robbie Williams (solo) at The Bird)

The Amber Fresh Chronicles

Kipperville (Robbie Williams (solo) at The Bird)

Andrew Ryan

“i feel like robbie williams”. that’s what my housemate said before she left the house this morning. she’s a beautiful brazilian architect and she had a ponytail, a nice white skirt with flowers, a little white jacket, and a travelling bag on rollers to keep her things in. i didn’t know why she felt like robbie williams, but i liked it.

“i’m going to work really hard today, and then see my nieces” i said. she laughed and told me “you’re like robbie williams too!”

this week lots of walruses washed up on the shore somewhere far away. that seems like a bigger mystery than feeling like robbie williams, but i feel like i understand those walruses.

yesterday i was riding a bike with a yoga matt attached to the back. my friend was riding with a big lady’s sun hat on, and a white singlet, and a big beard, and pants that are called chinos unless you’re working in the fields, like he does, in which case they’re called ‘pants.’

we went to another friend’s house with enormous roses in her front yard that nearly made me fall of my bike with their loveliness. me and the rose friend did yoga while my chino friend read a book called ‘nausea’ and then the rose friend explained how to poach kippers in milk. that seems like something robbie williams would do, poach kippers in milk after yoga. i imagine him in the kitchen, smoking as he cooks, but never getting any ash on anything, turning every now and then to his guest who’s in a lemon pant suit, or a lemon plant suit.

on the ride home i started feeling worried, even though this was a great scene: riding home from kipperville with a yoga matt tied to the bike by a leather belt, and this time with the addition of four enormous roses wrapped in alfoil which didn’t lose their petals on the ride. and in my friend’s pocket a jar to fill with mulberry jam once i cook it, and in my friend’s other pocket a pair of clippers to cut the heads off our own roses so they grow better.

this is getting too deep now, so i’ll turn to music. we all played a show at the bird, the kitchen people, the me, the long lost brothers, the flower drums. everyone did a good job. but the guy who did the best job had not many teeth in his top gums, and a cap soaking up all the sweat from his intensely energetic head, and a tshirt soaking up the sweat from his intensely moving body. let’s call him robbie williams.

robbie arrived while long lost brothers were playing and almost couldn’t contain himself. everything made him nearly explode out of his body, andrew, mitch, steve on stage. every thing they were playing, every setting of their amps, every snare fill. everyone else was standing round the edges, being nasturtiums. but robbie was deep in it. he kept turning to us, trying to get us involved, but we were happy to watch him sweat, and to watch the band sweat, and watch to watch Robbie’s hands and body sometimes move like a raver, sometimes move like a metalhead, always move with pleasure that you couldn’t be sure was natural or chemical – a false dichotomoy, but you know, still useful for pinpointing things. every now and then robbie williams would fling himself into a chair for a minute, turn to face someone new, lift his eyebrows for a heartbeat, search for connection and then leap up again to the dance floor. when he sat next to me i put my head against his head and moved my skull against his skull with all our hair combining sideways so that he would know i was with him in spirit even if not in leaping.

he was my favourite guy that night and i can see why all the girls go crazy for him. still gotta work out what to do about those walruses though.