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Danger at the Red Lights

It was a beautiful winter's day down in the great southern capital of Melbourne. The sun was shining, the birds a-tweeting and I had just finished my weekly bit of exercise at a football oval in St Kilda and was zipping home in my hotted-up wheelchair.

Now when I say exercise, at my age that sort of involves dropping the old chair into second gear and racing around the edge of the grassed area - but, hey, don't get on my case.

Anyway, with sweat pouring from the brow and some really whiffy socks on my feet, I stopped at an intersection in St Kilda - Melbourne's illicit sex capital - waiting for the little green man to let me cross.

There I was thinking about enjoying a nice cuppa when I got back to the home when all of a sudden there was this vision next to me.

I would have said vision of loveliness, but I'm not blind and I have to confess that the overly tight lycra top barely holding in massive rolls of wobbling flab made me wish I could be struck blind - like Saul on the road to Damascus.

Below that horrid sight, however, was an imitation vinyl mini skirt, pale thighs that would put a front-row forward to shame and rather fetching pink, knee-length vinyl boots.

However, it was the paint work on the face that made me start to retch - sky-blue stuff smeared from eyelid to half-way up the forehead, black pencil eyebrows and lipstick brighter than a baboon's backside.

"Hi, honey, want a good time?"

"Er, miss (is it?), I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"So am I sugar, but I've got a spare five minutes. Let's go somewhere quiet."

"Er, I'm an old man ..."

"That's all right dearie, most of my clients are. They drive down here from all over and I show them a really good time. Better than their wives..."

I wish she hadn't said that, I was trying to imagine just what sort of bloke would even consider getting up close and very friendly with this creature and I instantly thought a pie made in America would be preferable.

"But isn't this sort of thing illegal?" I stammered.

"It is honey bunch, but the nice people at the St Kilda council have decided that despite this being illegal, we girls of the street trade - and rent boys - and those guys with dresses and hideous make-up (the mind boggled at that folks I can tell you) can use public areas to earn money."

"Like where?"

"Oh, carparks ... sports grounds ... outside people's houses ..."

"But, aren't a lot of those near schools and don't young people train for sports in the parks?"

"Yes, but we have to earn a living."

"And what about young families having people fighting outside their homes over non-payment of sexually transmitted debts - er, you know, not paying."

"Oh, yes, but the kind St Kilda council (now Port Phillip Council) doesn't care about residents. They may pay rates and taxes, and we street vendors don't pay anything, but somehow we are elevated above them. Ah, what a wonderful place to be."

"Righto love, how much for you to ... well, how can I put this? ... go forth and multiply?"

And that, I thought as I dropped a wheelie and sped off, is exactly what the residents of St Kilda should tell their council in no uncertain terms. Then set the lawyers on them for endangering their safety and house prices.

Fair go, street sex is illegal. Crack down on it, don't condone it. What a pack of bleeding-heart tossers.

Here's the Port Phillip Council's phone number (03) 9209 6666. And just in case you meet the creature who tried to accost me, I've got the dog pound number around here somewhere ...

If there is something that has really got up your nose, let Grumpy Old Coot know at grumpy@webwombat.com