Mark Thompson

About Mark Thompson

Mark Thompson lives in regional NSW working by day as a journalist, and by night lives and breathes being a food and wine snob.

With Australia set to uniformly decide who will represent us at the Eurovision song contest, I feel there’s only one man for the job. So, what about he?

 

 

Because lessons aren’t learned and history tends to repeat, it seems that the general public is once again trusted to make a decision on behalf of the nation. Strangely, as Australians, we’ve not had the opportunity to make geese of ourselves, as our own Boaty McBoatface debacle was a move engineered by political misdealing on behalf of our will.

No matter, as who we send to represent us at the Eurovision is a matter of popular vote. Don’t get me wrong, Jessica Mauboy is fine, and good and talented, but she doesn’t really represent us. We’re a nation of fuckups, with our slip masked in the tone of a yeah-I-meant-that giggle. Like Gallipoli.

To be fair (go), we should look no further than the old warhorse of tired millennial mirth, Shannon Noll. Our bogan Frankenstein, a titan cobbled together in a back shed in Condobolin, solely made of used obsolete parts: a power ballad from the 1980s, flavour saver facial growth, transported a big black shiny car of unknown make.

What about he, we might ask, and ask we should.

Brought to life by the thunderbolt of injustice (like every great Australian character of fiction), he was abused by the man and his redacted offer of advancement. He was our Ned Kelly, but he was robbed. “Nollsy” sat dormant until this generation gained sentience, and like all others before them, looked to analyse the gravity of a moment they were too young to understand. For their parents, it was the JFK assassination, for them, it was the finger guns of Mark Holden pointing at Guy Sebastian, not Shannon.

So, abetted by the millennial media, Shannon Nolls became Shannon Lols, a bogan phoenix reborn, replete with chiselled abs and an axe to grind. Our clickbait pushed him around the drinking establishments of the hometowns those same people have long abandoned. Example, I watched him drink from his shoe in the same venue I stole my first kiss.

Legendary.

But, we’ve been quick to be cruel to Shan. According to the internet, the release of his second album was attended by a handful of people. We glanced away, and it’s why he punched on with an Adelaide strip club who cared not for the unfairness of the challenges he faced, and it’s why he threatened the genital sanctity of a concertgoers’ mum’s vaginal region. With Nollsy now done for cocaine possession, what he needs is an opportunity for redemption. And we need him to be him.

Plus, like all true Australians, he deserves at least a second, third and a fourth chance.

Now, I’m not saying that we should subject Shannon Noll to the horrors of Eurovision for a giggle, but I feel his larger-than-life-ultra-nationalist pomp would be a gun fit. I mean, he’d easily be as good as Verka Serduchka. Or those old babushka ladies.

I’m not saying that we should clip the wings of a hopeful artist in favour of this Nollsy-nepotism, because that isn’t fair, but I’m saying that we should absolutely crank up the smugwagon and give him another shot at a career. After all, what could be better than entering a joke in a competition we regard as one? I, for one, would love to see a straight-shooter from Australialand take on the utter ribald nonsense of Eurovision and come out on top.

Or at least finish second.

 

 

 

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