This post could so easily have been about the bogan love of awards ceremonies. Awards ceremonies are, by and large – in the bogan mind – celebrations of famous people being x-tremely good at being famous. Hour after hour of recognisable people reading off a teleprompter how good these famous people are at the primacy of bogan pursuits – sport (watching), television, film and bad music – seems to be audiovisual crack for most bogans. At least, judging by the audience that tunes in to the Logies each year it is.
But it would be wrong to suggest that the bogan simply loves awards ceremonies. TV networks have figured out, like T20 cricket, slamball, Underbelly, Megachurches and Ministry of Sound, that taking things bogans like, removing the boring bits, and repackaging them as separate products often results in an orgiastic bogan spending or viewing spree of epic proportions. So, with awards ceremonies, all reference to the pursuit being awarded is removed, and two hours are dedicated to watching people arrive at a party.
Thus, the bogan female can indulge in its perceived love of couture, commenting snidely on other bogan females who managed to finagle themselves a spot in front of a television camera. That these briefly famous bogans are wearing clothes that are likely to wind up on the racks of bogan stores in various iterations in coming months is of no concern to the bogan of course, who is apparently incapable of thinking beyond the two hour red carpet special. Meanwhile, the male bogan has an ideal opportunity to scope some massive cans.
Another common theme to the Red Carpet Special is the presence of an individual for whom there is no rational explanation. That they exist at all is baffling in the x-treme. That they are apparently beloved of bogans is confusing to the point of aneurism. They have been on television seemingly forever, and often have not altered in appearance in that time. Their hair hovers nebulously in that unique TV-land purgatory between wig, actual hair, and strange lacquered helmet. And the grand daddy of all of these is Richard Wilkins. Whether or not he is real is up for furious debate. He may be a bogan construct. But, along with the likes of Darryl Somers, Sonya Kruger, Karl Stefanovic, David ‘Kochie’ Koch and Kerry-Anne Kennerly, he is a predominantly synthetic, vacant shell into which the bogan can pour their personality assumptions; a nice, white, inoffensive head attached to a microphone.
At the end of the ceremony, the bogan goes to sleep. Upon waking, it scans the paper or news website for photos of the ordeal…