You see, time is a complex thing. It requires Professor Brian Cox to walk slowly through a forest and be shot through a filter of bright light and autumnal colours to explain it deep and harmonious complexity. As Prof Cox tells us, time bends, time is not a constant, but it is ‘totes amazeballs’. I have been thinking a lot about time recently as I soak up the rays at the WBF yoga retreat and organic pantry, located somewhere on a remote island around 150km west of Tahiti. Over the nearly 70 year career of the three radio legends who currently host the show, time has afforded us many luxuries (great wealth, insanity, gold plated dribble trays and a houseboy called Boris). Time has also cruelled our sharp wit and ferocious humour to the point where we only land 97.43% of our zingers. Richard especially suffers. Abe and I have been carrying him for decades, propping up his lack of cultural knowledge, his inability to understand what Uber is and more recently we have endured through his Taylor Swift obsession. We have allowed him to wear his hair á Taylor and date Tom Hiddleston. We have even let him practice being abused by Kanye (Abe played Kanye). But for one magic moment in time, one sweet spot of comedy, one glorious exception when the blonde bob and the haters went away, we returned to the airwaves to deliver the Westvleteren XII of comedy (go on look it up bitches, you have the Internet now, find out the Broomball scores whilst you are it).
We present A Walk in the Black Forest Show 322, live from the Matt Curley Memorial Studios in downtown Gladesville, Sydney, NSW, Australia. We are now 20 months later into our story. The good Prince Trump is about ascend to the throne and kill all the fat princesses. The Queen of the Kingdom now rules with an iron fist (no comment Abe) and has appointed the court fools of Boris, Liam and Jeremy H-UNT to manage the kingdoms exit from the land of prosperity. And Malcom fucking won, sort of. Well maybe Corey won, Pauline certainly did and because of that climate science is as DEAD as the whole planet will be in January 2017. And yes, we squeezed pretty much of all that into the first 15 minutes short minutes of abuse, talking over each other, belching, in-jokes and pen throwing.
Maybe it is time to explain why we do this every 2 years. We hate each other. With a passion. Our lawyers have been at it for decades. Writs fly in faster than Pauline Hanson says no to a halal snack pack (or more quickly than Sam Dastyari says yes to a Chinese loan). Last year we had lawsuits running in six different jurisdictions, including London, Sydney, New York, Johannesburg, Paris (just so Pete could speak French; le wankeur) and for some strange reason Djibouti. I think it was just so Richard could get out of the plane and say ‘Check our Djibouti. Have you seen Djibouti? Did that smell come from Djibouti. He is so racist.
But after much negotiation, some delicate agreements around the topics of conversation, the number of ‘fucks’ we could say, the songs you hear, the exact airtime we all we have (we agreed to 32mins 47.6 seconds each) we got on air. And this is the result of that spontaneous, creative and legally binding process.