Melbourne is rejoicing today in a wonderful literary hoax that rivals the 1943 publication in Angry Penguins of the spoof poems of Ern Malley. This harmless prank has revived, for a brief and glorious few days, the ancient art of parody and debunked the pretensions of hipster and high fashionista Melbourne and its loyal muse, the Age. But best of all, it showed that the real success of parody is to hit your target and, boy, the authors of this gem certainly scored a bullseye when the Age swallowed an entire journalistic and photographic presentation without question. Better still, when it realised days after everyone else that it had been stung and had made a complete fool of itself, it lashed out with furious rage and succeeded in the even more difficult task of making a parody of itself.

It all started with Tara Kenny, a freelance writer who does a column for the Age called Street Seen which depicts the quirky ups and downs of hipster dress and style in Melbourne. Tara got together with her buddy Sam Hains, and between them they created the character ‘Samuel Davide Hains’, ‘web developer, mystery blogger and jazz kitten’, dressed him in high hipster couture and concocted a mock -serious interview that delved into the profound sources of his philosophy and lifestyle. Young Sam got togged up in blue Osh Kosh B’Gosh overalls that, as he disclosed to Tara, ‘I found in Tokyo’, but which were really from K-Mart, put them on back to front, added a black turtleneck jumper from Uniqlo, a raffish beret ‘given to me by my dear uncle’ and a Feeling Myself tote bag ‘by my favourite feminist provocateurs Ladies of Leisure’ and, lo and behold, Melbourne Man was born (he already had the beard). Tara had Sam describe himself as a ‘bucolic socialist with improvised elements (like jazz)’, admiring ‘the style of Trotsky in leather, Albert Einstein, John Coltrane’ and adding that he liked mixing K-Mart basics with his Chanel cape, but would never be caught dead in ‘neo-hippie bush-doof couture’, a ‘small inefficient beanie’ or ‘anything less than extraordinary’. His dress style: ‘Sometimes I just wear something random, like a lab coat!’ Then, this gem: ‘I’m not only inspired by people, but places and ideas. I spend a lot of time down at the docks and source inspiration from the architecture.’ It was obvious from beginning to end that it was a good natured spoof or parody, as it took hold of reality, gave it a good shake and made fun of it.

Tara submitted her piece to the Age, which rushed to judgement that here was, not a spoof or a parody, but a literally true picture of radical chic Melbourne couture and life and that the world deserved to see it. Taking the bait, it gave Tara’s creation half of the front page, complete with the grandiose headline ‘Meet Melbourne Man’ and a mischievous photo of Sam in a typically grungy lane. With a sense of taking part in history in the making, it then profoundly observed that in a week when ‘Australia’s political fate is on a knife edge, Hains may be the antihero the country, nay, the world, needs.’ Phew!

As I read this over my kale and goats cheese omelette and tumeric latte, I was thrilled that the Age had rediscovered its long lost sense of humour and was presenting us with its own brilliant parody of hipster Melbourne, skilfully placed as news on the front page. I could see through it all and that it was a spoof. And so could everyone else who read it. But not, apparently, the Age. After subjecting Tara to some heavy cross examination, as anything humorous in the Age is instantly suspect and calls for an explanation, it dawned on it that the whole thing was invented, and a wicked lie. It then became slowly and painfully obvious that the Age was not the perpetrator of an hilarious parody, as I had fondly hoped, but its victim.

Its response was furious. Goodbye parody, satire and humour; hullo pompous condemnation and retribution. It was outraged that a journalist had ‘concocted’ this gross deception, promptly branded her in public as a ‘liar’ and a ‘fraud’ and sacked her – all for writing a parody which had worked. It was as if the Age had just discovered Gulliver’s Travels, condemned it as an attack on dwarfs and called for Jonathon Swift to be sent to the Human Rights Commission for punishment.

And that is the really sad part and it explains why the Age is dying. This once great newspaper is now so dull, so pedestrian, so devoid of life and humour, so enthralled by its pet left-wing causes and the rigid discipline of political correctness, that it does not realise there is such a thing as parody or, worse still, that it is now a parody of itself in its pompous outrage, branding anyone it disagrees with as a racist, a denier or a Hansonite. That is why it could not understand, and never will, that Tara and Sam had given it a gem of a parody. It is not often you get the chance to write an epitaph for a dying newspaper. So to mark the death of the Age, here is one from me:

This is the way the Age ends
This is the way the Age ends
This is the way the Age ends
Not with a bang but a yawn.

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