I was with the best minds of my generation – chartered accountants, real estate agents, Instagram influencers living off the ScoMo handout that invested heavily in Docklands and forgot to sell before the crash. Dull men, women and photogenic 12-year olds taking your money while wearing angel headed hipsters t-shirts (copyright Ginsberg Estate) and with Jack Kerouac in their head playing air guitar on the weekend in the basement but now queuing in an empty city for tasteless black coffee at the laminated counter at Flinders’ Coles anaesthetized by the wokedown looking for an angry fix, readjusting the mask. 

John Brack’s Collins Street,...