The plague

Ah, Adelaide. Can there really be a better place for weirdo-watching? I have two examples par excellence for your amusement.

Exhibit one: Ms Orange Peel
Yesterday, I wandered into Rundle Mall to do some shopping for Western Consumer Holiday (book vouchers, mais bien sur). On the way back, I found myself walking behind Ms Orange Peel. It was like an immense train wreck. I simply couldn't look away. Ms OP was wearing fried blonde hair with about four inches of dark roots, the skankiest high heels one has ever seen in one's life and a denim miniminimini skirt. She was a reasonable size for a mini, yet not of a reasonable age. Cellulite overtakes us all, sooner of later. It's a sad fact. But I could have forgiven her all of her other sins, had it not been for The Skirt.

In the end, there is very little I can say about this skirt apart from, "Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! The plague has spread!!!!!"

Naturally, I mean the plague of pantlesssness. Britney and all those other over-paid, over-privileged little skanks have done it again. Knickerlessness is rife.

Ms OP had either failed to undies up for the day, or she was wearing a G-string. Nothing really wrong with a G, although I find them extremely uncomfortable myself, and I can't help thinking of Number One Brother's charming turn of phrase: "Have you flossed your arse today?"

So, Ms OP had either flossed her arse or simply gone sans culottes. (There's a reason that in French "sans culottes" means "crazy". Especially when you are wearing an arse-length denim miniminimini.

Because Ms OP had one small problem. Every time she took a step, the lower half of her right arse cheek fell out of her skirt. Never the left. Only the right.

I couldn't look away. How could I? It was like The Ghan hitting that dirty great pantechnicon that was parked across the tracks outside of Darwin. Step, fine, step, maaahh! - visible arse cheek! Step, fine, step, maaahh! - visible arse cheek!

As my dear Mancunian mate said when I told him this story (and pointed out a similar specimen on the footpath ahead of us), "Is orange peel the only fruit?" Hurrah, Marc. I enjoyed your Janette Winterson reference, but was nevertheless traumatised. Holy hell - I used to like oranges!

Example two: Mr Crab
As Bloke and I walked through the train station last night, we couldn't help but notice Mr Crab. I looked at him and thought, "Oh, poor fucker. He must be brain injured."

Mr Crab was bent sideways, with his head all but in his armpit and his knapsack riding his ear. He was staggering. He had a very long, grey pony-tail. Every now and again, the head-in-armpit thing would get the better of him and would steer him directly into a wall. And he would just stand there, kicking the wall some. He didn't seem to be able to work out the right combination of moves to get away from the wall.

In fact, the poor bastard was so fucked that he looked like me trying to play Grand Theft Auto. It's embarrassing to admit, but I'm a Playstation 'tard. The last video game I was capable of playing was Donkey Kong in that little orange-and-silver Nintendo double-screen thingie. Jump barrel, forward, forward, jump barrel, up ladder, jump barrel...

Anyway, here was I thinking this poor bastard was brain injured and I was torn between trying not to look and wanting to help him onto the train, when Bloke says, "Faaaark, he's pissed". Obviously, I'm not what you'd call a nice or compassionate person. Obviously. But even I said, "Jeez, Bloke, he's brain injured isn't he? That's not nice!"

"No," Bloke said. "I often see him on the train and he's totally normal."

Well! Reader, I developed a new sense of respect for Mr Crab. I've never seen anyone that trashed who was still conscious. Even some of MY mates, and let me tell you, that's saying a lot.

So, hurrah, Adelaide! Well done to us. We have the mankiest miniminimini-skirt in the history of pantslessness AND the Most Pissed Guy In The World.

Wow.