This evening, I was settling in to watch the first episode of the gender bending The Bachelorette, and I was thinking to myself, "Boy, do we live in progressive times, or what?". Anyway, courtesy of the Channel Nine time lag, [really, you could set your clock by that thing] I happened to catch the last ten minutes of the Women's Weekly 70th Anniversary Extravaganza [and I'm only assuming that that was the humble title given to this sterling 'event']. Man, it sure was hack city, with 'briefly rescussitating flagging careers' dressed as 'worthy nostalgia'. And the audience! Talk about Sydney 'A' List [and you all know what that means. Everything in that town is valued way above its actual worth]. Mike Munro was the compere, and he was straining desperately hard to infuse meaning into the proceedings by presenting WW as 'the one constant to be relied upon in these uncertain times'. What a cretin. I have never been privy to anything less fabulous. I kept peering into the darkness and asking, "Who are these people? And why are they shaking their heads and laughing?" Losers. The show finished with a 'duet' by Rhonda Birchmore and some young cabaret 'star', but I don't think Rhonda sang a bar, which was odd. It was just clunky faux-fabulous all the way. And I think it actually pretended to have a sense of humour about itself, though obviously, the whole concept of the night belied the consummate failure of that redeeming instinct, if it even exists in Sydney at all. Yikes.