Procesh

Weir Wins

Perhaps It is a commentary on the standard of the Unversity [unclear: Prooesalon] that the only photograph the [unclear: "Dominion"] thought worthy enough to print were those showing a disapproving police officer [unclear: ceroring] the floats. But although it was relegated to the lesser publicity of the back streets, Procesh seened to draw nearly as barge an audience as in the flood Old Days before, in a basrty moment, the City Council decided that there was a traffic problem.

The prise for the best float went to the Weir House "satire" on the Sydney Peace Carnival. I was informed by a budding young alcoholic from that establishment that whereas the crowd merely chuckled at the rest of the floats they roared (with laugh tor) at the Weir House effort. Incidentally the prize, one mere carton of beer, must have been a bitter disappointment to the formidable gullets of those who helped to win it.

Technically, I think. It all went "without a itch" except perhaps the purveyors of that wondrous new formula K.O.P. were a little taken aback to hear an astonished voice from the crowd exclaim, "My God, that's my dog."

The humour, as usual, ranged from the obvious type such as appeared in the Presidential Erection Campaign (I don't like Ike) to the incredible subtlety, or so I was informed, of the Tramping Club's No Franz No Fox; from the mild bawdiness of the Bair Atholl (unfortunately mis-quoted in the "Evening Post") marching team, to the—well, on second thoughts, perhaps you had better consult the Police Department for further information.

As for all those dreary protoplasms that above their hands deeper into their cost pockets and grunt, "Huh, it wasn't as good as last year's," all we can say, is. "What the hell, Archie, its for our benefit, not the general public's, and we certainly enjoyed it."

D.B.S.