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As the end of the 2017 Australian Open drew to a climatic close, a nation of spectators stood silently in emotions other than awe.

After having an extremely lukewarm rendition of Cindy Lauper’s “I See Your True Colours” preface the women’s finals Saturday night, the audience members of Rod Laver Arena, and unfortunately the wider world of televised broadcasting, were treated to an epileptic mess of symphony strings.

Lead by a homeless man dressed in his house moving tee, sneans to the most heinous nature of Fluro yellow, championing the abomination that is the electric violin, the ceremony stood at an uncomfortable stand still. Eyes dropped to the ground, hands sheepishly dug into pockets, and everyone could not wait for it to be over.

“Yeah, it was um… yeah,” comments Julie Evans, 31, executive assistant to the Australian Open’s head event co-ordinator. “Well, you don’t go to a brothel for the interior design, now. Do you?”

“It’s a good way of us showing that the hood still loves us”

“A little bit of flayva”

“So is that the dubsteps the kids seem to rave on about,” says Dennis Peterson, 47, father of two and witness to the aural atrocities. “I still don’t get it, but I must say, it really gets the heart rate going.”

When prompted for a comment, the public representation of the Australian Open declined to say much else, other than vowing in future to only hire Irish cover bands and X-Factor judges once their careers “… hit below that already downward trajectory…”, as to avoid such risk of embarrassment. Career trajectories are expected to meet the required rock-bottom decline in two months’ time.   


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