The Tivoli Theatre in Brisbane opened in 1914 and operated until its closure in 1965.
It stood regally, like an old duchess, in intimate tantric contact with its less respectable neighbour, the Albert Hotel, staring down the vulgar 1920 parvenu upstart across the Albert Square, the City Hall.
The square was widened to include Albert Street in 1936, and renamed King George Square.
In 1962, Visigoth descendant Clem Jones was elected Lord Mayor of Brisbane, and 3 years later set about the sacking of the city.
By 1969, buildings on the northern side of the Square had been acquired and demolition had commenced.
My friend Dave and I were final-year medical students at the time. We were consumed with righteous indignation at the extravagance of the Ozymandian conceit of this cosmetic indulgence at a time when many less affluent Brisbane suburbs remained unsewered. We were compelled to externalise our rage.
So, armed with paint brushes and a can of white paint, we donned our battle dress (khaki overalls) and, after midnight, drove into the city. We parked a few blocks from the City Hall.
The Albert Hotel had been demolished, leaving the bare brick wall of its neighbour - the Tivoli Theatre - exposed.
The bare dirt of the site of the former Albert Hotel was floodlit and surrounded by a 10 foot high chain link fence.
But, now fully committed to our task, we climbed the fence and commenced painting.
We had reached the antepenultimate three foot high letter of the first word of our message (which was to be "SEWERAGE BEFORE CIVIC SQUARE") when a police patrol car pulled up in Albert Street, about 10 metres from where we lay face down in the dirt, contemplating the possibility of an alternative career to Medicine after we were released from prison.
I figured that we were well and truly screwed, and was just about to stand up and hand myself in, when the patrol car just drove away.
I imagined that the officers were wondering what the fuck "SEWEP" meant.
We finished the job, climbed the fence and bolted for the car. We must have been a bit carried away by the excitement of our adventure, because we then drove out to the posh suburb where Clem Jones resided and did it all again on the road outside his house, followed by a panic fuelled flight through posh back yards when a police patrol car turned up.
Unsurprisingly our efforts yielded absolutely no change.
The Civic Square remains as a monument to our impotence.
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