Premier Mike Rann, and an international crisis covered in depth by Chairman Rupert's minions

(Above: quick, old Adelaideans, the above is just a screen cap, the real juice is here. Go local for the truth).

At this key moment in the nation's affairs, when we confront a crisis of gothic proportions - perhaps even exceeding the crisis that overwhelms in the world in the barely fictionalized dramatized documentary 2012, where do you turn for the most up to date news from the source that you can most trust?

What's that? The ETS? Never heard of it.

Robb undermining Turnbull? Molehill.

Kevin Andrews wanting to be PM? Snicker. In his preening dreams, the ponce.

No, no, none of that. The crisis overwhelming crow eaters as they slowly digest the news that Premier Mike Rann is embroiled in a sex scandal, and Chairman Rupert strikes again.

I so loved the effort of the oxymoronically titled Adelaide Now ... - the latest news at time of writing is an offer of lie detector tests at ten paces - that I found the need to do a little cap of the online masthead irresistible. Here is the way forward for journalism, and a way to ensure the common gossips and the scolds will fork over their sixpence to keep up to speed. Surely the online feast is a marvel of modern technology, showing exactly how puny the feats of the ordinary front page of the hard copy have become. So puny, pathetic, and striking up against the 'in a heartbeat' updates online. The main story has already copped 650 comments at time of writing, and surely more to come.

What a pity Larry Olivier and Marilyn Monroe won't be around for the revamp of The Prince and the Showgirl, under the new title, The Premier and the Parliamentary Waitress, which I hear is already in book form, and shortly to be optioned and receive development funding from the SAFC.

Meantime, the only excitement of any kind in any of the media is the breathless babbling surrounding the affair, with concerns about the ethics of reporting the matter, or the ethics of the relationship, or the ethics of the lifestyle choices of the participants in the saga.

Such a squawking on loon pond, and who said sex didn't sell. Well we don't have anything to add to the squawking or the rabbiting on, which has preoccupied sundry sages from places as diverse as The Punch, Crikey and the broadsheet rags (we take the tabloids as par for the course - it only being nature and natural for the tabloids to embark on a slobbering, lip smacking, seething, foaming frenzy - but how strange to see old aunty Adelaide Advertiser now dressed up in mini skirt and bright red lipstick as The News of old).

Why am I reminded of the time when I was spotted walking in the mall with an out of towner, and within minutes it had been reported to my partner that I was clearly in the middle of an alarming affair?

Well here's a song for all you old Adelaideans, and thankfully it isn't Paul Kelly, though whenever in the grip of despair, you can always put on Paul Kelly and sing about the wisteria on the back verandah still blooming, and the great aunts either insane or dead or sitting in the same chairs as last year, and Kensington road running straight for awhile before turning, or spilling wine on Colonel Light's statue, and all the king's horses and all the king's men not dragging you back again, but hey, I thought the Pogues evoked more of the spirit of the moment:

Heard a siren from the docks
Saw a train set the night on fire
Smelled the spring on the smoky wind
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

I'm going to make me a good sharp axe
Shining steel tempered in the fire
Will chop you down like an old dead tree
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

I met my love by the gas works wall
Dreamed a dream by the old canal
Kissed a girl by the factory wall
Dirty old town
Dirty old town
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

Storm in a teacup? Some cup, some storm. Remember Don Dunstan in his pyjamas? Oh Adelaaaayde, Adelaaaayde ...