Sydney, the sordid world of the Sydney Morning Herald, secret nightclubs, Christopher Hitchens, and music offers salvation ...

(Above: a screen grab of Sydney journalism at its finest).

You have to admire the Sydney Morning Herald's on line front page splash when it comes to timing.

What better moment in life to run Inside Sydney's secret nightclubs than at a time when David Campbell is on the front page after visiting a gay sex club, and copping a blast from the righteous Ms Keneally with Campbell lived with secret for two decades: Keneally.

But drat it, the Metro guide only manages to come up with White Revolver, Tatlers, Shh!, Beach Haus, Level 6 and De Nom, suitable only for prattling poseurs, ponces and eastern suburbs gits.

If these clubs are the best Sydney has to offer, bring on Groucho Marx. We don't care to visit a nightclub that would have us as a customer.

Now here's a secret night club for you:

Que? Yes, it's a secret nightclub that's also been outed by the Sydney Morning Herald and by the Seven network. To what point? Who can say, who can know? Where's the harm in its anonymous frontage?

We have a half dozen brothels in the neighbourhood, some a little bolder than others in terms of public display, and I dare say if you stood outside them night and day you could produce an interesting heterosexual or three.

The point being that the mysterious mating rituals of Sydneysiders are perhaps best left in a Victorian void, unless of course you want to come out, and nothing wrong with that, or unless it interferes with your duties, Profumo-style.

The other point? I'm astonished as ever that people are so consumed and devoured by Sydney's salacious tales of sex. You could even say that I'm shocked and disappointed. The village scolds and common gossips are out in force and the sanctimonious, hypocritical claptrap emanating from grub street, nee channel Seven, is louder than a Salvation Army band. Unfortunately I never watch Seven, so I can't even righteously ban them from the PVR.

Payback is a bitch however, and it was jolly good fun to read Andrew West's payback on Peter Meakin in Manufactured scandal leaves another political career in tatters:

His (Meakin's) offence, of driving while boozed up in a way that could have endangered the lives of innocent people, far outstrips any personal lapse by Mr Campbell.

There was no public benefit in outing Mr Campbell as a gay man, just as there was no public benefit in revealing the extra marital affair of his erstwhile cabinet colleague John Della Bosca. Both men may have betrayed their marriage vows but that remains a matter solely for their families and, if relevant, their God.

Sheesh, have we learned nothing since the days of the Adam and Eve affair?

Thanks to the ongoing efforts of guilt-laden, guilt-inducing bible bashers, it appears not.

Meanwhile, how to elevate the grubby tone that descends like a fog on Sydney every so often, usually accompanied by the whiff of salivating righteousness?

Well that atheist warrior Christopher Hitchens has been doing the rounds of Sydney media, flogging his recent tome (yes, we call them tomes here, ever since the word was proscribed, given a fatwah), but the only appearance worth a listen to date has been the interview by Margaret Throsby, which no doubt will turn up as a stream or podcast here in due course.

Hitchens softened a little in company with Throsby and music, and sounded almost human as he went into confessional mode, which will be a relief to those who enjoy his god-bashing but wonder where it comes from. And lordy, like all the best god bashers, he does so love his Bach and his hymns and his Holst, and isn't afraid of the way that music can move the human mind.

And if you can't manage to join me at the Sydney Opera House for this evening's performance of Mahler's 5, with Clemens Leske also on hand to have a bash at Richard Strauss, then please note that the broadcast will also turn up on ABC FM at 8 pm.

Thank the lord for the ABC, and in particular ABC-FM, and gentlemen, if you must watch the football, please make sure you have your amp set up so that you can watch the pictures, and instead of the garrulous cretinous commentators, Mahler can at the same time be streamed live for civilised people who happen to be in the audio visual room.

Yes, there's civilisation in Sydney and interesting things to do, just don't expect it to be celebrated that much in the media. At least on the grub street end of the media ...

Secret nightclubs? If you live by that law, you're always out of date.

And now another Groucho anecdote:

Arthur Marx remembers his father diligently practicing scales and classical pieces for as many as three hours a day, with an almost quixotic fixation on transposing Rachmaninoff’s “Prelude in C-Sharp Minor” to the instrument. After months practicing the difficult piece, the younger Marx recalls Groucho gathering the family around to “officially” debut it―as if they hadn’t already been driven to distraction by weeks of constant practice. When his rendition was met by silence, Marx gingerly inquired of his family, “Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” To which wife Ruth retorted dryly: “Why don’t you go back to playing by ear? You used to be so much better before you knew what you were doing.”

You can find that anecdote here, along with an anecdote about Groucho getting Segovia to play along with his Rachmaninoff transcription.

And now here's another secret nightclub: