In my previous life I was an ad wanker. You know the type: polyester suit, coke nail, Bryl-creemed pony. All show and no go. That part of me died a long time ago(a fire in a warehouse in Top Ryde that was never explained) but some vestiges of that good ol’ douche still remain. Case in point: my affinity for the Coke sign. Something so big and excessive that should never have gotten through council should chill me to my very soul, but I can’t help but like the old girl. Maybe it’s because, by all rights, by all that’s good and holy and kind in this world, it shouldn’t even exist. It’s colossal, dammit! It basically IS Kings Cross. Which money-grubbing little shill approved such a wanton corporate monstrosity? It matters not a jot. They’re probably long dead and the Coke sign has etched itself into folklore as a meeting place for drug dealers, bikies, 18 year old party monsters and girls who love Bacardi Breezers and can’t walk in high heels. Long may it reign.