Webdiary - Founded and Inspired by Margo Kingston

A long time ago in a far away land reigned the establishment Kingo's Club Chaos, sometimes now referred to as Ye Olde Webdiary. This makeshift saloon bar quickly became a refuge for the damned and a retreat for the restless, evolving into Margo's Home for Wayward Cowboys and Cowgirls.

Most of the time the pub was rough, divey and thick with smoke, with Kingo in command of mixing the drinks.

As the crowd grew in numbers renovations became inevitable. Like the ol' suburban pub, the expanding clientele needed to be dazzled with wanky trendy trimmings.

This was no easy task as patrons varied completely in thought, word and speed. The best solution seemed to be to carve up the saloon bar into different themed rooms and activities.

The new set up coincided with the bitter climate following the bolstering of Chief Poo bah Howard's feudal power. But rather than Club Chaos becoming a shelter for the disgruntled, the establishment attracted an array of serfs and fiefs of all persuasions.

Due to the increasing volume in numbers, Kingo was forced to install a self-service beer dispenser. While this new self-service deli-card system seemed easier to manage, Kingo still had to run around filling up the kegs each day.

Occasionally she'd chuck a beer at an ungrateful customer, but a lot of the time she simply dished out the plonk and cleaned up the slops tirelessly, often until stupid o'clock. And if she didn't throw a beer at a demanding patron it didn't really matter - invariably one of the bar's defenders would happily take up the brawl and play bouncer.

As the renovations began so too the themed rooms created themselves.

The neo-cons set up a Speed Dating room, with A.Mills declaring a crush on K.Cinosa, while Greg Hynes got hot under the collar in the Gay Marriage Mud Wrestling Pavilion.

The Cigar Room was an acquired taste, but nonetheless excessively popular. It was here where Antony Loewenstein, sporting his 'Chomsky-Rocks!' jim-jams, sparked up intricate discussions on the Middle East which carried on well into the night and beyond.

In the Corner of Electoral Accountability, Kerryn Higgs, Joo Cheong Tham, Graeme Orr and Craig Rowley riled at all that is rorted.

Robert Bosler's Magical Mystery Tour was always a trip hippy experience, with dozens of people sitting around pondering the existential meaning of coffee cups.

Occasionally a stranger would waltz into Club Chaos, declare they had "never been to a place like this before" and then proceed to belt out a big band number, causing a Mexican wave across the delighted crowd.

Meanwhile, from the Sun Terrace, Harry could be found reclining, sipping on a gin and tonic, toasting the Swiss, chewing on Sydney rock oysters and chomping on a bit of Chomsky.

At least in some parts of the new club the song remained the same.

Indeed, Jack Robertson was still speaking in tongues at the bar. Jack was what Russell Crowe is to the movies, what Mark Latham is to politics - the beloved resident bad boy of Club Chaos. He could be heard ranting for miles, recently likening Howard to Derrida, placing a parallel Cornelia Rau in a concentration camp, and writing Stephen Mayne poetry.

Spookily, Marilyn managed to transcend every room simultaneously at once. While admirable for her relentless advocacy, she had a habit of regurgitating statistics on detention centres, even when no one had broached the subject.

"Can I buy you a drink Marilyn?" you'd ask, to which she would respond:

"We don't have the right to murder Iranians. Anyway it can't be too bad in Iran can it, as we spend more than $300 per day each to drive them insane in Baxter because "they aren't refugees fleeing persecution". This is based on the principle that being stoned to death or hanged by the neck in the street is not persecution. Really boys, go and buy some toy soldiers and play war games with each other." Uh-huh.

Kingo's New Club Chaos maintained the surreal with the old and the new.

The renovated system created far more scope for the crowd to interact with each other directly. There was however, a bit of a tendency for the wolves to descend if a bone was thrown, which would send the beer flying from all directions.

Consensus reaching moments still occurred, with happy group hugs in the pub and a round of twister.

Ultimately, the renovated club continued to attract a merry mix. The tapestry was all the more rich for the diversity of colours produced by the ever-expanding family of Club Chaos. Even with the wankers.

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