It is March 1995 and our protagonist Tim moves into a small worker's cottage in Tempe. On one side is the famous tip, over the fence the lights bordering the international runway, and in the next room his housemate Louis Burdett, a jazz drummer and avant-garde performance smartarse of international disrepute. Louis has a habit of bemoaning his past and future lack of work at great length and in clinical detail.

In the backyard is a sound-proofed double garage, which has become a meeting place for misfits and musicians, those not incongruous types. After three months in this environment Tim needs a change of scenery, and so steals himself for a very brave step - on Friday he will attend a party that will require him to cross the line that separates east from west - South Dowling Street.

At the party he joins the great washed mass in the game of tip and run. A woman talks of her past. He thought he'd escaped for the night but it wasn't that easy - she sounds like Louis Burdett.

He gets drunk, chews ice, grins, drifts to the corners. Someone starts bagging out the band. Oh my god, they sound like Louis Burdett. Terror, like charity, begins at home.

He retreats back west of South Dowling to the concrete yard, plays poker, muses aimlessly, sits under planes whose roar is comforting like the sound of a big surf. Down the street the weeks roll by. That's better.

And we roll on to my backshed, play some poker, scratch my head
Look at the sky and spot the planes, where would I go on holidays?
Roll with the punches, down the aisles, and down the street the weeks roll by

I'm chewing ice and grinning, I'm spewing up and spinning
It's billiousness as usual in my corner of the kitchen
Hey you, lose that friend before we go anywhere
What? Someone might see you alone?
Stop bagging out the band, you sound like Louis Burdett

All my friends are fuck-ups but they're fun to have around
Banana chairs out on the concrete, telling stories to the stars
How Gemini's love Wooden Dragons, and how down the street the weeks roll by

The moment the night wears off, the bombsite reappears
They're all asleep but the morning tastes like wine
It tastes like wine in Tempe
I feel so good I just might wake him up
Pat him on the bald head - tell me about a dream Louis

Something obscene Louis, your life's an open magazine Louis

I'm stoned in a bookshop, sober in a nightclub
Sex is everywhere but nowhere 'round me
By the time she gets to Marrickville we'll be masturbating
Never rains in Tempe but the planes remind me of family money and the lack down here
Stop talking, frustrated, 'cause I sound like Louis Burdett

Most of my friends are very fruity indeed, such fun to have around
Terror, like charity, begins at home
Chris don't like madness, but madness likes him
He's got a finger in his chest saying how it should have been