Still Standing, Broadmeadow.
Griffith's Road is usually relegated to traffic passing between industrial zones, from one set of busy crossroads to another. One side of the road is heavy engineering, train lines and gas works, and on the other side, tonight, there is Elton John. It's eight thirty and the sky is all burnished copper lifting bruised purple cloudscapes above the stadium where his voice and pixelated face is streaming, and here outside the garden walls, within the shadow of gum trees strong enough to soak up the daily exhaust fumes along this bare kilometre of ignored space, are five hundred locals standing on the rooftops of cars, dancing on the median strip, riding pushbikes in circles, holding each other, standing alone with a cigarette. They are kids with their parents, teens in the back of utes holding up cameras to the fence line, adults of whom the eldest I spot is perhaps seventy, all who have made the journey here to the outskirts, no doubt their first time standing here on Griffith's Road, never before kicked up the gravel of the void, treaded the clumps of grass that you only get out here, not inside the stadium with its four hundred dollar entry fee, but outside in shorts and t-shirts and bare feet and communal Summer air, a balmy victory for the proletariat, counting searchlights on the skyway.
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