27/11/2025
Id like to report that I survived the Yarram Show and I’m writing this from the witness protection program because I accidentally made eye contact with a pavlova lady and now I owe her my firstborn.
Woodchoppers? Still out there committing war crimes against firewood. One log split so perfectly it immediately converted to Buddhism and achieved nirvana.
Dog high-jump? A kelpie cleared the bar then demanded a performance bonus in Schmackos. A chihuahua dressed as Elvis appeared on the main stage and tickets sold out in 4 seconds.
Sheep shearing? Absolute bloodsport. One shearer finished so fast the sheep filed a missing persons report on its own wool. Another sheep came off the board looking like it had just lost a custody battle and a bet with a lawnmower. The naked, shivering, and already writing a tell-all memoir titled “Fifty Shades of Fleece.”
But the PAVLOVA PAVILION? That’s where society goes to die and be reborn as lemon curd. I watched a 78-year-old woman in a floral apron patrol her entry like it was the Crown Jewels. Some poor kid reached for a taste and she hissed, “Touch it and I’ll turn you into meringue, love.” Security had to be called. Security was her sister. One pav had a crust so crisp it had its own postcode. The topping was piled so high scientists are calling it the eighth wonder of the world.
A bloke sneezed three metres away and three nans spun around clutching cake knives like it was the zombie apocalypse.I saw a sign that literally read: “Do NOT breathe heavily near Exhibit 47.” Exhibit 47 was guarded by a woman named Val who hasn’t blinked since 1992. Val has a body count (of pavlovas that didn’t meet her standard, obviously, but still).
Best in Show went to a pav so perfect the judge wept, proposed marriage, and was last seen being dragged away by his wife while yelling, “But it’s got passionfruit AND kiwi, Sharon!” Meanwhile I’m over in the corner stress-eating my fourth dagwood dog, crying into fairy floss, and trying to figure out how to smuggle an entire pav home without triggering an international incident.
Yarram, you glorious, sheep-shanking, axe-swinging, meringue-mafia town. I’m coming back next year with stretchy pants, a forklift, and a signed waiver. Hide your sheep. Hide your nans. Hide your pavs (actually don’t, I’ll find them).
📸Yarram Agricultural Show