It’s Saturday night and I’m fuckin’ psyched. I meet my mates at Town Hall Steps and I see a bunch of blokes wearing TISM shirts walking towards the Metro. Having seen TISM the previous night, I know we’re all in for a night of outrageous entertainment and ludicrously good times.

Before the support acts come on stage, my mates and I head to the Little Criterion, one of the most retarded – and thankfully little-known – bars in Sydney. There, after a couple of Stellas, we each throw back a shot called ‘The Game Over.’ They don’t tell you what’s in it, but it’s obvious it’s potent, and the amount of alcohol in it really gets the blood pumping and the breath reeking.

Walking in to the Metro, and my mates and I are greeted by the bizarre sights and sounds of Dos Dedos. A naked, hairy man wearing cling wrap around his genitals sings songs with choruses like ‘fuck your arse!’ Jesus sings back-up vocals. An androgynous guy wearing a fishnet shirt plays guitar. It’s not intelligent music by any means, but it’s entertaining enough. The few punters in attendance are treated to a quasi-burlesque performance that elicits a similar reaction to a drunk, naked man running around screaming. You know it’s no good, but you can’t help watching.

After Dos Dedos, things get a little more conventional with Fragile. All the members are clothed, and they’re pumping out bombastic Zeppelin-esque numbers light on intellectualism but heavy on loudness. The lead singer – all lion mane and open shirt – does his best Robert Plant impression, and he does it well. The bassist, wearing a Megadeth shirt, manages to hold a definitively rock ‘n’ roll pose for the entire gig. It’s totally serviceable, fun rock, but in a half-empty Metro, something doesn’t seem right. Fragile seem like the kind of band who’d work best in a hot, sweaty, body-to-body club.

Fragile end their set, and the wait for TISM begins. The punters pack in to the Metro, downing overpriced Tooheys New and occasionally screaming things; the predictable ‘TISM are wankers!’ and the perplexingly unnecessary ‘your mum!’ There’s an odd lack of bogans this evening, so I figure they’re all out hooning in their V8s or shooting things with air rifles. Instead, the crowd is predominantly composed of young fun-lovers out for a good time.

And as a sign emblazoned with the words ‘TISM Idol’ is illuminated by the Metro lights, it’s obvious a good time will be delivered. TISM rip through a set of oldies and newies, from Message From A Big Day Out Port-A-Loo to Saturday Night Palsy. The crowd, unsurprisingly, goes nuts for Greg! The Stop Sign!! and (He’ll Never Be An) Ol’ Man River. The mosh smells terrible, sweat flies everywhere, clothes are ripped. And it’s brilliant fun. Ron Hitler-Barassi spends seemingly half the gig in the audience, getting his clothes ripped off him.

Throughout the evening, TISM get young women to come up on stage and sing TISM songs a cappella a la Australian Idol. After the guys sing The Mystery Of An Artist Explains, a girl walks on stage and sings the chorus ‘I’m fucked in the head! I’m fucked in the head!’ Greg! The Stop Sign!! gets the same treatment. It’s a gimmick that works, allowing the audience time to rest and laugh.

After a set full of sing-a-longs and spastic dancing, the band encores twice. The final encore sees all the TISM boys and the Australian Idol girls come out on stage to sing an end-of-AFL-game-esque chant asking for headjobs or something.

As my mates and I stumble out of the Metro, all bruised and battered and reeking of man-sweat, I instantly understand why the shot was called ‘The Game Over,’ and I spend a good 15 minutes in the bathroom. A fitting way to call an end to TISM’s Sydney tour.