Night had fallen on Flemington when your correspondent rocked up to the Milo extravaganza. The houso flats across the road, sheer cliffs of lights, the Citylink overpass glowing green on the other side.

Racecourse Road was blocked off either side of the Milo venue, Melbourne Pavilion, an old art deco hall with a concrete box attached to one end of it. “Weddings Events Functions” reads the sign on the side. All that, and, inevitably, boxing too.

Big cop trucks at each end of the area, flashing red and blue, cop helicopter thrumming overhead.

Cops and cops and cops around. Cops in yellow hi-viz; cops in blue; black-clad ninja-turtle riot squad. Rings and rings of them. Cops in number absurd.

“No place for fascists no place for fascists” or something, shout coming from the grounds beneath the flats. “We live here, fuck off.” The remnant left protesters, hardy anarchists mostly, had been joined by locals, young mainly, African mainly, from the flats.

The Milo late-show crowd were arriving on the other side of the street. They gleamed white in the fluoro and arc lights. A few Mediterranean types, of martial arts/UFC styling, top-crop hair and T-shirted, hard-body man tits. But mostly Anglo, boiled-potato pale.

“They don’t even know what they’re protesting,” they laughed, at the protesters.

“It was easy to get a park, because protestors don’t own cars.” That got a big laugh.

And:

“How can Milo be a racist? He’s married to a black man!”

“I know! I know!”

Heard that exchange at least six times. A sort of alt-right ring tone.

I’d missed the early session argy-bargy, because I’d been to — what else? — a book launch in Fitzroy. The first show crowd were just coming out, the cops directing them down a corridor between temporary barriers, running down a side street.

“Go go go go this way this way this way” — the cops treated it like they were getting the Kurds out of Iraq. The protesters were half a kilometre away.

“Lot of cops to protect one paedophilia advocate,” I said loudly, and one cop on the end of the line winced, visibly. I made a mental note.

The place was in lockdown, yet I was drifting easily back and forth between the lines, threading through the riot cops, my press card in a lanyard. Admirable respect for free activity of the press I thought.

Then I looked at the stage door, where bouncers and tour officials were gathered. Fat men in dark suits and lanyards, they — ah.

The cops thought I was with the tour.

There were 600 in the early show, took a while to get them out. They clutched copies of Dangerous, Milo’s self-published book, and copies of Australian Penthouse, sponsors of the tour, and my sometime publishers (hello, fellows! You still owe me author’s copies of the September and October issues by the way. Send them to the Crikey office, please).

“The show was great,” Trisha told me, without much prompting. Trump-style red baseball cap, bottle-blonde, fake-leather jacket, two copies of Dangerous, two copies of Penthouse. “I just love him, he’s so funny.”

“What do you like in what he’s saying?”

She thought for a long time.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh … well, I mean immigration. Not that we don’t like Muslims! Just not the wrong ones!”

“There anyone in Australia who inspires you like he does?”

“No one! No one!”

“Andrew Bolt?”

“He’s pretty boring.”

‘What about the pro-paedophilia stuff? ‘Thirteen year old boys can consent meaningfully’ …”

Trisha squirmed.

Ponytail man came up. There were a lot of ponytails in this crowd. Long, short, ’80s adman, postmodern architect, vegan grindcore maleorexic, Milo’s little ponies.

“I’ve seen Milo four times.” Ponytail man was soft-faced,  soft-bodied. Milo men are either hard-body keto warriors, living off bullet coffee enemas and T-gel patches, or they appear to be carved from a giant bar of soap. Ponytail man wore a red tie, and a white cotton suit, over hips that wobbled like an offal tray.

“How was he tonight?”

“Top form, top form.” As if speaking of an employee.

 “What’s the most important issue facing Australia today?”

“Oh corporate control. Banks, globalisation …”

“Who do you like politically here-“

“Oh the Citizens Electoral Council make … sense.” (A LaRouchite! I’d found a LaRouchite!)

“We need a state-owned bank, public ownership,” he said.

“But that’s exactly what most of the protesters would say!”

“Well, yes, we’ve got to build bridges …”

“And Milo, well, as far as he has any position at all, he’s sort of a gay Thatcherite.”

Ponytail’s eyes peeped out his puffy face, imploringly: don’t spoil this for me.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a music producer.”

“You make a living from that?”

“Well no,” he laughed, like George Martin between Beatles LPs. “I’m living off savings. And,” voice lowered, “getting some payments from the government.” (“Ah, Mr Ponytail,” the voice said on the phone at midnight, “you are too dangerous not to have on our side. Your fee will be dispatched fortnightly disguised as a Centrelink payment.”)

The helicopter thrummed, the protesters got louder. People were coming out of the flats now, it was getting big. Couple of smoke bombs went off near the tram stop, and the riot squad formed up in a phalanx. This was all piss-weak, yet they looked skittish. The more suited up cops are, the more scared they get.

Late-show arrivals, early-show departures commingled. Ross Cameron, the show MC, was walking around, looking at his notes, like anyone gave a damn what he said.

“You’re going to miss the late show Ross,” I said.

He looked up.

“Oh you’re right, yes, thanks very much,” and scurried in through the stage door. He thought I was security, too. Jesus, six Trots in Target suits and lanyards could have taken this place. It was Stupidolooza.

*Read the rest of Guy Rundle’s account of Milo Yiannopoulos’ speaking event in Flemington on the website