Middle age hit me like one punch when suddenly virtually everyone whispered to me words I understood to be "de gurls here a' best on da block". I couldn't get over the fact that I must have looked like the type of person that would go into a neon lit strip joint, with barely athletic girls who could hardly stand up let alone pole dance and where drunken punters in plaid flannelette shirts reached out to put wet bank notes into the garters of grinding girls.

When in God's name did I turn into that sort of guy? It happened overnight. Whether I was in a suit or casual wear, someone took me by the elbow and steered me towards the entrance where DreamGirls sweated, where Porky's lived up to their name and the World famous Love Machine failed to live up to its name.

Only the other day, strolling down the ghost town that is Kings Cross, Billy Baher waved me in to the World Famous Love Machine that he now managed under strict bail conditions directing him to exit from his limo directly into the entrance of the World Famous Love Machine. That institution has particularly suffered from the ravages of misfortune. Two years ago, it burnt down in circumstances that will be vented in a criminal case later this year.

Millions of dollars were spent renovating the World Famous Love Machine only to go down the inevitable tube of desolation following the lockdown that has turned Kings Cross into a downtown Dubbo, without the charisma.

Tourists wandering around the streets of Kings Cross like Burke and Wills searching for water.

The red lights of Kings Cross have been turned out, even the Coke sign has given up the ghost.

Ironically, it is rumoured that the former King of Kings Cross, John Ibrahim himself, is now buying up much of the plundered landscape where he once harvested enormous amounts of cash. Adaptation seems to be part of his DNA.

The beneficiaries of this lockdown are the publicans and nightclub owners of Newtown which, ironically, was known for its women, but in another context. It will be interesting to see whether the influx of testosterone-driven party animals can tempt the women of Newtown into themselves adapting into a more rainbow community.

Sex, after all, is a broad church.

When the cream of the jocks and jerks of the private-school/ trust-fund kids/actors hit the pavements of King Street flowing with cuffed dungarees, Doc Martens and septum-pierced vegans/vegetarians and eco-warriors on the march, I want to be there.

Human nature abhors a vacuum and tribal turf-wars are inevitable.

Wednesday night in Newtown is traditionally Ladies night out and I doubt that they will be turning the other cheek to welcome the Newcomers from the burnt out Cross.

The government, in its infinite wisdom, has appointed a man with all the correct credentials to review the benefits and deficits of the lockdown laws.

Ian Callinan, QC, former High Court judge, and now a novelist of considerable erotic power with a string of bodice-ripping-yarns – the heavy breathing The Lawyer and the Libertine, the ambiguous Brazilian Blue and, the forerunner of Fifty Shades of Grey, the Cellophane Ceiling.

Queensland breeds men of substance with big visions and waistlines. Callinan knows that our personal liberties are vital for a truly free society. His mantra on the High Court was to protect civil liberties and to minimise government interference as much as the Constitution allows.

Premier Mike Baird's choice was a bold and brave move as a man like Callinan takes orders from no one. If anyone is going to bring light back to the Coke sign and re-pave the road to Calvary, it is the Casino-born author of The Russian Master.

Where Davenport Jones, expert on 20th century art, reappears in his novel "only to be battered about by the rapacity and philistinism of the art world as well as the ambitions of a number of assertive women", according to a review in Quadrant.

Callinan writes "when there was the slightest change in the light, the cityscape could be seen to be more than a mere drawing. There were faint tones of pink and brown, and the murky orange of foggy streetlights to be seen – the midnight sun behind, and then not seen, as the light changed again".

Callinan's report will probably be shortlisted for the Premier's Literary Awards when it is published later in the year.

I hope we see a further reappearance of the clever Davenport Jones dancing on the tables at Bada Bing, beating off assertive women with his big stick.