"On Sunday night, the citizens of Sydney will stare mindlessly as the last monorail carriage wends its sorry way to the blast furnace. There will be a pathetic sigh, a shrug, the odd 'Oh well, that's the end of that, then.' And before you can utter the name 'Laurie Brereton' (the 1980s uber advocate of the monorail and public works minister) next thing you know it'll be Monday morning," writes Pat Sheil.
"Sure, it doesn't move too many people to very many places they actually want to go to, but who cares? That's hardly the point. It's just so inherently cool, and there will be a lot of young people on Sunday night who will, in 50 years' time, be telling their grandchildren: 'I was there the last night the monorail ran.' 'The monorail? Wow, really? Why did they ever tear that down, grandad?' they'll ask."
"Yep, at 9.30pm on Sunday the little part of me that is George Jetson will die - we never got the flying cars, the robot maids and the teleporting gadgets, but we got our monorail," Sheil laments. "And soon it will be like the Bondi tram - gone forever."