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Mr Cottesloe

Jimmy is the personification of a popped collar on a pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt. He believes that other Golden Triangle burbs are “acceptable” and if you can’t give directions to your house with reference to Stirling Highway then you will be “working for him one day”.

He is so addicted to old money that he melts his prestige on a silver spoon and injects it straight into the hole where his humility ought to have gone.

It’s lunch time, so Jimmy enjoys a bottle of Dom Perignon with his mother. He is dressed like the sort of cunt who thinks you are there to park his car, and when he learns you are not, still asks you if you could “be a champ” and park it up back.

He looks unmistakably upper class in his white Herringbone button-up shirt, blue blazer, a tan belt and a pair of perfectly pressed Chinos. His slicked blonde hair and Ray Ban Wayfarer combination finish his look: hit & run-chic with a generous lashing of out of court settlement.

After a little afternoon bubbly, Jimmy jumps in his Range Rover and drives home to his apartment nearby. He is meeting an Instagram model down at Cimbalino and needs more cocaine to help mask his personality.

Truth be told, the rack is $350 worth of barely numbing mediocrity that looks impressive to girls who consider a Diet Coke and a dart to be a well-rounded meal.

In an act of pure alphaness, Jimmy orders for his date and slaps a black American Express card on the table like it was a 9-inch mega cock. Look at my massive credit limit ya bish. So far, her undies must be wetter than Pat Rafter’s sweatband after a tiebreaker with Pistol Pete.

Sensing shes captivated by his charms (money), he begins to tell her about his business, “essentially, I just invest idiots money to make myself rich as fuck babe, pump and dump, babe”. This guy is so reptilian that a New York pimp could make a pair of shoes from his leather.

After laying it on thick, he invites her to his apartment. He slaps her on the arse and asks her to fix them a couple of Hendricks & Tonics while he uses his big black A-Mex to rack up some lines. The wildfire of arrogance burns hotter with each line of Peruvian powder.

“Can you believe Swanbourne plebs claim they are G.T?” She forces a smile while hunching over to do a line. Oops, she spills her drink on his carpet. “Fucking watch it, that’s a one of a kind rug from Istanbul!” Ah, aggressive and showy, she must be so wet that he is going to need a scuba kit to get to her fun button.

A few drinks later they are getting down to the nasty. She lays on the bed desperately hoping for a consolation prize to make the evening somewhat worthwhile. In the bathroom, a different scene is emerging. A desperately furious GT lad is flogging the shit out of his limp dick like he was a Melbourne Cup jockey riding a lazy horse.

Seems money can’t buy everything hey? Floppy McGee.