What a time to be alive! The great migration of the Suzuki Swift resumes after a couple of years on the sideline. Groovin the Moo will see thousands of P-Platers and fully grown creeps descend upon the shame of the South West in search of the fertile munting grounds of Hay Park.
Of course, such a sudden and unusual change to any ecosystem causes tension. In particular, the Bunbarian Ice-Ape is fiercely territorial and responds to the influx of clean-shirts by dropping skids at every set of lights – a truly chilling show of strength.
Once safe from the swinging jaws of wrap-a-round bandits, the young revellers can begin to decorate their bodies to attract the attention of a possible mate. Not an easy task in the harsh Funbury rain but they get it done.
A festival bumbag is essential to show everyone you’re king Esh and to keep all your shit safe while you jump the fence to impress the ladies – after all who doesn’t love a man who has demonstrated he can’t afford $176. A real power move.
Female revellers adorn themselves in glitter & tape to dress like their year 4 arts & crafts project that their dad didn’t give a shit about either. It’s truly amazing to see so many people expressing their individual style yet somehow managing to look exactly the same. Black & Gold Coachella, Netflix Splendour, Aldi brand Wine Machine.
Once inside, you are treated to an amazing selection of people. 16-year-olds who look like they know their way around a shopping centre staircase, teens experiencing the volcanic consequences of not pacing Smirnoff Ice, toolie type operators that need a fix before leavers, and of course, pinging dickwits that are making the portaloos look like a lunchbox after a Yogo Dirt Dessert detonated. No survivors.
Speaking of drugs, thanks to over-zealous community policing, the disco-biscuits you buy inside the festival have a fair chance of entering through a bodily orifice – the ol’ Tijuana tampon or the classic Hakea Hemorrhoid. Good news if you are one of those toolie type operators, but for the discerning reveller, a bit grim.
After the festival, the revellers get to continue getting cooked in a Bunbury motel room – the kind of glamour that only truckies and men who can’t leave the region as per conditions of their bail normally get to experience.
As the day dawns, it’s time to say goodbye to Funbury, as you start the harrowing drive back to Perth feeling seedier than a cocktoo turd. You’ll enjoy the amazing feeling of having more bodily fluids outside your body than in.
Not to mention you still carry the stink of Kristofur – the king of the Bunbury BMX park that treated you to the wildest 2 minutes of your life. That Lynx Africa will take days to wash off.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?