Typically, the plans for a bottomless brunch begin with a series of tags on a Facebook post. This allows each participant to reply with some variation of “OMG you had me at bottomless!! Yas bitches 😛 😛 😛 xoxoxox”. Once the “yeah the girls” seed has been planted the plans begin to take shape.
It is important to note that the dress code of a bottomless brunch is “Instagram”. This isn’t like rocking into a dim sum restaurant hungover as shit and looking like a gangbanged whopper with cheese. This is an event. It is a full-blown hashtag situation.
Accordingly, go fuck yourself if you can’t manage to nail some of the key photos of the morning – the complimentary cocktail on arrival, the food arranged stylistically and of course the squad cheers’ing the first prosecco. If you have a problem with your brunch going cold while your besties fuck around with filters than you’re in the wrong spot, buddy.
Having fucked around with social media for 30minutes means you’ll need to make up some ground on the bubbly. Naturally, given this is Australia any open bar situation is met with the spirit of competition and the job isn’t done until you’ve assured yourself that you’ve drunk your monies worth.
An inevitable side effect of this Aussie spirit is the exponential increase of the prosecco to screech ratio as you become increasingly “lit”. Some say it reflects poorly on oneself to get cut off from a bar before 1 pm on a Sunday. Others take a contrary view and if you’re really living the #brunchgoals life, you are in the latter category.
After your two hours are up you will come to a crashing realisation – one does not simply stop drinking after reaching screech-drunk status on a Sunday afternoon. It truly is the point of no return. Launch into that Sunday session like the champ you know you can be.
You will then enjoy a day of frivolities until the dreaded calculus of the drinks to hours sleep equation starts racing through your mind. Your day doesn’t end when you’ve had enough, it ends when the impending anxiety of starting another Monday feeling like a microwaved bag of dogshit sinks in.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?