Each year, Bunbury bears witness to an extraordinary spectacle: the great migration of the Hyundai Getz. Thousands of P-Platers 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. Males revellers opt for that fucking Charlie Sheen shirt and a bumbag. A useful item to keep 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 $120. 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 fuckwits that are turning the portable toilets into the set of some grizzly German porno.
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 fucking grim.
This year there isn’t any rain expected but that’s not to say something isn’t going to be washed up – you guessed it Coolio is returning to the festival scene to perform to children who may not have even been born at the peak of his fame. Finally, the youth of today will get some useful education.
After the festival, the revellers get to continue getting fucked up 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, stopping by at a roadside flower van to pick something up for mum. You look and smell like reheated tuna bake, you have more bodily fluids outside than inside your body, and to top it all off, you’ve brought your new bae to lunch, Kristofur – the king of the Bunbury BMX park.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?