Brendo has a dream. A dream that finger blasting single mothers can coincide with the freedom to piss anywhere he likes. A dream that he won’t be judged on the faded colouring of his Jet Pilot boardies, but on the inking on his neck tattoo. A dream that can only be awoken by a light dose of CPR by a security guard who saw his hectic backflip into the spa. That dream is today.
Brendo rummages through a shit-heap on his floor for a nice outfit to wear. He finds his favourite Bintang singlet that he wore on Australia Day. Now, being 8th February, he hasn’t had time to get rid of the blood stains that resulted from being bottled while chipping jaws on the foreshore. Also, 4 bucket bongs deep, there is slim chance that he is going to Napisan it either. Fuck it, ay.
The gates open at 7, but Brendo has been sinking Beams in the carpark since 5 with the boys. They all suck from the shardy nipple of yewww while blabbering on about their anticipated sexual conquests. “Oi cunts, check it out”, Brendo squawks while executing a flawless “barracuda” finger gesture. The lads laugh harder than the Perth Storm hits unsuspecting pot plants.
Brendo has always been known to clumsily walk the line between partying and attempted suicide. Tonight is no exception, he triple drops Green Mitsis and heads straight for Tunnel of Terror. The pingas kick in before he reaches the front of the line and he stares down the slide like a disoriented newborn staring back towards his mother’s birthing canal. This certainly isn’t time to play it safe, “YEOWWWWWWWWWW”, he launches himself down the slide.
He stumbles out of the pool like a spaghetti-legged loser and makes cookie monstered eye contact with a Foxy shorted sluzza. It’s love at thirst-sight, and the pair slam back Smirnoff Double blacks in a spa. To seal the deal, he demonstrates some classic North of the River nonchalance and hocks a big slag into a neighbouring spa. She’s now wetter than Lleyton Hewitt’s sweatband.
Suddenly, Brendo has a moment of clarity through the gurny haze of MDMA. He still has that baggie full of washing detergent that he intended to drop into a spa. He does just that and his spa bubbles over in eye-stinging stupidity. Dozens of revellers are led to the first aid area to treat their eyes while Brendo desperately zig-zags between security guards.
He is eventually caught while trying to commandeer a go-kart. He is led out and advised of his annual ban from the venue. Minutes later, the crowd cheer wildly as their prince scales the fence and is seen plummeting towards the grass.
Another year, another Ambo bill.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?