Mr Beaufort St Festival

“Like, I totally loved Pugs before all these other sheep did, I’m talking Burkes Backyard Pug-love, mahn”, Tyler smug-ishly qualifies while walking to the Beaufort St Festival dog show. Much like Burke’s Pug rubbed his arsehole along the grass, Tyler is leaving a trail of shit himself, the only difference being, the shit is coming from Tyler’s mouth. His bearded face is expressionless while he stares at the Pugs on display. He takes a swig of his Coconut Water while standing cockheadily in his tight jeans with his ankles exposed. His “leg midriff” is doing a good job of distracting the crowd from his floral shirt, suspenders and bow-tie combination. “Cunt chic”.

Tyler walks around bopping to some Indie band that is hipstering out on stage. Tyler sidles up to some turd wearing a Tuxedo t-shirt and rolled up denim shorts, “I saw these guys at a shipping container gig in August, mahn”. The turd acknowledges the comment with a “devil may care” nod while he takes a sip of his Fiji Water. The pair bops enthusiastically to the music while shooting each other circle-jerk nods. They are both showing the exact right amount of enthusiasm for a band that is probably going to sell out by selling tickets to musical plebs: like YOU, brah.

A group of nose-rings and denim-overall wearing chicks are looking at some artwork at a stall. Tyler runs his black-nail polished hand through his greasy moused off quaff and lets the force of facetiousness propel him over to them. “The only canvass I recognise is the brick wall behind the old 78 Records ay, babes”. Their red-lipsticked lips crack big grins: they have found a fellow artistic shit-muncher. “That is so true, are you in a band?” Tyler rolls his eyes, “siff, I play solo synth, girly”. Her undergarments flood with a tidal wave of moist cultural elitism: “totes”. Tyler gives her a nod and continues on his way. Swag.

Tyler is tired of making his presence noted at art stalls and Indie band sets. It’s time to really make the most of the street festival by camping at Clarences and getting fuck-eyed on cider. With each pint, his opinions get louder, and the hipsterism is so thick it could be scraped off the walls and sold as beard conditioner. “Anyone who wears cargo shorts should be quarantined for having fashion-Ebola, mahn”. Unlike the vast pockets of the offending garment, the pub is running out of room for his drunken arrogance. He is thrown out at 5pm.

Tyler staggers down Beaufort Street and decides to treat himself to feed from the El Publico stall. He crams his Mexican snack down his gullet while angrily staring at a guy in New Balance sneakers dancing to the Indie band from before. “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore”.

Fuck, someone pass him a spaceship then.