There ain’t too many occasions that get a man like Harlee showering on a Saturday but the Broome Cup is one of them. He offers a toast to the morning sun by cracking his first 7:30 am bush chook and uses a hearty swig to rinse his mouth out after some half-arsed teeth brushery. He’s almost ready.
Any Kimbereley commando knows that the clothes maketh the man and Harlee has his finest party shorts ready to go. He toyed with the idea of long pants but figured he’d best keep them pristine for a possible (likely) courthouse appearance in the near future.
He adorns his noggin with his finest pair of white Oakleys – a boomtown crown that glistens majestically as he has a cheeky honk on the Kimbereley kazoo with da boyz. Fully charged, Harlee heads in with the squad. They have their wages to blow.
Harlee has 2 basic missions. Firstly to win enough punts to cover his rent this week and secondly to show that cute backpacker that cut him off for vomiting on himself last weekend that he “scrubs up alright”. At least he’s wearing a shirt this time.
By 2 pm, Harlee is already having to close one eye while he tries to read up on the form of the horses. Unsteady on his feet, he bumps into an elegantly dressed Broome fashionista filly that he charms with his unique brand of flirtation, “I like yas farken little hat thing”.
He gives her a wink, completely oblivious to his fly being wide open. Revealing an ever-so-subtle flash of man snag. He’ll be back for her heart later. For now, it’s a little top-up in the toilet before demolishing bush chooks like a general in the great emu war.
Maybe it’s the pips, maybe it’s the amber confidence but all Harlee knows is he really likes a horse paying 25 to 1. He slams down a full watermelon on the beast and gets ready to cheer it home – and cheer it does.
The only problem is Harlee’s vision is only deteriorating and one of his mates decides to cruelly take advantage of the fact. As the horses near the line, they gee Harlee up, “he’s in front mate, he’s in front!”
Harlee loses the plot like an executive director on Lost and the sounds of his yewing can be heard all throughout the Turf Club. His friends let him marinate in the erroneous belief he just won 2 and a half stacks. Enjoying seeing their mate tell everyone around him to suck his sausage because he’s farken rich now.
Needless to say, he doesn’t take the deception well. Opting to take the ringleader of the ruse into a headlock and taking out a few plastic chairs in the scuffle. After a little biffo the boys call a truce and turn up the dial on the sauce-o-meter. Going the full red can curry now.
Day rolls into night and Harlee decides to show off his patented pisshead two-step on the dance floor. His smooth moves pay off and a girl who looks like the lovechild of a Supre dress and a diesel mechanic recognises him,
“Hey, didn’t you film yourself pissing into your own mouth at my brother’s 21st? That was so funny! You are like a TikTok star!”
Harlee locks eyes with her, “absolutely”. The pair dance the night away before waking up itchier than usual on Harlee’s living room floor mattress. What a night. He checks his wallet to see a handful of pineapples and tells his sweaty lover he’s got a treat for em.
They enjoy some 5 hour old KFC that just got flown into Broome in a dirty bogan’s questionable hotbox. $300 well spent he reckons as they use the chicken’s greasy qualities to get back to work.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
