Mr Golden Triangle

William allows the silver spoon of entitlement to penetrate his privileged kwon and knows that the harder he grinds on the generational-elitism, the bigger the wet patch on the bed sheets of society will be. To date, William has accomplished little else than fingering some Golden Triangle slurry at a Notre Dame function in exchange for a handful of dexies. Despite this gaping hole of unsuccessful exploits, he struts around like a pencil-dicked duck who brought it’s dad’s AMEX to Bakers Delight.

While shopping for Chinos online, William stumbled upon the holy grail of shit eating smuggery. An exclusive club night that requires guests to have attended a private school or alternatively, dress and behave in a manner befitting of the Golden Triangle. He can barely contain his excitement and relief at the prospect of not sharing drinking-space with bourgeois-bottom-feeders and rat-tailed heathen.

He remembers the trauma of last weekend where some Thornlie pleb with a neck tattoo asked him for a cigarette. He put on a brave face, but he secretly longed for the suckle his mother’s rich milk like he did when he endured a vicious wet willy from a Como-raised scholarship student in year 8.

Harbouring a relentless affluence-stiffy, William decides to make a total trust fund-cunt of himself and hammer out a status update of privileged proportions, “Finally! The Golden Triangle can mingle without fuccbois, rats, Airmaxes, bucket hats or dreaded 2/10s. I’m sure there will be some of them working security though lol. Only question remains, M J Bale of Herringbone? haha”.

His status is moot, because he plans to dress exactly like he does to every Polo in the City meet: which is an uninspired cross between that meat-head from the O.C and the kind of prick that hits you in his BMW and drives off.

A few Ralph Lauren-turds like his status as he violently masturbates to the handsome deposit his absent father made into his bank account. Staring at the 4 figured replacement for a father’s love, he barely notices a private message from a girl he kinda knows. She has messaged to confess her povo sins and seek redemption from the Prince of Bay View Terrace, “Hey Will, um so like I went to Applecross High, but I’m not like that (nooooo way), could you get me an invite to the Golden Triangle party? Pleassse”.

William is torn, should he vouch for this sub-human piece of middle-class trash? Or will he look unforgivably poor in the eyes of his elitist mates? He does what any self-absorbed narcissist would, and responds thusly, “kind of a big risk for me to do that, maybe if you sent me a picture of your new fake tits?”

He enjoys the desperate norks of a class-jumping skank, but he gets far more satisfaction from the Golden Triangle circle jerk on the event page. He contributes more of his biting wit to the fray, “omg, can you believe how many publicly schooled deros are trying to get an invite? Some povo chick even sent me her tits to get an invite! Like, hello, this event exists, so we don’t have to associate with you!”

His post is well liked by the sorts of blokes who wouldn’t abide by the women & children first policy on the sinking Titanic. Frankly, if there were any more reptiles in one area, it’d be classified a terrarium.

When you measure your self worth against your father’s group certificate, you never expose yourself to the grim reality of adult life: the world doesn’t owe you shit, and you will never win the Tour de Life with your training wheels still on.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?


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