Mr Hamilton Hill

Robbo starts his morning with the breakfast of champions: a cup of International Roast and a dart. Like an urban man-rooster, he serenades his streets with the soothing tones of apeshittery as he screams at his two Pit Bull Mastiffs to stop barking.

Even within the confines of his Hami Hill sanctuary, he maintains his fake limp. He is like the Daniel Day-Lewis of Workcover rorting, a real method actor.

Apart from faking a limp, Robbo’s other skills were doing *just* enough at work to avoid termination and evading breathalyser tests. All things considered, a payout was the path of least resistance to getting rid of Robbo.

So how does a man living the middle-class dream spend his freedom? Mostly by tinkering with the wrecked cars on his front lawn and trying to get a stolen PeeWee motorcycle to work. You can catch him most days smoking on his lawn and giving the stink eye to anyone passing by.

After a hectic morning of swearing at rusted parts, he puts on his Blunnies and drives his Ford Fairmont to the bottlo. On his way, he creeps slowly through the streets checking out the miscellaneous trash discarded on front lawns.

He sees an old white fan and decides that his dwelling is in serious need of a little oscillation. He chucks the disgusting piece of garbage onto his back seat and continues on his way. Winning.

He takes the scenic route to enjoy the many sights of Hami Hill: youths fighting over a goon sack, a junkie going nuts at a payphone and the sites of the various skids he’s laid on the road in the past week.

“You wouldn’t wanna live anywhere else in the world”, he reckons as he pulls into the car park.

His Ebolic discharge-mobile catches the eyes of the crusty old mates standing in the smoking area of the Hami Hill Tav. They still remember the time Robbo threatened to fight the entire bar after an unfavourable result at Bathurst.

As he passes, his car’s exhaust sends out a potent cloud of pollution, and one of the old boys starts angrily croaking like a life-hardened toad whose lilypad was invaded by a younger, less destitute toad.

Robbo decides the only thing that can scratch his itch is a 4 pack of Woodies. While in the bottlo he pulls off a little trick he calls the Robbo dozen – skolling two cans in the fridge before going and paying for 4. Works like a charm.

He takes his loot back to his car and decides he’ll treat himself to one of his favourite past times – abusing the organic living hippie community that have been priced out of their South Freo mecca.

He drives around until he sees some hippies separated from their commune, “GET A FARKEN JOB YOU PARASITES”. Throwing up two fingers and honking his horn.

God that was satisfying. He feels like he’d just released a 4-day load of frustration on the Greens voters and he needs an after hategasm feed. It’s a no brainer, straight to Red Rooster for a strip sub while he contemplates a job well done.

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