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Mr Jetstar

Dawren has grounded more planes than the Bermuda Triangle with less contrition than an Iranian general. Today he has a holiday booked to the Denpasar Airport holding cell. Whether he will arrive at his concrete box island paradise is always an uncertainty.

He puts on his Sunday best – a collection of faded Kuta beachwear that would blow up an ultraviolet light torch after a single sweep. His surfer joes showcase his Mordorian toenails and he completes the look with the mandatory Monster cap with white Oakleys hanging proudly on his missing-link neck.

After whispering racially ignorant nothings to his Uber driver he arrives at the Airport. He punches a quick 6 darts back to back and discards them on the very floor of the country he accuses other people of not loving. He coughs up his lung and marks his territory with an ice coffeed tinted slag.

As per tradition, Dawren has arrived 2 hours early to get the party started. Paradoxically, the man who threatened to burn down his local Woolies for the latest ciggy price hike is more than happy to spend $11 on a Jack & Coke at the airport bar. He starts guzzling down Jack like a horny Jill on top of that hill.

He waits until the 3rd announcement for him to get his arse onto the plane. He stumbles on and instantly cracks the shits that there is no room in the direct over space storage area. A kindly passenger offers to move his bag, He declines and points in the face of the flight attendant, “NO, little miss attitude can do it for moii, I’m a paying customer”.

Already agitated, Dawren interrupts the safety procedures with a loud “oi”. An irritated flight attendant stops what she’s doing, “yes, sir?” Dawren, “get us 2 bourbon & cokes would ya, angel face?” In his defence, he hasn’t had a drink in 15 minutes. She finishes the tutorial and warns Dawren to calm down.

It’s not long until he acts up again. During takeoff, he feels a rumble in his carnal yearnings and starts flicking through some greasy movies he’d downloaded for those long nights in the donga. Roight, time for a wank, he reckons, so he gets up and walks towards the toilet playing a little game of pocket billiards. Making sure to crop dust his fellow passengers with the smell of his chicken ovenable diet.

He is promptly reprimanded and told he’s cut off from alcohol from the flight. His mind engages in the dreaded calculus of sobriety -a 3-hour flight, no piss and at least 30mins to his all-inclusive resort. On the other hand, headbutt that cunt who has been looking at him funny, get the plane turned around = 15mins back to Perth, 1 hour AFP interview – 20-minute taxi to the Redcliffe Tavern. This isn’t his first rodeo.

The choice is simple. Dawren kicks off like Michael Phelp’s return leg in the 100m freestyle and is quickly subdued by several passengers. This will be his 3rd time on the tele – the most famous member of his family. That matters to some people.