It’s been years since Richard emerged from the pool of pretentious education, so to stave off the chilly breeze of moving on, he still wears his Christ Church Grammar leaver’s hoodie and cross country running shorts while he waters the vine of denial that clings so tightly to the retaining wall of yesteryear’s hopes and dreams.
His gardening game might be shameful, but it takes a true PSA-scrote to resist the current of progress and battle the surging tidal forces of societal pressure that demands he accept that home ownership in a “povo neighbourhood” is a better idea than renting in the leafy ‘burbs of his own comfort zone: Nedlands.
To be fair, Richard isn’t exactly in a rush. Starting a family isn’t on his radar as his disgracefully snobby attitude towards waiters and the working class acts as a powerful contraceptive that miraculously prevents his willy wacky, getting sticky stacky in the moist pregnancy-cave of some soon-to-be regretful UWA bird.
Richard is catching up with a few old boys from Christ Church this afternoon. He arranges to meet them at the foreshore so they can chat and gaze upon their father’s watercraft. A fitting view for the self-important.
Richard launches into a rant about how the Government stimulus package is misguided. He contends the money should be funnelled to privately schooled professionals so the great unwashed don’t blow it all on canned bourbon.
If Richard was acting any more reptilian, he would slither away to bask on a warm rock of his own self-satisfaction while tongue-snapping at mosquitoes who incidentally are more pleasant to share a room with.
After Richard has made a sufficient arsehole of himself, he suggests they pick up a Chelsea’s Pizza. “This is why I can’t live outside the triangle, what pizza would I order? Dominos’? Gross”.
On their way to Chelsea’s, Richard gets stuck behind a right-turning driver on Stirling Highway, “I’d rather get stuck on Stirling Highway than set foot on the Highway of Poverty known as Leach, am I right guys?” Well, Leach Highway does have one thing going for it: the complete absence of Richard’s cold-blooded, beady-eyed self.
At Chelsea, Richard continues to slowly stroke his bulging snob-stiffy, “they should have a priority line for people who actually live in Nedlands, right guys?” Damn, Richard, point that thing away before you get a sticky load of suburb-loving jizzum all over lads with a grounded life perspective.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?