Brett arrives at Ascot with a motley crew of dentist-skipping roughnecks that rock the latest in Magistrates’ Court-chic.
Brett’s get up consists of a cheap pinstripe suit, white snakeskin shoes, jet black Volcom belt and a pair of white Arnette sunnies. A fierce look that blends seamlessly with his gel-spiked hair and a goatee that resembles the bush on a 1970’s pornstar.
At the bar, he spots a girl he works up North with, “tell you what sugartits, you can put your money on me CUMing first today”. She smiles while adjusting her tight black dress that poorly covers the prison-quality tattoos covering 60% of her frame.
Brett gives her a sip from his hip flask, and a twinkle appears in her eye, and if you believe in love at first sight, then surely it’s not a stretch to believe in fingerblast at first sight.
By 4pm he is fuck-eyed and starts screaming at the horses that he has made reckless bets on. In Brett’s mind, race day is a type of responsibility vortex, a different dimension, where it is totally fine to spend $350 on uninformed punts.
Brett is suddenly distracted by a passing Jockey and runs over to the man, “can youse pose for a photo with me?” The jockey politely squeaks, “sure, mate”. Brett shows his true poise by whipping out his dick and loudly slurring, “you’re still the smallest in the photo little mate ha!”
By 5pm Brett is staggering around trying to see through one eye. He dances ungracefully with the ill-effects of public intoxication. Simply put, he is as pissed as a divorcee at Christmas but he has the medicine – he has a quick bump of Armadale espresso and he’s back baby.
He aggressively accuses another punter of looking at his dick at the urinal, he smashes over a table set up under a marquee, and his pièce de résistance was surely chucking a slash on a tree in full view of hundreds of people. His tango of classlessness ends at the hands of three security guards escorting him from the venue.
Brett heads towards the open road to flag down a taxi. He is ignored by each and every one of the 38 that pass him. Again, he has the medicine.
Our sweet prince finishes his bag and heads to Crown Casino where he will gamble until he runs out of money or is evicted for spitting on a security guard. Whichever comes first.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?