Mr Polo in the City

Bradford (real name Bradley) is getting ready for Polo in the City in his small Daglish apartment. He squeezes into a tight pair of white Chinos that cause a grotesque mooseknuckle effect in his ball area. He then slips on a white dress shirt, brown leather belt and blue blazer with a floral handkerchief square sitting pretty in his top pocket. He rolls up his chinos to expose his ankles and sliding on a pair of brown leather loafers. His look is almost complete, he just needs to slick his hair back and rap on a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers. He is pulling off the M.J Bale trust fund look flawlessly: a look that doesn’t mesh particularly well with his $65,000 income as a low-level bean counter.

Bradford jumps into his 2007 Hyundai Getz and drives to the Wilsons’ car park at the Old Swan Brewery. Why does he park 3.7km away from Langley Park? To minimise the chances of a Polo socialite spotting his low socio-economic whip. Bradford burns straight down to the basement level and activates full Jason Bourne mode. He sinks into his chair and checks all available mirrors to ensure the coast is clear. He crouch-power walks towards the stairs. There is an unacceptable albeit small risk that a fellow Polo socialite will be in the lift. So he legs it up the stairs. He exits the car park without being spotted and flags a taxi. Smooth Bradford, smooth.

He has purchased the Maui Polo Club ticket for $250. He would’ve loved to be in one of the more exclusive Marquees, but he spent a fortune on his testicle-constricting chinos (and he wasn’t invited). He starts to mingle with the who’s who of who-gives-a-fuck D Grade celebrities who would push their own mother down the stairs for a spot on the latest Celebrity Survivor installment.

The atmosphere is seemingly pleasant yet has an overwhelming aura of resentment that could only be likened to the Rhinehart family Christmas after the children deny Gina another serving of roast potatoes until she signs over the billion-dollar trust fund. Each well-dressed socialite stares into the wallet of the next and wonders to themselves, “am I richer than that pleb?” Bradford knows he cannot match their ATM receipts but he can plunge his tongue so far up their arses that he can taste the Colgate on the back of their teeth. His greatest skill in life.

After hours of sucking hole, he manages to score an invite to the Cottesloe Golf Club the following weekend. He is now riddled by anxiety: he can blow his next pay on the St Andrew’s look, but the 3km walk from his Hyundai Getz to the golf club is going to be nothing short of murder.

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