Spud just appeared in Port Hedland in 2006 in a dusty old HiLux that looks like it was involved in a ram raid on a Kuta bumper sticker stall. There truly was a bumper sticker to represent his eclectic range of beliefs – from “fark off we’re full” to “don’t laugh your daughter’s in the back”. His stickers were truly a window into his soul.

Spud himself is even crustier than his ride: perpetually wearing boardshorts and a Hi-Vis top despite the fact he doesn’t hold down gainful employment. His skin is sun-ravaged, his blonde hair had naturally dreaded from shampoo dodging and he has the look of a perpetually bewildered man: a crispy stunned mullet that John West would certainly reject.

Spud arrives at the Pier Hotel with a vacant grin smeared across his cobbered face. He sits on a barstool and empties his pocket full of appalling shrapnel on the bar. His coins are covered in mysterious substances which begs the bartender to ask, “Spud, where the bloody hell do you get ya shrappas from?” Unsurprisingly, the neurons in Spud’s brain are a little slow to fire and he stares at the bartender while his head gently sways back and forth: “I dug a hole”. Well, that clears that up.

Spud drinks middie after middie while occasionally serenading anyone who will listen with semi-coherent jibber jabber. Another mysterious cobber walks into the bar. Spud appears to know the man: they probably met while running over Kangaroos or whatever the fuckit is Spud does with himself. “Macka, old mate”, he grumbles while flicking Macka in the balls, “HA HA HA”.

The unbridled joy that Spud got from his unconventional handshake is infectious. Macka isn’t so thrilled but frankly, like everyone in the venue, he is somewhat frightened. Spud slides him over a half-drunk middie, “get yourself started”. Ah… yuk. Macka takes a sip of Spud’s backwash, which brings another idiotic grin to Spud’s face, he flicks Macka in the balls again, “ahhhhh!! HAHA”. Classic Spud.

In a bold move, Spud tries to sneak a cheeky piss while standing at the bar. His filthy act does not go unnoticed, “that’s it Spud, you’re done for the day, get out ya fucken idiot”. Spud stumbles out while chuckling to himself. He tries his luck at the Esplanade Hotel but the strong stench of dehydrated urine on his shorts is his ultimate downfall.

It’s been a big Friday afternoon and Spud decides it’s time for a ¼ chicken and chips from Chicken Treat. Alas, the sesh had got the better of him again and he passes out at his table and uses his meal as a kind of poultry pillow. Fearing he could cack his dacks at any minute the manager calls the police.

Spud wakes up a few hours later to the sight of this father also drunkenly “sleeping it off” in the lockup. His dad pulls himself together, “ya been flicking cobs in the balls again, son?” Indeed he had been, the apple doesn’t fall far from the dick-flicking tree.

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

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