Brad is a 3-day old bowl of leftovers slowly being scraped into the bin of middle life. This self-professed bad boy of Scabs proudly brandishes his tribal tatts as his hairline retreats like a defeated General.
He dresses like a left swipe on Tinder, like beef dressed as veal, like a 38-year-old man who is no stranger to hauling a carton of Cruisers on his shoulders at Dunsborough Leavers.
He calls his 1 bedroom Scabs apartment the “Bach Pad” when in reality, it’s the place his ex-girlfriend’s parents help him buy if he agreed to have nothing to do with raising the child. He had no objections to this arrangement – a baby would seriously hold him back. He couldn’t have someone more mature staying at his house after all.
It’s Friday afternoon so Brad decides to summon the other leftovers that he’s known since school. In fact, Brad has never been able to make friends he didn’t go to school with. Society’s loss. They launch into a tryhard Benny C party and snort “coke” that everyone knows is gear.
After getting pumped up they start yelling shit off the balcony at passersby. In his mind, he is exuding animalistic sexuality – which is true if you compare it to an Orangutan trying to knock the top off his cock at the Zoo.
It’s time for this Scarborough stallion to strut his stuff along the Esplanade. He slowly works his way from the Peach Pit down to El Grotto sinking Coronas and trying to talk to young girls about his fictitious ability to surf. Sure, some might call him gross but in reality, he is curing a lot of insta-models of their daddy issues, one shit pickup line at a time.
It’s 8 pm and Brad is really feeling it. He’s farked up, unencumbered by company and feels like showing these young punks how an old warhorse throws down. In his attempt to throw down he gets thrown out of a bar for pestering fellow males for bickies. Always an opportunist, he makes lemonade and decides to fight a bouncer in front of a table of unimpressed girls.
“Farking idiot”, the bouncer says as he pushes Brad out of the venue. Brad hasn’t felt this alive since he told that lifeguard to “piss off” at the beach last week. Born again in tragic energy, he storms into The Lookout and orders another Corona. He stands at the bar tensing his flogged out rig and smelling strongly of the cheap pheromone rub he applied in the toilet.
Real recognises real, as a balding wog carrying around a BMW keychain finds a customer in Brad. Now armed with the MD he sought he proceeds to do the over-the-hill shuffle on the dancefloor. In his mind, sparks are flying as he turns on his pelvic angle grinder but in reality, he is just wearing down the patience of the women around him.
It’s not long until Brad is evicted from another bar. He has nowhere else to go but back to the “Bach Pad” to snort more “coke” with his mates and relive the same stories that have kept them entertained for the past 20 years.
That’s living, Barry.