Mr. St Georges Terrace Long Lunch

Some speculate the last time Alan put in a full day’s work was around the late 90s. Since then he’s masterfully split his working week between exclusive golf clubs and fancy lunches where he gets as sauced as a strand of suckghetti at a Dolmio hole of glory. 

It’s 10:45 am, so naturally, Alan’s Bondy-senses start tingling and he develops a mighty corporate thirst. He’s too important to be slumming it amongst his employees so he detonates a delegation charge and flees the scene before the work evading smoke clears. 

Not that he needs an excuse. It’s his show but he still wishes to maintain the smallest bit of credibility for his yearly X-Mas party address where he takes credit for everyone else’s hard work before demanding applause for the 5% pay rises he dished out. 

By 11:15 am, he’s wondering who he has to “restructure” to get a drink around here. He meets up with today’s crew of assorted money men and power brokers and gets to work on another “networking” write off,

“We’ll start with 4 bottles of the… *his finger darts towards the business end of the wine list* Frankland Estate Olmo Reward and don’t go missing missy, these won’t last long”

Like a majestic boomer business duck, he opens his gullet and the first glass of the vino flows effortlessly into his formidable gut. He slaps his friend on the back boisterously, “glad you’re picking up the bill, I’m parched!”

Needless to say, the bottles don’t stand a chance and by about midday, Alan is loudly regaling the group with a loud barrage of insider trading, bawdy jokes, and his suspicions that his 5th and current wife is having an affair with her pilates instructor. 

Not to worry, he knows a coupla couplas high up who will make life a living hell for the slick stretchy man when he submits next year’s tax return. Whether he’s dicking the wife or not, Alan feels like he needs to apply a thick coating of his piss on this man’s life to mark his territory. 

After ordering several more bottles of wine and a few beers to cleanse the palate, Alan and the gang start feeling peckish. He notices a waitress hurriedly walking past with 3 hot plates. He fancies a squizz so he grabs her arm and pulls her over, “just a minute luv, what have we got here”.

Impressed with the sear on the steaks, he begins to give the busy wait staff his table’s order there and then. She politely excuses herself to deliver the food and unbeknownst to her, she just made a powerful enemy. 

Hell hath no fury like a power boomer scorned and he waddles over to her to loudly inform her that he knows the owner and if she wants to remain gainfully employed she’ll be over immediately to take his order. He returns to the table, “with those legs, I could give her a different kind of job, mind you”

His joke brings the house down and the group share stories of making waitstaff cry as they eye off a fresh round of expensive wine. Evidently, their thirst had not yet been quenched. 

By 4 pm, Alan looks to have almost had his fill. Probably time to leave, given he’s made 3 female waitstaff add him on LinkedIn and offered the manager a job because he mistook his dutiful politeness for “respect”. At least he’s in merry-mode as he staggers back to the office. 

Boozed-up, he’s feeling like being the boss that he knows he can be. So spends the rest of the afternoon annoying the living shit out of everyone with unsolicited rambling pep talks and eventually falling asleep in his exquisite office chair. 

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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