“Come for the food and stay because some Oxycontin addict stuck you with his syringe” – a phrase that should be printed on a billboard and displayed outside John Hughes car yard on Albany Highway.
Mark spent big on a 2 by 1 apartment on McMaster Street – sucked in by the allure of Victoria Park’s prime location. What he got was a crash course in the University of Life’s intensive units. He hadn’t even graduated from the school of hard knocks. This was going to get serious.
Mark’s back door only has 1 deadlock installed. Such a security measure may cut it in sunny Wembley, but this is Victoria Park, mate. He pops down to Woolies to pick up some groceries. He returns 35 minutes later to find his back door kicked in, and a delightful young gent passed out on his kitchen floor with a bunch of Mark’s shit in a bag.
It seems this lovable little Victoria Park skamp was unable to complete his mission before the wave of intoxication crashed and he was gently washed onto the coast of justice. Police come and drag him out.
Oh lovely, he has pissed himself. A disgruntled fat cop turns to Mark, “I’d probably use two pairs of gloves to clean that mate”. Mark removes the puddle of Hepatitis from his kitchen floor. Home, sweet home.
To take his mind off it, Mark decides to grab a drink down at the Balmoral. A group of scaffolders are having a burping competition in the corner of the beer garden. Mark walks past and cops one direct to the face, “that one was MEAN bro”. To get over the ordeal, he orders a Gin & Tonic and sits overlooking Albany Highway. This is living, he thinks.
While reflecting on the beauty of Victoria Park he spots a commotion across the street. A bloke who ducked in to grab a burger is copping a parking ticket and is going apeshit. To the left, a BMX bandit is loudly explaining to the police that the Dyson in his hand was purchased legitimately. Alas, he’s misplaced the receipt and the box. What a dilly of a pickle.
Mark leaves and is briefly struck by a thought, “what have I got myself into?” Some quality oriental cuisine will cure what ails him. He walks into a nearby shop.
He notices that he is the only Caucasian face in the establishment. He relishes in how multicultural and cosmopolitan he feels. He boldly orders something he has no idea about and waits for his meal to come. Upon arrival, he stares into the abyss of mystery ingredients before going in for the kill.
Oh shit, it’s far spicier than the usual 3 drops of Tabasco he’s used to. His face goes redder than a spanked baboon’s arse and he begins coughing and spluttering uncontrollably. Nevertheless, this doesn’t stop him uploading a photo of his food and writing some smug shit about eating the authentic stuff.
Little does he know, each and every table are laughing about him in their native tongue. The general consensus seems to be, “wouldn’t he be more comfortable with a steak sandwich or whatever it is white people eat? Clown”.
On his return, he cuts himself on a piece of glass on the sidewalk near his house. The glass is a permanent fixture in the Victoria Park, that’s why they say, it always sparkles in the ‘Park. Nevertheless, he’ll tell anyone who listens how good the lifestyle is.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?