Mr Westminster

Robbo sits on the porch with his wife. None of this de facto crap that you see in Balga, Robbo made a decent woman of Kimberley. He opens a fresh box of Chicken Crimpy Shapes and pours two glasses of Bulleit Bourbon and Coke.

Those degenerates over in Balga are dining on Coles brand Sakata’s and cougar with L.A Ice Cola. Robbo is undoubtedly large and in charge.

Robbo slides on his new pair of Nike Air Max. They perfectly compliment his official Tupac t-shirt and pair of Chicago Bulls basketball shorts. See, the reason Robbo can dress so fresh is because he doesn’t mess about with gutter crime like the cavemen in Balga.

Robbo is all about raiding people’s letterboxes while they are at work and then attempting to activate their credit cards. A noble crime, he is kind of like Robin Hood, if Robin had a face tattoo and a penchant for cutting blokes at train stations.

It’s Sunday afternoon, so Robbo smokes his crystal meth through a legitimate glass pipe. None of this light bulb malarky that you might find in certain other suburbs of lower means. T

he people of Westminster like to flaunt their lifestyle, as they say, smoke through real glass to show you got real class. Robbo smokes until he starts arguing with his reflection in the mirror and accusing his wife of stealing his thoughts. Sunday bliss.

Even mornings are more peaceful in sunny Westminster. In Balga the proverbial Rooster is some tweaker screaming about someone’s uncle being a paedo, but in Westminster, the good people are awoken only by the subtle rustle of letterboxes opening and sly hands slipping through.

Many Westminsterians believe that the blissful mornings are the reason that your average resident cops a 3 month lesser sentence for crimes as compared to those shit-birds in Balga. Which is why they say, it never rains in Westminster.

A toast to the good life.