Mrs Adele Concert

Sara totally needs a break from vodka-ishly supervising her baby’s Au Pair, and there is no better occasion than Adele’s Perth tour.

The grey goose is loose, and Sara and her yoga posse begin their night by slamming cocktails down their yasss-holes. For dinner, they have Xan-cakes with a heavy sprinkling of Dexamsugarmine.

Her hubby soon learns that when you dine from the à la cunt-menu, you are about as bearable as getting donkey punched during a prostate exam.

They screech out Adele songs while her hubby can’t believe the traffic, did they open up a new Krispy Kreme or someshit?

Sara is ushered to her $300 seat and is instantly unimpressed. $300 to sit on a cable tied picnic chair that Domain Stadium borrowed from some struggling uncle’s outdoor setting.

Why cable tied? Well, that is Perth’s finest in anti-vandalism measures. The only way to stop the entitled yummy mummies from moving their chairs and sitting wherever the hell they wanted.

From 1930 – 2000, Sara and the girls conducted themselves with the relaxed decorum of Harambe during his first babysitting shift. Irritating everyone as they whistle and wail for their idol to take the stage.

Sara cries when Adele comes on and then spends the next two hours wailing at her to sing particular songs while recording the whole thing on her phone. Really living in the moment.

She cried even harder when her reception cut out and she couldn’t Snapchat Adele belting out a banger to a whole list of people who didn’t give a shit.

After the singing part of the concert, a storm of confetti rained down on the crowd. “Handwritten notes” by Adele telling you to be you, or some other trash you’d find on a millennial’s Instagram while she’s coming down off caps and dealing with yolo-ey burn of unprotected boinkery.

At this stage, Sara lost all self-control and joins in on the desperadory of fans scrambling for their individual piece of Adele history.

On all fours she stuffs as many into her Louis Vuitton bag as possible, “I wonder if she hand wrote each one?” About as likely as you staying with your hubby after the ATO brings him down, babes.

After leaving the venue, Sara is horrified she can’t get reception to beckon her husband to pick her up. She can’t even get through to Uber or a taxi.

Horror turns to early onset PTSD as she realises she is going to have to catch the hepatitis express with all the other Perth peasantry.

She books herself a day-spa treatment the next day to cleanse her pores of the hideous public transport experience she had and spends the day uploading footage to her Facebook page.

Will you watch any of it? Not a coco-buttered chance.

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