Mrs Butler

Liz tells people she was named after the queen. In reality, she was named after the lorry that her father used to smuggle black market tobacco into the UK. She has all the class of school holidays and views the world through English-winter tinted glasses. 

One day, Liz and her blobfish husband were terrorising a Spanish resort town and thought – why do we do wait for our holidays to do this? Why not do this full time? It was at that moment the penny dropped and they decided to move to sunny Butler, WA.

Now, Liz lives the ex-pat fairy tale. They snapped up a 3 bed 2 bath cardboard cutout of a home in a housing estate that sold them a dream. A dream of beachside living. A dream of owning a little slice. A dream of being able to determine the exact dietary mistakes of their neighbours through a shared wall. 

Some would question why anyone would live so cramped in an area with so much unused land, not Liz, she blocked out those doubts. What she lacks in space, she makes up in a pleasant 1.5-hour commute to her industrial estate administration role in Cannington each day with her hubby. 

That’s a total of 3 hours a day of laughing at all the twats that live in the city and reflecting on how blessed they are to “pwetty much” live in Cottesloe for a fraction of the price. They considered catching the train to cut down on petrol costs but Liz just can’t seem to stop calling the police on excessively tanned youths she sees. Knife crime and that innit?

Saturdays are for the ladies. Like a Tesco brand Spice Girls tribute group, Liz and her gal pals don their best capri pants and gather at a cafe for a tea with a big slice of entitlement. Today, Liz feels her tea wasn’t steeped properly, so she calls the young Asian girl over and drops a passive-aggressive condescension bomb,

“Now luv, we come here every week and they know how we like our tea! The British way! It’s ok though luv, I can tell you’re not from here, ask that lovely lady there to give you a hand, you’ll get it right next time”

Liz actually draws her energy from making people squirm who are contractually obliged to be nice to her. She launches into an anti-immigration tirade as she waits for her tea, “they move here and just don’t try to fit in”. Move over Hoyts, this is projection. 

They continue this trail of destruction throughout the day and Liz wakes up with the Prosseco-pangs of an over refreshed pom. She squarks at her husband to cook a proper fry up. Thus marking their 5786th day in a row of a full English breakfast. Watch out neighbours, the colon symphony will begin shortly. 

Sunday is family day and today is a ripper – 24 and sunny. Opting against the 5-minute walk, they load up the car and drive to the beach. In the 20 minutes it takes her hubby to retrieve fish & chips, Liz has found herself horribly sunburnt. 

Looking like a haemorrhoid on a baboon’s arse, they decide to conduct the rest of the lunch in the car while complaining bitterly about this ridiculous Australian sun. Her hubby gets toey when she talks trash about Australia and let’s just say the extra grease on his fingers didn’t go to waste ;). 

This is the paradise Phil Collins was singing about. 

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