Ms Botanica Bar

Welcome to Botanica, the physical manifestation of Tinder where surgically enhanced girls and a sea of seedy men all compete for the classiest of Northern liaisons in the back of a Dodge Nitro.

Jorja wakes up early on Sunday morning. She has to get to her 4-hour hair appointment before she can risk being seen at Botanica’s famous Sunday sesh. Jorja talks blithering shit with her hairdresser before heading to get her nails done.

By 11am she is beautified and ready to slip into her Botanica-best: a tight red dress with a white top that can best be described as a glorified bra. Her tanned fake norks stand out like beacons of attention and her makeup screams, “I might be from Essex innit guv”. She sprays Beyonce` all over her body and snaps a few mirror selfies to seal the deal. She ‘red to go.

Jorja uses her arms to balance herself as she swaggers in high heels causing her to look like a Tyrannosaurus-Rex trying to walk the Jurassic runway and snare herself a bar card.

The buzz-cutted UFC reject at the door is adorned in a cute little high vis singlet and lanyard, he is in the process of eye-staunching every male and eye-Rohypnoling every female. A couple of lads are denied entry for wearing singlets. In protest, they point out that nearly every female in the venue is sleeveless.

Randy Savage has no time for logic and consistency, so he puts his hands in his pockets, looks from side to side, and menacingly grunts, “not happening dickheads, move on, move on”.

Jorja walks to the bar and lets some angry looking chap buy her a glass of champagne. She starts wading her way through the beer garden: a sea of men in tight shirts and Northern men that seek to distance themselves from the carry-on of their Northern yew-head brethren who would rather be punching on with the security staff at the Saint for enforcing the “no shirt no entry” rule.

Jorja is lapping up the leers of the local wildlife while shooting daggers at any girl who also looks like a capable flotation device.

To garner attention away from those other attention-seekers, she decides to have a little boogie to the sounds of DJ Top 30 – spinning I’m an Alabtrouzzzzzz..

Her day is going disastrously. So far, only a colour co-ordinated camp man and a balding mid 40s tragic in the grips of a mid-life crisis have complimented her on her “dress”.

She is one ego blow away from a full-blown mascara-running hissy fit. It’s touch and go. Luckily, a group of drunk scaffolders manage to lift her spirits, “aw looks at her tits G”, “Churrrr bro, juicier than your cousin Billy’s Hangi ay G”. They heavy set men congratulate each other on their banter in the same manner you’d expect in a rugby change room. For Jorja, it was the lifeline she needed.

Hair and nails: $400, low cut dress: $80, having your rack compared to cousin Billy’s famous Hungi? Priceless.

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