Chelsea gathers a group of girls that she refers to as her favs. Now, it’s important to note that her favs spend about 50% of their time bitching about Chelsea in a secret group chat. However, since she has the keys to daddy’s Yallingup beach house suddenly she looks “so effin’ hot” in that everybitch floppy hat.
They load the Getz and Chelsea makes her way down Forrest Highway. Her driving is what you might call, “frustrating”. She sticks in the right lane and only merges rapidly into the left so the girls can try to pronounce the Mandjoogoordap Drive sign and laugh like a couch jumping Tom Cruise.
Chelsea finally exits the freeway after copping so many fingers you’d think she was on the Metros Freo dancefloor. She pulls into Yallingup and tries to avoid eye contact with the caravan park plebs. How unsavoury.
Instead of taking in the beauty of WA’s south west, the girls spend their afternoon getting ready because they want to make all the other glamour-gaggles look like poor sack’s of discounted potatoes.
After a share plate and cocktail Instagram photoshoot the girls decide to really slum it and pop in to Settlers to see if any surfers fancy dipping their toes into different body of wetness.
Chelsea is 7 “Expresso Martinis” and in a case of mistaken baldentity thinks a bald dad is Kelly Slater. Lucky for Chelsea, baldy is balls deep into a Daryl Braithwaite singalong and ignores her intoxicated nonsense.
In the absence of some shaka-cock, the girls head home to get a nights rest before the wine tour the next day.
One may ask what the difference between a stretch hummer full of Rivervale slurries and a tour bus full of Claremont queens is in regards to a wine tour? Simple really, it boils down to whether the Chanel bag covered in spew is authentic or not.
She settles for a Taj Burrows lookalike and his mate in the toilet of Colonial and comes out dripping like a newly birthed calf.
Before they leave Yallingup they need to tick one more box on the basic bish list: paddle board yoga. They head down to Meelup beach the following day, however karma strikes as the vineyards take their revenge for her popping a squat the previous day.
While saluting the sun, she chunders more surfer DNA into the water than you’d find in a Margaret River single mother’s kid.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?