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The Perth South African

Oscar’s parents were drawn to Perth’s white outer suburbs like parched warthogs to a watering hole. The rotting carcass of house & land packages provided enough carrion for all South African immigrants to feast on. After all, WA was hot and vast like Africa but did carry the risk of copping an apart-hiding from the new ruling class after that little societal switcheroo. Lekker. 

Oscar could never really move past the glory days of his under 17s rugby career. He will still tell you about the time he almost got selected for the Springboks, often without you needing to ask. Luckily, he found a way to still wear his rugby tracksuit every day – become a personal trainer. You aren’t lying to yourself if you believe your bullshit, ja?

After work, he meets up with some friends to watch the rugby. “BOKKE BOKKE BOKKE”, Oscar roars, despite the fact the game hasn’t started. He attempts to use some of his award-winning charms on a group of local ladies, “Howzit sweeties, care for a drink? Remember though, when you run with the big dogs you must learn to piss hard, ja?”

If there is anyone who enjoys the sound of Oscar’s voice than himself, it’s every lady on earth. At least in Oscar’s mind. He looks at one of the girls like he would look at the separate whites from colours instruction on a box of washing powder, “I’ve seen a real Rhino you know”.

The conversation rolls on with Oscar telling boisterous stories about how unfair it is that he has to do shit for himself in Australia. See in South Africa he had “help” to attend to almost every chore, now he has to clean his oven before rent inspection, and he’s fucking pissed about it. 

He can tell the girls are finding him a little repugnant, but he knows that the fiercest baboon gets the sweetest bush flower, so he springs into full Attenborough mode and captivates the table with a safari story where he interacted with a lion or some shit. 

It proves a bigger hit than Toto, and Oscar invites a girly back to his house. Unfortunately, after one too many lagers, his package is resembling Biltong left to dry for too long. Not even staring at his under 17s rugby trophies is doing the trick, his mighty ivory horn is being poached by intoxication. 

He assures her that the smallest boerewor gets the most heat on the braii, but his sexual rendition of R Kelly’s bump & grind fails to bring any rain to the plains and leaves her Savanna in a state of drought. Not lekker.

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

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