For the past 30 years, Brian has rolled through the easy streets of life in his rose-tinted Grange Rover. That’s what happens when you’re blessed with contacts and a nepotistic streak that would make WA Inc want to disclose a conflict of interest.
Alas, there had to be more to life than elaborate leadership retreats and narcissistically spraying LinkedIn with indulgent wank every day. So, he decided to become a blue-collar cosplayer and buy a hobby farm.
As any good hobby farmer knows, you can’t expect to get the most out of your land unless you look the part. His neighbours will never forget the day he rolled into town dressed like he’d just knocked off a R M William’s mannequin.
Especially the well-seasoned farmer who popped over in a work ute that looked like it’d just finished bush bashing Mother Nature’s dirt track all night. Brain almost had a meltdown when some mud sprayed onto his freshly pressed chinos, “sorry cob, how ya garrrnn?”
Brian did his best not to show the distress on his face as he grabbed this farmer’s meat tray of a hand. He even pretended not to be mortally offended when the farmer gave him shit for having hands softer than a freshly birthed lamb.
After all, he saw an opportunity here. A friendly hick to do the heavy lifting in exchange for a fee and the honour of working for a man like Brian. It was perfect.
See, Brian would go up and down the Terrace telling his buddies about how he roughed the farm on the weekend but in reality, all he did was get in the way and offer up the contents of his stomach when confronted with the reality of looking after animals.
To shake that pesky feeling that he really wasn’t a salt-of-the-earth farmer, Brian decided to buy another toy. A Bobcat should fill that void sufficiently.
Oh did he love that thing. It was perfect, a skidmark in a skid steer, and the staff he hired to really look after his little farm enjoyed nothing more than watching Brian pretend to work in it.
What they enjoyed much more though, was when the big feller decided to grace the local pub with his presence. He’d swan around the pub like an agricultural tourist, appropriating the plight of the farmer in exchange for bemused looks.
However, he hasn’t been back in a while after a local farmer had one too many Red Cans and gave Brian a spray that would make an old Mediterranean gentleman want to turn off the tap.
It was a sight to behold as the farmer told him he didn’t know shit about nothing. Spittle rained down on Brian as he attempted to defend his musings about the “hard year” he was having.
He’d never been called a “dumbcarrrrnt” and if he’s honest he didn’t much appreciate the language. He certainly didn’t appreciate the enraged farmer grabbing him by his Driza-Bone. Does this peasant know how much he paid for it?
He had to be the little spoon that night as he sobbed to his wife. Demanding to know why he wasn’t being respected. After all, he had an Akubra, a Bobcat and 3 head of sheep. She stroked his powerful ego and assured him they were just jealous that a city boy was able to tame the land.
He woke up the next morning inspired and managed to collect the eggs from the coop without shitting himself at having to walk amongst the chickens. He looked at his wife as she started on her first vodka and nodded.
They both knew at that moment, Brian was a real man.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
