I’ve now been living in Melbourne for approximately 6 months. I’ve been lucky enough to land on my feet; one of my work mates was kind enough to forward my details to a friend he played footy with that had a spare room in Carlton North for rent. After some discussion and a meeting after work one day (to make sure I wasn’t a serial killer), I got a gig and moved in the next week. I really didn’t know that much about the Northern suburbs, having spent a considerable amount of time in the Southern suburbs (St. Kilda, Port Melbourne, Prahran etc.) during previous visits. This was primarily due to my brother having been located in Port Melbourne when he lived in Melbourne several years ago.

The Melbourne I knew from those experiences was not the Melbourne I know now (which I love).

I now see the Southern suburbs for what they are; a gaudy, artificially constructed pocket of the city, too well-planned and too well-thought out to hold any form of culture or character. Populated almost entirely by the almost rich-and-famous, it must have something to do with the beach. It seems that the closer you get to the waterfront, the more rapidly the average IQ diminishes and the more rapidly the average cup-size increases.

Establishments like Eve, Secret Garden and Boutique represent the absolute antithesis of class despite what their advertising might have you believe. Populated entirely by over made-up girls hunting for AFL footballers to aggressively fellate in the back-alley and over made-up non-AFL football playing guys trying to convince them to settle for something a little less spectacular, their scene is an anthropologists’ worst nightmare.

I remember one incident vividly; I was (inexplicably) in a joint frequented by these ‘young, dumb and full of cum’ individuals whilst on a visit to see my brother several years ago when I eyed two girls looking at me as I ordered drinks at the bar. At my height (200cm), I’m sometimes mistaken for someone who might have some sort of talent on a sporting field. This leads to all sorts of crazy mix-ups (it leads to hardly any crazy mix-ups). I overheard the following conversation…

For the purposes of brevity, I’ll refer to them as Young Dumb Slut 1 (YDS1) and Young Dumb Slut 2 (YDS2).

(YDS1) – ‘OMG, do you see that guy at the bar?’

(YDS2) – ‘Yeah, do you think he is a footballer?’

(YDS1) – ‘Nah, he’s too big to be a footballer, maybe a rugby player?’

(YDS2) – ‘Yeah maybe. I’d prefer a footy player though…’

It’s funny to think that these girls (who would’ve been about 19 or 20) will undoubtedly continue in their quest to be willingly sexually degraded by AFL footballers with one of two scenarios being the end result;

a)     They make an AFL footballer fall in love with them and live happily ever after

b)    They are passed around indiscriminately like a naked 10-year-old boy at a Scout Leaders convention until, in their early 30s and looking like they’re in their mid 40s from years of hard partying and late nights, they settle for a mildly successful tradesman that can provide them with enough money to keep themselves in overpriced designer dresses that don’t hang quite as well on their figure as they used to.

Option b prevails 99% of the time.

Whilst beauty may fade, substance springs eternal. The realm of the out-and-proud extrovert, knowledge is most definitely not power, south of the river.

/end communication

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