Tonight’s episode of ‘the commish’ comes to you from inside the derelict interior of the number 8 tram as it slowly snakes its way from the leafy inner-city hamlet of Princes Hill to the hustle and bustle of Flinders Street Station and beyond. I’ll be disembarking from this iron horse and hopping onto a train from Melbourne Central to Richmond to see my boys the Tigers hopefully pull an old-mate Fritzl on the under-performing Essendon Bombers side (the rape aspect, not the subterranean fuck-dungeon and numerous halflings from said incestuous relations aspect) at the home of footy, the MCG.

I’ll tell you what; I’m really fucking struggling typing on this tiny keyboard. I feel like a giant trying to daintily pick up quail eggs between his index finger and his thumb… I don’t have the digital dexterity for this bullshit, especially with increasingly frozen fingers.

One of the recent fiscal contributors of a pineapple (Australian slang for a 50 dollar banknote for the uninitiated) to bankingcommish was unaware that their donation gave them the right to suggest topics for me to write about (of course it fucking does, as if I’m going to be able to think of 190 odd topics to pour verbal gasoline on purely of my own volition…) Anyway, when I advised the contributor  of their purchasers’ rite to act as my muse/ghost-writer/character assassin today via The All-Seeing Oracle (Facebook), they issued a simple, yet potent statement in response…

“Keep fisting hipsters and I’m a happy customer.”

Ne’er an easier request hath I received, mi’lord! I shalt not disappoint thy master.

A recent observation of Melbourne’s burgeoning hipster collective (a term they’d happily give themselves, the tosspot wankers) on one of my recent busted-as-fuck hung over Sunday morning walks down Gertrude Street revealed a new fashion item in the Melbourne sects’ already bespoke community wardrobe – the tweed sports coat.

Hey, look! Three self-centred cunts!

Once the sole realm of university professors, archaeologists and architects, this elbow-padded gentlemanly staple has been commandeered by the latte-sipping, Trotsky reading, intro-to-philosophy class taking, part-time hospitality working ‘fashionable’ hipster masses with the same sort of vigour with which they buy second-hand records produced by bands that nobody has ever heard of from Sunday Morning DIY roadside record stalls in Fitzroy.

I saw a throng of them ‘indulging their senses’ with an al-fresco breakfast the other day, resplendent in their assortment of ill-fitting thrift shop shit rags purporting to be a collective fashion statement. (Seriously, it was like the children from ‘Kids Say the Darndest Things’ killed Bill Cosby and hijacked his wardrobe). They were all sipping daintily from re-tasked jam jars full of what was undoubtedly organic green tea. They’d all pushed their chairs back from the table to allow more freedom for them to cross their legs if they felt like it (and they felt like it, all of them had their legs crossed).

I felt like locking them all in a room with a projector set up playing Conan the Barbarian on infinite repeat until they realised the error of their ways.

/end communication

PS: Just got back from the MCG to transcribe this from my iPhone to my laptop. Richmond completely annihilated Essendon. The weekend starts with a BANG!