You know you’re part of a much larger, societally ingrained problem when you’re sitting in your lounge room on a Monday night drinking copious amounts of longnecks of (ye-olde faithful) Carlton Draught, watching the iconic 1990s Australian skit show Frontline for no reason other than you can. Fuck it, that excuse will do.

My housemates and I got to talking about what the house needed and the conversation somehow turned into a frantic, frenzied eBay search for a signed life-size poster of retired Australian Basketball legend Andrew Gaze. Unfortunately we couldn’t find a poster, but there is a signed basketball on a stand on eBay going for about $120. We holstered our pistols. You can wait Andrew, you can wait… How did we end up here? Just three bone-idle blokes with a little too much disposable income and nothing else to spend it on, I guess…

While I’m on the topic of beer drinking, can someone please tell me why it is that bogans and other undesirable types love to profess how hard they are (by driving quickly depreciating automobiles irresponsibly in crowded public streets on Friday and Saturday nights and picking fights with strangers (me) outside nightclubs knowing full-well that their mates are waiting around the next corner waiting to pounce with chains and bats, amongst other things) yet they find the thought of drinking beer abhorrent.

What a bunch of fucking pussies.

I don’t understand it – not only is drinking pre-mixed cans of Woodstock Bourbon and Cola far less enjoyable than tucking into a good ol’ fashioned carton of the working mans’ beer, Victoria Bitter, it’s also a damn site more expensive.

Quick price check.

Victoria Bitter carton – $40

Woodstock Bourbon and Cola carton – $70

You would think that, amongst these types, the entire purchasing decision would hinge solely on the following question.

“What is the highest alcohol percentage drink for the lowest price that I can legally obtain on the Australian market?”

Instead, there are a bunch of ‘hard’ bogans mincing up to the counters of bottle shops all around Australia, paying through the teeth for pre-mixed spirits, “because they like the taste’.


You’re not a real man until you’ve thrown the last of the freshly-shorn sheep through the chute in the fucking shearing shed in regional Australia, dabbed your brow with the flannelette you’ve been hanging out of the back pocket of your boot cut jeans since for fucking forever, and cooled that brow with the ice-cold goodness of a stubbie of Victoria Bitter.

Admittedly, I’ve done none of those things, but it sounds fucking good, doesn’t it?

/end communication