Dazza is a purebred cob and has left the imprint of his King Gee stubbies on barstools from Meekatharra to Esperance. He has done every job under the sun and has more tall tales to tell than the Armadale Magistrates Court on a Mondee morning.
He has measured his life out in middies, and the only change he is prepared to accept is the pile of shrapnel on the counter in front of him. His golden years will be spent in pursuit of quenching the hardest of earned thirsts – the only way a level 5 old mate knows how.
It’s Friday arvo, and Dazza heads down to the Peninsula Tav to share a few yarns with his motley crew. A collection of men who haven’t seen gainful employment for a decade but still wear the Hi-Vis shirt to pull off the illusion.
He approaches the bar and shoots a 1000km stare right down the bar chicks top, “how’s me favourite girly going?” She humours his boomer brand of female communication, “fine Daz, how about you?”
He responds slightly off topic, “I’ll be better after a beer, now have I ever told you if you were just a few years older I’d really…” She shoots him the “let’s not revisit your six-month ban” look. He manages to stop himself.
His crew slowly sip draught as they begin to solve all of the world’s problems by yelling over each other and sitting unsteadily on their stools. Which by the way, are practically cordoned off and in the VIP section. No one touches old mate’s barstool.
Today’s topics range from how footy is being ruined by “fairy rules” and was better “back in the day” to how Pauline Hanson would make a good PM because she “tells it like it is”.
Dazza has to momentarily excuse himself when AFLW is brought up in a favourable light – his kryptonite. He excuses himself to smoke a few darts back to back, “when I come back you lot better have knocked that off, ruin me bloody day with *grumbles old mateishly*”
After Dazza demolishes middie number 4 he gets the glint of controversy in his eye. He is ready to spice up this little chat soiree, “oi Henry, you chipping in for me birthday pressie or what?”
The bar staff listens on in horror as he details his plans to visit Langtrees and turn his face into Buswell’s wet dream because his rod doesn’t cast so well these days. Not that he minds, the things he’s seen in his bedroom history would make the hardest of men wince in horror.
Before he goes and plays stiffy roulette with his aging manhood, he decides to have a quick punt on the dogs. In the realm of old mates, screaming at greyhounds on a tiny TV within a TAB is a national sport, and Dazza is the Brownlow medalist.
After making a cool $20 off $50 worth of punts, Dazza returns to the bar to regale the bar chick with a story about how he won big at the Kalgoorlie Cup in the 80s and married the hottest skimpy in town, “those were the days, sweetheart, melons like airbags on a Holden, luv”.
And… it’s time to go Dazza.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?