I came up with the above title in a rush of brilliance the other day – would it not be a fitting name for an academic book on how bogan culture is taking over the entire universe as we know it?? I have even thought of a cover – a giant be-moccied foot would descend from the heavens, Monthy Python-style to crush our poor planet. I have not gotten further than that, but goddammit academics, when are you going to stop studying beginners Akkadian and put our taxpayers dollars to more profitable endeavours??? They used to be part of their own subset of species – you’d have the goths, mods, rockers, rude boys and girls, fashion victims, nerds and then the bogans. Then something happened! They’ve burst their banks. Chaos has ensued.
The bloke above is actually called Allan Bogan, I declare it’s true.
A bogan on my train the other day even fancied himself a cultured bogan. He plonked himself down next to me ‘just to be friendly’ (I have enough friends) – he had an ancient black beanie pulled down very low, a giant ratty army coat, fewer teeth than I have digits and was voraciously drinking something that looked like creamy soda out of something that looked like a Sprite bottle. Class. He wanted to know where I hung out, and when I was not forthcoming he ventured that he hung out at The Spot (Brunswick people know this is the shiteful venue on Sydney Road with a vegetarian restaurant inside called Lentil as Anything). He liked to do salsa dancing there, but found it hard to get a partner for some reason, despite the sheer volume of women.
Because I’m too damn nice I then ventured that the Night Cat was quite known for a salsa night or two.
“What did you say?” he said grinning, showing blackened stumps.
“Er, salsa. At the Night Cat.”
He shook his head.
“I say sol-sa. It’s pronounced SOL-SA, you know.”
I then said words to the effect of “You say potato I say potarto” which shot straight over his woolly head. The only way I could shake him off was by divulging my choice of signature tune at the evening’s karaoke, which is Whitney Houston’s ‘Learning to Love Yourself’.
Disgusted, he hopped quickly into the next carriage.
In other news I have a maybe, possible, am-not-holding-breath new client in the States who’s going to pay me – wait for it – a whopping 5 cents a word!!! Wow!! But I think I need some more travel stuff published somewhere vaguely respectable – and stuff which doesn’t rave on about honeymoon destinations I’ve never been to, not mentioning any names.