The 5 Guys You'll Find in Sydney
In my journeys in and around Sydney, I feel it's important to take stock of some of the unique personalities that inhabit Australia's 7th best city
#1 The Surry Hills Band Guy
The pubs and studios in Surry Hills have dried up over the last few years, but the Surry Hills Band Guy pines for the glory days. With testicles asphyxiating in his tight-fitting women’s jeans, he lopes down Crown St, his skin pallid, his cigarettes dirt-cheap. He plays in an indie-psych pop band, but in his heart he craves the penetration of some deep melodic euro house.
#2 The Elizabeth Bay Dog Owner Who Speaks Conversationally To Their Dog
“What did I JUST say Cameron? I can’t believe you’d eat that off the street after I explicitly told you not to. You’re unbelievable sometimes Cameron. Honestly”.
#3 The CBD TGIF Powder Keg
The drudgery of the 9 to 5 takes its toll on many people, and whilst some of us like to sit back and relax with friends or family over a couple of beers on a Friday night, others like to pour Jaegermeister directly into their eyeballs, stumble down George Street, and get more obnoxiously fucked up than a barrel full of weasels in a Spam factory.
#4 The Common Hipster (Inner West Edition)
Over the last few years the word hipster has lost all meaning, and yet somehow everybody knows exactly to whom it refers. The Common Hipster is often confused for the Surry Hills Band Guy, though while they might share a love of obscure Norwegian rockabilly, they differ in the number of artisans it takes to whittle the Hipster’s shaving implements, and how sustainably sourced their pickles are required to be.
#5 The Geezer
An otherwise affable pill-popping leather-skinned scallywag, with a very short fuse when it comes to the topic of whether music made in Manchester between 1989 and 1996 was, and remains, the pinnacle of all human endeavours.
Just agree with him, it’s easier.
Sydney, I love you.
Sydney, Indigo and the benefits of Medication….
Even the head of an intergalactic shirt empire needs a lunch break, and so I like to spend a small portion of my afternoons reading books in the relative calm of an inner-city park in Sydney.
There’s much to be enjoyed in this particular park: there’s the bulldog with horrific breathing problems, there’s the dozen ibis who have developed a collectivist approach to plundering garbage, and of course there’s the man in the bandana with all your favourite homosexual-Jewish-Shane Warne-alien conspiracies (and I mean ALL of them).
It’s time for Mardi Gras in Sydney, which seems to have focused Bandana Man’s ramblings - not into anything cohesive or particularly understandable, but at least there’s a vague theme present.
Usually the “conversation” flows from:
- Bandana Man’s recent arrival to North Sydney in a spaceship,
- His enlistment in Jesus’ Army Of The Apocalypse, and
- His various arrests for knowing too much about the global Jewish conspiracy.
It’s much like a Trump rally, both in tone and crowd attendance.
Anyway, one of his points yesterday concerned “FUCKING INDIGO”, and his opinion that the “global gay cartel” had been working for several decades to remove the colour indigo from the LGBT flag.
To what end, I don’t know – but he was naturally pretty upset.
Curious about this anti-indigo agenda, I looked it up, and lo – since 1979, indigo and turquoise have been replaced by royal blue! Forget chemtrails and the “moon landing” – this goes right to the top!
I for one will be representing Indigo at Mardi Gras. Perhaps Bandana Man was right about one thing: it’s time to Make Indigo Great Again.
And what about Turquoise? Well really, who gives a fuck about turquoise.
I wasn’t always clad in the finest fabrics known to man….
Born into a humble village of goat herders and kipfler potato farmers, my life was a simple and peaceful one.
That was until the day the raiders arrived, raiders who tore into my village with a cold-blooded fury. As my home burned against a blackening sky, and what remained of my family screamed for mercy, I was suddenly struck by a life-changing thought: “Man, these raiders look like shit”.
And it was true.
Bedecked in mauve chinos and shirts with little or no thought given to design or fit, these raiders were the epitome of douche. Of all the unspeakable atrocities committed that day, this was the worst.
From that point on I committed myself to unbending principles of quality and style – looking sharp would be my ultimate revenge. I swore a blood oath that I would create a line of shirts made with the finest cotton, focusing all my energy on fresh designs and excellent service.
The day would soon come when my tormentors would cower before me, uttering the words I had long sought to hear:
“Hey, cool shirt bro – where can I get one?”