Ten Things That Have Pissed Rupert Off Over The Last Ten YearsGiven that The Beast is celebrating its tenth birthday, I thought it would be a prime opportunity to compose a list, because everyone loves lists these days, right? In typical negative wanker fashion, I’ve composed my list of ten things that have pissed me off around the Eastern Suburbs in the last ten years. I should note that this list is non-exhaustive and I could have easily gone to town and listed twenty things…
While I should stress once again that targeted terrorist attacks towards parking rangers are simply not on and should not be joked about (particularly in the current climate), the mere mention of these fluorescent vested day-ruiners does tend to cloud my mind with dark thoughts. I should move on before I write something I regret (again).
Dog owners are quickly creeping up towards parking rangers on my hate list. In fact, I’d argue that stepping in the faecal waste of Fido is actually worse than getting a parking fine. At least with a parking fine you just pay it and forget, while cleaning the shit off your shiny new shoes will be etched in your memory for weeks.
What is it with weekend drivers? I know that it is difficult to find a parking space if you haven’t shelled out $240,000 for a lock-up garage at Bondi like I did a few years ago (looks who’s laughing now), but please just put your bloody indicator on and let me pass rather than plodding along at five kilometres per hour and breaking intermittently at every driveway you’ve mistaken for a parking space. Wasn’t the opening of Wet N’ Wild meant to reduce the number of Westies making their way to the east on the weekends?
It’s not just their driving. On the weekends and public holidays they turn Bondi Road into a parking lot before piling out of their flashy leased hot rods and turning our sands into something resembling a camping ground. Barbecues, fluorescent beach shades, and bad haircuts, tattoos and attitudes abound as the mob from the other side of Anzac Parade move in. Did someone say ‘boom gate’?
The Rising Price Of Everything
I may be rich, but I got that because I am frugal (and because I have a wealthy father). While I don’t really want for anything, and though there is little I can’t afford, I still feel like I am paying overs for everything here in the Eastern Suburbs and that really gets my goat. I think I might have go back to Bali for a few months.
Not the comprehensive feminine waxing regime (I’ve got no qualms with that), but the aggressive South Americans I often seem to encounter in the surf while peacefully riding my stand-up paddleboard. Out of the water, I quite like their vibe, but in the brine I’d be happier if they were on the menu of the man in the grey suit.
Sorry Jimmy Niggles. While I like what you’re doing to prevent melanoma, beards have just become so blasé. Every second idiot seems to be sporting one. Yes, yours is bloody impressive and you seem like a top bloke, but generally speaking, beards are little more than a front to make people with limited charisma appear interesting. 2015 is the year of the razor.
I’m sick and tired of reading the stories that so often fill pages in this magazine about the ridiculously oversized development proposals that are so often put forward in the Eastern Suburbs by greedy property moguls. I hope all the fat cats go belly-up and our beautiful beaches remain as they are. There are way too many rich wankers living here as it is, and that’s coming from one of their own.
I know that they’re volunteering their time to keep swimmers safe, but they’re just so annoying in their silly little red and yellow caps as they buzz about in their inflatable rescue boats contaminating the fresh Bondi air with petrol fumes and incessant noise. To be honest, if a few of the Westies drowned, would it really be the end of the world? The ocean isn’t for everyone, after all.
Even if there was just one Portugues man o’war in the entire ocean, it would find its way on to one of my extremities. Be gone with you evil siphonophores. You are worse than the Brazzos that speak your native tongue.