Mr Polo in the City

Bradford’s (real name Bradley) Chinos are so tight that Brazzers tried to contact them for an exclusive porn shoot. To complete the M.J Bale trust fund look he adorns himself with a blue blazer and brown loafers.

Although he looks like the sort of prick that would hit & run you in the Claremont Quarter car park and then later sue you for the damage, he is in fact of moderate means. The mundane depths to which his bank account dives is grotesque to this polo crowd. His aura of affluence must be protected at all costs.

Bradford jumps into his 2007 Hyundai Getz and drives to the Wilsons’ car park at the Old Swan Brewery. Why does he park 3.7km away from Langley Park? To minimise the chances of a Polo socialite spotting his low socio-economic whip.

Bradford burns straight down to the basement level and activates full Jason Bourne mode. He sinks into his chair and checks all available mirrors to ensure the coast is clear. He crouch-power walks towards the stairs. There is an unacceptable albeit small risk that a fellow Polo socialite will be in the lift. So he legs it up the stairs. He exits the car park without being spotted and flags a taxi. Smooth Bradford, smooth.

He has purchased the Somersby Polo Lounge ticket for $95. He would’ve loved to be in the one of the more exclusive Marquees but he spent a fortune on his get up and had to save some money so he could parade around with a bottle of the second cheapest Champagne.

He looks around Langley Park, the event reeks of the always unimpressive pong of “perthonality”. For every Adam Gilchrist there is at least 5 “reality TV stars” who would push their own mother down the stairs for a guest hosting spot on Getaway.

The atmosphere is seemingly pleasant yet has an overwhelming aura of resentment that could only be likened to the Rhinehart family Christmas after the children deny Gina the gravy pot until she signs over the trust fund.

Each well dressed socialite stares into the wallet of the next and wonders to themselves, “am I richer than that pleb?” Unfortunately for Bradford, none of the WAG-wannabe babes feel he is worth an Instagram selfie with.

Events like these are like a giant game of snakes and ladders. For example, a photo with Basil Zempilas is a social ladder which one can ascend status. However Bradford is the snake, and a photo with him will see you slithering around with the other bottom feeders.  

Bradford tries to network and talk turkey with Perth’s elite. He manages to score an invite to the Cottesloe Golf Club the following weekend. He is now riddled by anxiety: he can blow his next pay on the St Andrew’s look, but the 3km walk from his Hyundai Getz to the golf club is going to be nothing short of murder.

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