Chelsea sucks so badly at going down South that she could be mistaken for a blind-drunk virgin navigating the perils of oral pleasuring with a mouth full of braces.
She gathers a group of girls that she refers to as her favs. Now, it’s important to note that her favs spend about 50% of their time bitching about Chelsea in a secret group chat. However, since she has the keys to daddy’s Yallingup beach house she suddenly looks “so fucking hot” in that every-bitch floppy hat.
They load the Getz and Chelsea makes her way down Forrest Highway. Her driving is what you might call, dickheadedly frustrating.
She sticks in the right lane and only merges rapidly into the left so the girls can try to pronounce the Mandjoogoordap Drive sign and laugh like a couch jumping Tom Cruise.
Chelsea finally exits the freeway after copping more fingers than Buddy Franklin’s 2013 Tinder matches. She pulls into Yallingup and tries to avoid eye contact with the caravan park plebs. How unsavoury.
Instead of taking in the beauty of WA’s south west, the girls spend their Thursday afternoon getting ready because they want to make all the other hoes at the bar look like homeless cock-for-cashlettes.
After a share plate and cocktail Instagram photoshoot, the girls decide to really slum it and pop into Settlers to see if any surfers have stuck around from the Masters to swim in a different ocean of wetness.
Chelsea is 7 “Expresso Martinis” deep and in a case of mistaken bald-entity thinks a local slaphead is Kelly Slater. Lucky for Chelsea's dignity, the slater look-a-like has seen more pissed up gold-diggers than the Kalgoorlie Cup and swerves her advances.
In the absence of some shaka-cock, the girls head home to get a nights rest before the wine tour the next day.
While waiting for the tour bus they get a neighbour to take a photo of them posing: “Yasssss grape day with ma favs #squadgoals #wine #blessed#yallingup #douth #cultured #easter #whitegirld”
One may ask what the difference between a stretch hummer full of Rivervale slurries and a tour bus full of Claremont queens is in regards to a wine tour? Simple really, it boils down to whether the Chanel bag covered in spew is authentic or not.
She settles for a Taj Burrows lookalike and his mate in the toilet of Colonial and comes out dripping like a newly birthed calf.
Before they leave Yallingup they need to tick one more box on the basic bish list: paddle board yoga. They head down to Meelup beach the following day, however, karma strikes as the vineyards take their revenge for her popping a squat the previous day.
While saluting the sun, she chunders more surfer DNA into the water than you’d find in a Margaret River single mother’s kid.
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