The Bell Tower Times

People You'll Find on Rotto

1. Ms Rottofornia

Rotto is the undisputed premier location for like-whoring on Instagram. Ms Rottofornia will immediately fall into a #blessed trance as she loses control like an American with an automatic selfie machine-gun. Boat shots, beach shots, cocktail shots and of course the mandatory #quokkaselfie, which if she’s being honest isn’t the first little hairy thing she’d had to put her mouth near for a little Insta-fame.

2. The Western Suburbs Elite

The dad sports a long-sleeved Polo with speedos, the wife is technically classed as a flotation device given the amount of “enhancements” she’s had, and the son really knows his way around a “my daddy will sue you” threat. When they aren’t on their boat, they are judging the island peasantry for doing Rotto wrong: having to rent bikes, not owning paddleboards or the ultimate indignation of staying in budget accommodation. You are the gum on his boat shoe, stay out of his way, champ.

3. The Drunken Yob

This lad is easily identified by the yewww’ing coming from the ferry port as he charges onto the island with a carton of piss on his shoulder. He hasn’t bothered to bring a change of clothes so get used to the smell from those piss-stained boardies. He and his dickhead mates intend to make the most of the island by engaging in activities like drinking outside their place, drinking at the beach, drinking at the pub, riding a stolen bike into a tree and finally become public enemy #1 when they kick a Quokka. Oh, and on the ferry home, he will be evacuating body fluids like he has fucking ebola.

4. The Asian Tourist

If they aren’t taking advantage of the new $350 per night glamping tents they are holed up in the lodge. When they venture out, they take the notion of slip, slop, slap to a frighteningly diligent level and dodge the vitamin D like a vampiric lesbian. On their adventures they enjoy pointing at Quokkas, taking photos of anything and marvelling at the Rotto bakery pie, an exotic delicacy that has helped slay the demon of an island hangover for generations of West Aussies.

5. The Cray Pot Raider

Like a SAS Cuntmando, his mission in life is to execute a reconnaissance mission on YOUR cray pots. This wet-suited wanker will risk a spear-gunning, public shaming and the ire of the Department of Fisheries for the chance to make a few bucks off another bloke’s hard work. When he’s not flogging crustaceans, he’s probably taking flowers from roadside memorials, or just grabbing a few tins of baked beans from the Chrissy food drive. The piece of shit.

Fucking Mandurah. A hard-drinking marine environment that offers you a chance to catch crabs in the estuaries or from a Chicken Treat slurry while waiting on your rock dealer who's also your brother. A thriving ecosystem of degenerates who delight in spitting and believe that when it comes to venereal disease, sharing is caring.

Brent is a hairy back, missing link-cunt who occasionally puts in a days work laying bricks. He wears the official uniform of the guy who smokes a crack pipe in public: Fox racing shirt, Unit boardies, no footwear and a Monster snapback. His E-plated VN Commodore is his pride and joy, and the local children know to stay well clear as he suburban swerves his way to Halls Head to purchase alcohol from the only bottlo that doesn’t display his image on the wall of shame. 6210 is proudly tattooed to his neck.

Having recently mated with the female equivalent of a commemorative ashtray, Brent must make his way to the Mandurah Forum to purchase baby formula. A shopping centre so ghastly it makes an Armadale meth lab feel like a McDonalds’ playground. He charges through the car park like he was confronting his cheating ex on an episode of Jerry Springer. He is so busy sizing every bloke up that he forgets to purchase the baby formula. Instead, he scoots around like an irate crab shooting people the “I’ll glass you in the throat” stare. Clearly itching for a fight, he spots a bloke that supports the Freo Dockers. That’ll do he reckons.

Brent roars the battle-cry of the Mandurah derro, “meet me at the farking traino!” The Dockers supporter shows some rare diplomacy, “oi we’ll grab a few pints at Murphys and then smash on in the car park orrright? Ya bloody pelican”. The men bond over stories of headbutting Maori bouncers and contemplate how a crab shell may be fashioned into a functional yewwwpipe. Brent barely wants to cave this blokes skull in as they walk out to the car park. That is until he spots the bloke’s car. “Fucking, Rockingham Holden? I’ll fucking kill ya”. They smash on to the delight of a couple of long-haired louts enjoying their fish and chips.

Despite severe facial lacerations and a concussion, Brent fancies a quick armed robbery at the local Jesters. He could use the extra spending money on some white Arnettes and has been craving a nutty chook pie since his meth wore off about 15 minutes ago. Crime pays when your expectations are low.

They really should just build a wall around Mandurah.

1. Throw a BBQ

The BBQ is Australia’s closest thing to a cultural cuisine and the Straya Day BBQ is the “X-Mas Roast” of BBQs, so don’t fuck it up. No easy feat given you have consumed 8 bush chooks in an inflatable pool since 10:30 am. If it helps, imagine Waleed Aly is standing over you and just one overcooked lamb chop will result in a full-blown monologue and an unceremonious de-tonging#giveyourtongstowaleed.

2. Fashion

Basically, you want to look like Australia chundered all over you while giving you an overly rambunctious deep throating. Popular choices include temporary tatts, green & gold zinc, stubby holders as wristbands and for some culturally confusing reason a sombrero. Girls, remember, your selfie while floating on a giant inflatable thong means nothing unless you are wearing a Straya flag bikini too.

3. Get Stuck at the Sky Show

As a society, we hang on to the idea that we enjoy fireworks. Despite no one particularly liking them that much, thousands will flock to the foreshore to join young families film the display in a state of lacklustre awe. The real fun comes when you want to head home. Watch as decent folk turn into ‘bow-throwing lunatics as they scramble to hail taxis, catch buses, locate their Ubers and scream at their spouses for not hurrying the fuck up. Pandemonium.

4. Get Admonished by a Slacktivist

Don’t fear, the slacktivist will be balls deep into an Invasion Day boycott and there is a possibility you may avoid any interaction by simply not logging onto social media. Wishful thinking. It is inevitable that you will get lectured by some first-year uni student who is totally making a difference by remembering Indigenous people exist for one day of the year and using a totes lit hashtag #changethedate.

5. Go Full Patriot

To every slack-tion there is an equal and opposite meth-action, and in this case, it is the patriots. Fueled by a desire to shove it up lefties cuck-holes, the patriots will have their flags draped as capes and be on patrol for anyone not acting Australian enough. Which in their case, involves a lot of pigmentation based bashings and constant Aussie, Aussie, Aussie chanting just to make sure there is no confusion over what country you’re in moiiiiiite.

Daryl is an unflushed toilet bowl of a man: full of shit and stained with the unpalatable skiddies of one-upmanship.

The Perth Heatwave has sent his toughen-up-princessery into overdrive, and he spends his days atop his air-conditioned throne, obnoxiously decreeing anyone other than himself to be a whining Perth pussy.

Like any good shit-stain, Daryl has lasted the test of time. He has retained a senior role with a mining company despite disconcerting incompetence and penchant for 6 hours of solitaire per day. He begins his morning by maxing out the AC and logging onto the Mecca of morons: Perth Have a Whinge:

“heathwave!? perth office worker can get stufed!! try bein 60ft botom of hole in PILBARA HEAT ! thats 45 ya sooks!! then tell me bout heatwave lol… city of bloody soft girls, pull ya bloody skirts up ha ha ha… lol”

Oooo yeh. The only hole Daryl has been in lately is his depressing rut of a marriage with a wife who has suddenly become allergic to sucking dick. Nevertheless, Daryl’s terry-toughcuntery has him feeling as cool as the thermometer reading in his donga. It isn’t long before another i-Stauncher decides to contribute:

“ken oath!! this lot wuldnt no real heat, hahahHA weak priks ay mate”.

Daryl has no time to gently caress the balls of king dickmanship and decides to go full steam ahead:

“bloody weak mate.. tlkin bout global heating.. lol.. jus somthin office poofs say to justofy their WHINING. yous wanna tell me it getting hotter?!?.. back in 1993 i workd for 3 weeks straight out bush… mercury toppin 55 every day and 43 at night!! non of this “lunch break” shit either… 17 hour days… world not getting hotter, people getting softer lol”.

Ah yes, the blithering rambling of a washed up drunk. Irrefutable proof that global warming is a farce and the key to survival lies in our ability to simply “suck it up” and “have a glass of concrete (lol)”.

After a long day of unabashed fibbing, Daryl walks into the wet mess to see his workmates sweating like R Kelly during a police interview. The air conditioner is broken, and the temperature is reaching 42 degrees inside the hall.

After 5 beers, Daryl is doing his best impersonation of a recently birthed Hippopotamus. His moist bulk is sweating like a bad cut of cheese, and the shameful drippage is pooling on the table in front of him.

Halfway through loud-mouthing about what he reckons Western Power should be doing, Daryl feels faint. His eyes begin to flutter, and he passes out like he drunk the punch at Bill Cosby’s sleepover party.

The mighty heat-warrior is carted off to the first aid room to seek treatment for the gruelling 45 minutes he spent sitting on his fuckin arse.

First things first buddy, Chris’ taste in music is pedigree, and yours is supermarket brand chum. He could’ve been in Tame Impala if he kept up his lessons, and you probably think King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard is a Harry Potter book, fucking pleb.

See when Chris posts his top 10 predictions on social media he isn’t posting who WILL win, even though he totally knows, rather he is posting who SHOULD win. It's a goddamn service to humanity, move over Schindler, this list is a beacon of hope.

Chris is an absolute elite amongst people who rely on a single radio station to inform their musical taste, so he takes it upon himself to let others know why their lists are the equivalent of a Friday afternoon Buzzfeed listicle written by a half-drunk intern,

“Kendrick? Drake?? OMG man did you write your list in crayon ha ha, no chance champ, oh and San Cisco lel, 2018 called they want their prediction back man ha ha”

Woah nelly, you are going to need an entire bottle of White King to disinfect your comments section after that outbreak of opinionated golden Staphylo-cuntus.

True to form, Chris spends the remainder of his day slicing and dicing his friend’s predictions like a Teppanyaki treble-clef-chef on crack. He is so incensed by the ignorance he decides he will run a full masterclass is musical taste. He posts the full 100. Fucks sake.

Now, the Hottest 100 is extra special for Chris these days. Not only does Chris get to ram his musical opinions past your tonsils but he also gets a second opportunity to pretend he is an Indigenous activist. Firstly by using the #changethedate hashtag on the 26th and, secondly by using it again on the 27th, when he inevitably informs everyone why the results of the poll were totally wrong.

Of course, after the 27th you won’t hear much from Chris about the plight of our nation’s first people, but unfortunately, you will probably keep hearing about why your taste in music is a steaming pile of shit.

Pierre trained as a chef but had bigger ambitions. Now he doesn’t like to throw around words like “doctor” or “medical advice” partly because food is so much more than that, but mostly because certain regulatory bodies have threatened to prosecute the activation right out of his almonds if he does.

Nevertheless, he decides to leave the world of normal cookery and pursue a new identity as an unqualified dietician. Half his day is spent smearing the shit coming out of Pete Evans’ mouth on the underpants on social media, the other half is spent at his “wellness space” (wanker’s cafe) in an inner-city Perth suburb.

A mother and her child come in for a cold drip soy, de-carbonated turmeric latte and a paleo banana bread that would really swing Tarzan’s vine. Pierre promises that after just one bite you will Neander-fall in love, and also (probably) experience a 50% cleanse of saturated leukemiods.

All is well in the cafe until she pops a tiddy and starts feeding her baby human milk. A waitress runs to the back and interrupts Pierre as he is giving himself a soy milk enema, “Pierre we have a situation!”

Pierre confronts the woman, “ma'am, we do not permit breastfeeding in this establishment”. The woman sees reds, “can't handle the sight of a woman’s breast buddy?” Pierre composes himself, “no, I can’t handle seeing a child slowly die of malnourishment”.

The woman is shocked, but nothing will prepare her for Pierre’s encore as he rips open his chef whites to reveal a prosthetic udder strapped to his chest filled with the finest Albian goat’s bone broth, “this will also cure… um, help the little fellers little staph infection there”. Hard to argue there. The woman is converted.

Satisfied at having made the world just a little bit dumber, he takes a stroll and notices a tourist applying sunscreen. Not on his watch, he slaps the sunscreen out of her hand and looks her in the eyes, “let me ask you a question, did the cave people have sunscreen?”

Before she can work out what the fuck this cunt has been smoking, he pulls out a bottle of thrice galvanized linseed oil, “this will offer 10 times the protection of SPF 50… under muffled breath, I think”. Makes sense to her. Sold.

Back at the “wellness space” a woman approaches Pierre crying, “the government is bullying us into vaccinating our kids”. Clearly, her sense of entitlement to welfare outweighs her belief that vaccines destroy lives. Nevertheless, Pierre holds her tight, “I have just the thing”.

He returns with alkalised water and vinegar smoothie with the husk of a freshly milked Zucchini, “vaccine toxins can’t exist in an alkaline environment, this will reverse the harm of vaccines, and you will continue to receive your welfare payments”.

He goes home to enjoy the only real benefit of his claims, the cold hard cash from the fuckwitted masses.

Kyle used to Vespa around Mount Lawley, before that he was into the emo scene, and before, that he took his shirt off at festivals and shelved pingas like he was working nightfill... you get the picture.

That was until he picked up a copy of Men’s Health before a flight to Melbourne to take a barista course. What he read shocked him. Apparently, gluten is a shitcunt.

He stared at his ham & cheese sanga and the plane filled with the tension of an Indian taxi driver asking a shirtless patriot to pay up front on ‘Straya Day. He could no longer tolerate it. In fact, his whole life had to change.

He grew his hair out, discontinued beard maintenance and dressed like an eat, love, pray-cunt that had a spiritual awakening after a 3 day Ubud yoga retreat. Most importantly, he took up residence in South Fremantle.

Gluten intolerance was merely a gateway drug to harder dietary addictions. Lactose was next on his list, and much like an internet atheist with a Lynx addiction, he will only add the “milk” of things that have never been near an actual titty.

He hops on his fixie and rides down to the South Freo Sunset markets to mingle with the barefooted flock of organic trending sheep.

While harvesting some kale, he overhears an argument about the controversial Roe 8 project being lead by a passionate hippie that would rather be bound to an old growth tree than the horrors of an employment contract.

Well, so it happens, Kyle has read a few paragraphs of a Newscorp article himself. Like a real poser, he enters the argument with the intensity of blue-balled Shannon Noll refusing to pay for his lap dance because Guy Sebastian’s “Angels Brought Me Here” started playing just before he had a chance to turn his jeans into a milk spill at the local corner shop.

Not posing you say? Well, not only did he kinda read that Newscorp article but he also hashtagged the shit out of the issue on a Freo Facebook group. Who needs political movers & shakers when you have advocates like Kyle ay?

Next stop, Percy Flint to sit out the front with his Macbook and work on his organic food blog. While typing about various grains, he notices how trendalicious the #vegetarian hashtag is. Clearly, he isn’t going hard enough. Is he even South Freo at all?

So he looks over at a guy devouring some pork belly and cringes, “you omnivores make me sick, do you think that pig wanted to die mahn?”

If only #dontbeafuckedcunt started trending

In Australia, a Golden Retriever has the same social standing as an affluent white kid and after completing 3 months of “adulting” Grace takes the plunge and becomes a “fur-mother”.

All the warning signs were there. Her Instagram became a cringey shrine to her “fur babies” and she began losing the battle over reality as she started raising the pups as if they were literally human.

A short-lived relationship went down in flames after the bloke questioned whether two large dogs really needed to sleep on the bed. “Oh my god, would you make your children sleep outside or in the laundry?” No Grace, but he probably wouldn’t fuck in front of them either.

Like DMX at a bail hearing Grace constantly wondered where her dogs were at. She couldn’t even enjoy her quarter strength soy kombuchacino without pining over her hounds, “aw it breaks my heart thinking about my widdle baby doggos at home awone”.

Get a grip woman, they are enjoying an all you can lick ball buffet in between leisurely snoozes and not being forced to wear t-shirts for her Instagram. They’re cool Grace. They’re dogs. Nevertheless, Grace never wants to go through that kind of separation anxiety again.

If it was good for the goose, it was good for the gander and Grace started bringing her two dogs everywhere. No one minded down at South Freo cafes but shit got pretty hectic when an inner-city bar that told her dogs were not permitted.

The manager explained that while he too loved dogs, there was a time and a place for them and a busy bar that served food wasn’t ideal. Again, like DMX, Grace was about to lose her mind up in here and began rambling psychotically about equal opportunity and discrimination. They’re dogs, Grace, for fuck's sake.

After a second Friday arvo hot spot turned her away she cried uncontrollably while sharing a falafel with her fur babies. Bite for bite. Her friends tried to stem the meltdown by suggesting she drop her dogs back home and come out. Not fucking likely, champo.

Instead, she spends her evening typing in pure caps locked crazy about “justice for her pups”. She wants the bar managers heads on spikes, repeals to the Discrimination Act and an end to the inter-species Apartheid hell she had just endured.

Her dogs ride at the front of the bus bitch. Oh yeh, that “incident”, watch out Transperth because once again, like DMX, Grace gone give it to ya.

Deklyn is a simple man, he likes dirt bikes, cones and paying his sister’s mates for gobbies down by Lesmurdie Falls. Modern fashion angers him, so he sticks to the basics: Fox Racing shirt, Metal Mulisha hoodie, Rusty jeans and a pair of Globe moon boots that are holding on for dear life.

Truth be told, his underwear game is also pretty fucked, as he never saw a need to evolve past the pre-cummy sheen of a pair of silk boxers. To top it off, he sports the official goatee of the reckless furniture removalist who most definitely looks through your shit.

Morning breaks and Deklyn rolls out of his fitted-sheetless bed. He takes a dribbly swig of the remains of last night's Wild Turkey can in a desperate bid to rid his mouth from the taste of the Pickering Brook slurry he rooted. In addition to the myriad of STD’s brewing inside of him, he feels rougher than Kim Duthie after a night in Ricky Nixon’s sleaze filled waterbed.

No stranger to life-threatening hangovers, Deklyn has the remedy. He shuffles his hobbit-feet towards his laundry that has a permanent bucket bong set up. He sucks down a cone and proceeds to serenade his household with the song of his people: donkey-coughing with elements of spluttering and cursing. Feeling stoned as a woman trying to vote in Saudi Arabia, he goes about the business of cooking up some breakfast: a handful of his youngest brother’s dexies washed down with a fresh can of Beam Devil’s Cut.

He jumps on his 250cc Atomik Fury and catches up with his mates for a session in the backcountry. The smell of petrol mixes with the thick green haze that the boys spend their lives in. Being men of few words, the banter is slower than a 56K dial-up porn sesh. Nevertheless, Deklyn has something to contribute, “me old boy called; apparently, a girl is willing to put out down at the pub, reckon I’ll check that out ay”.

Deklyn liberally douses himself in Lynx Africa and chooses to be willfully ignorant of that fact it has not masked his pig-hunters body odour. He walks into the High Wycombe Tav while rolling a cigarette and spots his dad slumped at the bar. “Where these sluzzas dad?” His dad mumbles out incoherencies like a piss-stained cobber in the depths of a booze bus. He then points at the unimpressed bar-chick, “bahh, son, this ones up for it”. Deklyn turns his bloodshot eyes to the young lass behind the bar, “yeh? This true?”

Unwilling to participate in an episode of Family Feud - Sexual Harassment Edition, the young girl politely requests Deklyn remove his inebriated father from the bar. The reasonable request causes the men to share a touching bonding moment, as they chuck pint glasses against walls and bust into enraged outbursts about being the kings of Kalamunda or some shit.

Outside the bar, Deklyn suggests the pair head to his dad's place for a few drinks, “aw shit son, the old lady kicked me out, I’m sleeping in a swag in a hole I done dug”. Deklyn fails to comprehend the problem, “yeh orright, can we drink in the hole?”. His dad grins, “sure, boy, would love to have ya”.

Whether it’s your sister’s mate or your dad’s swag, home is where the hole is.

1. Emotions run high

Get ready to powerslide through the full spectrum of emotions on the instability rainbow. See, Mario Kart was designed to bring us together, however, all it did was help up release the monster inside. Sure, you might not think you’re the type to smash a controller through a glass table, but try getting blue-shelled moments before crossing the finishing line. Where is your god, then?

2. There is always someone who thinks they are hot shit

How’s the head on this operator? Always swanning into a race with the confidence of an old mate reading the racing form at the TAB. Deep down everyone knows the source of this confidence isn’t some natural aptitude, but rather a mixture of a youth spent underemployed and sucking on a bong like it was paying him to.

3. You have to accept that mediocrity is rewarded

You are conditioned in life to believe that the strong survive. So why the fuck does the biggest fucking doughnut in your group keep getting all the dardy shit in the mystery boxes? Why can’t the game just let him wither and die in 12th place, the way nature intended? Who knows, but if you can’t reconcile this harsh truth, your anger will consume you.

4. Your final placement is a direct reflection on your life

Finishing 4th amongst your peers will almost certainly throw you into the grips of a particularly nasty existential crisis. If you couldn’t hit those boosts at the starting line? Well, how are you going to charge into 2019? Missed every shortcut? Well get used to taking the long way through life you total spud. 15 minutes ago, Mario Kart is one thing you would’ve said you were good at, now you are just another stinking pile of cow shit on Moo Moo Farm.

We've all been there, holidays are over and you board the train to work. A sense of communal dread makes it feel less like a carriage and more like a boat en route to the shores of Normandy. Like Tony Abbott at a female standup comedy festival, you sit at your desk in bemused silence, just counting down the minutes until you can leave, but it doesn't have to be this way.

1. Check Your Work Clothes Fit - odds are you have probably lost the battle against the holiday-ham and daily frothies. So not only are you irritated that you are back at work, but you look like 100kgs of potatoes in a 50kg sack. A quick shop the days preceding your return can help alleviate this pain until you can take up that gym membership you keep promising yourself.

2. Anticipate the Ghost Town - if you return to work on the 2nd of January be prepared to see your beloved city revert back to how it was in 1975. There are about 3 cafes open and the eerie silence of the streets makes you feel like you've woken up in the middle of dental awareness week in London. So maybe bring some lunch with you, or one day, be forced to tell your children of the time you walked 4km in the blistering heat for a shit BLT roll.

3. Don't Hate, Delegate - your email inbox is probably looking like a giant pile of manure, so heap as much of that shit as possible onto the junior staff and anyone still enjoying their holiday break. Not only will this lower your own sense of panic but you should find a perverse pleasure in knowing that when Mr "I'll be back on the 8th" finally rocks up, he will be reaching for the defibrillator.

4. When the Cats Away - odds are your boss has taken the entire of January off. So you can either sit in a stew of discontent and marinade yourself with jealousy, or you can use this period of serenity to your advantage. Treat yourself to a few extra long lunches, enjoy the lack of pointless schlong-swinging meetings and most importantly leave work earlier than a tradies alarm clock.

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People You'll Find on Rotto

The Human Zoo - Mr Mandurah

A Guide to Australia Day

The Human Zoo - Mr Perth Heat Wave

The Human Zoo - Mr Triple J's Hottest 100

The Human Zoo - Mr Food is Medicine

The Human Zoo - Mr South Freo

The Human Zoo - Ms "Fur Babies"

The Human Zoo - Mr Kalamunda

The BTT's Guide to Mario Kart

Surviving Work After Your Holiday Break

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