This story is definitely not politically correct. It is an only slightly exaggerated story involving a sub-culture that lives in public housing estates in the outer suburbs of Australian capital cities, in this case Sydney. I hasten to add that the people depicted in this story are in no way indicative of all Australians, or even all public housing residents, just this particular sub-culture.
If you're offended by foul language, bigotry, racism, sexism and a whole raft of other isms, stop reading now. If you read this story and feel the need to tell the world that you are offended by it, that's your prerogative, just don't say that I didn't warn you. CM.
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Bogan: Person of a lower socio-economic status, typified by low education and personal development indicators. Appearance: Both Male & Female; Mullet hair-do (Short on top and long back and sides). Usually with a minimum of two front teeth missing, visible tattoos. Attire: Jeans, black, Tee shirt, Heavy metal tour shirt (stolen) Thongs (flip-flops) Habitat, public housing estates in outer suburbs, signified by rusting and stripped motor vehicles on front grass, (it could hardly be called a lawn because visits from a lawn mower are few and far between) and two old and non-matching sofas on front veranda. Language: English with regional patois, usually interspersed with profanities and obscenities. See also Feral and Houso.
Me (Dazza), Bazza and Shazza shared a house on Paradise Road in the San Souci Housing Commission estate in the outer Western suburbs of Sydney. San Souci is French for don't give a shit, which just about sums it up. The government don't give a shit about us. The cops on the other hand, give us shit all the time, hassling us about weed and ice and any other shit they can hassle us about.
When we have to front Centrelink (Social Security) because the fuckers are always trying to cut us off the dole, they call us by our proper names. I'm Daryl Winters, Shazza is me sheila Sharon Stone, and Bazza is Barry Jones, who just lobbed on us one day and never left. He roots Shazza when I'm locked up while the pigs try to find something to pin on me. We got a couple of kids, I'm not sure if I'm their dad or Bazza is, or maybe it's someone else. They say that the definition of confusion is Fathers Day on the San Souci estate. Child Services, the fucks, are all the time trying to take them off us 'cause they reckon that Shazza's not a good mum. What the fuck would they know, they probably don't have any kids of their own. She's a grouse mum, she's always made sure that Bazza and me don't do drugs in front of them, although she doesn't mind us hitting the piss when we have it. Lockie (Lachlan) and Randi (Miranda) have both managed to reach their late teens without spending time in a Detention Centre, which is rare around here, so we must've done okay.
It's getting hard to get any free piss these days, all the local bottlo's (bottle shops) watch us to make sure we don't nick (steal) any. We gotta go a long way to get any free piss these days and the Railway fuckers try to catch us for riding free.
Shazza makes sure that we have food at least once a day. She orders a couple of pizzas and when the delivery fucker knocks on the door she tells him she's got no dough and he can root her for a freebie. By the time he's finished we've eaten the pizzas. She's a good root, and I think the pizza guys look forward to rooting her, they keep coming back.
We had just finished the two party sized meat lovers when some cunt kicked down the front door. It was Johnny Rahuti, the big black Maori cunt from across the road. "What the fuck, can't you knock on the door like a proper cunt?" I yelled at him. You had to yell 'cause he used to be a Roadie for a thrash band and his hearin's shit.
"I did knock, how the fuck did I know that the fucking door would fall off?"
"Bazza, youse was s'posed to fix that fuckin' door, wot 'appened?" I asked him.
"I was rootin' Shazza." He seemed to think that was an okay excuse.
"What the fuck you want now?" I shouted at Johnny.
"No need to fuckin' shout, I can hear, I ain't fuckin' deaf. I need to borrow your wheels, mine fuckin' won't start."
"It didn't sound too flash when you got home last night."
"No fuckin' shit, it was boilin' its fuckin' head off, I think I mighta cooked the fuckin' donk (motor)."
"No fuckin' shit. When you gunna learn that ya can't run cars with a busted fuckin' radiator."
"I didn't know it was fuckin' busted did I?"
"Runnin' up the arse of that truck and havin' water pissin' out all over the road was a dead give-away don't ya reckon?"
"What do I know about cars?"
"Apart from nickin' 'em, not a lot. Why the fuck don't you steal a decent fuckin' car?"
"I was in a fuckin hurry weren't I?"
"Anyway, ya can't have my fucking car, Lockie's taken Randi to work at Maccas. He'll be home soon, d'ya want a beer or something?"
"Got any weed?"
"Nah Mate, we smoked it all last night. Shazza had to work her cunt off, we had an attack of the munchies, and had to get two lots of pizza. I got some more weed comin' in this arvo (afternoon) if you can wait that long."
"I guess I'll knock the top off a stubbie then."
I tossed him a stubbie of Fosters, he looked at it in disgust. "Wot's this, fuckin' Victorian piss, since when've you been drinking this piss?"
"It's all we could get."
"Bullshit, let's 'ave a look in your fridge, I bet you've got some Tooheys stashed in there."
"You can keep you nose out've the fuckin' fridge. Wot I got in there is none of your fuckin' business. It'd be a different matter if you'd kick in for the piss you drink, but nah, you're tighter'n a fish's arsehole. You'll drink wot I gives ya and like it, orright?"
Johnny tipped his head back and poured the beer down his throat, "If I pour it down quick I don't have to taste it." He said, chuckin' the empty in the corner with the other empties.
"Wot you want a car for anyhow?"
"Gotta do a job for this bloke, he's gunna pay me for it."
"Bull fuckin shit, you Maori bastards wouldn't know what work was unless it bit you on the arse."
"Fair dinkum he is. I met him at the pub and he said he was lookin' for a couple of big blokes to help him load a truck with TV's and such, and it's gotta be done tonight."
"While your loadin 'em how's about stickin one in the back of the car. We need a new TV, Bazza got pissed off when the Wanderers (Western Sydney Wanderers soccer team) got beat and chucked a stubbie at the fuckin referee. Fuckin glass and shit everywhere."
"Why don't he get you a new one?"
"Wot with, he's never got any money, if he's not pissing it against the wall, he's bettin' on some useless nag. Talk about a fuckin' loser, the last horse he backed finished tenth in a nine horse race. Now the bookie's after him for money."
The sound of a car engine shredded the air, it was coming fast and could only mean that Lockie was being chased by the cops. I slipped out the back door and picked up a screw driver and spare plates (Rego, license) knowing that he would come flying up the driveway and around the back of the house. If we were quick enough we'd have the plates changed before they get here.
He jumped out with the screwdriver he used for an ignition key in his hand, and began unscrewing the front plates while I did the back. We heard the cops drive past and then a few minutes later come back. When Sergeant Cox strolled around the back of the house I was under the bonnet (hood) listening to the motor. "Going a bit quick weren't you son?" He asked Lockie.
"Wot you talkin about, me and Dad have been here for the past hour tryin to get the fuckin donk to run sweet. It's all right for youse, you got mechanics to tune your heaps, we gotta do our own."
"So that wasn't you speeding down the road a couple of minutes ago?"
"How could it have been? We been workin on this shit heap."
"And you're prepared to swear that you and young Lockie here have been working on this vehicle for the past hour?" He asked me.
"Sure thing, would I lie to you?"
"I won't answer that. If you've been here all afternoon, who was it that I saw dropping your sister at Maccas?" He asked Lockie.
"Couldn't've been me Sarge, for starters I don't got no license, so how could I have dropped her off. It must've been the new guy she's fuckin'."
"Just watch yourself in future, all right?"
Shazza came out the back door. "Coxy, do you and your mate want to come in for a cuppa or a beer, or a root?"
"Jeesus Shazza, don't tempt me. Anyhow my new partner's a sheila."
"So? That'd spice things up a bit, or if she's not into a bit of three-way action she can always watch, and maybe learn a thing or two."
"I think I'll pass on the offer." He took out his note book and wrote down the Rego number. We knew that he was going to use the Rego Tracker in his car to check on it. As soon as he went down the drive we unscrewed the plates and put on another set from the stash we had in the shed.
"It would seem," he said as he came back, "that the plates on this car were reported stolen a month ago. Where did you get them?"
"Wot, these?" I asked as I pointed to the plates. "These are the ones that were on this car when I bought it, I've got the rego transfer papers to prove it." I went to the car, took the papers from the glove box and handed them to him.
He scratched his head for a minute, looked at the rego papers, then at the plates, then at his notebook. "But . . ."
"Wot's up Sarge?" I asked all innocent like.
"These weren't the plates that were on this car a minute ago."
"Are you sure of that?" I asked as I kicked the screwdriver under the car.
"I could have sworn that you had different plates on this heap of crap a minute ago."
"You'd better ease up on the piss Sarge, you're losing your marbles."
Shakin' his head he walked back down the drive. We pissed ourselves laughin' as they drove off. I tossed the screwdriver to Johnny. "Don't forget the teev."
"She'll be sweet, thanks." He climbed in and backed down the drive, knocking over the wheelie bin on the way.
"Fuckin' useless prick, where'd he get his license, in a raffle?"
