Each winter, the bogan stares balefully out of its window, through the sleeting rain, and dreams of being maxtreme. The sun has gone, and the bogan can no longer visit the beach once a month, wander around shirtless and pretend to know how to surf. Its fantasies of warm-weather maxtremity dashed for four months, it has been reduced to a blithering mess of sporting brand-free misery.
Then, sometime around mid-June, the bogan is watching breakfast TV. Glumly shovelling Nutri-Grain into its mouth, it notices something different. After the obligatory dwarf weather segment, the robot host cuts to a new character, one the bogan vaguely remembers, swathed in brightly-coloured Michelin tyres, and its muffled voice speaks into a microphone about ‘crisp powder’, ‘lifts operating’ and ‘black runs’. Setting aside its iron man food, it pays attention to this human marshmallow. And it comes to a realisation; it has found winter nirvana. Australia has snow. And snow people are exactly like beach people, but with snow. The bogan immediately buys a snowboard. And not just any snowboard…a snowboard that can achieve maximum altitude. A snowboard that will get it up to X-Games standards. After all, if that 16 year old kid at the Winter Olympics do it with a broken hand, surely the bogan can do it with its broken grip on reality.
Upon arrival at the lodge, the bogan will automatically adopt the local vernacular in spectacularly unconvincing fashion. It will speak of ‘hitting the slopes’, ‘carving it up’ and refer tangentially to ‘whistler’ as a snowboarding manoeuvre. It will troll around the lodge, keeping one eye peeled, as it has always dreamed of hunting the extremely rare, highly seasonal, arctic cougar. It will be happy, as this entire exercise has offered in an opportunity to acquire an array of garish, brightly coloured, heavily branded specialty clothing, without actually having to go outside and get cold and/or wet.
Emerging groggily onto the slopes the next morning, the bogan decides it should put its shiny new equipment into practice. Naturally, upon hearing that ‘black run’ means the most maxtreme, the bogan decides to enact its newly remixed winter dreams on the crisp powder. Lessons are for pussies without natural talent. Thirty minutes in, the bogan decides that the inability to snowboard is actually called ‘freestyle’, and tells it to anyone who will listen henceforth.
Come summer, the bogan will look gaily out of its window at the bright sunshine, and glance fleetingly, scornfully at the hot-pink snowboard in the corner, before heading out and buying a surfboard. And not just any surfboard…