Unbeknownst to the bogan, there exists an entire galaxy of music outside of Commercial Radio and Ministry of Sound compilations. Hunched in its colony of rubbish, it does not wish to actually explore any of it for fear of finding something that falls outside of its wafer thin comfort zone. This generally serves the bogan well, as it rarely ventures from locations it is extremely familiar with, except perhaps to attend the odd Indie Rock gig to participate in a spot of chorus chanting and hipster bashing. Then one boozy evening, it will accidentally find itself at an establishment that is truly horrifying. It does not recognise any of the music being played. Not even the choruses. The bogan is livid. Outrage coursing through its veins, it seeks to remedy the situation the only way it knows how. By repeatedly bellowing unsolicited requests to play ‘California Gurls‘. Or that sick David Guetta remix.
A true battler, the bogan never gives up. If anything, being comprehensively dismissed only means it has to try harder. Anthony Robbins once told it that. After all, everything leading up to this moment has suggested it should not be there, like Asian involvement in the residential property market. But one of its mates told it to “bloody drink a giant cup of harden the fuck up”, so it persisted.
First, there was NO velvet rope behind which it could uneasily shuffle for 20-30 minutes, occasionally craning its vascular neck past the entrance to scan for celebrities or hot Asian chicks. Then, upon free entry, and thoroughly confused, notices that it does not recognise some of the beers on tap and there is not one person sporting an Ed Hardy t-shirt or penguin-slaughtering amounts of hair product. Now, nervous and scared, it hastily proceeds to the bar and orders two Jager bombs and a schooner of Beck’s. It then briefly forgets about its schizophrenic state and follows a hot chick onto the dance floor, only to find her singing verbatim to a song it has no idea about. It briefly ponders thrusting its mobile phone at the DJ to display its illuminated request for the ninth time, but then realises that it’s probably in a gay club anyway and lunges for the exit. On the way home from the pub club hybrid that it eventually ended up at, it demands that the taxi driver changes the radio station to “something awesome”. Five minutes later, the thudding sound of The Black Eyed Peas is punctuated by the rhythmic audio of the bogan vomiting on the back seat.