It was a simpler time. Back in the good old days, it was enough for the bogan to scuttle onto a cheap flight to Bali or Thailand, get its hair braided, drink Bintang or Chang, and become exceptionally sunburnt. Which is not to say that the bogan can’t still enjoy those things. Instagram now groans under the weight of filtered photos of new tattoos and scooter accidents.
But that ubiquity has become problematic for the bogan. With everyone crashing scooters and “totes tripping balls” on watered down magic mushroom shakes, the bogan no longer feels like the special petal that it so craves being. As it stood in the Jetstar cattle pen one day, the bogan’s beady eyes spotted a velvet rope far up a hallway. The bogan knew that it was on the wrong side of the velvet rope, and was displeased.
The door behind the rope lacked maxtreme signage, but rumours persisted that it was a portal to a world of unlimited booze, “happy ending” massages, and celebrities. The bogan wanted in. Into the world of special gold tags on luggage, exclusive lounges, and seats behind that super VIP curtain at the front of the plane. Acting on another rumour, the bogan marched up to the customer service counter and declared that it wished to receive a free upgrade to the business class lounge, and a business class seat on the plane.
The request was not granted.
The bogan’s promised land, which resembles a hybrid of an RSL and a Harvey Norman
The bogan returned to the clammy huddle inside its holding pen, vowing vengeance on a world that didn’t understand the bogan’s VIP requirements. Revenge came quickly, with Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram being informed that Qantas Club is a pack of cunts. The bogan’s crimson rage was as intense as it was fleeting. It mutated into a beige paste of shame and unrequited longing, for the bogan wanted desperately to be behind that velvet rope. $485 later, the bogan became Qantas Club’s newest member, and hurriedly deleted its cunt tweets.
The lounge itself was pleasant, though altogether too sedate for such a glorious velvet rope triumph. The bogan, normally swift to complain about a lack of maxtremity, seemed strangely unbothered. It set itself up on a couch, and held aloft its Qantas Club card, along with a glass of 12 year old whisky with coke. Then a selfie. And another selfie. A third selfie. Then 10 minutes searching for an Instagram filter named “$wag”. All of its friends were commanded to be totes jelly of the amazing lounge. The $485 of value thus secured, the bogan waited for its plane.
Astonishingly, the cabin crew led the bogan to the economy seat specified on its ticket. “I’m a fucking Qantas Club member; I demand to see your boss!”
The request was not granted.
The bogan gulped from its massive can, and contemplated the catch 22 irony of its plight. Its job as an Executive Account Coordinator Manager Consultant Specialist did not pay well enough for the bogan to afford the 400% price premium of sitting at the front of the plane, yet the real managers at the company sometimes got to fly business class for free.
To ward off these thoughts, the bogan placed its Qantas Club card on the fold-out tray table, and commenced searching for a camera angle that gave the illusion of expansive space. It was time to gloat to social media about its free business class seat upgrade.
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