CLANCY OVERELL | Editor | CONTACT
An enlightened progressive urban male has today remembered what it’s like to just not give a fuck and let the good times roll.
After 5 years living in a cosmopolitan French Quarter terrace house, Branxton Coightley (28) has returned home for a family dinner deep within the sprawling middle class suburbs of Betoota Heights.
Branxton’s inner-city-leftie rebrand has been gradual, and easily hidden in moments like this – as it’s just not that radical too see a septum piercing in the suburbs anymore.
His linen shoal and male jewellery is also not much of a shock anymore – in fact, his decision to not have a sleeve tattoo makes him look like one of the more conservative blokes in the mortgage belt.
But it is undeniable that he is the only member of his family who knows what the Uluru Statement is.
It’s also not lost on his family that Branxton goes by ‘Benji’ in the city, in a vain effort to disassociate himself from his townie upbringing.
His deep resentment towards what he perceives to be a cruel society made up of bigoted bogans who uphold a patriarchal and colonial construct that funds war and environmental vandalism is also something that worries his parents, although their only real concern is that maybe he spends too much time anxiously looking at his Twitter feed late at night.
It’s a tormenting existence, following every fucking news story that ever makes it into the culture war-ravaging Australian newspapers. Attending every rally he sees on Instagram. Donating to every online fundraiser he sees on Twitter. And loudly correcting every single person that misgenders Sam Smith.
However, deep within the scary bog of climate anxiety and language tip toeing, the cashed up bogan smothered inside him limps on.
That’s why tonight was so special. ‘Benji’ went to Hogsbreath with his 5 adult sisters and parents.
And it was awesome.
“Curly fries haha fuck yeah” he says, without even thinking.
The lights are bright, the menus are plastic, the waitress is saying youse. Benji is, for one moment, able to be Branxton again.
He lets down his guard and pats his old man on the back, as he makes the active decision to not berate his parents for accidentally voting Liberal in the upper house 12 months ago.
“Fuck I might have a bit of Bundy in my tumbler. If you lot don’t mind” says Branxton.
His family all laugh in unison. He’s back.
“We don’t care Branx” says his sister.
“We don’t give a shit!”
He smiles. Maybe it’s time to delete Twitter. This is THE life.
“I could do with a bit more Hoggies” says Branxton, son of Brendan.
And it’s true.