Adam and I are battling to raise the funds for a move out of this suburb. We’re sure we can find somewhere which is close to the city, yet doesn’t generate that slightly nagging feeling whenever we pay the rent that in one year we’ve paid enough money to finance several cosmetic surgery operations.

Well… at this rate, breast reduction or liposuction isn’t totally out of the question, but I’m happy to refer to my expanding waistline as ‘roly-poly’ for now.

We’ve been busily buzzing around the city on weekends, perusing the papers and walking around the city, looking at potential apartments. One thing I have observed on our expeditions is that the locals all seem rather friendly. A well-to-do, jumbled bunch which usually lies somewhere between slightly snootish yuppies, and gapingly confused students who’re studying here on a visa.

All of which made me consider the fact that I will probably miss the locale of where we live now. Our local pub always seems to be filled with a good crowd, so when Adam and I went for a drink there on the weekend, I was a little more observant than usual.

After we purchased some beers and settled back into our chairs, I was slapped on the bank drunkenly by a man who was not entirely dissimilar to how Ray Martin would appear if his face was plugged into a giant vacuum.

He opened his mouth and graciously emitted us with Vagranto-Fresh spray as he demanded that I call a taxi.

‘Just stand outside, taxis come past all the time,’ I assured him. He grunted something unintelligible in response, and stumbled outside and proceeded to hail taxis from the gutter.

It was around this time that Adam gripped my arm in wordless terror. An old man of at least seventy had proceed to take off his shirt and singlet, and was now parading around the hotel in an obtusely jiggly fashion. The locals egged him on and cheered loudly, as if nipples which looked like upside down mushrooms were the most buoyantly cheerful thing they’d encountered all week.

Attempting to direct my attention outside the pub, I noticed a couple waiting across the road on the steps of an apartment block. They lovingly smooched and smoothed down each other’s Adidas-clad thighs. Aww, I thought.

Shirtless man had now proceeded to bang on our table, demanding to know if we knew about ‘the googly-booglies’. Staring him hesitantly in the eye, I honestly responded that I had no fucking idea about the fucking googly-booglies.

‘That’s exactly what I MEAN!’ cried the man. ‘They take all these… GOOGLY-BOOGLIES everywhere, and the government doesn’t know what to do!’ He continued his tirade against the googly-booglies over two separate glasses of beer in the corner of the room.

Outside, it appeared that the man hailing down taxis had finally managed to coax a taxi to assist him with his travels. Or maybe not - now that the driver had realised this man had all the balance of Mariah Carey, he’d decided against the potential transaction and had switched on his indicator with intention of rejoining the traffic. This was of immense displeasure to the man, who begun kicking violently at the door and punching the window. A roar of encouragement burst forth from the topless man, who was now wearing a set of braces, which I at least hoped was a start.

The happy couple over the road jumped up with a sudden start as a friend of theirs approached, then looked around nervously as some money was given to the friend, followed by a very suspiciously long handshake. Hmm.

Then, just as the jukebox piped up with a god-awful song (which at first I thought was a new Matchbox 20 country music concept album, but turned out to be Russell Crowe’s shithouse band) - it hit me - this suburb is full of fucking weirdoes. I always thought the crowd in this pub was great because it has a nice interior. I suppose I’d always blocked out the insane people yelling in the street and constant random toppling druggies in the street to create my own personal urban utopia.

I’ll take yuppies and students over that any day.

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