The horrifically remote location of Perth gives rise to a sense of ennui when considering its relevance to the modern world, that ennui is not tempered by pathos due to the proximity of Fremantle, a place where the primary attraction is, ironically, a prison.
Perth’s Central Business District is small and underdeveloped for the size of its population and an uninteresting place to visit, with lack of visual appeal and underwhelming architecture. The recent efforts to develop the waterfront areas has not delivered the desired improvements.
Perth supporter group “The Shed” have a set of chants so dated that linguists and anthropologists from around the world descend upon their home matches to study this otherwise extinct language being spoken decades after it died out.
They also persistently fat-shame opposing goal keepers which demonstrates a lack of awareness about how their judgments may be received and is not in keeping with today’s societal norms.
I noted with amusement that a member of “The Shed” had attempted to add some festivity to the semi-final by donning the makeup of Kiss member Paul Stanley, much like the repertoire of “The Shed”, the music of Kiss is considered passe and mired in 70’s sentiments. Sadly this attempt to replicate Mr Stanley’s striking stage makeup failed, as the individual painted the star over the incorrect eye, most likely due to the previously mentioned unfamiliarity with mirrors.
What’s with all this polite shit? Fuck them. Fuck Glory and all their “proud history”, founded in 1996 bullshit, as though their Notts Country or fucking Sheffield Wednesday or some historic, “we’re better than you” snobby bullshit, when in reality they were one of the only NSL clubs who managed to somehow not shit the bed.
Fuck their fans, caught in some backwater timewarp. Relics of the past. Like those Amazonian tribesmen they still stumble over who haven’t invented fire yet and shoot arrows at helicopters and quite rightly kill dumbfuck Christian missionaries who try to save them. Cocksuckers who still wear pork pie hats and giggle like schoolgirls over their “you’re shit… ahh” goalie baiting and won’t change it because it’s “Shed culture”. Shed culture? What a fucking oxymoron that is. Well I suppose if your only contact with the outside world is a bush telegraph across the fucking Nullabor, then that’s the “culture” you get.
Fuck that dreary backwater of a country town, built on sand, where not a single bloody thing of note has happened since Alan Bond messed around on yacht about a century ago. Perth has become a petrie dish experiment in what happens when humans are isolated from the rest of the civilised world. Obviously the end result is inbred parochiality and a sort of crazed sun burnt degeneracy.
You can be polite. I’ll say their cunts and hope they never win a trophy again.
Perth has efficient public transportation, affordable housing and good looking women with which one can enjoy it’s world class food and beverage products.
Unfortunately this is largely wasted on the local male of the species often documented by the Bell Tower Times
Because of the close proximity of the Universities of Western Australia and Notre Dame, Fremantle enjoys a vibrant café, restaurant and live music scene which, combined with a beach-side location, makes this suburb a desirable place to live. Located 30 minutes inland, Perth is not.