From Issue #13 · July 2025 · Satire

After a near-death experience (no metaphor here), Brett and Susie Pritchard fled Sydney’s collapsing cool to resurface in Brunswick East, bringing with them toasties, trauma, and a curated sense of homey detachment.

Opening The Coffee Bar—accessible via roller door for maximum industrial romance—and Bar Elsie, a Euro-bistro promising both nostalgia and unasked-for intimacy, the duo will offer pear-and-walnut scrolls to those emotionally fragile enough to eat one.

“We want people to feel like they’ve walked into a warm, welcoming home,” Brett said, pausing as the ghost of Brunswick’s working-class past tried to wrestle a bonsoy bottle out of his hand.

Stay tuned for our next exposé: Who Keeps Green-Lighting Concrete Floors as Cosy?

From Issue #13 · July 2025 · Satire

They come in droves—early 20s, eyes dead, outfits louder than their personalities. Clad in oversized rave-wear that screams “I saw one photo of my mum at Earthcore and based my identity on it,” the new wave of Neo-Rave Zombies is upon us. But make no mistake: there’s no ecstasy here, only irony and filtered cynicism. This isn't a fashion revival—it’s a séance gone wrong.

The Look: What once was euphoric has returned as a walking spreadsheet of cool. Muddy yellow tops like shame. Low-rise cargos that whisper “I intern at VICE.” Beaded necklaces now sold at boutique pop-ups for $65 and paired with a frown.

Accessories include: sneering critiques of joy, sustainable water bottles as identity, permanent rolling eyes, and superiority from watching three Harmony Korine films.

Gone are the neons. In are washed-out primaries: red as rust, blue as dread, yellow like bin juice. The palette screams “postmodern baby food.” No risk. No sweat. Just cosplay joy.

“They don’t want a party. They want to reference one.”

From Issue #13 · July 2025 · Satire

There was a time when Instagram meant something. A fleeting sunrise. A dog in a hat. A single dumpling on a ceramic plate that cost three rent payments. But now? Now it’s a never-ending feed of reclaimed wood, lukewarm takes, and people who treat “content creation” like a spiritual vocation and a valid job title.

The Offenders: Morning.Ritual.MugShot – beige mugs in beige rooms; BoysWhoBakeButNeverApologise – crusty sourdough, crustier politics; Brunswick_Loft_Living – rental interiors with trauma; Urban__Nomad__Kinfolk – minimalism as weapon; CafeReviewz_Melbs – conquest of $28 breakfasts.

“Instagram is a mausoleum of mildness.”

From Issue #13 · July 2025 · Satire

He walks in with a limp, a grin, and a stubby tucked into a sock. Wayne “Slatts” Slattery, bassist and unfiltered mouthpiece of grindcore titans King Parrot, smells faintly of diesel and chicken salt. He agrees to the interview because, in his words, “I’ve got 18 minutes before I start vomiting again.”

Warm-up routine? “Two beers, one anxiety attack, and a high kick that usually tears my hip.”

Weirdest gig? “A skip bin in Footscray. Some artist collective wanted ‘aural violence in domestic waste.’ Bin caught fire. Magical.”

Advice for young musos? “Quit now. Get a job in plumbing. If you’re too dumb to quit—perfect.”

Final thoughts? “Music saved me, robbed me, drove me to Centrelink. Still love it. Tell my mum I left my bass cab in Shepparton.”

“Like a discarded mattress behind a servo.”

Web column · Satire

For years, the top floor of this inner-north car park offered somewhere to leave a Corolla while you made a bad decision downstairs. Now the bad decisions come to you, on a tray, with a discretionary Sunday surcharge.

The new rooftop bar has retained the original concrete, yellow lines and sense that you should probably get back before six. A row of olive trees has been installed in tubs large enough to house the staff. Nobody has mentioned this to the staff.

“We wanted to honour what was here before,” says the owner, standing on DISABLED in a pair of linen trousers. “There’s a real history to this space.”

There is. It was twelve dollars an hour.

The drinks: A twenty-eight-dollar martini arrives with a single olive suspended from a miniature clothes peg. The menu describes it as playful. Across the table, a man whose rent just went up is trying to work out how to eat it without participating.

The atmosphere: Wind. Unrelenting wind. A DJ in a fisherman’s beanie is playing a slowed-down version of something that was already slow. Every few minutes a menu goes over the edge towards Sydney Road. Downstairs, someone assumes it’s a parking fine and keeps walking.

The view is magnificent. You can see three other places you can no longer afford to drink.

“We’ve really opened the space up to the community,” the owner adds. The lift requires a booking reference.

“They kept the two-hour limit. It’s called a sitting now.”

Web column · Satire

The electrician was supposed to finish on Thursday. By Friday night, the exposed wiring had a title, a price and a paragraph about displacement.

A half-gutted shopfront off Smith Street has opened as a temporary gallery, giving Melbourne’s art community a rare opportunity to stand in a building that looks exactly like their rental and pretend it’s a choice.

The exhibition explores absence. Absent plaster. Absent heating. The absent bloke who took a deposit to do the floor. His contribution is the strongest thing in the room.

“We’re interested in the conversation between labour and space,” says the curator, moving a tradie’s invoice behind the drinks table.

The work: Three bricks on a chair. A photograph of the chair before the bricks arrived. A small television showing a man carrying the chair back to his ute. It’s unclear whether this is a trilogy or a dispute.

Near the entrance, a bucket catches water from the ceiling. Someone asks whether it’s for sale. The curator says she’ll check with the artist. The plumber says it’s his bucket.

Opening-night wine is served in cups that buckle when held with conviction. A man in architectural glasses says the room feels honest. Behind him, someone is carefully cropping the portable toilet out of a photograph.

By nine, the red dots have started appearing. One goes on a section of wall scheduled for removal. The buyer asks about delivery. For the first time all evening, the demolition bloke looks interested.

The show runs until Sunday, or until the skip arrives. Whichever gets funded first.

“The wall text is load-bearing.”