I don’t drink anymore so my outlet is writing.
David Attenborough Narrates: The Showdown of the Sunlit Savan-Noosah
The camera sweeps across a golden landscape, the cerulean waters of the Noosa River mouth glinting like sapphires under the merciless Australian summer sun.
Here, among the pristine sands and tangled mangroves, a peculiar pride gathers. The lion cubs of this kingdom, entitled, squawking kids, scatter around with shrill cries and unchecked energy borne of undiagnosed ADHD and too much caffeine, while their parents, the apex predators of entitlement, hold court adjacent weathered benches.
“In this land of sunburnt vanity and whispered wealth, dominance is not won by tooth and claw… but by status and subtle displays of superiority. It is here, amidst the warmth of the Australian summer, that our protagonist, a wily British lion known only as ‘The Jackster’, rests comfortably with his mate.”
The camera zooms in on The Jackster, a knockaround bloke with a slightly weathered air of quiet confidence and the hands of a man who actually works for a living.
His arm drapes casually across the back of the bench, a stance of studied nonchalance that belies his readiness for confrontation. The glint of his wrist, draws the eye of the viewer… and others.
“But The Jackster is no ordinary male. A migratory species from Britain, he brings with him the cunning of a seasoned survivor. His tool of choice? A nearly indistinguishable replica timepiece, the VSF Rolex Submariner, a token of calculated bravado in this savage landscape of silent judgments, his appreciation and refusal to spend massive amounts of money on another gen.”
Enter Nameless Wanker - a native male, striding into the arena with an air of self-assured bluster. His weapon: a Breitling, another symbol of status. His pride flanks him: Wife of the Nameless Wanker, whose posture screams practiced patience, and the Cub Wankers, a loud and chaotic pair clinging to ice creams and entitlement.
“As is the way of these apex males, the challenge begins not with roaring or overt aggression, but with the subtlest of signals. Nameless Wanker circles, engaging The Jackster in casual conversation. His gaze flickers momentarily to the glinting timepiece on The Jackster’s wrist. And then, the inevitable: a question meant to size up his rival.”
The camera closes in, slow motion, as Nameless Wanker speaks:
”‘Is that a Submariner?’”
There is a pause, a moment of palpable tension as The Jackster, the seasoned veteran of a thousand verbal skirmishes, and more than a couple of fist-based ones too, considers his response. The camera zooms in on his face, the sweat glistening on his brow like dew on the savannah grass.
“The Jackster, understanding the stakes, plays his card with calm precision. A simple, understated reply: ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’”
The words hang in the air, a silent victory cry. Nameless Wanker, momentarily disarmed, nods and withdraws, retreating with a half-smile that betrays a seed of doubt. The authenticity of The Jackster’s watch, or indeed his dominance, will never be questioned again.
“And so, the battle ends not in bloodshed, but in the quiet triumph of subtle superiority. The Jackster remains unchallenged, his position secured by the craftsmanship of the work of shadowy factories somewhere in the far east… and the confidence of a man who knows when to say just enough.”
The camera pans out, the pride dispersing under the blazing sun. Nameless Wanker’s Breitling, real or not, fades into the background, outshone by the glimmer of the Jackster’s VSF Rolex. The cubs continue their high-pitched chaos; the wives exchange polite smiles, oblivious to the seismic shift in their social hierarchy.
“In this kingdom of wankers and replica watches, where dominance is determined by the smallest of details, The Jackster proves that true supremacy lies not in wealth, but in wit, confidence, and a well-placed replica. Such is the way of the pride.”
