My grandkids are Bogans – Something a reader sent to me.

My grandkids are Bogans - Something a reader sent to me.

This was sent to me a couple of days ago, and gave me a laugh. For those that remember the character of ‘Donna-Marie Dutton’ this is basically her to a cone.

So after replying to the author of the feature below, and being enabled to post this here, here it is. But firstly, what is a ‘bogan’?

Think of ugg boots not as an enlarged form of slippers for pyjama’s and in the house only wear, but rather suitable attire for all but formal occasions. Sneakers, jeans, flannelette shirt or tee shirt with either a car brand logo, or black tee shirt with a wolf on it as going out clothes. Think mullet (hair short at the front, long at the back), think seven year out of date Holden/Ford’s with half knackered V8’s going burnouts in front of the pub. Think outer suburbs or ‘townies’ for rural area’s, and
picking up the dole (social security handouts) whilst deliberately not looking for work. ‘Westies’, and ‘Bevans’ are another name for the same species based on geographics.  Unmarried mum’s with a string of kids to different fathers, and seriously coarse language also fit the bill here.

From the urban dictionary – “A fascinating beast. The majority of the species are hideously repugnant and unintelligent, and yet they manage to breed in ever-increasing numbers and populate an area known as the outer west. It is quite common to find five or six offspring in each family group, often with a different father for each new baby.
Their habitat consists of a weatherboard or brick-veneer dwelling and is characterised by an early-model Holden or Ford in the driveway surrounded by a group of males discussing why the carby is stuffed and the results of last night’s footy (a primitive gladiator-like spectator sport enjoyed by most bogans).
The female of the species, while smaller in stature, is far more loud and aggressive than the male. While the males tend to be very friendly and congregate with other males, the females spend most of their time in supermarkets and shopping malls, using a shrill high-pitched call to discipline their children and contact other females.
Males and females rarely interact socially except during breeding season, which is otherwise known as Friday night. During this time, females are allowed to enter the male-dominated area known as “the pub” and display their impressive coloured plumage to a prospective mate.
Herein lies an interesting phenomenon. Males will often fight over a particularly attractive female and she will mate with only one male, while some less attractive females have been known to have several partners simultaneously.

Ahhhh. The wonders of nature.
Chris Franklin, Eric Bana as “Poita” on Fast Forward, most of Campbelltown.”

Anyway, without further ado youse poofters, ‘ere it is. As a bit of good news, me boy Holden Collingwood California Leonardo Smith can now light mums smokes for her, and he’s only 5! If I knew who ‘is farver was I’d say the little fuck got ‘is brains from ‘im! But I don’t so who gives a fuck?!

Here is Chris’s work.

“My grandkids are Bogans

My wicked grandkids are the world’s biggest bogans,
And always wear t-shirts with crass and rude slogans
My neighbours all whinge and whisper quite loud,
When I suffer a visit from my troublesome crowd

How did this all happen? And who could be at fault?
I should blame their parents; my son’s such a dolt,
As each one of his kids, have such different mothers,
An between them are a dozen half-sisters and brothers

I should chastise my daughter for the worst taste in men,
Not just once or twice, but again and again.
Luckily, of those, most did not want to be dads,
Or the girl would have dozens of lasses and lads.

And what could possibly please my neighbours so smarmy,
Who complain, wail and whinge at my small feral army,
‘Youngsters these days, I suppose nobody knows,
How to eat, speak, or dress, just look at their clothes’

I don’t go by appearances, although maybe I should,
Some good old fashion sense, might do them some good
In their patched flanny shirts, and bright skinny jeans,
And rock band t-shirts with very rude scenes

And I have trouble accepting, the state of their hair,
It’s so long, lank and greasy, and they don’t seem to care
And their snuffy blocked noses, it makes you shudder and pale,
As green oceans of snot seem to drip, trickle, trail

And a nice bit of jewellery is cool I suppose,
If it isn’t sharp metal that sticks out of your nose,
And ‘The Arts’, for young ladies, founds many careers,
My neighbours don’t credit the tattoos on their rears.

Perhaps though the worst, of disgraceful poor conduct,
Is the bogan who drives a big truck yelling ‘get ****ed’
And mooning my neighbours with a well inked white arse
Apparently that kind of conduct may be lacking in class

But they do have some good points, a nice piece of luck,
Nana’s little bush-mechanics, they can tune up a truck
Despite yells and their noise, and off-putting manners,
I’m proud even the girls are good with the spanners.

Although some days their troubles make more hairs go grey
I am always so happy when my grandkids come to stay
A Nanna’s job is set standards, up so high out of sight
To show grandkids by example how to live their life right

My neighbours visit and chide in such a civilized fashion,
Yet meanwhile my lot have are in a hotted car thrashing
They say ‘So many things wrong with young people these days,
They know where it went wrong and count dozens of ways

But what was wrong with black jeans, worn loose and not tight,
Big, black heavy boots stained as dark as the night,
I could wield a mean spanner, fix cars better than blokes,
Drink them under the table, then borrow their smokes,

I did burnouts and donuts, and left ripping great skids
And I never quite knew just who fathered my kids
And the terrible truth that drives all my neighbours to curse,
That when we were all young, they were all even worse

My wicked grandkids are the world’s biggest bogans,
And piss off my neighbours with loud and rude slogans
But they’re mine and I love them, I love them the same,
And I’m proud to hear their voices yell out my name,
As I roar past half dressed in my pimped monster truck,
‘Cos I’m Nanna Bogan and I don’t give a ….

The End”

Click the picture of the ?VK Holden for music. Think, “The bloke song”.

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