It was just an ordinary, laid back Saturday afternoon in October in the outer Melbourne suburb of Doveton. The seasons had just changed from winter to spring and from footy to cricket and everything seemed at peace in the ever-growing Australian urban sprawl. The nation’s flag flew proudly on the front porch. It looked glorious as its Southern Cross, Commonwealth Star, and Union Jack blew lightly in the late afternoon’s mild breeze. The boys, otherwise known as Dave-o, Rob-o, Steve-o, and John-o drank a slab of Toohey’s and passed around a joint, dressed in their finest plaid flannel shirts. Their wives and girlfriends had been saving up for the past few months to take the kids away for a weekend at the beach in Phillip Island, so today the men took full advantage of one of the rare occasions they got for some boys’ time.

The paint work of Rob-o’s Holden V8 Ute gleamed in his driveway in the warm sunshine as the men, whilst laughing and joking, polished and buffed the exterior and listened to the One Day International on the utility’s radio.

Rob-o and Dave-o wheeled the barbecue grill out of the garage from its winter hibernation. As they dusted it off, out in the short distance, a Victoria police cruiser made a turn into the cul de sac and pulled slowly up to Rob-o’s front yard. Constable Dibble climbed out of the car and stood on the footpath with his hands on his shoulders.

“G’day gentleman, we’ve had some complaints about the noise. Do you mind keeping the sound levels down, please?” said the officer as he puffed out his pigeon chest.

“Complaints from who? What about the thousands of complaints people have made to you cunts about the noise coming from that giant mosque every fucking morning at 5am with their call to prayer? Or the 2,000 people who signed petitions for it not to be built around here in the first place?” Said Rob-o.

“Well, this is the new multicultural Australia, so we have to be tolerant, sir.”

“This is Anglo-Australia on this street, mate, the real Australia, where we eat meat, drink beer, and speak fucking English,” said Steve-o as he exhaled a cloud of smoke like a chimney in Victorian-era London.

“You know, I could have you arrested for that marijuana cigarette, sir.”

“Arrest us then, cunt. You conveniently ignore the Lebanese gang who drive up and down the main drag selling harder stuff than green whilst trying to pick up underage school girls all day, though, cunt!” said John-o with his arms now folded.

“Cut out the foul language, please, sir, or I will have you detained.”

“Just fuck off, CUNTstable,” said Steve-o as he stroked the split ends of his greasy mullet.

“More like CUCKstable,” Dave-o shouted aloud as all the men erupted into laughter.

“Fuck off, cunt. You’re more than happy to come down here and harass the white working class after we’ve been busting our arse contributing to society all week. Why don’t you go and detain those bankster cunts up in Toorak. Thanks to cunts like them, my house now has zero equity,” said Dave-o.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t be bothering us if our Holdens were Fords,” stated Steve-o.

“Bloody oath, he wouldn’t,” agreed Rob-o as he showed signs of losing his patience.

“Hold on, I remember you, cunt. You’re the cunt who got caught sucking off the music teacher in the auditorium in high school,” Rob-o slurred as more laughter ensued.

“Yeah, Dibble, that’s the cunt’s name,” Dave-o stated with his nasally voice.

“I will leave you boys to it, just keep the noise down, please.”

“What a fucking dog cunt,” said John-o with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

“Never dog the boys,” agreed Steve-o as he took a long sip of his beer.

“Yeah, fuck off back in your bacon wagon, ya cop cuck cunt,” Rob-o whispered under his breath as he spat his beer through his teeth onto the freshly-cut grass.

Constable Dibble got back into his squad car feeling rather defeated. He just looked forward to finishing his shift and going home to his cats to relax whilst reading a David Foster Wallace book. He drove slowly to the end of the court. As he paused to signal and make a left turn, his vehicle was pelted with several empty bottles of Extra Dry. One smashed through the rear windscreen.