ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact

A group of young men who work in offices with computers for multinational companies have gathered this afternoon at a popular French Quarter bar to talk about everything from the weekend’s sport to the fad that was cryptocurrency.

Each of them clip-clopped their way down from the financial district in their RMs after 5 today – the local publicans could hear them well before they saw them.

Those with the more important roles, such as jobs in ‘everyday banking’ or ‘term deposits’, are clad in MJ Bale.

The juniors are still only able to afford Uniqlo – but one day they aspire to be able to wear wool to work.

Gavin Potter, a junior auditor at KPMG South Betoota, was spotted sipping his way down a $9 pint of a James Squires Amber Ale – his favourite according to his mother – who he still lives with.

However, as much as these androgynous, clone-like salarycucks look like one another, there’s an easy way Potter uses to tell him apart from the others.

“I like to keep my employee ID on my belt so everybody knows who I am,” he said.

“It also lets other people know who I work for, so when we all go to the pub, it’s just like a real-life LinkedIn [laughs] We can network and carry on, maybe even have two pints on a school night!”

“Sometimes, when trivia is on, my female life partner lets me have a counter meal but only if it’s $10 because we’re saving for a house deposit. We want to live on a farm next to the beach. Beep boop beep beep. I love my life.”

Opposite Gavin stands Michael Handcock, who’s top button is undone like a smoking schoolboy with a half-buzzed smirk smeared across his face.

He shook his head and agreed.

“I’ve known Gav for like, what? 5 years now?” he said, swaying in the airconditioning.

“But yeah, I wouldn’t know who he was here if he wasn’t wearing his swipe ID card. No idea. You see, it’s just what we suits do. We live slightly beyond our means in nice suburbs like Betoota Grove or the Old City District, accrue credit card debt and listen to fucking podcasts on the bus to work. We’re living the fucking life, man,”

“Oi, bruv. Were’s your ID card? Who the fuck are you?”

Or reporter then produced his employee-issued press pass and Michael nodded.

“Nice ID card. What’s it like working in print media, you piece of shit?!”

“Leave Steve Smith alone!”

More to come.

 

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