First (to get drunk) Thursdays
Like a book club who’s premise depends on a post-structural analysis of James Joyce but quickly descends into a chardonnay festival narrated by 40 Shades of Sex Positions, First Thursdays has fulfilled its destiny as a party. The evening of sophisticated contemplation followed by sun-downers has been colonised by suburbia in high-waisted denim running through Church and Bree squawking, ‘it’s crazy, it’s so crazy.’ Cleavage and leggage their weapons of mass attraction.
With their Zimbabweans at home on kid duty, MILFS prowl in packs. Their pride settling at La Parada with tinder dates beating to the pulse of NOW 92. Skaters and their haters roll golden Virginia outside Clarkes. At the Village idiot the circling douche’s rub buffed shoulders and pints. Queues for old fashion’s at House of Machines spill out onto short market where Uber drivers hoot through crowds, being careful not to inch onto those delicate toes of white privilege.