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Bootleg Rascal’s Top Five Sh*ttest Beaches (but mostly about the people who live there)

Yugambeh/Gold Coast-based genre-fusing party starters Bootleg Rascal have just unveiled tour dates and their stellar new cut ‘Rescue Me’. To celebrate the release (kind of) Jim of Bootleg has shared with us his 5 sh*ttest beaches and why.

Bootleg Rascal’s Top Five Sh*ttest Beaches (but mostly about the people who live there)
By Jimbo Slice

In the spirit of our latest summer-time tune ‘Rescue Me’ and it’s Baywatch spoof identity treatment, we thought we’d lean into the froth and highlight some beaches… the top five ones we think are shit, anyway.

We’re tired of reading about other artists, and their top five favourite things no one clearly cares about. “Oh, here’s my top five things to do when I’m cross stitching” or “My top five model trains” – newsflash dickheads – this is your unimaginative publicist ticking off their KPI’s for the hard-earned cash you handed over, which all but ends up their nose. No one is reading this shit; therefore, they’re not listening to your music.

Find some interesting things to cover or at least get red hot and throw shade at a large population of people who you don’t care about. Anyway, without any further ado, let’s dive in and bring on the hate mail!

Surfers Paradise

Surfers is an absolute embarrassment to Australia. For our international friends, Surfers Paradise is the Aussie equivalent of Jersey Shore, but even more pathetic and tacky. Full of pretentious douchebags who look like they’ve had an accident with fake tan and roid-raging men bursting with fragile masculinity who love to punch on with anyone they can, Surfers Paradise has managed to assemble the absolute worst people this universe has to offer. Once a year, high school graduates all pile into the city for ‘schoolies’; the rite of passage to get belted and having their stomach pumped, all which showcases the lack of hope that this nation holds. They’re also joined by creepy older men, more commonly known as ‘toolies’ who should stop trying to tune 17–18-year-old who have just discovered binge drinking and pingers for the first time, and date women their own age, and happy clappers handing out red frogs, so fried kids can chew on them, instead of chewing their jaw completely off.


Byron Bay

Yeah, we play shows here fairly often, but I guess we all have to do things as part of our job we don’t always like. Byron Bay has always been renowned for its sense of new age living and alternative lifestyles, but a large proportion of the population showed their true colours amid the pandemic. The so called “locals” are mostly a combination of either neo-hippies who just moved into a share house in Suffolk park within the last 18 months, or trust fund, baby boomer inheritance, vibe-killers who have traded one of their “McMansions” in Sydney to own 5 overpriced Airbnb’s in the Byron hinterland. But one thing they all share in common is their love for whinging about how “Byron isn’t what it used to be” and how much things have changed since all these “blow-ins” arrived and started wrecking the place. Well, I’ve got news for you losers, most of the real “locals” packed up shop and gave up on that place a long time ago, taking with them all the real “vibe” and culture that all you wannabe IG influencers & second rate real estate tycoons are still trying to cash in on. Anyway, none of them will probably have time to read this because they’ll be too busy pretending to charge their crystals by the full moon or purchasing a second Range Rover to match the colour palette of their new decor.


Bondi Beach

I went to Bondi Beach once, and unless Beach Road Hotel or some other joint wants to hand over really decent coin for us to play a gig, it’ll be my last visit. Full of absolute punishers who range from entitled Mummy bloggers, insecure roided up jocks and STI-ridden backpackers from the UK and Brazil (who take share accommodation to another level, by five-to-ten of them packing into one room like sardines), Bondi Beach is hell on Earth. I could only imagine the type of hot garbage that makes up their social media content – photos of Acai bowls, gym selfies and self-loathing selfies overlooking the ocean with cringy introspective captions like #NewYearNewMe.



The best thing about being in Terrigal, is seeing the exit sign when you leave. Coasties are completely disillusioned that they are on some similar level to that of people from the Northern Beaches, when sadly, they’re merely nothing but Manly from Wish. Terrigal boasts as being the nicer and “higher-end” of the region, but what does that mean when you live in such a low socioeconomic area like the Central Coast, where Tapout shirts are considered high-fashion? It’s like saying you’re the best ice skater from the Northern Territory. They also used to have a local gang called the ‘T-Unit’ that would bash people for fun. Just when you thought you could find refuge from violence in the subpar offering of nightlife establishments, all the security guards are wannabe MMA fighters, but in reality, couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag if they didn’t have their cowardly posse behind them.


St. Kilda

Melburnians are the absolute peak of Aussie kooks, who think they’re some kind of elite tier level of hierarchy. Look, no one can take away the fact your impassioned love for Aerial Ping Pong; however, let’s address the elephant in the room… that it’s absolutely the dumbest sport in the world. Seriously, grow up you morons – no one else outside your pretentious little circle jerk community (i.e. the rest of Australia/the world) gives a f*ck about this nonsense. Now back to the point of this story… At many points during my failed music career, I’ve played the Espy; which, to be fair, used to be one of my favourite piss-scented rock venues to waste my life at. After being so fortunate to procure 2 drink tickets, $100 and stare into the abyss of the Bass Strait, I’d often wander across the road to check out the ‘beach’ but instead be greeted with a scenery of that many rocks, that even Tony Montana would gag. Seriously St. Kilda, I’ve been at English beaches and landscape supply yards with less gravel. Stick to your latte, granola and gluten free hippy jamborees, and forgo any title you have of boasting a beach, because this ain’t it, you hipster flogs!


Written by John Zebra