Three bogans on a shopping trip rock into the cafe for a cuppa and a samich.

“Cup of tea, please,” says bogan number one.
“Is English Breakfast okay?” asks Jill on the coffee machine.
“Umm. What's English Breakfast?”
Jill is stumped. How do you describe it?
“Can I just have a teabag?” Asks bogan #1.
“Sure,” says Jill, relieved.

Bogan number two approaches the sandwich bar, manned by Danii. “What's on that one?” she asks, pointing at a focaccia.
“Chicken, lettuce, mushrooms, pesto…”
“What's pesto?”
“It's a blend of basil, parsley, olive oil, pine nuts, parmesan cheese…”
“Ewww,” moans bogan #2, scrunching up her face. “I don't eat things I can't spell. You got mayo?”
“Home-made garlic mayo?”
“Ewww.”

Dude walks into the cafe, four day growth, motor racing t-shirt, stubby shorts and thongs. “You got pies?” he whines in classic Strine.

“Sorry,” I reply. We can do sandwiches and other take away things.

Dude screws up his face like I have inadvertantly spoken German. “They expensive or cheap?” He's really proud of his insight.

“It depends on what you think is expensive.” I reckon that's a fair point to make.

“Ah, fuck it,” Dude mumbles and turns on his heal. It is at this moment that his true bogan nature is revealed. His close cropped black hair sports a long, bleached rats tail at the back.

Brisbane. Lunch time. A restaurant in the Valley. Same bloody CD as the cafe playing on repeat. Asked waiter for a knife and a bucket of water; failing that a gun or a noose.

James and I were counting down the last hour before close on a Saturday, mop and broom in hands. The bosses had gone home and boredom was setting in. What a brilliant time to experiment with interesting combinations of food in the blender.

James and Dishpig's excellent chocolate death drink:
- Two scoops of ice cream
- One slurp of vanilla syrup
- One slurp of chocolate syrup
- One slurp of caramel syrup
- One chocolate brownie
- One generous handfull of Tiny Teddies
- A dash of milk

Blend until smoothish, drink what is possible and eat rest with spoon. Sit down, beat struggling heart with fist, resist urge to spew and complain bitterly about never wanting to drink this beast again.

Over at a friend's house for dinner last night and the host changes the CD. Sure enough, it's one of our Cafe Greatest Hits collections. I scream and run into the back yard.

Along with fellow dishpig James, I had closed the cafe and was putting away the last of the washing up before leaving for the day. The front door was closed and the security roll-a-door was lowered to waist level. Obviously we still look like we're serving because some guy ducks under the screen, opens the door, weaves past the umbrellas and stacked tables from outside and asks “are you guys open?”

Staring with utter incredulity we try to speak. James finally says “mate, we are so closed.”

“Oh right,” says dude dreamily, staring at the (closed) sandwich bar. “I was wondering if you could just make me a sanger?”

It's only when you've worked in a cafe that you truly realise how stupid the human race is.

Snippet overheard:

“…the whole Palestinean thing. What's that about anyway? Didn't they move into somewhere a hundred years ago or something? Was it Iraq?”

A regular customer who carries himself very seriously overheard talking to his mate today: “If I was gay I reckon I'd be pulling the blokes in.”

Three generations of bogans walk into the cafe: bogan mum, bogan daughter and bogan grandma. They peruse the food options on display in the cabinet such as chicken focaccias and lamb rolls. These options include such “gourmet” ingredients as pesto and semi-dried tomatoes. I answer their questions about ingredients and note the bogan look of bemusement on their faces.

“What's that?” Asks bogan mum, pointing.
“Falafel,” I answer.
“What's falafel?” Whines bogan mum. Bogan grandma actually looks frightened. Bogan daughter looks vacant.
“It's a chickpea and spice mix that's been deep fried.”
“Errr,” bogan mum purrs. “We just like plain food. Do ya do sandwidges?”
“Of course,” I attempt to remain polite.
“Whaddaya want?” She nudges bogan daughter back to life who shifts her vacant stare from the wall to the display. Turning to bogan grandma “Mum?”
Bogan grandma shakes her head vigorously. I think she has wet her pants. Bogan daughter manages to drawl an order.
“Can I have chicken and lettuce?”
“Sure,” I reply. “We have a salad mix of lettuce, is that okay?”
“Do ya have normal lettuce?”
I think for a moment. What is normal? She's either asking a deep philosophical question or looking for iceberg lettuce.
“No I'm sorry,” guessing that it's the latter. “Do you want anything else?”
“Nah.”
“Do you want white or rye bread?”
Bogan mum cuts in.
“What's rye bread?”

I reckon there are only a dozen CDs that are on constant rotation at the cafe. They are all of the generic chillout/ jazz/ soft pop crap that you will hear in any such premises around Melbourne. It is now clear to Dishpig that these CDs are automatically issued by the local council along with trading approval after hearing two of our cafe's generic CDs in Falafel King and another cafe within 30 minutes last night.

Because I hear these generic tunes on endless rotation at work I felt an irresistable urge to get up, clean a table or two, make some asinine conversation with a customer and load the dishwasher.

I overheard a lesbian couple, regular patrons at the cafe, in the courtyard yesterday: “Our clairvoyant told us we'll be buying a house next May.”

I'll keep you all posted on their real estate progress.

Daniel is a regular customer who stops every morning for a cappucino and the occasional lemon slice. Sometimes he even orders baked beans on toast (not gourmet) but doesn't eat the toast because he has no teeth. Daniel is also a serial shitter who spends at least five minutes in the customer bog stinking it up after each morning coffee.

On the weekend Danii recounted to me the tale of Daniel's bomb last Thursday. He had washed down his pills with his morning cappucino and retired to the loo for his morning constitutional. While in there the cafe becomes quite busy. Danii is on the coffee machine with a long queue waiting to be served when Daniel, acubra hat on lowered head, bag by side, calloused and sandled feet flopping fast, comes storming through the crowd and announces on his way past Danii: “I think I blocked the toilet.”

The next bit is best in Danii's words. “My heart stopped. I got one of the girls to take over and I went out the back to have a look and, sure enough, the bowl is half full of toilet paper and shit. I push the button and the water just rises and rises, shit flowing over the side.”

The problem was eventually rectified with a high pressure hose and sturdy rubber gloves.

A few weeks ago boss Tom decides that Farmland brand baked beans have to go and homemade beans should replace them on breakfast plates. A brew of beans with fresh tomato and basil was thrown together and was actually very tasty. Dishpig declared them gourmet beans and the price was duly adjusted on the menu board from $1.50 to $2.50. Fair enough.

The next Sunday was Dishpig's day to run the cafe and man the stove for breakfast and gourmet beans were selling fast. One bogan punter didn't like the gourmet beans and expressed his longing for ye olde Heinz brand. When Tom heard this story he got the shits and decided to halt gourmet beans production in favour of 69 cent cans of Farmland product. However, as is Tom and Danii's (the bosses) wont, the price remained at the gourmet price of $2.50.

When Dishpig discovered the price anomoly he lodged a protest on ethical grounds but met with stiff resistance. As if to prove a point, fate sent a customer to the counter at that moment who ordered the gourmet beans. Danii told Dishpig to cook up the Farmlands and watch the customer's reaction.

Dishpig grumbled a bit but went out the back in compliance. The only gourmet touch was a blob of butter and a sprinkle of dried oregano in the mix. The food was delivered and there was no perceptible facial reaction from the customer. Neither party was yet vindicated.

Some time later the customer approached the counter to pay and launched into lavish praise for the gourmet beans, asking for the recipe. Danii was filled with joy for the new line of profit and Dishpig was disappointed that there are even more bogans on earth than he thought.