Not kooks, not blow-ins, not annoying little pricks flailing about on the inside or SUPing around on the outside; A-holes. The ones that’ll turn a good surf, real bad, real quick.

Cranky Frankie: Not to be confused with the local heavy, who at least serves a purpose. Cranky Frankie is that guy who’ll drop the f bomb out loud at the drop of a hat, at you, the waves, his board, his wax, his wettie, leggie, boardies, the water, or at a pinch, the goddam sky above and all the birds in it. “Fucking birds. Fuck off back to land ya carrrnts.”

The Dark Cloud: Jesus...no pleasing this guy. Too much south in the swell, too windy, too cold, too hot, too crowded, too much sand, not enough sand. It’s all fucked to this guy and he’s not afraid to let everyone within earshot know, typically in a high pitched, sing songy tone. “Fucking high tide, always fucks this joint up. Hasn’t broken for years anyway.” And for god sakes, don’t mention the Brazilian Storm. Enjoys the odd tightly packed cone, before, during and après surf.

The Snake: Firmly believes you had no interest whatsoever in that wave, or the next, or the one after that. The Snake has no qualms with paddling straight up the guts and straight to the inside. Sadly, a rumour has been circulated (possibly by The Snake) The Snake has mad MMA skills, so is best approached with caution. The Snake has a very selective work ethic, which oddly kicks in whenever the buoys hit 10 feet at 13 seconds and above.

The Traffic Cop: Oh, you know this guy, directing traffic around the line up like an over zealous council worker at a roadblock. He is of the firm belief that etiquette in the line up did not exist until he graced us with his presence. “Go mate, go, go left,’’ he’ll scream before pointing out seconds later you’ve just dropped in on someone. “Didn’t you see Zonk on the inside? Back of the line for you. OUTSIDE!!” Shapes his own god-awful boards and is chairman of the local board riders.

Mr Huck a Loogie: You’ll hear this guy before you see him. Two short, sharp bursts out of each nasal cavity before his charming piece of performance art begins. First a deep, guttural, inhale up through the nose, followed by a sickening upward draw through the windpipe, a moment’s silence before the green abomination is launched skyward. Sadly, the stillbirth will remain anchored to the surface and make it’s way towards you as the ritual is repeated, over and over and over again. His car is a wasteland of empty flavoured milk containers.