26 November, 2016. 13:02
ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
CONSIDERED A RITE OF passage for many first-time overseas tourists, London often serves as the first stop for many young Australians as they leap from lily pad to European lily pad.
But for one Batlow fruit picker, the city itself had captured his intrigue.
Milo ‘Sparky’ Scoles knows his way around an apple tree and a cold pint of 3pm cider. A simple man with many skills – but none of them prepared him for what he experienced as the door cracked on the Qantas jet that carried him all the way to the other side of the planet.
“Mate, to be honest, London is a bit of a dump,” he said. “Everything is old, cold and half fucked.”
“It’s like walking through the fresh produce section of the Bourke SPAR.”
The 28-year-old told us to take Big Ben for example, pointing up at Elizabeth Tower from outside the Churchill War Rooms. He said, “Just look at that wok-eyed fucking thing. I can barely read the time. They should replace it with a digital clock like we have in our big smokes.”
“The weather is also cooked. The fucking sun goes down at 4pm. You know what, I’m suitably unimpressed by this place. I don’t know why people rave on about it. This is the type of place chicks go after they break up with their man. You couldn’t be happy here if you tried.”
Shrugging his shoulders as he walked back toward St James Park, Scoles wondered if he was even able to enjoy a Lucky Strike in public. The number of rules and regulations he’s had to follow so far haven’t sat well inside his polite, happy-go-lucky soul.
“Hopefully Paris is better. I’ve heard the Germans love their lung candy just as much as I do. Actually, fuck it. I should’ve just gone to Fiji and shot dolphins from the bow of a speedboat listening to Guerilla Radio like I’ve always dreamed. Japanese style, domo arigato bruz.”
More to come.