28 July, 2016. 12:32
ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
THE ONLY COMFORT THAT Michael Southwell had after he left work yesterday was that there was still 15 Bitter tins in the fridge left over from the weekend.
Leaving work, he ducked into his postcode’s tavern around the corner of his New Farm Queenslander. Something he hasn’t done since last year.
Because at around lunch time yesterday, he received a text message that rocked his world.
“It said, ‘heyyy can you pick up dinner?? i don’t want to cook tonight. the bachelor starts tonight :))) xx.’ and I thought, ‘Fuck me dead. Is it that time of year again??” he said.
“But then I remember I still had half a block of some black tins in the fridge beside my Pad Kee Mao from last Friday. But I couldn’t just walk through my front door completely sober on a night like this,”
“So I ducked down to the Brunswick and had two double rums and a jug of Pimms and lemonade. Had a bit of a punt on the trots then ambled home in time for The Bachelor. I got two chicken schnitzels from the bistro takeaway.”
However, when he failed to put the key in the lock after trying for nearly a full minute, life partner Rachel knew something was awry.
Michael had made it home by the skin of his teeth, but the front of his shirt was still wet from leaning on the bar and he smelt like a Dutch prostitute’s handbag.
“I could hear his key’s jangling and scratching against the door,” she said.
“At first, I thought it was a possum, but as I got closer to the door, I could hear him swearing to himself on the other side. He was saying things like: ‘Fucking which key is it?,’ and he was imitating my voice going on like, ‘blah blah blah I’m too dumb to watch the 7:30 Report. Oooooo Four Corners is depressing ooooooo,’ it was very rude,”
“When I opened to door, he was just standing there like he does when he shaves the carrot in the shower, like he’s trying to shit standing up. Fucking idiot.”
The couple then retired to the living room with their room temperature breaded birds and flicked on The Bachelor.
Slipping in and out of consciousness, Michael only managed to drink 13 XXXX Bitter tins before the show finished.
Later that night, he projectile vomited in bed.