10 September, 2016. 14:34
ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
AFTER A LONG DAY of breaking shit up and throwing in a skip bin, Gregor Townsend wants nothing more than to head down to his local piss house and put his hard-earning into Pelican Pete, his favourite poker machine.
Slurping his way through his first ice cold ‘schoon-rat’ of the afternoon like a plumper on a soup diet, the 26-year-old lifter of heavy things let out a long sigh as he fed the machine another pineapple.
“Nothing more relaxing than having a Vicky B and a Stuyvo [Peter Stuyvesant] in one hand and the other paw slapping the spin button like a leaguey slaps a stripper’s arse,” he said, letting out a short fart.
“If you get up, you get up. If you lose it all then fuck it, I get paid on Thursdeys [sic] so she’d be getting thin by then but whatever, mate. Oi but, I’ll tell you what’s a fucken pissa? [sic] The boss calls these fucking things ‘brickie’s laptops’ because apparently only dumb cunts use them, but I know plenty of clever builders, moite.”
“Me maths teacher in high school said that gambling is a tax on stupid people, but what would that gibbering cunt know? He’s just a poon in a cheap tie teaching math to blokes who just want to crush box and tins. Bloke had a head on him like a sucked mango seed, too. Anyway brother, I’m on a streak and you shout me a victor bravo, you mellon?” he said.
Before The Advocate left Mr Townsend’s side, he’d parted with nearly $900. He gambled his way up to $1200 but tried to suit it and failed. He then casually walked over to the refreshment table and brought back four small Lamington’s to jam up Pelican Pete’s cash hole.
“I do this to make sure no cunt can play it and hoon off with me moolah,” he explained.
“Managment get grotty with me but fuck ’em.”