ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A group of young men looking for a place to sit and enjoy their sick day has settled on one of our town’s worst pubs in one of the worst areas because a mate of a mate who’s going to be there doesn’t like sharing his tips.
Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue but this bloke, in particular, works in the racing industry and often has good tips, according to his mates.
So moments ago, Mike Sparkman took his three mates to the Gorilla & Goose Hotel in the French Quarter’s hellish Suce Ta Propre Bite district where they somehow managed to jag a 6-seater table.
“Oh suffering Jesus,” said Mike’s mate Rob.
“Is this a dog-friendly pub?”
Mike nodded and apologised.
“Yeah, Liam’s mate Connor is coming and he’s a dog with his tips.”
Some fat yuppie at a table across the room put his dog on the table and started laughing when the fucking thing started eating the scraps off his pate.
“Jesus Christ, Liam,” said Rob.
“Why did you invite that guy? He’s going to fuck up the jugs-to-boys ratio, too.”
Liam shrugged and said he’s actually got good craic and that today isn’t just about putting $10 on the nose of some obese millionaire boomer’s nag, who in a few years, is just going to get shot between the eyes with a .22 pistol when it can’t run quick anymore, it was about spending time out of the office.
Rob and Mike nodded.
“Yeah, but do we still have to drink in this bourgeois shithole? Some bloke just walked in with a hyperactive Pittie and the fucking thing’s got eyes for that woman’s miniature poodle,” said Liam.
“As much as I want to gamble, I’m not here to gamble on a dog fight like I’m at Clancy Overell’s place after he’s visited every pound in the Diamantina.”
More to come.