ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact

A soft-eyed renter from our town’s bohemian French Quarter was bellowed at this morning from the second story of a construction site where some waterproofing was taking place.

The man bellowing was Nat Kippel, a recently qualified waterproofer with a dogging ticket.

“Hey!” he yelled.

“Where’d you get that shirt?”

The shirt that was on Casper Tenochtitlan’s back was a Bunnings Trade t-shirt.

“Stolen valour! Stolen valour! That little bitch is stealing our valour, boys!”

If only, Casper told The Advocate, he knew that he paid $49 on Depop for the popular tradie apparell.

“He would’ve started throwing bricks!” he laughed.

There’s not much to Casper. His hands are softer than his eyes. The only thing softer than his grabbers is his voice. He’s relatively hairless.

“It’s just a shirt.”

But to people like Nat, it’s much more than that.

“He’s lucky he didn’t get an empty gas bottle to the dome,” said Nat.

“Fuck man, it’s the one thing we have that they don’t. You can’t buy them, they just fucken give them to you if you spend a shitload there. I just hate it, man,”

“But something about that little cunt just set me off. He’s never had to break shit up and throw it in a skip all day while your maniac boss docks your time while you take a shit. He’s never got gummed up on the fucking gak and fuck-eyed on the grog then drank drove to work at dawn and punched out a fucking 12 hour day in the sun. He’s just played fucking tummy sticks with his mates at uni,”

“There’s so much blood, sweat and gak in those Bunnings Trade shirts. It’s ours.”

More to come.


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