ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact

Being the friendly country gentleman his friends and family love and respect, a 63-year-old Bourke grazier introduced himself to a hip young man in deepest Newtown this morning because he noticed he was also wearing a pair of old riding boots.

Thinking he’d found a new mate to shoot the shit with while he waited for his long black out on the King Street footpath, Michael Cottonwell, of “Ucharonidge” via Hungerford, asked the bloke where he was from.

“Avalon, bro.” said 21-year-old design student Mitchell Beam, who stood next to Mr Cottonwell out the front of the popular Green Pigeon Cafe.

“Ah right. My youngest has just moved in around the corner here. Sam Cottonwell his name is. You know him?” asked Michael to an increasingly confused Mitchell.

“Where’s Avalon, mate? Sounds like it’s down in the cold country down south. Did you get any out of the last front to come through? We didn’t get a whole lot up in Bourke, you see, but I’ve heard it was quite wet down south.”

“Nah, brus. Avalon’s up on the beaches, dude. Get any what? Rain?” said Mitchell.

“Yeah righto. Nah, mate sorry. I thought you were from the bush you see, on the count of your choice in footwear. Nice to meet you, Mitchell, hopefully I’ll see you around the neighbourhood.”

Returning to his son’s nearby unrenovated terrace, Michael explained what happened at the cafe while he enjoyed a dart in the back yard with his boy.

“Mate, this gangly-looking cunt down the cafe was wearing a pair of RMs, so I tried talking to the cunt and it turns out he’s from the fucking beach.” said Michael.

“Yeah, Dad. Every cunt down here wears them. You can hear the clip-clopping everywhere you go.” said Sam.

“Well I’ll be fucked.”


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