ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
There is a house on Greenpoint Road in Betoota Heights in which four bags of shit live.
Not because they want to – but because they need to.
Within the walls of number 21, these young white cis-gendered heterosexual middle-class warriors often get up to no good.
Banjo, Gregory, Colin and Stanley love to blow off steam any way they can.
Bags of meth moonlighting as cocaine. Cleanskin red. The reefer.
Anything.
Which is why they often return home in a state of extreme disrepair.
And the part of the house that bores the brunt of there lifestyles is the area around the front door lock.
The scars, dents and scratches around the keyhole is a testament to that.
Speaking candidly to The Advocate this morning through a mild hangover, Gregory said he hadn’t noticed the state of the front door – but now that our reporter brings it up, he feels it’s a ‘great insight’ into the types of lives he and the other boys live.
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his right eye with the ball of his left palm.
“I guess that’s a pretty good representation of who we are. The state of the front door lock. It’s a prima facia case. What’s the point in living if you don’t feel alive? I feel alive by getting absolutely twisted on drugs and alcohol at every opportunity I have,”
“And I guess by the time the little homing pigeon in my head gets me home, getting the key in the front door proves to be a challenge. Res ipsa loquitur, let the good times roll.”
More to come.
