Local Betoota Heights father of three, Scott Hawke has never forgiven himself for his wandering eyes at the 2001 Gold Coast Indy 300.

As a devout follower of the Christian faith, the 57-year-old Pharmacist knows he let down his wife, his god and himself that day.

“One of the Breaka girls walked past and I caught myself looking at her low cut bikini top” says Mr Hawke.

“I was there to watch the cars with my sons. Not the women”

However, it was after the young women walked past that this ageing evangelical recalls his most testing moment as a Christian.

“My desires told me to look back behind and oggle at her backside. But it was at that moment I remembered my obligation to Him”

“I’ll never be able to truly reconcile looking at her breasts, but at least I can find solace in the fact that I left it at that”

Since that day, Dr Hawke has maintained an exemplary standard for his now adult sons, who unbeknownst to him, smoke a quarter ounce of weed between them each week in their sharehouse several suburbs away.

Every time he and his wife leave the house for Saturday night or Sunday afternoon a service, he remembers and repents that moment.

He’s had a few close calls since then, namely the rap video incident of 2003, when his daughter accidentally left Channel V playing in the family home cinema and he was treated to the extremely explicit video clip for P Diddy and Nelly’s iconic Southern Hip Hop ballad ‘Shake Ya Tailfeather’.

But ultimately it has been a life of flawless service to His Lord.

That was until today, when Dr Hawke took a steel tow bar to the shin while cleaning his 2011 Prado in the driveway of his rendered brick 4-bedroom display home.

The hollow thud of the Class III steel hitch colliding with the front of his tibia was enough to tempt any man away from the vocabulary expected of such an orthodox man.

With his body pulsating with an uncontrollable physiological reaction to such a sharp, unexpected pain, Dr Hawke takes a deep breathe.

“AHHH FA FUCKS SAKE YOU FUCKING CUNT OF A THING!!!” he roars, in sinful explosion that echoes down the street like a gunshot.

His wife and neighbours peer out on to the street to see which house the junkie drug addict was trying to break into, but they are mistaken.

It wasn’t a junkie saying those things. It was Dr Hawke.

At time of press, a broken man sat in a heap on his well manicured lawn weeping while his wife sat inside googling mental health services in the local area.


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