HARVEY GOBLIN | Narcotics | Contact

Two happy-go-lucky local finance workers told themselves this afternoon that this weekend would be a quiet one.

Dreams of lying beside the Betoota Heights Olympic Pool, pretending to read the latest Tim Winton, perhaps even a macadamia Weiss bar when the heat of the afternoon really kicked in.

Timmy Doolan and Alec Dalton both entertained that fantasy, albeit briefly, before relinquishing their souls to the night.

The dynamic duo ran into one of our reporters

“We were about four or five pints down when Alec laughed and said we should get a bag,” said Timmy.

“But as we both thought about having a quiet one, we both laughed it off as something we would’ve done last year. Something juvenile and idiotic. We don’t need any cheap headphones tonight,”

“Anyway, mate. Cheers, love the paper. You do this country a service. Blah, blah, blah. I’m not going to piss in your pocket anymore, mate. I’ll talk to you later.”

And talk to our reporter later he did.

Moments ago, a now heavily intoxicated Alec bumped it way out of the dancefloor with half a tankard of rum down his front.

The perennially underachieving private wealth manager at Bell Potter’s small but efficient South Betoota office had one thing on his mind and one thing only.

“Hey bruz, do you have a bag number?” he coughed at our reporter.

Our reporter indicated that he did not – or at least have one he was willing to hand out like an estate agent’s business card.

Satisfied, Alec stumbled back over to Timmy, who was attempting to put a bet on.

“We need to get a number, bro,” said Alec.

“Timmy, bro. Are we getting on? If we’re not, I’m going home, bro.”

Timmy shrugged and told Alec was leaving.

More to come.






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