ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact

Clip-clopping his way down the hill from the French Quarter Busway to the Financial District, one bleary-eyed city worker’s boots speak volumes for what he got up to over the weekend.

Speaking to The Advocate in the designated smoking area of the building his firm and our newspaper share, Doug Leary told our reporter that he had a quiet one over the weekend and that he didn’t do much.

“Saw a few mates on Saturday night,” he said.

“Had a few beers, watched Carlton get flogged. Saw the Sharks get beat and chuckled to myself when someone told me the U20 Wallabies got done by the fucking Welshmen. Not much else,”

“What did you get you get up to?”

That is largely irrelevant, however, our reporter then questioned Doug over the state of his over-priced, Italian-owned clip-cloppers – suggesting that the matter speckled all over them was once inside his stomach.

He frowned and took a heavy, undulating drag from his John Player Special.

“Yeah, fair play,” he said.

“I was double-parked on two pints for most of the night. My mates drink so fast. I wanted to say I was right but I felt they’d chastise me for not being able to keep up with them. Next thing I know, I’m in Subway ordered a seafood sensation on white bread with old English melted on it – seriously, don’t knock it till you try it – then all of a sudden, I’ve got my hands against a wall and I’m throwing my guts up,”

“And some of it must’ve spattered on my boots. But that’s between me and my God, which is Ricky Ponting. Anyway, nobody in my office needs to know that. I’m the fire warden, I have responsibilities.”

More to come.


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