ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
JUST A WEEK OR TWO AFTER he was made a senior portfolio manager at his boutique Martin Place private asset management firm, Michael McAlister said he treated himself to a new suit.
Not just any bit of common rag, this one was different.
Sourced from the finest merino wool and stitched together by the most-skilled of tailors, he was looking every part the piece as he emerged from Martin Place train station. Glancing down at his watch, he failed to see the egg hurtling toward him.
“They ruined it, my suit looked like some Tarocash disposable. The dry cleaner had to wet wash it, shrinking it slightly,” he said.
“I had to lose a kilo for it to fit properly again. The cunt. But we got him, the cops hit him so hard across the head with a baton that I don’t think he’s been able to find any real work since,”
“We’re [the male trading floor executives] going to Ryan’s Bar this afternoon to celebrate that.”
But that’s not all they’re celebrating. It’s been six short years since a group of left-leaning, overeducated, public school wannabes camped out in the heart of Sydney to protest the sheer piggery and greed the top end of town enjoys.
The police response was swift, as each reincarnation of the shanty camp was disposed of in just a day or two – but their presence was a mild inconvenience to some financial works.
“They’d call us names as we left the office, throw shit at us. We didn’t care,” said McAlister.
“I honestly challenge them to walk in our shoes for a week, see how they like it. I tell you something for free, they’d fucking love it. But fuck ’em. I worked hard for this,”
“Anyway, we’re getting on it tonight. Wife’s taken the kids to Fiji this week, which means there will be party drugs inside me tonight. Ye haw. Come down, mate. Let me touch your dick, let’s get weird up in this bitch. Ryan’s Bar. 6pm. Yip yaaa.”
