ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
He’s told just about everyone so far but there’s one person he hasn’t told about his new health kick.
In his own words, that person is himself.
“I’m on a grog holiday,” he said to nobody in particular.
In the hours before an Origin showdown, he wasn’t expecting much of a rise out of his thirsty coworkers – all eyeing off the free beer chilling in the kitchenette fridge.
For Mabel Foster, these types of office drinks parties are now much more laborious that they need to be because of his newfound teetotaling.
As it’s past five on a a Friday, he had fair thirst building in the back of this throat but somehow the thirst didn’t reach up into his frayed mind.
“I need a drink,” he thought to himself.
So he slipped out, rode the ThyssenKrupp down to ground and walked into the newsagency across the road.
However, this wasn’t a European newsagency, there weren’t any beers, cigarettes of ribbed condoms to be seen. Just soft drinks, stationery and broken dreams of a bygone era.
Mabel looked the fridges up and down then smiled.
He opened the door and pulled a longneck of sparkling Italian mineral water from the fridge and read the label.
“Yes, this will do,” he said to himself.
Looking down at the price, he smiled to himself again.
“$8.30, it must be good.”
Stepping back out onto Mulbury Road, Foster cracked the top and had a deep, pensive swig from the bottle and made sure to ‘ahhh’ on the way out.
“This is fucking fantastic,” he said.
More to come.
