ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
Telling himself this time yesterday that he’d be home tucked in bed by 9, a now-broken pub chef spoke to our reporters briefly while he popped down the road to his local shops to get some supplies.
“Yeah, it was pretty large,” said Brett Douglas as he gulped down a red Powerade, his least favourite flavour.
“Got back at like 6 this morning from Fred’s [popular nightclub] in the Old City District. Went to go see a mate DJ. Good night, but.”
When asked what he planned to do for the rest of the day, the 23-year-old said he planned to spend it like any other Saturday.
He was to prepare for a night’s work down at the Dolphins Leagues Club by sleeping and resting as much as he could.
“I actually feel pretty good. Me and my two housemates went down to the quarry this morning and had a dip. They’re back on the beers now listening to the Hottest 100, don’t know how they do it. But man, you should’ve seen Sam my housemate try and do a backflip off the jump rock this morning,”
“He fucked the whole thing up and landed flat on his back. It was the funniest fucking thing. When he came up to the surface and we knew he wasn’t dead, we all just stood there laughing at him. Man, he was just moaning and bobbing, trying not to drown. Oh bro, you had to be there.”
Brett pulled himself together, shook our reporter’s hand and began skating down the middle of the road back to his French Quarter share house.
More to come.
