ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
He was already annoyed at having to work on a Saturday, but things were about to get a whole lot worse for one North Betoota courier.
As he hugs his Caroma Sovereign Trident toilet this afternoon, 39-year-old Bert Liston can feel the hand of Satan slithering through his insides – looking for a way out.
Pressed for time, the Scorpio ducked into his local tavern at around 8pm last night for a spot of tea and a couple of pints of bitter before choosing to have an early one.
“They do a good feed down at the Dolphins Club,” said Liston. “Reasonably priced and tasty. Can’t complain.”
Ordering his one of his favourite dishes, the chicken parmigiana, Bert hoped to be in an hour in about an hour, but time simply got away from him.
“The food came out late, took those fricken backpackers in the kitchen almost an hour to get me breaded bird from the freezer into my gullet,” he explained.
“It was a bit pink when it came out but I was just so hungry, I didn’t care. I just powered through the pink parts and washed it all down with a double Turkey lemonade and got back in my van feeling refreshed and impaired.”
However, in the early hours of this morning, Bert started feeling a bit crook. Driving back home towards the Old City District, Mr Liston began slipping in and out of consciousness.
Arriving home after sideswiping 37 cars, he collapsed on the floor of his Betoota Heights duplex and almost Hendrix-ed himself on the rug. Dragging his way to the powder room as he described it, Bert spoke to The Advocate via telephone.
“Yeah mate, I shouldn’t have eaten that medium-rare chicken. I suspect I may have blood poisoning or something to that description. I feel crook, mate.” he said.
More to come.
Parma not parmigiana. Come on.
Serves him right, should have had a mixed grill instead of that Victorian pub crap.