ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A glorified content pig thought he could go back to sleep this morning for a split second after seeing he had an email from Oz Lotto in the early hours.
The email confirmed that Errol Parker, a senior journalist and editor-at-large of this masthead, was a winner in last night’s super prize draw. For a brief moment, he entertained the idea of throwing his laptop into the nearest bin and starting fresh.
However, after just 1.34 seconds, it became apparent he’d only won enough to buy an airport schooner.
Mr Parker says he was awoken this morning by a thump on the ceiling. That usually means one of the Nepalese blokes who lives upstairs has jumped out of his top bunk. The French Quarter Meriton apartments, where Parker has lived since the pandemic, are known for this particular charm. From the apartment above but one door down, he could hear the heavy-set resident walking to the bathroom. It’s obvious because, after breakfast and a coffee, the unmistakable sound of a belt buckle hitting the bathroom tiles is followed by muffled, soft moaning. Then, 20 minutes later, there’s a flush and four minutes of handwashing.
In the tower across the street, another resident seems to think the window tinting is sufficient to hide him pulling himself silly on the couch to a Bonnie Blue video before work. God knows how much that cost. The editor-at-large blames News.com.au for perpetuating this sort of Western decadence and utter degeneracy.
On the way to the Meriton complex’s aquatic centre this morning, Parker tried to forget how close he’d come to pulling the eject handle on this bullshit.
The Irish and Chinese residents were arguing over who had put shampoo in the hydrotherapy pool. They’re quickly learning how to be Australian. It’s always someone else’s fault. Whether it’s an inbred from Roscommon or a spy from Guanzhong, the blame is deflected. On to a whole other race of people. After a quick shower, Parker headed into the sauna.
How would he have spent $40 million? He closed his eyes in the wet heat. A house in Sunshine Beach. Nothing too silly. Back from the beach a bit but close to the surf club. A used but well-maintained Lexus LX450d. A 1997 Porsche 911 Turbo 993. In gunmetal grey or something else different but discrete. A diverse and balanced share portfolio. A cash account making 5%. Commercial real estate. Non-grey market cigarettes.
The sauna door opened, and a dickhead stood there in a towel, staring at his phone. The Russian guy on the top bench with his head against the roof yelled at him in no particular language, and the bloke quickly jumped in and apologised. Christ, it was the guy from the couch. Now he wanted to talk.
Into the coldest pool, the lap pool. The chlorine was strong today. He held his breath and pretended he was a dead body in a river for 60 seconds. Back under the shower and back to the unit.
Which flammable $299 suit was he going to wear today? The one with pinstripes. Fuck it. It fits like a pair of communal cricket pads. On the trolleybus now, on the way to the Old City, where The Advocate’s Daroo Street newsroom has been for over 100 years. From the bus, he saw Clancy picking his nose at the lights in his 2017 Range Rover Evoque Convertible. Lucky the top was up.
Outside the office, a man selling Big Issue magazines asked if he’d like one.
“No thanks, I already have a lot of them,” Parker replied.
More to come.
