ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
It’s the 28th of December and Betoota Heights sexagenarian Harry Acolon is wondering when his useless bloody youngest son with go back to his own home.
With the indignity of Christmas come and gone, it’s now time for things to return to normal but they haven’t for Acolon. He’s still looking at son Phil, slumped shirtless and full of ham on the Nick Scali.
It’s not the first time, however, that Harry has found himself in this position.
When Phil was a school leaver, Harry waited and waited for him to get a job and begin his studies but he really didn’t neither. That was until his daughter, Meg, offered him one as a dish pig at her cafe in the French Quarter.
“To his credit, he did work there for a bit,” he said.
“Until his brother in law whipped him on the tit with a tea towel when he was carrying a tub of cutlery he’d just polished. The tip of the tea towel was wet, too, and it actually split his nipple in half like a poorly cracked egg. Pretty rough and my eldest two boys Rob and Mick went and sorted him out. Nothing too bad, they just flogged Meg’s husband about the head and face with a set of doubled over jumper leads until he apologised,”
“But that was then and this is now. Phil needs to go home, back to bloody Brisbane. I thought he’d have a reason to go back but I guess it’s nice up here, sitting in my air conditioning, eating my ham.”
More to come.
