ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
“Mates,” prefaced Darcy Tuckwell.
“You should see what it’s like behind the scenes. None of the people you see on television do any of the work. They’re basically actors.”
The 27-year-old Betoota Heights carpenter took another sip of his Carlton-Mid while the mates he was telling the story to digested the first part of the tale.
In the hours after knock-off, the time between that and the sun going down, Darcy and his friends like to gather at the Betoota Racing Club for a few Thursday night warm-ups.
Some are professionals, others tradesmen. Few are wealthy, few are poor. But the one thing they’re all rich in is mateship and the bond of being a directionless, shit-scared 20-something just trying to keep their head above water.
“Fuck, this is better than that Iron Jack shit, isn’t it? What the fuck is a crabbing beer? Everybody knows it was a kneejerk reaction to Great Northern taking over and catching XXXX Gold while it was sleeping behind the wheel. At least you can drink Great Northern. I wouldn’t even caramelise onions with fucking Iron Wank.”
After a few muted laughs, one of Darcy’s mates suggested they get back to discussing Scott Cam’s ability to even drive a nail.
“Oh yeah. Mate, I doubt it. Heavily,” said Darcy.
“Oi, but wait on. Allow me, my friends, to regale you in a story I like to call ‘Scott Cam and the Mysteriously Dirty Half-Button Work Shirt’,”
“There was this scene they did. I did the season in Melbourne, that place in Praharn. Anyway, as the day dragged on, the script called for Scotty to lend a hand and put up a fucking door or something, I can’t remember, there’s been a lot of schooners between then and now,”
“So, the producer comes in and asks me to take my work shirt off, the one I’ve been working in all day. Naturally, I whip it off because they pay us cash and it’s a good gig. Anyway, two minutes later, it’s on Scott’s back and his putting the last screw in the hinge,”
“You wouldn’t read about it.”
More to come.
