ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A French Quarter Corporate Johnny has walked past coverage of the US Masters today in the office and thought to himself that it was looking unseasonably green in the upper Spencer Gulf town of Port Augusta.
“Shit a brick,” he thought to himself.
“There must be half of Adelaide there – and fuck me, they’ve had some rain. Look at the place. Last time I went through there, you’d be lucky to lick a stamp in the shade. There wasn’t a blade of grass between there and Whyalla, I tell you.”
Stephen Doyle, who said he’s only the most casual of golf fan, was even more confused when he saw Tiger Woods on the TV screen.
“What the hell is Tiger doing out there? Surely they showed him a few pictures of the place before hand. I mean, it’s no Hahndorf but it’s not as grim as places like Peterborough,” he thought.
“They must be giving him the big bucks.”
But as he mulled the situation over in his head, Stephen thought it was time to try to speak to one of the four blokes pretending to do some work in front of the tele.
“You reckon they’d get a crowd that big for a Crows Port GF?” he said.
One of the blokes turned around to look at him.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” said the bloke.
Stephen pursed his little bird lips and meekly continued onto the kitchenette to reheat his fried rice lunch.
More to come.
