ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
They arrived at the Gelded Seahorse in our town’s French Quarter not long after knock off. They brought enough people to lay claim to an unreserved table right under the TV in the front bar. They bought drinks, they bought food. But as we count down the minutes to kick off, someone came to stand between them and the action.
Judging by the look of the back of his head, he was English.
That’s according to the chino-wearing warrior who sat there staring at the wrinkled mess, willing it to move with his mind.
“How can you not be that spatially aware?” he told our reporter at the urinals beneath the front bar.
“What do I do?”
The man asked this as he stood there in his suede RM boots, not pissing.
Our reporter asked if he’d tried just asking him to move and the man indicated that he hadn’t.
Upon leaving the restrooms, it became apparent that the man wasn’t English, he was just from South Australia.
He apologised and moved one school ruler to the right.
More to come.
