ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A banker’s son currently living rough for the first time in our town’s French Quarter has had a Cinderella moment this morning and slipped his little size 7 feet into a pair of brand new Doc Martins.
They’re low-cut, double sole ones, he tells our reporter this morning.
He loves them.
With a small amount of shame in his voice, he said he was only little. He had small hands and feet but real false sense of confidence that you can only get from going to an expensive school that places mediocority on a pedastal.
Liam Jenkins is living in a sharehouse on Rue de Branlette, with other fuckwits that sound and look just like him. The area, once upon a time, was quite rough but a few decades ago, large swathes of yuppie mutt dog cunts came down from Betoota Heights and decided the property price and pedestrian commute to the office was worth the risk of living around marginalised people who went to a government school.
“I’ve tried a few different types of shoe,” he said, swirling his jumbo flat white as he speaks to our reporter at the Pisse Dans Ma Poche Cafe near his home.
“Dunlop Volleys – the chunky $90 version. Not the povo ones that roofers wear. I’ve tried an old pair of RM Williams boots. I wore them for a bit. I even tied a bit of string through the pull loops and dragged them behind my Mum’s old BMW for a bit. Scuffed them right up good,”
“But none of them boosted me up, literally, like these Doc Martins. They were pretty expensive but I keep telling myself to buy quality – and the fact Gran’s on the way out and she’s leaving us all enough to buy a house with,”
“So it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
More to come.
