ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A polite, happy-go-lucky pastoralist from the edge of our cosmopolitan desert community hasn’t been able to count his sheep for weeks, he says.
Each time John Graham Rawlins, of “Delga Downs” on the Durham Road, has his dogs push a mob of wethers through a gate he winds up falling asleep almost immediately.
The 28-year-old says it’s because he’s counting them through, which he tells our reporter is a habit of his.
“Even when I know how many I put in the paddock, even when I know the fence is good all around them, I can’t help but count them through the gate,” he said.
“I’ve tried everything. Counting by twos, fours, fives. I’ve even tried counting them one by one. I get to about 50 and I’m out like diabetic without his emergency jellybeans,”
“I don’t know what to do. I can count my cows no problem. Goats, can count those wookatook fucking things by the dozen. It’s just the sheep,”
“This is probably going to be the dumbest, shittest, most low-effort article you’re going to write this year. But I guess it’s news when there’s nothing else in town, hey?”
“I supposed you could write something about Harry and Megan but do people honestly give a fuck? I get that the monarchists roll up onto their shoulder-blades and shave the carrot directly onto their own face over the Royals and whatnot but does the layperson? It’s hard to fathom,”
“Mate, I don’t envy you working in the media. It’s a cunt of a job if you ask me. Give me sheep and undiagnosed narcolepsy any day over this voice recorder and notepad horse shit.”
More to come.
