ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
There are two things Betoota Heights local Gregory Funk hates in life.
One is the police and the other is consuming cheap, bargain barrel brain varnish.
When the sun is up, at least, there’s a sense of decorum about what liver cleaner he tips down his gullet.
He spoke to our reporter just a while ago inside the bowels of the Jones Avenue Thirsty Camel where he let The Advocate in on a top-secret fact about one of the nation’s most popular imported beer.
“Hey!” he said a bit too loudly for where he was.
“Come over here, you brown-eyed fuck! You see this shit here?”
Mr Funk held a six-pack of Asahi out in front of his shaking frame.
“When you buy this particular fucking neck oil, my son, you need to make sure it’s not the shit that’s brewed in China. That’ll give you a worse gut ache than a Honk Kong policeman struggling to contain a calm crowd! Fucking pow-pow in your tum-tum!”
He made a crude finger pistol and thrust it against our reporter’s pathetically soft thorax.
“They’ll fucking get you, those fucking Hong Kong policemen! They’re not even from the island! They’re from the place where this rancid shit is brewed! Guangzhou!”
“These is the Asahi you don’t want. These fucking Guangzhou Golds are rubbish, my son.”
A stubby then fell through the bottom of the cardboard six-pack holder and popped open on the floor. It was too fast for either of us to do anything. A lethargic white snake of foam shot up into the air and onto Mr Funk’s bloated face.
“It’s a fucking boy, Errol! It’s a fucking boy!”
The shop attendant went to do something, before realising it was Gregory Funk who dropped the bottle.
She went back to doing the Good Weekend quiz by herself. It wasn’t worth it.
“Hey! Come over here, you brown-eyed fuck! You see this shit here? Don’t worry, it’s not sweat or blood, it’s just a bit of beer!”
“You want this shit, not the Chinese-brewed stuff.”
Mr Funk offered up the five-pack for our reporter to inspect.
“These are Tokyo TEDs, mate. The good shit. Always check to see if it’s imported. Now get out of my fucking way, I’m late.”
He started off walking the other way, into the cool room. Greg took a seat inside the coolroom on a half-pallet of Betoota Bitter and nodded off.
The shop attendant sighed and phoned the police.
More to come.
