ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large| Contact
“Ok, fuckstick,” said NSW Premier Dominic Perrottet.
“I’m not going down for this. You are.”
Earlier today, the de facto leader of the nation’s most populous state told his deputy Stuart Ayres that he was going to go down for this whole Barilaro business because there’s a plum trade job waiting for him.
Stuart mulled the offer.
“I guess one of us has to go down for this, don’t we?” he said.
“OK, I’ll take the heat off the government but I want one of those jobs for the boys jobs. Somewhere overseas. Somewhere nice and warm. Not America. It’s like the last days of Rome over there right now. It’s dog meat dressed as mutton that place,”
“Actually, can you make me the New South Wales Trade Comissioner to Spain or Italy? That wouldn’t be too bad. Greece is a bit grim in winter. Hong Kong would’ve been great but you know, it’s not the same anymore. Japan gets too cold. Singapore is nice if you’re a nerd and don’t like to get on the neck oil and cause mischief. I’d get canned there for sure and I’m too old to be flogged half to death with a kendo stick by some Singaporean policeman. It’d just about to be in.”
The Premier nodded.
“Where do you reckon? What about Darwin? Actually, fuck that. I want to be able to visit a beach and not get my heart’s power cord ripped out of the wall by some invisible jellyfish or be eaten by some giant crocodile. What about India?”
The Premier shook his head.
“Knowing you, it’d turn your digesting system into a wind tunnel. Coupled with your fear of using public toilets, I don’t think it’d work for you,” he said.
Mr Ayres smiled.
“True. I hate having to drive home each time I need to go boom boom.”
More to come.