“It’sh bloody good of you to shhout me thish lunch, Mazzo, are you shure the paper won’t mind?”
“Nah Singo, no problemo maate. What’s the use of a corporate Amex if you can’t splash the plash on an old mate, hey?”
“Bloody solid of you, mate. Thish Grange is bloody lovely, fancy a top up? What do you want to yarn about anyway?”
“How about how we would fix the utter clushterfuck that bloody awful Kiwi woman is making of rugby? What would we do differently?”
“Bloody oath. Get the shport out of the weshstern shuburbs, for a shtart, the islandersh are ruining the shport. Remember when the Wallabies were nearly all from Joeys, apart from the couple of token Shhore twats?”
“Yesh! And what’s thish shtupid crap about shending coachesh to shtate schools? Who the fark wants public shchool oiks playing God’s own shport?”
“Don’t get me shtarted; with their parents’ crappy Holdens in Kings’ car park for gala days. Another bottle of Grange or shall we try a bottle of shticky?”
No, this article doesn’t really go like that but it’s not far off. Remember when you’d pay for a paper and read it as if it contained relevant information?
Roy Masters, filing his best copy after lunch since 1967.