THE MARGARET RIVER ASHES
Struth, that first match was as tight as a kangaroo’s backside in a sandstorm, not much to split between the two soldiers and it was all to play for at Margaret River. We shot down there in the utes, flat out like a lizard drinking as the decider was all set for 3pm at main break on Saturday arvo. ‘Cartons’ Carter knew the WA afternoon glare could be too bright for him to spot all the moves from the Marg’s mezzanine decking. On top of that weak as chips excuse, Carter reckoned he’d been bitten by mozzies last time he sat up there. I knew the real deal, the local yokels had warned him off for not paying his beer tabs; I’m not surprised, Carter’s so tight I reckon he’s got mousetraps in his pockets! ‘I am going to need a chopper’ he declared, crikey he’s not backward in coming forward either I tell ya. Rather than have Carter go ‘tropo’ and madder than a bag of spiders, we gave in to him and his diva demands.