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Some smart-arsed anonymous bastard sent this to me today and asked if I was keeping the seat for Kevvie.

Yeah good mate.

Everyone knows that Kevvie only works Mondays and Saturdays. He’s 103 years old the poor bugger, he can’t work 7 days a week anymore like he used to until he was 102. And anyway, he was probably resting up for Nifty Nev’s birthday party.

He’s always been partial to Moet champagne our Kevvie.  A lot of blokes are I hear.

Me?

I prefer Annie behind the bar.

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She prefers me too, in fact in the picture above she’s texting the quiet phone to ask if I reckon her outfit for our date to the Bowls Club ball looked alright. I told her yeah, but your skirt’s a bit long luv, and I prefer the navel ring in when you’re showing it.

Annie sorted it, and we had a grand old night on the green, particularly after every other bugger got pissed and passed out or went home and we had the nature’s mattress all to ourselves. Apparently though grass stains are hard to get out of white outfits, but hey I told Annie that she looked best when sitting in the saddle, so its not by bloody fault if she didn’t listen is it?

But ssshhhh! Whatever you do don’t tell the missus, because I didn’t invite her along that night – sometimes three’s a crowd, especially when the third would make four: I’ve only got two damn hand you know – so she’ll be dirty if she finds out.

Plus you might get a David Tua style punch in the head, and as one who’s copped plenty let me tell it hurts.

See Maggie doesn’t like give-up merchants, even when they’re giving the wrong person up. It’s the principle of the matter Maggie reckons, and avows its un-Australian. Only Grammar boys do that sort of thing she says.

I don’t argue with Maggie, because she’s got these cousins and nephews who ask how high when she says jump, and they’re a bit too tough for me to take on even if I was still in my prime.

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This is Maggie’s cousin and her nephews at the Fight for Life a few years back. Dean Lonergan spotted us the corporate box tickets after Dave (the bloke in the middle, they call him the Tuaman in Kiwiland) told him about what had happened to the kids Mum.

He’s a good bloke Dean Lonergan, and Jeff The Hornet’s in good hands.

I sorted out the buggers who killed the missus’ and Dave’s Auntie though. Heads of the biggest electricity company in New Zealand that lot, earning a million plus a year each.

They ended up kneeling down on a Samoan mat and begging for forgiveness in the crumbling rental house in super-poor South Auckland where their contractor killed Folole Muliaga so he could make his KPI’s and cop a performance bonus. So they f*cking should have too the c*nts.

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You don’t give people up in Geebung or abroad, even when the feathers are flying.  It’s a breach of the Polo Club code, and a breach of common bloody decency, an inviolable if you will, just It’s like paying your gambling debts.

Principles matter. To some of us anyway.

Therein ends the sermon.

Thanks be to God, or the the Duke anyway.