The Parable Of Glenn Mcgrath’s Haircut


My mate Roger got a girl pregnant when he was fourteen.

He was so shit-scared he told me. And when he said that her dad was a cop I thought he was joking.

I told him he’s got to tell someone, and so he went and told a teacher,
and the girl eventually got an abortion.

He was fucking shitting himself, let me tell you, but six months later he was fucking around like always.

“You betta watch it” I thought to myself. But Roger was pretty fucking sure of himself.

He was the guy who first brought a block of hash to a party.

Because I was his friend I was there when he first showed it to people, and we all went down the backyard and he rolled a joint.

Where did he get it from?

My parents would have killed me if they knew. I thought we’d all turn into junkies or something if we had too much.

The last time I saw Roger was last year at the Boxing Day test.

He’d turned into such a fat, normal, yobbo cunt.

“The wife nearly didn’t let me out today” he said.

And he did all that chanting yobs do, like “Ooh, Aahh, Glenn Mcgrath”.

“It got you in the end” I thought to myself, as I looked at Roger. “Life got you in the end, pal”.

“You were such a cocky, successful winner when we were sixteen, but now you’re just another sad fat prick sitting in the MCG, high-fiving in self-congratulation, as if it’s you that had the skill and determination to play for Australia”.

It’s the cunts with the bad haircuts that you’ve got to watch out for. There’s never been a popular teenager yet who’s done rat’s with their life. It’s the fucking dorks that give it a real go.

Glenn Mcgrath got 5 for 50 that day.

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