When I woke up this morning, when I greeted the grey and made my way to uni, I got a phone call. Today, an old friend passed away.
I couldn’t believe my ears. My blood ran cold, I got a white hot feeling in my chest and my heart broke. My friend and occasional partner in crime passed away. Man, I couldn’t process it, I still can’t and I can only imagine how his brothers are feeling. Moey, Harley. My thoughts are with you.
I have no idea how we met actually. But I think it was high school. Either way Roland would have said “Well met” in both standards.
Year 8. 2000. Hyperactive Farm and Mick running around pumped as all fuck for no apparent reason. Let me tell you why, we were fucking kings. We had life by its miniscule nuts and we were gonna squeeze hard. Believe me. Squeeze those mother fuckers till they pop, then squeeze some more.
2001. Year 9. Another reason for brothers to get together and cause mayhem. Year 9. Rebellious and testosterone fueled. Ain’t no fucking around, we grabbed the bikes, hit the Wollo BMX track and shred skin on packed clay and dirt. Chipped teeth, mouthfuls of blood and No Handers over the Tree Jump. Think you got balls? Mick’s are bigger. I’ve seen this guy scale up the side of a Shopping Centre, pissed as fuck with cask of goon in hand.
I could tell countless stories you wouldn’t believe, nor would they be appropriate, but another time and place. Mickoz, Rest in peace and rest assured your madness will always be honoured. Everytime I go for a ride or a skate, I’ll do a push for you. Farm out. Peace.