We walk past Hungry Jacks, up some stairs.

There’s a jukebox and a pool table. The woman behind the bar has thin lips, calls us ‘darlin’.’

The beer tastes like it’s been sucked through a coaster. 

Across the room, a courier drinks a middy, rests his bike against the table. His packet of B&H sits on top of a folded Telegraph, obscures Bob Brown’s face.

The toilet has a mechanical condom machine. The jukebox has six different Custard songs.

We sit in the corner. Ng’s hair is long now and Levins looks younger than I imagined. He’s modified his Gerling backpack with texta and whiteout to just say “bling.”

They come here all the time and I try not to act too impressed.

Our zine is going to be called ‘The Keen.’ Levins has drawn some comics and Ng has a bunch of ideas. I don’t know what a zine is, but I’m excited to be involved.

I look across the room. The bike courier gestures to the bar lady, then in one movement, flicks a cigarette straight into his mouth. He grins, winks. She laughs, applauds.

I look out the window. There’s an air conditioning unit, a Hungry Jack’s awning and a traffic jam on Liverpool St.

It’s 2003, it’s a Tuesday afternoon and we have a table full of dick jokes.

My schoolboy haircut’s grown out and I feel pretty cool.

Era