The Harringtons were staying in their nan's unit, right opposite
the Superbank. The surf was big but wind-torn. I arrived in the middle
of a hungover assembly. Young fit mates sprawled everywhere: Rob
Petersen, |evon Harvey, Tony Cohen, Damon Harvey, plus a couple of
girlfriends, legs on boyfriends. Stab's handed out, I cut to the chase:
"I'm gonna take notes over the next 24 hours. If anything said or done
is too gnarly to go in the article, let me know, and I'll think about
leaving it out."
Shaun: "Nah, we don't give a fuck. Run whatever you want."
And so I am.
Twas the day after the fifth big night out in a row for the Hazza's.
The toll was starting to show. Dean looked almost as fat as me.
"I'm so rattled," Shaun kept muttering and rubbing
his head, as if he'd lost something irreplaceable he just couldn't
quite recall. "I pissed my bed last night," smiled Dean. "It made the
biggest stain." "Was your chick there?" Dean: "Yeah, she got wet."
Unlike normal jobs, it's not so easy for young pro surfers to phone in
sick. Adrian Wiseman dropped around with a selection of Nixon watches,
and Steve Sherman followed, to shoot 'em being modelled by the
not-so-zealous Hazza's. Sherm, sweating like the lone chick at a
Bulldogs barbecue, shot each twin in his own crap-strewn, beer (and
piss) reeking bedroom. He wanted them posing seedy and creepy; a state
that thankfully didn't require the greatest acting range.
Suddenly, everyone was at the window, hurling eggs at a passing car.
The driver waved his fist crazily. A chick came within inches of an
ugly splat. In the lull that followed, Dean explained the driver was
"a psycho drunk who's rung Shaun a few times, claiming to be his dad, and saying he was gonna kill our parents."
The seven-year-old youngest Harrington, Jordan, arrived for a stint of
lunch babysitting. Shaun: "Wanna have a beer?" lordan, cheekily: "Nah,
I'll have a vodka cruiser."Slowly, shoot done, everyone rallied, and we
loaded up for a BBQ. The drive detoured down a seedy Tweed back alley,
lined with brothels and brick walls thick with graffiti. We slowed, and
the boys proudly pointed out two names sprayed high and red: 'Hazza and
'Dozza.'
Young Jordan was sure impressed. "Can you take me out to do that one day?" he amped.
Shaun: "Maybe for your birthday."
Jordan beamed.
The rest of this article available in the real issue. Stab Magazine 02 - MAY / JUNE 2004
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Reply #5520 on : Wed November 26, 2008, 16:05:50