You know the lick of a clean urinal? Clean, I mean, with the big lollies down the trough at the bottom. That lovely reassuring whiff of clean? Take your taxi cab. Before the hyper-normal-smelling Punjabis took over the cabs and made them clean, most taxis smelt like a dirty public toilet, even though we don’t smoke ’em up anymore on account of the law replacing the lure and the lore. Then you got one that smelt like a clean toilet, usually because of that little blotting paper Christmas tree swinging by its neck from the rear view mirror, exuding the overwhelming stink of clean. Whatter you gonna do? Which taxi are you gonna drink? I’ll never forget the floral bouquet of the cab the Hon. Tom Koutsantonis MP drove for Bill Gonas’s Adelaide Independent when he’d shuttle me between the Exeter Thirst Emporium and the square named after the first bloke in South Australia to get a knighthood, where I sometimes slept. Tom sweated a lot in his neat poly uniform in the summer, and in the winter, too, for that matter, but you could depend on him getting you there quick. He was a man on the make. When he became the Minister for Road Safety a bit later on, and somebody advised the electorate of some 58 traffic offences and over $10,000 of unpaid fines, they fired him from Road Safety and put him in charge of everything radioactive, like the world’s biggest uranium mine. So bugger this wine. Tom’s clean now, he's doing a really good job, and I wanna drink the uranium mine. I was in that business. It’ll have a longer finish.
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