Long long ago, before ekweleks and I hit the procircuit and went full factory Petzl and Teva we were real fucking dirtbags. Nobody showered, nobody carried babywipes and the idea of gloves was beyond comprehension. That's how draining was back in the day. None of this modern LED torch tech or headlamps, just dirt ass kids with crappy plastic dolphins and batteries stolen from council warning lights.
We weren't chasing fame but our conquests drew attention and unsurprisingly Picture Mag came knocking on our door. For the unfamiliar Picture is cherished by construction workers, crane operators and tumbleweed makers everywhere as the pinnacle of cheap pornography. Stretch marks, crooked teeth, home gals (and home blokes), dirty local shielas. When you climb exhausted into the cabin of a construction crane and slump breathlessly into the operators chair you can bet your ass a sticky, well loved Picture Magazine will be there to greet you. It's top fucking notch mate. In short Picture Mag wants us, little old brisbane clan to be pimps. Can WE be pimps? Shit son we got that shit on tap. Bats, gats, clits, tits and clips we own all that shit.