It’s a Saturday night in the autumn of 2012. I’m in a car driven by one of my besties. Josh Exton. What a handsome son of a bitch. Chin jaw. Wavy brown hair. Lips like a barracouta.
It’s the night of Heleena and Philip’s wedding. The night is crisp. Smith Street is awash with its usual cast of characters. I make my way up to the venue, dodging a volley of VB stubbies thrown by the nearby hobos.