Mike and Yvonne were 85, married for sixty years,
and tighter than a new pair of R.M. Williams boots. They weren't exactly rolling in it, but they’d managed to get by by being absolute legends at DIY and "watching the cents so the dollars take care of themselves."
They were fit as buckeye, too—mostly because Yvonne had spent the last decade swapping Mike’s steak and cheese pies for kale smoothies and daily walks.
Then, total shocker: their plane went down on a trip to the Islands. Nek minnit, they’re standing at the Pearly Gates.
St. Peter shows them to this massive mansion—gold fittings, silk sheets, and a fridge stocked with better kai than a Christmas buffet. "Welcome to Paradise," says Pete. "This is your new local."
Mike, suspicious as always, asks, "Right, what’s the catch? What’s the damage per week?"
"Nothing, mate," St. Peter grins. "It’s all on the house. Reward for a good life."
Mike looks out the window and sees a golf course that makes Tara Iti look like a backyard paddock. "And the green fees?" he grumbles.
"Free as the air, bro. Play 18 holes every day if you want."
They head to the clubhouse where the buffet is mental—prawns, roast lamb, pavlova, the works. Mike starts looking for the low-fat labels and the decaf tea. St. Peter just laughs. "Nah, Mike. In Heaven, you can smash as many pies and beers as you want. You won't get a gut, your blood pressure’s sweet, and you’ll never feel choice-er."
"No gym?" Mike asks.
"Only if you’re a glutton for punishment," says Pete.
Mike turns to Yvonne, face redder than a cooked crayfish, and snaps:
"You and your bloody bran flakes! We could’ve been here ten years ago if it wasn't for you!"
They were fit as buckeye, too—mostly because Yvonne had spent the last decade swapping Mike’s steak and cheese pies for kale smoothies and daily walks.
Then, total shocker: their plane went down on a trip to the Islands. Nek minnit, they’re standing at the Pearly Gates.
St. Peter shows them to this massive mansion—gold fittings, silk sheets, and a fridge stocked with better kai than a Christmas buffet. "Welcome to Paradise," says Pete. "This is your new local."
Mike, suspicious as always, asks, "Right, what’s the catch? What’s the damage per week?"
"Nothing, mate," St. Peter grins. "It’s all on the house. Reward for a good life."
Mike looks out the window and sees a golf course that makes Tara Iti look like a backyard paddock. "And the green fees?" he grumbles.
"Free as the air, bro. Play 18 holes every day if you want."
They head to the clubhouse where the buffet is mental—prawns, roast lamb, pavlova, the works. Mike starts looking for the low-fat labels and the decaf tea. St. Peter just laughs. "Nah, Mike. In Heaven, you can smash as many pies and beers as you want. You won't get a gut, your blood pressure’s sweet, and you’ll never feel choice-er."
"No gym?" Mike asks.
"Only if you’re a glutton for punishment," says Pete.
Mike turns to Yvonne, face redder than a cooked crayfish, and snaps:
"You and your bloody bran flakes! We could’ve been here ten years ago if it wasn't for you!"
