So What Do You Reckon? Page 3

  If Skase is so smart and so popular why doesn’t he put the snip on some of the fleas who come to his parties for a grand or two? Hah! These people wouldn’t give you the steam off their turds.

  Eileen Bond spends more than 100 workers would earn in a lifetime throwing the same sort of parties. For what? So Trixie or Dixie or whatever her name is and Alan and Christopher can stand round in their evening gowns and tuxedos getting their rocks off out of a lot of social cockroaches dagging them.

  These people are supposed to be icons of Australian business, and if you knock them in any way it’s the tall poppy syndrome and you’re a nark.

  But look at it this way. If Alan Bond and the rest of those ego-tripping Perth millionaires hadn’t wasted their time with the America’s Cup, Ralph Sarich would probably still be in Australia building his orbital engines.

  If Christopher Skase had bulldozed only one house instead of three to build his mansion we’d probably have a treatment for multiple sclerosis.

  If Alan Bond hadn’t bought Irises we’d more than likely have a cure for cancer.

  But then why bother with mundane things for the short daisies when you can build monuments to your ego and be Jack The Lad in front of a horde of gushing sycophants?

  How do you know when you’re a fair dinkum Australian? I reckon it’s when people who don’t know your address can contact you at your local TAB.

  When you walk into the TAB and the manager says there’s a letter for you, I reckon you’re dead set, one of the boys. You’re true blue.

  I got a letter at the TAB the other week. From Lancashire, England. And, from of all blokes, John Monie, the ex-Parramatta football coach.

  He said he liked my first book. It reminded him of home. He missed Terrigal but England was still good and the locals were looking after him.

  It was a good letter all round and I replied immediately because John Monie’s a real good bloke. Except for one thing. His @!%#*#! tips.

  I met John Monie at the Terrigal TAB and good bloke or not, it was one of the worst things I ever did in my life.

  You see, I love a bet and so does John and every time he’d see me he always seemed to have one going. If not him it was ‘Sterlo’ (Peter Sterling) or ‘The Crow’ (Mick Cronin) or he got the whisper from the team masseur whose brother was the trainer. And what could a mug punter like me do but bow to better judgment?

  Now I admit, when it comes to picking winners, I couldn’t tip water out of my shoe. But fair dinkum, Monie gave me more bad tips than a box full of rotten asparagus.

  Yet every time I’d walk into the TAB there would be Monie and his brother stuffing all the chops in their kicks saying they had one going at Kembla or Werribee and giving me that old surfie line: ‘You should have been here earlier.’

  Another interesting person I met at Terrigal TAB was Frank Hardy. He was renting a place at the time not far from mine while working on a play.

  I spotted him out of the corner of my eye and thought, ‘Hey, that’s bloody Frank Hardy the author’.

  I wanted to meet him because even though he’s reputed to be an old commo and a bit of a lemon, he’s still the man who wrote Power Without Glory, the Australian classic.

  Ever met Frank Hardy? A complete stranger going up to or approaching Frank is like stepping into someone’s backyard and they’ve got one of those bull-necked, blue heeler cattle dogs tied up in there. It’s been kicked and starved and the kids across the road have been throwing rocks at it. The day you walk in it’s just broken its chain.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said politely. ‘Are you Mr Hardy the writer?’ ‘Grrrowrr! Arrggh! Rowf, rowf, snarl, grrrr!’

  ‘I read Power Without Glory and saw it on the ABC. It was great.’

  ‘Snarl, snark, arrggh! Rowf, rowf, grrrrr, arrgh! Rowf, rowf, aaarrrggghhh!’

  ‘Well, thanks Mr Hardy. It’s been nice talking to you. I’ll see you later.’

  I left after my first encounter with Frank Hardy minus the backside out of my jeans, part of my arm missing and needing about 25 stitches in my arse. But it wasn’t just me.

  Frank and his pipe had just about everybody in the TAB, including the staff, terrified. He was a monster. He’d stuff up bets, get there late for races, lose his tickets and it was everybody’s fault but his own.

  One thing I did notice; the bastard used to win a lot more money than me. I played Frank pretty wide.

  Then one day, completely out of the blue, Frank was nice to me. He walked up to me and said, ‘I didn’t know you were an actor.’

  Well, I’m not. But I can run half a dozen words together and now and again I get a run in a soapie or something — generally as a heavy, a moron or a drunk in a pub.

  ‘I saw you in The Lizard King on the ABC the other night,’ he said. ‘You were very good.’

  I thought, Frank’s definitely putting something in that pipe besides Dutch Old Flake. Then I remembered the show and how Frank was now into writing plays.

  I had a few lines as a grazier called Forhay, running around in an Akubra hat, moleskins and R.M. Williams boots.

  Anyway, Frank must have figured I was a bit of an artsy-fartsy actor and he was almost civil to me after that. But actor, writer or whatever, both he and Monie were convinced I was a definite mug punter and treated me accordingly.

  But I got even on both the bastards one day. I kicked their arses from one end of the TAB to the other.

  It was a Brisbane meeting and a horse called In The Limelight. I don’t know how I picked it and there was a 5/2-on favourite in the race.

  It was like a voice from the heavens saying: ‘Bob, they’re gonna pull the favourite up. Go for the lightweight with the Sydney jockey.’ I’d just fluked a quinella, so I had plenty to throw on it.

  Monie asked me what I’d backed and when he saw what it was paying on the teletext he sniggered louder than ever.

  I even tried to tell Frank I thought it was a good thing. He saw the teletext, looked at me like I was something left over from a garbage strike and, after almost suffocating me in a cloud of pipe smoke, went back to abusing the staff.

  Monie was sitting next to me and Frank was right in front of the TV when the favourite dropped dead and In The Limelight came off the rails to win by almost two lengths. It paid $54 for a win and $9 for a place. And that’s gospel.

  Frank almost swallowed his pipe. Monie looked at me like I was the Messiah.

  I had $50 bills coming out my ears. I was in that good a mood I even shouted John lunch. As we were marching up Campbell Crescent, like two grenadier guards, I spotted Frank getting into his car and he looked at me across the roof, shook his head and smiled.

  It was a big day for me I can tell you.

  I’m certain it was the first time I’ve ever shouted anyone lunch in my life. And it was definitely the first time I’ve ever seen Frank Hardy smile.

  Less enlightened women who read my column could possibly misconstrue it at times as being sexist or chauvinistic.

  Not really. It’s just that at times, I don’t believe this equality of the sexes is 100 per cent correct.

  One thing I do share with women, however, is an abhorrence of rape or violent sexual abuse. I think any man who rapes a woman should be gaoled.

  And as for those creatures involved in crimes like the Anita Cobby or Janine Balding cases — not only do I believe in capital punishment, I think they should be castrated then burnt at the stake.

  But I’d like to report on two cases of sexual assault where charges were never laid. Perhaps they should’ve been.

  The first involves a mate of mine, John, who works for an airline company.

  He had an affair with a stewardess; let’s call her Miss X.

  After a while the affair soured. John wanted out. Miss X persisted.

  Arguments and acrimony evolved.

  They culminated in Miss X coming round to John’s place one night half-drunk and carrying a bottle of wine and demanding to be let in: she was horny.

  J
ohn told her to piss off. Miss X stood on his verandah abusing him so John went out to reason with her, got more abuse and hit over the head with the bottle for his trouble.

  With Miss X still abusing him, John went inside to clean up the blood and, rather than be a cad and belt her in the mouth, he called the police.

  When the desk sergeant asked how many men there were and John replied ‘one woman’, he laughed.

  By the time they got there, Miss X had decamped and the police, who were less than amused at John’s story, were seriously thinking of booking him for causing a public mischief.

  The next case concerns yours truly — balding, overweight hack writer R.G. Barrett.

  Before the nice people moved in next door, the house was rented to a team of cretinous surfies downstairs and a bunch of half-baked, liberated women upstairs.

  The liberated women didn’t mind a drink or a party. A number of men and cars came and went. I’d say that, even though the girls were only rooting for their friends, in six months they never made an enemy in NSW.

  When they found out I was a writer, single and presumably rich, they were always inviting me in for a drink. But I played them wide.

  I knew once I started going into their place they’d be in mine and I’d never get them out.

  The more they asked, the more I refused. Which really burnt their arses.

  One in particular, not a bad sort but completely Yarramugundi, fancied me.

  But still I kept my celibate resolve. A polite-but-firm no — even when she’d come knocking on my door smelling of Arpel and her tits bulging out of her tank top like Graham Kennedy’s eyes.

  Eventually I found out the new owners were moving in and the women were going, so rather than be a complete snob and a suspected poof I thought I’d go in. One night, with a few cans of beer, I did.

  It was as I suspected. Dirty dishes everywhere and mould on the fridge. The conversation was reasonable but, all up, not my cup of tea.

  I shared my beers and politely took my leave.

  The nutter who fancied me said she’d walk me home.

  To which I replied, it’s only next door, I can catch a cab, don’t worry about it.

  She persisted and when we got to my front door she pounced. She literally kicked the door open, ripped off my gear, and hers, and bonked me on the loungeroom floor.

  I barely had time to get over the first one when she gave me another serve, which went from the loungeroom to the front room.

  I finally managed to get her out of the house but she returned, foaming at the mouth at seven the next morning.

  After that it was on. I’d be laying back watching TV or reading a book and crash! Up would go the roller door in the garage and there would be Fatal Attractions, primed-up on flagon wine and ready for another six-rounder.

  Now I don’t mind a bit of the other. I love it. But not on Sunday afternoon during the semis. And definitely not right on half-time when Balmain and Manly are 16–all. Nor during Dr Who or Minder.

  There was definitely no affection there, let alone any love, and it was just getting to be plain hard work.

  I decided to break off the engagement. Christ! Talk about hell hath no fury. I thought for sure she was going to set fire to my house and in her myopic rage try to castrate poor old Beryl, the old tabby that hangs around my place thinking she’s a torn.

  Anyway they moved out and that was almost that.

  The finale was me bumping into Fatal Attractions one night in a bar with two of her girlfriends: a couple of mealy-mouthed, post-graduate lesbians with a lot of hang-ups.

  I didn’t ignore her, but I certainly didn’t lay out the welcome mat either.

  She sooled the two girlfriends onto me and I copped their drinks over my head then Fatal Attractions kicked me in the nuts. I left.

  The reason I’m writing this, however, is not to brag about myself or my mate John’s sex life or the hypnotic effect we have over women.

  What if the tables had been reversed? What if my mate John had gone round to Miss X’s house demanding a Wellington then, after getting knocked back, abused her and hit her over the head with a bottle?

  He’d have got two years. And what about if I, after practically raping the girl next door, had repeatedly gone back to her house and forced her to have sex with me against her will then when she finally got rid of me I abused her in a bar and got two mates to throw beers over her and then I kicked her in the lamington?

  Knowing my form, I’d have got 15 years.

  But I never went to the police. Being old school, I’m not into shelving people.

  I just accepted that this is more of the double standard we poor, heterosexual Aussie males are forced to live under. Perhaps I should’ve shelved them.

  My life is ruined. What decent, self-respecting woman would want me now?

  Somebody asked me the other day what I thought of the drug problem and the drug laws in NSW.

  Well, someone a lot more upstanding in the community and a lot more intelligent than myself answered this for me.

  A good man, Judge Rod Madgwick, had to sentence Christopher Withell of Kyogle, a citizen of good character according to his Honour, to three months in gaol and a three-year good behaviour bond for cultivation and possession of marijuana.

  In reluctantly sentencing Withell, Madgwick said the law had to be respected ‘even when the law is controversial, smacks of hypocrisy and when the judge himself believes the law ought to be changed’.

  And he added his voice to those who believed it was time to review the law when it came to people caught in possession of marijuana.

  Well, I don’t know whether this will ruin my reputation or have me declared a communist radical or an enemy of the state, but I have to agree with Madgwick. In fact, I’ll go one better and say that as far as I’m concerned the law stinks worse than lobster bait and so do some of the people making and enforcing it.

  There’s that much heroin, cocaine, speed and ecstasy around, it’s cheaper than ever and the pushers will throw in a dozen green stamps and an electric toaster with every deal you buy. Yet you can’t buy a bag of pot for love nor money.

  The pushers are driving around in their Mercedes, with their gold chains, doing property deals and business as usual. Yet the only people being arrested are ordinary working people and a few hippies or alternative life-stylers living in the bush. Heroin addicts, whose only claim to fame is breaking into houses and bashing old ladies for their handbags, get free methadone, needles, money, and all the sympathy in the world.

  Anyone caught with a bit of pot is hounded and sent to prison, where — with truth in sentencing, which is 25 years for having a milk crate in your garage — you’re likely to finish up forever.

  How about some truth in charging? I’ll give you an idea of how an ordinary worker, a punter, can go down for a long stretch for committing no real crime at all.

  You’re a taxpayer with no criminal record. You hate heroin, the addicts and the dealers. You’re not a rich yuppie and have no desire to be seen shoving coke up your nose. Nor are you a 250kg bikie revved up on speed roaring around on a Harley.

  You like nothing more than a drink and a bit of a puff while you listen to Jimmy Barnes or The Mentals.

  You’re also sick of paying an arm and a leg for a smoke, if you can get it, so with a few seeds you’ve saved over the years, you decide to put a few plants in the backyard and have a free smoke.

  The plants are coming along nicely, about 15cm high. Then along comes Operation Dob In Your Neighbour. NOAH. And one of those wonderful things, a concerned citizen, shelves you.

  You’re watching TV with the missus and kids one night and crash-bang on the door, it’s the drug squad with guns out. They’ve more than likely brought the TRG or a SWOS group with them to give them something to do.

  They tip your house upside down while the boys in the baseball caps poke their shotguns in the kids’ faces. They find your five lousy plants and you’re dragged off to the slammer
and charged.

  But you don’t get charged with the five lousy plants. Oh no, that’d be no good on the charge sheets or for the government’s statistics. The politicians have to look like they’re doing something about the drug problem, don’t they? You get charged with five plants at $5000 a plant, plus the 10 seeds you had left over with a projected street value of another $50,000. And you’re up for drugs worth $75,000. A trafficable amount and an indictable offence.

  Get a lemon for a police prosecutor and a beak a lot less enlightened than Rod Madgwick, and you’re looking at five years, maybe more. For a charge of offending absolutely no-one and being caught with a few grams of weed that’s unsmokeable.

  And in all reality you shouldn’t even be in court in the first place, and the cops should be out busting heroin and cocaine dealers and their addicts.

  They’re the ones breaking into houses, robbing banks and mugging old ladies.

  Not only is this system of police and politicians juggling statistics disgraceful, it exacerbates the whole drug problem.

  Look at it this way — I can’t remember seeing a drug bust in the paper of less than half a million dollars in the past two years. No-one ever gets caught with a kilo of heroin, or two kilos of cocaine or pot. It’s always $50 million worth of heroin, $45 million worth of coke or marijuana plants worth $320 million. Write your own ticket and add the date.

  And the media are as much to blame for this drug sensationalism. Idiots read all this. They see dollar signs in their empty heads and go off to get involved in drugs, thinking they’ve only got to make one good score and they’re set for life. So more smack, hash and coke gets onto the streets for our kids.

  Anyway, while you’re enjoying the summer break think of Christopher Withell in gaol for doing sweet bugger all. According to the court transcripts, ‘He had no commercial motivation at all. Never profited out of the drug and had been growing it for his own use and occasionally to share with friends.’

  Not a bad bust for the police and not a bad statistic for the government. Not quite as good as that one in Wollongong where they arrested a paraplegic woman for having two hemp plants in her backyard. But a good one all the same.