So What Do You Reckon? Read online

  Any coalminers, shearers, workers on building sites out there? Nurses and interns working 20-hour shifts in hospitals or even those who haven’t got a job?

  I want you all to spare a thought for our poor, beleaguered NSW public servants.

  I can remember encountering this thing called the ‘public service mentality’ on one particular occasion — very vividly.

  About five years ago a couple of mates of mine, whom I’ll call Joe and Barry, and I did a TV commercial for which we were paid $250. Not one of those glamorous Arpel or Cointreau ads. This was for the NSW Anti-Litter Campaign — Do The Right Thing.

  We were three garbos hanging off the back of a garbage truck. I was the ‘hero’ and had to run behind the truck in my stubbies with a snot-rag jammed on my head, pick up a milk carton and toss it in the scoop. After about three hours of me falling in and out of the scoop, getting covered in crap and dirt, we got it shot. And I don’t care what you say, 250 bananas for three hours of stuffing around isn’t bad dough.

  The best part, however, was we did it in North Sydney and we took a huge Esky full of icy cold beers with us. Then after it was over we went down to Berry’s Bay where another mate, Terry, had a yacht he’d built and we spent the rest of the afternoon sailing around the harbour; four old mates getting pissed and telling each other what good blokes we were.

  The following Friday night we were in a hotel talking about what a good time we’d had. We weren’t even discussing the money, just what a top day it had been all round. Standing with us was another friend Paul, a public servant who’s been with the water board since he left school and is now a grade 15 minor flunky of some description.

  Paul’s been at his desk job that long now his ears droop down around his elbows. He’s also one of those types who doesn’t like to think somebody’s done or got something better than him. He listened to our little story with disdain, then said contemptuously: ‘Well, I might not be in the same league as you movie stars. But all I know is I have to go to work tomorrow morning (Saturday) and get $168 to sit on my arse for three hours and do nothing.’

  Well, bully for you we thought. If you can bludge 168 bucks of taxpayers’ money for three hours of sitting on your arse and get away with it, half your luck. But I don’t think I’d brag about it.

  About two weeks later I walked into a different hotel. Paul was there with Terry who had a look of mild disbelief. Paul still had his one of smug conceit.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  Terry shook his head and pointed at Paul. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘What’s up Paul?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re on strike,’ was the curt reply.

  Hello, I mused to myself. A public servant on strike. What could he possibly be on strike for? The tea lady brought ginger snaps instead of iced vo-vos? There had to be a reason.

  ‘What are you on strike for?’ I asked.

  Paul didn’t blink and looked me straight in the eye. ‘More wages and better conditions,’ he said.

  It’s five years down the track and I’m still trying to figure this one out. How can you stand up in a pub and state what a well-paid bludge your job is, then a fortnight later go on strike for more money and better conditions? Could somebody explain it to me? Or is this just part of that phenomenon called ‘the public service mentality’? Well, if it is, I think Australia’s in a lot of trouble.

  I was with some blokes in a pub the other day engaged in deep conversation; discussing the sort of things the intelligentsia of Australia are apt to discuss in public bars.

  Football, racing, boxing, advanced calculus, autogenic-visualisation, Einstein’s theory of relativity. Somehow the subject got round to Derryn Hinch.

  The change in mood was almost electrifying and you should have heard some of the things these blokes said about Hinch.

  It started with the usual derogatory remarks. He was a scumbag, a hairbag, a toe-rag, a boil on the arse of society. He had a grease-trap for a mind. His face looked like a cross between a rat hiding behind a broom and the rear view of someone having a crap over a hedge. He was so miserable even his shadow keeps as far away from him as possible. Terrible things.

  And as my companions got drunker they got worse.

  One bloke reckoned he was the sootikin that fell out of mother nature’s vagina. Another bloke said his dog had more taste when it licked its nuts than Hinch ever had.

  Then my friends turned and asked me what I thought of Derryn Hinch.

  What could I say? I simply shrugged and said I didn’t mind him. Well, talk about almost cause a riot. I thought these blokes were going to chase me out of the pub with broomsticks.

  But it’s true. I admit I loathed him at first. But now I find I don’t mind the tedious, loathsome little centipede. In fact, for some reasons I actually admire him.

  Okay, he’s a hanging judge I admit. And I don’t agree with him that convicted shoplifters should have their hands cut off.

  Nor do I think we should have public beheadings for people found with smooth tyres on their cars.

  I’m not sure about his views on capital punishment, though I would like to see that creep responsible for the Hoddle Street massacre put in front of a firing squad and see how he likes being shot himself.

  But if Hinch goes for the throat on paedophiles, that’s okay by me. These repulsive creatures deserve no mercy and should be named and exposed. Along with drug dealers, Asians with smack and Colombians with coke.

  Even though I, like a lot of others, have been done for low-range DUI, I agree with him about drunken drivers and his shame file.

  People who drink 20 schooners or a bottle of whisky then get behind the wheel of a car and kill some poor unfortunate are no better than murderers and should be treated as such.

  And when some ethnic groups get caught pulling an insurance rort Hinch gets in and names them, unlike the other media nancy boys who are terrified to tell the truth lest some bleeding heart might call them a racist.

  Derryn is also a true blue greenie. He exposes those toxic waste dumpers and he fights for our rainforests and oceans, naming the Japanese for what they are — environmental rapists.

  And I give Hinch top marks for going into bat for those beaut schoolkids on the South Coast who succeeded in stopping some idiot of a mayor and a bunch of moronic council workers from needlessly killing several families of brushtail possums living harmlessly in an old tree in a park.

  I feed a bunch of possums on my sun deck and I think they’re about the most laughable little critters going.

  Like Hinch, I detest people that are cruel to our dwindling wildlife. Especially some of these so-called ‘sports shooters’ who can’t wait to get half-full of piss, grab a rifle and go out and shoot anything that moves. Not rabbits, feral cats or pigs and dogs. Anything that moves. The idiots.

  But there’s one thing I really admire Derryn Hinch for. He’s a tit man. I don’t mind a good set of boobs. And evidently neither does Derryn. If you need proof of this, get some photos of his ex-fiancée Lynda Stoner. You wouldn’t find a bigger pair of maracas anywhere in Australia. They’re rippers.

  If you had one of those filled with Jack Daniels and the other with Bundy you could just about stay drunk for the rest of your life.

  And what about his missus, actress Jacki Weaver. She’s not badly stacked herself. Get hold of a video of a movie called Stork. Jacki drops her gazonkas out in one scene and there’s nothing wrong with her pantry shelf I can tell you. The movie’s getting a bit old, but I reckon they’d be holding up okay.

  So say what you like about Derryn Hinch. Call him an obnoxious, execrable little toad if you will. Say he’s the kind of person that would give a coprophile a bad taste in his mouth. Call him a frustrated parking cop. Say he goes through life like an untipped waiter. He’d make an ideal perfect stranger. He thinks people worship the ground he’s just crawled across. He’s that miserable you couldn’t warm up to him if you were cremated with him. He gets up on the wrong side o
f the floor every morning. The only thing that keeps growing on him without nourishment is his ego. Go ahead. Say what you will.

  But I reckon anybody that’s environmentally aware, hates child molesters and likes big tits, can’t be all bad.

  My old moggie Achmet has snuffed it. I got up and there he was underneath the car in the driveway dead as a roll-mop.

  I don’t know what he died of but it definitely wasn’t hard work or over-exercise. Achmet had the best lifestyle of any cat going around. All he did was eat, sleep, lay in the long grass and chase the occasional lizard.

  Nine years I had the old bludger. He was a good mate and, living the hermit’s existence I do, he was one of the only mates I had. He was a good bloke and I’ll miss him, both me and his tortoiseshell girlfriend, Beryl, from up the road.

  And if I were to say I didn’t shed a tear or two when I prepared Achmet for life’s big journey I would be telling a lie. RIP Achmet. You were a good mate and I loved you.

  Anyway, as I was out there in the backyard, beneath the leaden skies, lowering Achmet into the cold, cold ground, a couple of thoughts occurred to me.

  What about all these so-called animal lovers who get pets on a whim, keep them for a while then when they’re sick of them dump them out at the RSPCA to be put down? Did you know that, according to the RSPCA, in the next 10 years 2.75 million pets will be destroyed throughout Australia? And in the past 45 years the RSPCA has had to slaughter almost 20 million cats and dogs? That’s sick.

  There are trendies out there, mainly in the cities, who buy dogs as a fashion whim or a status symbol. I can see their point though. What could be trendier than to be seen strolling the streets of Paddington in a nice new, blue and grey Ca Va tracksuit with a matching Weimaraner?

  Or how absolutely so with-it to be spotted parking your iridescent brown Nissan 4WD on the footpath (that’s what 4WD cars are used for in the city) then alighting in a beige Kelvin Kline windcheater with two matching Afghans? Or how simply marvellous to be noticed in a Double Bay or Toorak coffee shop in a fur coat with a nicely contrasting pair of French poodles?

  I’ve even heard of women pissing off their dogs and cats when they get a new lounge because the poor bloody things don’t match the colour. You wonder how these arseholes live with themselves.

  Then, as I sent Achmet to that great box of Whiskettes in the sky, another thought struck me. Even though my heart’s breaking I’m still on the lookout for an earner. What happens to all those skins and meat?

  There’s a bloody fortune in pelts going to waste out there. And the first half-smart business man/woman who doesn’t mind getting a bit of dirt on their hands is going to make a bomb.

  I’ve worked boning kangaroos and helped to skin them — doing dogs and cats couldn’t be any worse. It’d be a doddle.

  Work it out. The RSPCA bowls over around 4000 cats and dogs a week. Think how many jackets, hats and gloves that would make? I’m fair dinkum. There are rich Seppos and Japs with more money than brains who would pay a fortune for a padded jacket made out of red cattle dog or blue heeler.

  How about a nice double-breasted number with full collar made from Australian leather and inlaid with strips of cross kelpie labrador? These designer clothes would be the talk of Tokyo and Fifth Avenue.

  One-upmanship is all these mugs are after. Imagine Jane Fonda doing her workout on TV in a pair of Down Under brand Rottweiler leg warmers. She’d be a sensation. G-strings for all those poofs in San Francisco made out of silky terriers. Wouldn’t that tickle their fancies?

  Then there’s all that lovely, juicy, tender meat. They eat cats in certain parts of China and the Koreans would walk barefoot across broken glass for a cheap feed of dog meat.

  Some people with racist tendencies pooh-pooh the Koreans for eating dogs. But why shouldn’t they? Isn’t this all part of this multiculturalism thing we’re supposed to cop whether we like it or not? To deny these potential customers a nice feed of cat or dog is tantamount to vile, wretched racism. If they want to eat cats and dogs good luck to them.

  Crispy skin Australian moggie; sounds all right to me. It could be the new taste sensation to sweep China. And imagine those Koreans ripping into a plate of gom luk cross-bred bull terrier kelpie in red bean sauce. I can see them drooling now.

  So, though it pained me deeply to see my old mate Achmet toss tails, some good did come out of it. If ever I had the money I’d look into this — 2.75 million skins ain’t as crazy as you think. Divide that in half and that’s how many jackets you get at around $500 each. Plus the meat, at say $30 a kilo, and you’d watch the cash roll in.

  I imagine I won’t win too many friends with this week’s column because, from what I can see, they’re all pretty keen puffers at People.

  However, cigarette smoking has well and truly been in the news lately. Surgeons are refusing to operate on cigarette smokers.

  So I thought I might butt in too, so to speak.

  Firstly, I don’t smoke cigarettes and I hate the stinkin’ bloody things. But I used to. Yes, I am an ex-smoker.

  I can still remember my times as a smoker.

  I first started when I was at school. I wanted to look tough without getting a tattoo and I also wanted to look like my idol of the time, James Dean.

  So, along with two or three other young flips at Randwick Boys’ High, I used to sneak into the toilets and have a puff.

  I also used to like to have one hanging out the comer of my mouth when I was playing snooker.

  However, I used to get asthma at the time and the doctor I was sent to told me bluntly he was wasting his time and mine if I continued smoking.

  So instead of whingeing about him discriminating against me I tipped half a packet of dotches down the toilet and got rid of my asthma.

  I know I didn’t smoke any of those nancy-boy filter tip things though.

  I was a full-on, bad arse macho man: Lucky Strike, Chesterfield, Camel, Pall Mall etc.

  Somehow, I must have got sick of waking up coughing, with my mouth tasting like a sumo wrestler had crapped in it, so I stopped and never smoked again. Except once. I had a couple in a gaol cell one night.

  Personally I don’t give a rat’s arse if people want to smoke.

  If they’re silly enough to pay heaps for something that stuffs up their health they’re entitled to put it to good use.

  There are places to smoke and as far as I’m concerned, while they are in their own homes, they can fill a bucket full of cigarettes, toss in some petrol, light it and stick their heads in the bucket.

  I just wish smokers would stop whingeing about their rights and see themselves for the grubs they are.

  Have a look at a bus stop or a seat on a railway station next time you pass one.

  All around it will be squashed butts, matches and gobs of phlegm. All for someone else to clean up.

  I often catch a train down from Gosford to Sydney which generally has two smoking cars on it. Each one smells like a public toilet in Bombay.

  However, the smokers still have to sneak to the rear of the non-smoking cars and light up; not worrying about the fumes still drifting in.

  At the end of the trip the rear of the carriage is littered with butts, matches, more gollys and empty beer cans.

  Once again, all for some poor mug to clean up. They’re pigs. No, not pigs. I’ve never seen a pig yet with a fag hanging out of its mouth.

  The mentality of smokers never ceases to amaze me either.

  They’re either as thick as half-baked damper or super-belligerent.

  I’ve been studying the form at the TAB. Someone blows a big cloud of rotten smoke all over you and when you wave the crap away with your ticket they glare at you as if you just called their mother a whore.

  Smokers are always going on about their rights. And they do have rights. They’ve got a right to give themselves emphysema, lung cancer, asthma, high blood pressure, bronchitis, rotten breath, yellow teeth, stuffed-up taste buds, among myriad other things.
r />   But enjoyable as all these things are, they don’t have a right to share them with everyone else.

  What right did that arsehole in London have to toss his cigarette butt in the Underground and cause a fire that killed 50 people?

  What right did that goose have to start a fire with his cigarette in that backpackers’ hotel in Kings Cross and kill all those poor, battling bloody tourists?

  What right do wallies have to flick their lighted butts out of car windows and possibly start a bushfire which could kill people, the wildlife and wipe out half the surrounding countryside?

  I look at cigarettes this way. I can go half the day without something to eat. I can go half the week without a drink. I can go for hours without having a crap. And being a bachelor with not the best scone in the world I can go for a fair while without having a root.

  But ask a smoker to go for a couple of hours without a cigarette, like on a train or a plane, and they scream.

  No wonder the tobacco companies are laughing all the way to the bank.

  Love them or loathe them, television commercials are here to stay. Some I don’t mind. Others make me want to throw up.

  I think the ‘Don’t wrap it. Post-pak it’ ad for the post office is good for a chuckle. And those ‘Oils ain’t oils, Sol’ commercials always make me laugh. And I love that sheila with the towel on her head who comes on just after the news spieling about her Dishlex dishwasher.

  I can’t stand that bloody Mrs Marsh and her Colgate fluoride tooth tougheners. And I’d willingly take an RPG-7 to Rosie and her yuppie boyfriend in the back of that limousine talking about the Financial Review. ‘You really nailed ’em that time, Rosie.’ I’d nail them — and the driver.

  I’d do the same with an M-60 to all those bony, bored-looking models in those French perfume and trendy liqueur ads. They stand there as if someone’s waving a piece of rotten fish under their noses and look like a good root and a green apple would kill the lot of them.