War dog, being true to his word, had spoken to the boss of the Relief Work crew. I was due to start in a couple of days. War dog was right when he said it was an easy job. Although the money wasn't great, it came in real handy.
After meeting the boss, who was a decent townie bloke, he said,
"You'd might as well work with ya mate War Dog seeing as ya know each other. You'll be clearing up weeds and garbage around the Lakeside, down the end of the street. Tomorrow, I'll have your crew filling in a few pot holes on the bitumen road at the other end of town just before the dirt starts."
"Good on ya mate.", I said. " I appreciate the work."
"No worries sport. They're lean times and anyway, it gives us permanent council blokes a chance to catch up on a bit of maintenance."
At around 10 O'clock, Me and War dog were having smoko. He was telling me some of his bullshit war stories. Some of his stories were really far-fetched. Although I told him he was a bullshit artist, I drew the line at calling him a fuckin' liar, as some blokes did. In the middle of one of his stories, a tall, scrawny looking Abbo walked up and said,
"G'day War dog, ya got a spare smoke I can git off ya mate?"
"No, fuck you ya black bastard. I've been keeping you in smokes, since you've been on the job. If ya spent less money on that cheap, fuckin' plonk and a bit more on smokes, ya wouldn't have to be on the bite all the time!"
"Yeah, ya right War dog, I'm gonna change mi ways."
"Oh fuckin' bullshit Popeye, I've heard that story before."
"G'day mate.", he said to me. "Ya got a spare smoke?"
"I've only got rollies mate."
"That'll do mate. I'm not real fussy."
"That sounds right.", said War dog. "You'd smoke goanna shit if it was offered to you!"
"I don't know about that.", said Popeye, having a bit of a laugh at War dogs' joke.
I gave Popeye a bit of tobacco and a rolling paper.
"Good on'ya mate.", he said as he rolled the ugliest smoke I'd ever seen.
Once the smoke was going, he said to War dog,
"I bought a packet of 'Rochmans' last night but the missus took 'em off me."
"They're called fuckin' Rothmans!", said War dog. "Anyways, why'd ya let that fat, old Ginn of yours take all ya smokes?"
"I didn't let her mate. She took 'em off me after she knocked mi arse over head on Shamens' Corner."
"Don't tell me she knocked ya arse over head again mate!"
"Yeah, I didn't even get a punch in, I was so full."
Popeye turned to me and said, "What's ya name mate?"
"Yorky." I offered him mi hand and said, "Good to meet ya mate. What happened to ya eye?"
"The missus did that mate?"
"How come?", I asked.
"We were havin' a bit of a party on the river bank, out near the Mission. We were all full and I called her a black bitch. She hauled off and landed a fuckin' right on mi jaw. When I went down I hit mi face on a rock and shattered mi eye socket and this is how it healed."
"Jesus Popeye, why d'ya let her knock ya around like that."
"She's bigger than me mate and she's got a real bad temper when she's on the grog."
"Are ya gonna' work today?", asked War dog.
"Yeah, as soon as I sober up mate.", said Popeye.
I felt quite sorry for Popeye. As I studied his face, I thought that I had a few emotional problems but Popeye stole the show. I filled mi tin mug with some Billy Tea that we'd just brewed and offered it to Popeye.
"Have a cuppa' mate. It'll sober ya up."
"Ya wouldn't happen to have any wine in ya tucker box?"
"No mate, I'm not keen on plonk but I don't mind a few beers."
"Beer'll do if ya got a can."
"No mate, it's tea or nothing."
"Alright mate, that'll have to do if ya haven't got anything stronger."
Popeye stomped on the burnt-out rolley and then sat down cross-legged on the bare ground in his ratty old jeans.
"Ya wouldn't have another spare smoke there would ya mate?"
I stood up and pulled the tobacco out of mi pocket, as War Dog said,
"Ya rooted now Yorky mate! The black bastard'll be biting ya all fuckin' day long."
"No worries War Dog. I can't begrudge a bloke a smoke. Anyway mate, I've got a lot more than him in life."
"Ya fuckin' won't have if ya keep that caper up cobber!"
It turned out, by the end of the day old War Dog was right. Mi 2-ounce packet of Drum had now been reduced to under 1-ounce. To boot, he even bit me for two bob, till payday.
That night in Giltraps' bar, War Dog was well on his way. He'd been drinkin' pretty heavy with another mate of his. After his drinking mate had gone home, he came over to where I was sitting and gave me a real good ear-bashing about giving the Abbos' money and smokes.
"Once they tell their mates that you're an easy bite, Yorky, the whole fuckin' Mission will be following ya around town mate. The more ya give 'em, the more they'll take advantage of ya' good nature sport. Besides that, where's the motivation to work if you're gonna' keep 'em in money and smokes?"
I thought long and hard that night about what War Dog had said. Try as I could, I couldn't see miself being as hard and rude to the Abbos' as War Dog was.
One afternoon, I was sittin' in the Dagos' milk bar having a feed when a young bloke I knew, happened to walk in for a packet of smokes.
"How are ya Yorky?", he said, as he walked over and sat down at my table.
"Not too bad Phil. How are you mate?"
"Pretty good mate. Hey Yorky, someone told me ya used to box in the tents on the showgrounds."
"Yeah, that's right Phil."
"What was it like?"
"Not too good mate, unless you've got your own stall or side show. There's not much money in it and it's a pretty hard life. Why ya wanna' know? Ya not thinkin' of joining up are ya mate."
"Shit no mate. The old man would find me and drag me off home. No mate, I'm short of a few bob and I was wondering if ya wanted to buy a decent pair of boxing gloves.
"I never thought about it mate, but ya never know. Maybe I could have a bit a' fun with 'em in mi room at Giltraps."
"They're a good pair. Me and mi mate had a pair a-piece. We were using them for a bit of Aussie Rules training."
"Shit Phil, were ya gonna' fight ya way to a win?"
"Nah Yorky, we thought a bit a' trainin' would toughen us up before this years season started."
"How much ya want for 'em?"
"Ya can have 'em for 5 bucks."
"Alright mate, ya got a deal."
"Good on ya' Yorky. That'll help me out a lot."
"No worries Phil.
"When d'ya wanna' git 'em?"
" Can ya drop 'em off at Traps for me, tonight?"
"No worries Yorky mate. Are ya' livin' at Traps?"
"Yeah mate. Mi rooms number 8. If I'm not there, I'll be in the bar."
"I'll drop 'em off about 7. That be alright?"
"Yeah, no problem."
"Ya think ya could give us the fiver now Yorky?"
"Yeah, long as ya remember to bring 'em."
"I won't forget mate. I'll git mi girlfriend to run mi down."
Phil stuck the fiver in his pocket and left the Dagos' shop, happier than when he walked in.
Walking back to Giltraps, I started making plans for what I could do with a pair of gloves. At 7 that night, I was laid on mi bed when Phil arrived with them.
"I brought the gloves Yorky. Are they alright?"
"They look alright to me mate. They're in pretty good shape. How many ounces are they?"
"I'm not sure. The bloke I got 'em off said he thought they were 14 ounces."
"Oh well, no worries Phil. I'll have a bit of fun with 'em."
"Hey Yorky, I can't stay. I've gotta shoot through. Mi Sheilas' waiting for me, outside in her car."
"No worries Phil. Thanks mate."
"You're welcome Yorky.", he said as he closed the door behind him.
As soon as Phil was gone, I put the gloves on and did a bit of shadow-boxin' in front of the dressing table mirror. I ran through a few moves that Sal had taught me in the Boxing Troupe. I was just about to take 'em off when there was a knock on the door. It opened on its' own and War Dog walked in.
"What are you fuckin' up to Yorky? Where d'ya git the gloves from?"
"I just bought 'em mate."
"What the fuck are ya gonna do with those stupid fuckin' things!"
"Oh I don't know mate. Have a bit of fun, I suppose."
"I though you would have had enough of that shit on the showgrounds mate."
"Here War Dog.", I said, as I pulled off the right-hand glove. "You can have the right-hander. Let's try 'em out"
"Fuck you, ya pommy bastard! Ya think I'm as stupid as I look?"
"Come on War Dog, be a good sport."
"Fuck you, ya bastard. I'm forty fuckin' years older than you. I'd be winded after half-a-minute! Go and ask Freddy, he's more ya age and size."
"Shit, good idea mate. Have ya seen him around?"
"Last time I saw him he was heading for his room. I'm off to the bar for a couple of quiet ones. I've been hittin' her a bit hard the last couple of nights."
"Yeah, ya looked a bit worse for wear last night."
"Ya not fuckin' kidding mate. I should never have graduated to the top-shelf. I didn't know whether I was Arthur or fuckin' Martha, by the time Trap kicked me out. Huroo mate!", said War Dog as he walked out and left the door open behind him.
"What about the door War Dog?", I yelled out after him.
"What about it?", he said, as he disappeared into the bar room.
I tied a bow in the gloves and hung 'em on the hook behind the door. I took off to Freddys' room at the end of the corridor.
"Hey Freddie!", I yelled out, as I knocked on his door. "Are ya in there, mate?"
"What d'ya want Yorky? I'm having a nap."
"Not any more mate. Open the door!"
"Come back in half-an-hour, I've only just laid down."
"Open the door mate, I won't keep ya long."
Begrudgingly, Freddy opened the door and I could see why he wanted a sleep. His face had a look of pain on it from too much grog,
"What d'ya want Yorky mate?"
" Come and see mi new boxing gloves mate. I just bought em."
"Jesus fuckin' christ Yorky mate, is that all ya got me up for?"
"Yeah mate, we can have a glove each and do a bit of sparring."
"Are you fuckin' kidding me mate. I couldn't fight mi way out of a wet paper bag."
"No worries mate. I can teach ya a bit of show boxing. It'll be fun."
"It might sound like fun to you Yorky but it sounds like shit to me. I don't want to be rude mate but I'm off back to bed for a couple of hours. I'm fuckin' rooted!
That being his final word, he closed the door on me with a bang.
Back to mi room I went and threw miself on the squeeky old cot, resigned to the fact that the only thing that wanted to spar around with me for a bit was the shadows (and I don't mean the music group.) I hadn't been laid down long before a knock came on the door.
"Who is it?", I yelled out.
No answer.
"Who is it?", I yelled out again.
No answer.
"Fuck me dead,", I said as I got up and opened the door. Soon as I opened the door, there stood the the answer to mi sparring fun. Popeye Johnson!
"Popeye, how are ya mate? Come in. How've ya been."
"Not too good Yorky mate. I need a hair of the dog."
"Ya been on the plonk again mate?"
"Yeah mate. The missus just beat me up again and took all mi money and the last of mi 'Rochmans'!"
"They're called 'Rothmans', Popeye."
"Yeah, 'Rochmans' I know mate. Ya got a smoke mate?"
Popeye looked a bit worse for wear so I rolled him a Drum and lit it up for him.
"Good on'ya mate.", said Popeye, as he puffed away on the Drum and then proceeded to cough his guts out.
"Sit down Popeye before ya fall down!"
Sitting on the edge of the spare bed, he said,
"These rollies are fuckin' strong mate!"
"Would ya like me to start smoking 'Rochmans'?", I said jokingly. "Might help with the coughing mate."
"Ya got a lazy 20 cents in ya pocket I can borrow mate?"
"What ya want 20 cents for?"
"We're out a' petrol to git back to the Mission."
"Did ya mean petrol or plonk mate?"
Popeye gave me a slight grin and said,
"Did I say petrol? Yeah, I meant plonk, mate."
"You're already well on ya way Popeye. Anymore and you'll be full as a boot again."
"She'll be right mate. I just need another glass. That'll git me back to the Mission tonight."
"What ya mean 'git back to the mission?"
"I'm walkin' mate. Mi missus drove back with mi cousin and they left me in town."
"Don't ya usually sleep on the bench on Shamans Corner mate?"
"Sometimes I do mate, but that fat, fuckin' Sargeant Monty always picks me up and throws me into the Bull wagon and it fuckin' hurts too mate."
"What's it like in the lock-up Popeye?"
"Not too fuckin' good mate."
"How come?"
"I gotta' sleep on the concrete floor and it's fuckin' cold."
"Do you have to pay a fine for being drunk and disorderly?"
"Yeah mate, but I never have the money."
"So what happens then?"
"Last time, I had to hose out the cells and weed his fuckin' garden."
"Why d'ya hose the cells out mate?"
"There's shit in the corners and piss on the floor."
"Arent' ya allowed to go to the dunny mate?"
"No fuckin' way mate. He chucks ya in when he picks ya up and you're in till mornin'."
"Jesus Popeye, that's a bit fuckin' rough mate."
"Yeah, I was in for 2 days, a while back."
"What did ya do mate?"
"I got a lucky punch in on mi missus and knocked her arse over head. First time I got one in for a while. The old Sarge picked me up for it. Ya got another smoke Yorky? I like 'Rochmans' better but a rolly will do."
Handing him another smoke, he said,
"Good on ya Yorky. Did ya forget about the 20 cents mate?"
"Jeezus Popeye, you'll send me fuckin' broke mate."
This little joke made him laugh a bit. I asked him what was so funny?
"You white fellas' are all millionaires mate, how can you be broke?"
"Just 'cause I've got more money than you Popeye, doesn't mean I'm a millionaire mate."
"Ya gotta' have more money than me mate. I'm broke down to the bones of mi arse."
"Why don't ya work Popeye?"
"I did. I got fired off the Relief work for being full on the job."
"Can't ya git another one?"
"Are you fuckin' jokin' Yorky? There's not much work around for black fellas'."
"Somebody told me ya git a government check every month?"
"Yeah, but the mission boss takes it off me before I git it."
"Why's that mate?"
"I drank last months up and never paid mi rent."
"Why d'ya do that ?"
" 'Cause once I start on the plonk mate, I can't stop. Ya got that 20 cents Yorky?"
"Hey, listen Popeye. I might have a little job for ya."
"Do I have to work?", he asked.
"No mate, this is gonna be fun. Ya know when ya git real full and ya missus knocks ya down and takes ya money and smokes?"
"What about it mate?"
"Alrighty, here's the deal! Every night you're in town and broke, come to mi room and I'll give ya a couple of smokes and the money for 5 ounces of plonk."
"What do I have to do for it?"
"You can be mi sparring partner mate."
With that, I got off mi bed and took the boxing gloves off the back of the door.
"I'm only any good at fighting when I'm not full.", said Popeye, as he looked at the gloves. "Where's the other pair?", he asked. " 'Cause I don't have any."
"We don't need 'em mate. You have one and I'll have the other. We can take turns with the right hand one."
"Just for fun?"
"Yeah mate, just to fill in a bit a' time."
"Alright mate, I'll do it for a 7 ounce a' plonk and 2 'Rochmans'. I don't like that Drum Tobacco, it's too strong."
"I'll buy a pack of 'Rochmans' at the Dagos' shop and just so we're clear, a 7 of plonk and 2 Rothmans."
"Yeah, 'Rochmans' mate.
"Ya wanna start now mate?"
"Nah mate, I'm not broke yet. I've got 20 cents in mi pocket so I'm off for a drink now."
"You'll have 2 more smokes and another 20 cents Popeye."
"She'll be right mate. I might come back later."
With that, Popeye headed for the door and back along the corridor to the bar room. I decided not to go to the bar tonight. With nothing left to do for entertainment, I was forced to write a quick aerogram to mi mother, back in Yorkshire. Once I'd finished it, I took off to the post office and dropped it in the box. On the way back, Popeye and a couple of other black fellas' were arguing and shouting at each other, at the corner of Gilltraps. I tried to sneak past 'em but Popeye caught me with his one good eye. This time, I had 3 black fellas' biting me at once for 20 cents and a smoke. I had no other alternative than to say,
"No, git fucked. I'm broke."
The last thing I heard as I disappeared into Traps, was a slurry Abbos' voice say,
"You white fellas' are all millionaires!"
'I made it!', I thought as I opened the door to mi room and locked it behind me. I knew it wouldn't be long before Popeye would be knocking on mi door. I rolled a smoke and waited. True to form, five minutes later I heard his knock.
"Hey mate, are ya in there?"
I knew Popeye was pretty full by now so he'd be no use as a sparring partner this night. I kept quiet and ignored his constant knocking. After a few minutes, he threw in the towel and took off.
At this point you've probably realized by now that a lot of grog was consumed at Gilltraps. Twitcheys' and Blackers' Hotels were not far behind. The reason for this, although not the only one, was all work and commerce was done over a couple of beers. If one did not join in the cultural pastime not much laboring work would be found. Survival would become more of a reality.
"Ya want a game of pool Yorky?", said Freddy as we sat at the bar.
"Yeah, why not mate. I'l put our 20 cents in line."
The pool table was our only source of entertainment in the bar. Most times, there was a line-up of 5 or 6 twenty cent pieces in front of ours.
"Keep a good eye out for our 20 cents.", said Freddy. "I'm off for a piss."
Sometimes a 20 cent piece would go missing or jump the cue on the side of the pool table which undoubtably would start a big argument and sometimes a fight. A lot of locals would not drink at Gilltraps because it was the Abbos' favorite waterin' hole. A lot of blokes called it 'The Blood House'. There were tiles, half-way up the sides of the walls, in those days. It made it easier for the Groom to wash off the blood, in the early morning.
"Are we up yet Yorky?", said Freddy, when he came back from the dunny.
"Nah mate, are ya' kiddin'? There's still another 4 games to go before we're on."
"How's our 20 cents?", he said as he looked across the room at the pool table.
"She's still there mate. I've been watchin' it."
Eventually, our turn came round. I shoved the 20 cents in the slot. The coin dropped in the metal tin on the inside of the table. We always knew when it was getting full, as the coin made a different sound when it dropped in. After we finished the game of pool we had one last round and called it quits for the evening.
"I'm glad I live at Gilltraps.", said Freddy, as we walked down the short hallway.
"Why, 'cause ya don't have far to walk home mate?"
"Yeah, right first-time mate!"
Knock, knock, knock!
"Who is it?", I yelled.
"It's Popeye mate.", said a voice on the other side of the door. "Let me in."
"Are ya sober?", I said, before I opened it.
"Yeah mate, too sober."
Opening the door, I said to Popeye, "Come in quick, before Cath Gilltrap sees ya."
Cath Gilltrap would not be happy if she caught Mission Abbos' visiting the rooms. Only paying Abbos' were allowed in the guests' quarters.
"Ya look good.", I said to Popeye, as I closed the door behind him. "Ya not full mate?"
"I'm fucking broke mate, that's why."
"Hasn't ya missus got any money?"
"No mate, she pissed it all away on plonk."
"How ya gonna' eat till the end of the month mate?"
"We're off out Roo shootin' tomorrow night."
"Spotlightin'?"
"Yeah, spotlightin' mate."
"Don't ya use spears anymore Popeye?"
"Are ya jokin' with me again mate? I can never tell with you white fellas' whether ya jokin' or not."
"No, I'm fair dinkum mate."
"I couldn't hit a fuckin' tree at 10 feet mate, but I'm not bad with a rifle, long as I don't get dust in mi good eye."
"Can ya see out of ya dodgey eye?"
"Not real good. It's pretty blurry mate."
"How come you've got blue eyes?"
"Mi dad was a white fella, I reckon."
"What d'ya mean mate, didn't ya know him."
"No way mate. I guess he snuck on to the Mission and rooted mi mum one night."
"I thought white fellas' weren't allowed on the mission?"
"They're not mate, unless ya git permission. Back in those days they used to sneak on after the pubs closed."
"Ya know Tommy Clark, Popeye?"
"Yeah mate, he's my cousin. He lives close to me. I've been fencing with him a couple a' times but that's a bastard of a job. Too fuckin' hard for me mate. Ya got a smoke mate?"
"Ya remember the deal from the other night when ya were as pissed as a parrot?"
"Sure do mate. A bit of friendly sparring for 2- 7s' and 3 'Rochmans'."
"One 7s' and 2 Rothmans', Popeye."
"Yeah, I know mate. I was just testing ya to see if you'd remembered!"
Popeye grinned from ear to ear as he said, "No worries mate!"
"Alright Popeye.", I said, as I untied the laces and handed one of the gloves to him. You can have the right hand and I'll use the left."
"What about the laces?"
"Just pull 'em up tight and tuck 'em in."
Just then, there was a knock on the door. It opened before I had time to ask who it was.
"What are you two pack a' bastards up to?", said War Dog, as he marched into the room.
"Shut the door behind ya War Dog, in case someone sees in."
"G'day mate.", said Popeye, as he sat on the spare bed with a boxing glove on his right hand.
"Did ya' hurt ya' hand Popeye?", said War Dog.
"Ya kiddin' me aren't ya mate? It's a fuckin' boxin' glove."
"Ya ought to put the other one on as well. It'll stop ya drinkin' and floggin' ya maggot Popeye!"
This little joke of War Dogs' gave Popeye a good laugh as he rolled back on the bed.
"Do you white fellas' flog ya maggot?", said Popeye.
" 'Course we fuckin' do! I bashed the old bishop five times this morning, before I got out a' bed."
"Bullshit!", said Popeye, as he almost had a belly laugh.
"Ya think I'm too fuckin' old mate?" said War Dog.
"I think ya might be. Five times is a lot."
"You bend over that fuckin' chair Popeye and I'll show ya how fuckin' old I am mate.", said War Dog.
Popeye was not at all sure now whether War Dog was jokin' or not, so he said,
"Fuck you ya' bastard!", said Popeye as he stood up in a boxers' stance, with the one boxing glove on.
"He's bullshittin' ya Popeye. Take no notice of him mate."
"I had ya goin' then didn't I Popeye.", said War Dog, with a big grin on his face.
"Fuckin' oath mate, I thought ya were fair dinkum for a minute there."
"Ya' wanna' be the referee for a few minutes War Dog?"
"Might as well mate. I got fuck all else on, except bending mi elbow."
Popeye and miself stood up and faced each other. War Dog announced the contenders to the imaginary audience.
"Ding, Ding, Ding!", said War Dog.
I threw the first punch at Popeye that caught him on the side of the face.
"Not too fuckin' hard mate!", said Popeye, as he tried to back peddle in the small room.
"I'm not punchin' hard Popeye. Besides that, I'm at a disadvantage. I've only got the left-hand glove."
"BANG! Popeye threw a wild right that caught me a glancing blow on the forehead.
"I thought ya' said, no hard hittin' mate. Ya almost knocked mi fuckin' head off.", I said.
Popeye had a big grin on his face now as he knew he had landed a good blow. With more dancing around, he threw another wild punch that missed completely, which caused him to spin around and fall on the spare bed. After two, 3-minute rounds, Popeye said,
"That's enough mate! I'm fuckin' rooted from too many 'Rochmans".
"One more round Popeye!", I said.
"No fuckin' way. I've earned mi plonk and smokes!"
"Fuck you two yobos'!", said War Dog. "I'm off for a middy! You two are as crazy as parrot shit!"
"Good idea.", said Popeye. "So who won?"
"I reckon I'd have to call that bout a draw.", I said.
Popeye grinned from ear to ear as he removed the right-hand glove.
"Where's mi money for the plonk and 'Rochmans', Yorky?"
"Here ya go Popeye.", I said, as I handed him enough for a glass of plonk and two Rothmans.
"Can ya spare 2 more 'Rochmans' mate? Ya can take 'em off the next fight."
"No way mate. If I do that, ya won't show up again."
"Popeye smiled and said, "I was just bullshittin' ya mate. Good on ya.", he said, as he made a hasty exit.
The deal I had struck with Popeye lasted about two weeks. That doesn't mean we sparred every night 'cause most nights he'd been on the plonk with his mates and he could hardly talk, never mind box. At these times, I'd send him away because he would get angry and abusive. On one of these occasions, he wanted to re-negotiate the deal to a half-gallon of plonk and a full pack of cigarettes. I think his mates were using him to get some grog for themselves.
In the bar one night, I happened to tell War Dog about Popeye wanting a better deal and he said,
"I can handle those full-blood Bungs, 'cause there's not many of 'em around and they only bite ya for 20 cents, but once they've got a bit of white fella' in 'em, the price goes up to 50 cents. Good fuckin' job they won't be around forever!"
"What d'ya mean by that War Dog?"
"Assimilation Mate! We'll breed the black bastards out."
"I don't know what ya mean War Dog?"
"Jesus Christ Yorky, don't ya know any fuckin' thing? They don't 'throw back' mate."
"What does that mean?"
"Fuck me Rome, Yorky! Where ya been all ya life? That's what ya git for living too long in that Pommy bastard country of yours!"
"It's your round mate. You git 'em, while I go and 'siphon the python'.
" What?", I said.
" 'Point percy at the porcelain' mate. I'm off for a fuckin' piss. When I git back, I'll educate ya in the ways of the bush."
Upon his return, War Dog took a large gulp out of the middy glass, lit up a Camel, turned on his bar stool to face me.
"Yorky mate, You're a pretty good bloke for a young fella' but you've got a bit of a handicap, from being a fuckin' pommy. Now, listen to me mate", he said in an arrogant tone of voice. "Take those coons in Africa, for instance, they throw back if ya breed 'em with white fellas'. They get whiter and whiter over the years till eventually they'll have white fellas' features and white skin. At some point, these 2 whites will breed and out pops a black kid with full-on coon features! That's called 'throw-back'. The Aussie Abbos' are the only black fellas' that don't throw-back. That means, they get whiter and whiter till there's no more bung left in 'em."
"Why would ya wanna' do that War Dog?"
" 'Cause we're a racist pack a' bastards and we live in a racist, imperialistic country sport! Not so long back mate, way before your time, when the bungs were still living in the Bush, we rounded the bastards up and stuck 'em on a bloody Mission. Any of the pick-a-ninis that had a splash of white fella' in 'em, we drafted 'em off, scubbed 'em up good, stuck some white fellas' clothes on 'em and trucked 'em off to Sydney to be trained up as servants for those rich bastards' houses around the harbor-side."
"D'ya think that's right War Dog?"
"Right n' wrong got fuck all to do with it mate. I'm just givin' ya' a bit of a history lesson!"
"Are you fair dinkum War Dog or are ya' bullshittin' me?"
"Course I'm fair dinkum. I've got better things to do with mi time than educate you mate. I'm tellin' ya all this 'cause ya' livin' in God' own country now and ya' should know at least a bit a' fuckin' history! Empty ya glass mate, it's my shout."
War Dog lit up another smoke as Gilltrap pulled a couple more middys.
"At one time, according to our Imperialistic government and sanctioned by that fuckin' pommy bastard Queen of yours, black fellas' were classified as animals. If they were on ya land, ya could shoot the bastards on site!"
"How can that be true War Dog, when really, it's their land."
"Not any fuckin' more mate. It's ours now."
"But if they weren't doing any damage, why shoot 'em?"
"Sheep stealing mate. Ya think they're gonna' eat goannas and witchity grubs when there's a lump of fuckin' mutton walkin' around on four legs. Would you?"
"No, I suppose not."
"Right mate. You've gotta' wake up to the ways of the Bush. It's not just about faking an Aussie fuckin' accent. If ya hang around those Abbos' too much and if ya' caught talkin' to those young Ginns that hang out on the pavement in front of Traps', you'll be labeled a fuckin' Ginn-jockey and bang goes ya' fuckin' chances of gittin' on to a white sheila."
"How can that be War Dog, 'cause there's a couple of townies that are married to Ginns?"
"Right mate. Let me tell ya what they're in for. Soon as they get the urge to go walkabout, they'll take off when that stupid bastards' not around and leave him with a swag a' kids to look after, on his own for a couple of months. Ya' see those Mission bungs over there, in the corner of the bar mate? That's the only place they're allowed to be served."
"Why's that?", I asked.
"Because there's a relatively new law that says, the bastards are legally allowed in hotel bars now for a drink. Before that, they got served at the back door and drank in the parking lot."
"But why keep 'em in the corner?"
" 'Cause as soon as they're full and run out of money, the black bastards will be swarming around ya, slobbering and spittin' all over the place, tryin' to bite ya for a couple of dollars. All ya gotta do is look at ya' mate Popeye. I don't see ya hangin' around with him when he's full."
"Yeah, but that's because he gets argumentative."
"They're all the fuckin' same, those bungs. They can't hold their grog!"
"Hey War Dog, have ya ever fucked a Ginn?"
"Jesus Yorky mate, ya gittin' a bit personal now aren't ya?"
"Well, have ya'? I'm curious what its like."
"Yeah, I did once mate and it was terrible. She stunk so fuckin' bad, I had to take a shit next to her before I climbed on!"
"Fuckin hell War Dog! That's fuckin' disgusting! Ya' know what mate, you're a racist, fuckin' bastard for doing that!"
"Settle down Yorky mate, don't lose ya fuckin' marbles, ya pommy bastard! I'm bullshittin' ya mate. It's a fuckin' Bush joke!"
"That's not even funny mate!"
War Dog started to laugh and then took another gulp of his beer.
"Jesus christ Yorky.", he said between laughs. "You should have seen ya' face mate! I got ya' a beaut there. I thought ya were gonna' chuck up ya' beer sport!
After he stopped laughing, he said,
"I've told ya before Yorky mate, You're too fuckin' naive. I'm helpin' to wise ya up mate, 'cause if ya don't, ya' not gonna' survive Bush life sport. You'll end up in the Big Smoke doing a 9-to-5'er. If that happens you'd might as well be fuckin' dead!
"Don't you worry about me, War Dog. I'll survive. I'm a fuckin' hard worker."
"I'll agree with ya there mate, but a bit of education and gray matter don't go astray."
"It's your shout Yorky mate, then I'm off to bed."
"Fuck me dead.", said War Dog, as Gilltrap put the beers down on the bar. "I'm out a' smokes. Give us a packet of Camels, Gilltap."
"We're out a' Camels sport. What about Lucky Strikes? I got plenty of those."
"Fuck those things mate, they'll fuckin' kill ya."
"Please ya fuckin' self then.", said Gilltrap, and walked over to another school, to fill up their middys.
"Ya wanna' Drum, War Dog?"
"Not much fuckin' option is there? You'll have to roll it for me."
"Can't ya roll mate?"
"Not any more since I got this bastard, fuckin' Arthritis in mi hands. I'm flat out doin' mi fuckin' work-boots up these days."
A couple of nights later, I'd just finished a days work, helping a Cocky repair some of his broken-down fences. I'd no sooner taken a shower, got dressed and was relaxing on mi bed, when a knock came on mi door.
"Who is it?", I yelled. No answer came. "Who is it.", I yelled again. Still no answer. Begrudgingly, I got up. On the other side of the door stood Popeye.
"Can I come in mate?"
"Ya look half-full to me Popeye. I told ya not to come here unless ya sober."
"No mate, no. I'm alright. I've only had a couple of beers."
I decided to let him come in, in case Gilltraps missus saw him loitering around the guests rooms. Once inside, he bit me for a 'Rochmans' and a light.
"Ya wanna do some sparrin' mate?", he said as he puffed away on the smoke, like he hadn't had one for a week.
"Nah mate, ya not sober. You'll be too slow to move."
"Bullshit Yorky mate, I'm more sober than I've been all day."
"Be that as it may Popeye. that doesn't mean ya sober."
"Come on mate, let's do a couple of rounds. I need the plonk and a couple a' smokes."
I tried to discourage him by saying,
"We don't have a referee."
"Get Freddy. I just saw him walkin' into his room."
"Alright Popeye, but don't complain if I catch ya with a couple of good ones."
After talking to Freddy for a few minutes, I convinced him to be the referee for a couple of rounds. Back in my room, Popeye was sat on the bed where I'd left him, only now, he had the right-hand glove on.
"Come on mate, I'm ready and raring to go!"
"He's half cut!", said Freddy, soon as he saw Popeye.
"Fuck you Freddy, I'm fit as a buck rat!"
"Alright Popeye, don't say ya weren't warned.", I said.
Once I had the left-hand glove on and the laces were pulled up tight, I said to Freddy,
"Here mate, use the second-hand on mi alarm clock. It's easy to see. Let's just do two 2-minute rounds. He doesn't look like he'll do three minutes."
"Don't ya worry about me Yorky mate. I'm good to go! Don't forget to announce me to the crowd.", said Popeye as he got up off the bed.
"What the fuck is he talkin' about?", asked Freddy.
"Last time we sparred, War Dog was the ref and he played his part to the hilt by announcing the contenders. Just play along mate. We'll call him 'Popeye the Punisher'."
"Yeh, I like that!", said Popeye. "You can be 'Yorky, the Pommy Bastard!"
"Hey, dont' git fuckin' cheeky Popeye, just 'cause ya got a couple of beers in ya."
"Ring the bell Freddy. I'm good to go mate.", said Popeye.
The first straight left of the fight caught Popeye on the cheek just under his good eye.
"Hang on a minute mate, mi eye's watering. I can't see straight."
After a few seconds, Freddy said, "Fight on!" The next left hook sent Popeye backwards onto the spare bed. It wasn't the punch that caused it. The back of Popeye's thong had caught on the rug and down he went. By now, Popeye was on his feet again. He threw a well-aimed right that caught me fair and square on the side of mi face. As I rocked backwards, I hit the dressing table and a few odds and ends went flying to the floor.
"Oh! A massive right thrown by Popeye the Punisher just sent Yorky, the Pommy Bastard bouncing into the ropes!", said Freddy.
Popeye was now as happy as a pig in shit as he danced around with his arms up in the air, shouting "Yeh, Yeh, Popeye the Punisher!"
"Hey Popeye, I thought you said we'd be goin' easy on each other?", I said.
"I am goin' easy on ya mate.", said Popeye, who was now grinning like a black Cheshire cat.
"Alright Popeye, you've set the tone mate. Now it's my turn!:"
"You've gotta' hit me first!", said Popeye, still grinning from ear to ear.
As the last word left his mouth, I let go with a fairly hard left hook which caught Popeye fair on the chin. Down he went like a sack a' shit, hit the edge of the bed and slithered onto the carpet.
"Oh! Oh!", said Freddy. "What a punch! I think Popeye the Punisher is fucked!"
Freddy started to count, 1-2-3-4, Popeye struggled to his feet as Freddy said, "I think he's gonna' make the count. He's a tough black fella' this Popeye the Punisher!"
Popeye was not very happy now as he regained his feet.
"Yah alright Popeye?", I asked.
"Fuck you, ya bastard! You said 'no hard hittin'."
"Fuckin' hell Popeye, Ya didn't mind it when ya knocked me backwards!"
"That was a lucky, fuckin' punch Yorky. You hit me on purpose!"
"Well, we are fuckin' sparring Popeye. What d'ya expect?"
"Fuck You Yorky. I'm sick a' this fuckin' game. I'm not playin' anymore."
Popeye ripped off his glove and thew it on the bed in disgust.
"I want mi money and 2 'Rochmans'."
"No worries Popeye, but I did warn ya that you weren't sober."
I handed him the money for the plonk and his two 'Rochmans'.
"I thought the loser didn't get any prize money?", said Freddy.
"Fuck you too, ya white bastard.", said Popeye as he headed for the door. "You're a useless fuckin' referee anyway!
