THE WIZARDS OF OZ.

                                        AUSTRALIA TODAY

 

                                                        I love a sunburnt country,
                                                        A land of sweeping plains,
                                                        Of ragged mountain ranges,
                                                        Of droughts and flooding rains,
                                                        I love her far horizons,
                                                        I love her jewel sea,
                                                        Her beauty and her terror,
                                                        The wide brown land for me.

That excerpt from Dorothea Mackeller's My Country sums up what the world's greatest nation is all about.

Prior to this latest piece of literature from your friendly teller of tall tales there happens to be many, many stories, that refer to life in Australia's largest and brightest city, namely Sydney, throughout what is referred to as the sixties .

Back then there was no political correctness that in some cases made it a crime to have an opinion on a subject and to express that opinion. If you disliked something or someone, you simply said so. Many supported you and others did not, but almost everybody agreed you had the right to say it. Today however, a coloured and/or ethnic person can criticise the home grown locals and that is regarded as perfectly acceptable, but when a local criticises them, it is not acceptable and in some cases it has been declared illegal.

Regardless of what PC has done to what was once Nirvana, this continent of ours is still not a bad place to live. If only the cretins who seem content to maintain and even encourage stupidity could be rounded up and sent into exile, then and only then would it be possible to return OZ to its former glory.

Refugees and immigrants flee their troubled and in many cases war torn dung heaps to escape persecution and one would think, to create a more peaceful and meaningful life in Australia. Trouble is, far too many appear determined to change the Australian way of life, so as to resemble what was responsible for them escaping from their troubled former homeland in the first place.
Many muslim whackos insist that Australia adopt Sharia law and are convinced we are all Godless individuals and that all non muslims are infidels.
Even though Mohammed stated Jesus was a prophet of God and Christians, Jews and Muslims should live in peace together, as they were 'All children of the book', the intellectually challenged fundamentalists want none of it. I fail to see how these idiots can contribute to our modern day society and believe they should all be rounded up and deported back to their former place of birth.
The photo below shows brain dead filth protesting because some one said Mohammed was a paedophile.

Mohammed married his wife at age 6 and waited until she was 9 years old before having intercourse with her. Make up your own mind.

So much for the above subject, Australian society is evolving into something that I, not so much find offensive, but am not too sure I would like to go there as part of it.

The nation has just elected a conservative government led by one of the country's most disliked politicians, more or less on the rebound from a Labor rabble that made it an art form to shoot itself in the foot. Every time our newly elected Prime Minister opens his mouth and talks, he never says anything.

One thing that hasn't changed is the nation's love of sport. The Victorians, South Australians and West Australians are still in love with the world's most meaningless football code, Australian Rules while NSW and Queensland insist the greatest game of all is Rugby League. Rugby Union is still where it was decades ago, but Soccer appears to be increasing in popularity, owing to the number of European followers who now reside in OZ. Many kids play soccer because they are forced into it by concerned parents who don't want little Johnny returning home after a game with two of his front teeth still on the playing field amongst the grass. Even though the kids love the competition and exercise, when they move into their teens, soccer goes by the wayside. In the Hunter region where I have hung my hat, if you ask all the soccer playing kids which team they support, 80% will say the Knights Rugby League team.
One only has to look at the names of most soccer players, including those of the national team to ascertain where they hail from. Many of their names you will have trouble pronouncing.

It is not politically correct to fail to support same sex marriage. Many claim that Gay people are no different to straight ones. These folk are either in denial or are ignorant of the fact the the Gay lifestyle has been, still is and will continue to be responsible for tens of thousands of slow, painful and premature deaths throughout the world each and every year. One cannot help being born with faulty plumbing, but there is a responsibility to control one's lifestyle and accept it is not a normal lifestyle. The St. Johns ambulance decades ago refused to provide their voluntary services at the Sydney Gay Mardi Gras, because of the disgusting promiscuous behavior that followed the march. This still is continuing, but mention it and you will be branded homophobic.

Many of my tales have been centred around surfing and surf life saving. During the 60's and 70's the bulk of many surf clubs members came from all over Sydney. My old club at Avalon had a bunkhouse that slept 36 snoring bodies, nowadays all 1000 plus members are all locals living in Avalon itself or in the surrounding suburbs. 
The days of raising money through raffles and chocolate wheels are long gone. We would break a sweep oar in the surf and it would be replaced with the proceeds from a chocolate wheel or a raffle with two chooks as first prize. The club would fork out 50 Quid and buy a couple of kegs, we would chip in around 70 Quid, drink all the beer, get drunk as skunks, then buy or repair the sweep oar. 
Today all clubs need rich patrons, lots of donations, corporate sponsors and art unions to ensure the doors of the club stays open. Years ago I was told by the surf club President that the Avalon club was up for $1000 per day every time it opened its doors. God only knows what it costs today.

As Ms Mackeller mentions in her poem, Oz is a land of contradiictions. As I type my home state of New South Wales is going up in flames with over 83 fires burning and almost one third of them uncontained. What generally happens is two years of bushfires followed by two trouble free seasons then come the floods.
You can bet your boots that in Oz if it burns, or has just finished burning, within two to five years it will end up under water.

Here in the land of plenty, we are never short of something to eat. We have the ability to feed ourselves without relying on imports from overseas. Despite this we are now doing what the USA does and are paying many of our farmers either not to grow or to bulldoze their crops.  You name it, we either are growing it or could grow it, yet untold quantities of fruit and vegetables are being ploughed up and buried because we can buy it from overseas. We import orange juice from South America yet the orange orchards in the Riverina district alone go from horizon to horizon........it's a joke. The farmers who are still attempting to earn a reasonable living are being ripped off by the supermarket giants, with the biggest offenders Coles and Woolworths. They have even moved into discounting petrol of all things.

We import bottled water......I'm not joking. What's even more stupid is there are idiots who pay extortionate prices and drink the stuff and the more they drink the more they import. Even our beer is owned by overseas interests.

Not that many years ago Australians drank more beer than any other country per capita. For a short period Oz was No.1 in the world, slipping down as far as No. 4 on the odd occasion. The breathalyzer and the booze buses appeared causing low alcohol beer to become popular. Many young teenage lads who should have been upholding Aussie culture began drinking cocktail type beverages that in the past would have seen them sent to coventry by their peers, instead of drinking beer. Mixed drinks that initially were only popular with the ladies were now being consumed by the new age males and beer became unfashionable. I watched with disgust as our once unique and manly nation started to become semi effeminate. As I type beer drinking is at a 60 year low, yet there is more violence and criminal activity than ever before, mainly because of the crap many modern day boofheads are consuming. I believe we only just scrape into the top 20 as beer drinkers.........disgusting.

Making up for the lack of beer drinking is the rise in the consumption of wine. While even I enjoy the odd drop, I find it hard to believe one can quench their thirst with fruit of the grape. With beer, several schooners leaves one with a satisfied feeling of warmth and contentment, whereas 4 small glasses of vino may leave one legless. It's just not the same, pity.

Our miserable excuse for politicians are constantly flogging off to the highest bidder all of our statutory authorities. If no ones interested they are quite happy to sell at bargain basement prices. This is a policy that will not last much longer as there's nothing left to sell. The Chinese now own our electricity and there is talk of flogging off our water supplies to them.......Fuck me dead and rotten. Electricity prices have literally gone through the roof with many families unable to pay, yet they still warn everyone of even further price hikes.

I will say this however and I know many will think I'm taking the piss, but here in Australia we actually export camels to Arabia however........It's Gospel. 

Every time a road or highway that should have been constructed 30 years ago is built, it becomes a toll road run by private enterprise and motorists are expected to pay through the nose, even though their ever rising taxes are supposed to provide the funds for construction. If the income is not as high as the Government claimed it was going to be, that's OK, the shortfall will be payed by the taxpayer.

$5.00 each way for a fast run....yeah sure!

Whenever statutory authorities are fined or have levies placed on them, they simply pass on the extra costs to their customers, namely mug John Citizen. Who can the end user pass the charges on to? Answer, no one.

All governments have the responsibility to provide the essential services, but our mob like many overseas countries are determined to relieve themselves of what they obviously see as a burden, even though many of these products run at a profit.
In the past the government was responsible for, Transport (Trams, buses, ferries and trains), Electricity, Gas, Water, general life and car insurance and the Commonwealth Bank. What was the RTA provided and paid for road construction.
Local councils and State Governments are all the time off loading many of their reponsibilities. So much work is now being performed by sub contractors. If some client has a dispute with, say, an electricity supplier and demands a review of charges, in most cases the supplier ignores the complaint and sells the debt to some disreputable mob of thugs who threaten hell fire and damnation if the bill is not paid pronto. These thugs have no interest in whether the bill is over inflated or the reason for the complaint, they are only interested in being paid and the law actually supports these leeches.

The saddest thing about modern day society at times is society itself. One only has to look at the quality of television programs to see what brain dead individuals many Australians have evolved into.
In the past there were stories that had real and interesting plots and featured actors who could act. Nowadays TV fans get all excited about pure unadulterated crap such as most of the reality shows that are infecting our screens.
Masterchef, The Biggest Loser, Survivor, Beauty and the Geek, The Bachelor to name only a few. Then of course there is the epitomy of bad taste and boring meaningless excrement known as Big Brother. How people can be excited by a group of unwashed and unrepresentative swill hanging around and talking rubbish to one another and doing absolutely nothing, is astonishing to me.
Why the Seven Network wastes its time showing AFL football in NSW and Queensland has always been a mystery as hardly any body watches it. A test pattern draws a bigger TV audience than the Sydney Swans even when they are shown live. They may attract reasonable ground attendance numbers, but as over 60% of their support comes from Victorian expats, there aren't that many left to watch the game on the telly. At least Seven has relegated it to its secondary channel in the two eastern states.
Don't get me going on local scripted drama and comedy. There were actually some who believed that garbage shows such as Rush, Mr and Mrs Murder and the current insult to peoples intelligence, Wonderland are wonderful shows. I have become convinced that the main problem is poor scripts more so than poor acting. These shows are nearly all rubbish and I avoid them like the plague. I won't even mention Home and Away and the farce that is Neighbours.

Australians have been renowned for adopting new technology whenever it becomes available. Years ago it was the CB radio craze when just about everyone had to have one fitted in his or her vehicle. The streets, roads and highways were choc o' block with hoons driving around talking to one another, or whoever was interested in replying to their drivel......"Breaker Breaker, this is big daddy, can you hear me, over."

Everyone had a bucketload of music cassettes and the vinyl record was eventually phased out.
Then came the VCR tapes, so now we all could watch movies as well. These lasted a few short years, before being replaced by the DVD.
The first computer appeared during the 1950's and belonged to Westpac. It took up a whole city block from Market to Park Sts. Years later all of this computer's functions plus hundreds more were being done by a hand held device that could fit in one's shirt pocket.
Australians took to colour Television like ducks to water during the 1970's.
In a short space of being introduced, the mobile telephone became an essential item that many simply cannot do without. There is only around 3% of the nation who does not own one. The missus and I are among them.

Take you pick. Useless devices.

Then, of course there is what is making this blog possible, the Personal Computer or simply the PC. Even I spend way too much time with bum on seat banging away on the keyboard composing what arguably could be interperated as being meaningless rubbish. Then again, it keeps me off the streets.

All being said Australian society does indeed have a lot to answer for, by allowing the Politically correct buffoons and do gooders to regulate their lives.
Despite this, when one takes in the overall situation, one can only become aware that this nation, although overgoverned and subject to the uncontrollable forces of nature on a regular basis, is by far the greatest place in the world to be born and reside.
OZ may not be the planet's richest nation, but per capita it is up there with the best of them.
Our political system is stable with nary a revolution to shake things up. In OZ we use the ballot box every three to four years. When you live in a country with untold beauty, surrounded by sandy beaches and have the freedom to go anywhere at anytime to wherever your heart desires, who gives a toss about politics. The Australian way of life is unequalled anywhere else in the world.

The Gas Works. Canberra.

Australians follow their chosen sport without the need to smash seats and burn down grandstands, or attack opponents supporters. The lighting of flares is regarded as dangerous and it is now illegal to do so. All that's needed is to educate the highly emotional Europeans that follow soccer to tone down their behavior as it is un Australian.

I am now in the twilight of my years and there is no way I will be losing sleep worrying too much about where OZ is headed. I have faith in my fellow Aussies, who I am certain will put the brakes on any over the top attempts to un Australianise our unique nation and its way of life.

Although no longer a country that the rest of the world believed was so unique and special, Australia, despite the know it alls attempting to make it a laughing stock, has qualities no other nation possesses and I can truthfully say and categorically state I wouldn't want to live anywhere else in the universe. 

A nice Sydney morning,

EXTREMELY SINFUL, YET TRULY BLESSED.

A great way to start a long weekend.

I realise that many people would not give it a second thought, but I have always been more than surprised by the numbers of my fellow Aussies who cannot resist travelling overseas around holiday time.
Call me a damp squid if you like, but throughout the 1960's and 70's despite many of my mates and colleagues heading off overseas, it never once entered my mind to do likewise as everything I required was here at home in good old Oz. Why should I holiday in Bali and pour my hard earned money into the economy of the world's fourth most corrupt nation  and risk being blown up by some fruit loop muslim fundalmentalist. To me it simply did not make any sense and still doesn't.

There was something about the Easter weekend that was always responsible for a strong feeling of satisfaction and contentment becoming present. I would arrive at the surf club around 5:45pm. Thursday evening laden with the weekend supplies of red meat, eggs and spuds, stow my gear in the locker and then check out the surf. 
Good surf, out would come the Mal. Sloppy, mediocre surf would mean a paddle on the plywood surf ski. No surf, wait for a few more of my fellow anarchists to arrive, then off to either the Newport Arms or the Mona Vale pub for an evening of self destruction.
I was rapidly turning into an extremely lazy surfer and conditions as depicted above in the pic were just what the doctor ordered.

I would sleep on my mattress snuggled in my sleeping bag on the surf club verandah. Despite doing this for over 12 years, you could count on one hand the number of times I was dive bombed by the ever present mosquitoes. Sleeping in the bunkhouse throughout summer, you would be literally eaten alive by the blood sucking mongrels, not so on the front deck. In the early days sleeping in or around the clubhouse was a dangerous experience with many older drunks only too keen to launch midnight attacks on sleeping figures and toss them into the surf after several initiation procedures. Thank God the Mitchells had a granny flat that eventually became the weekend sleeping quarters of these warped terrorists and us younger guys finally were able to sleep soundly without being molested.

By 5:00am. Good Friday morning, the sun would be in the sky and by 6:30am. I would be wide awake and checking out the surf. Sometime between 6:30am. and 7:00am I would roll out of bed and drag out the surf ski, or Mal, surf permitting. It was quite common for me to be the first to enter the water and after paddling out the back I would sit and survey the beauties of Mother Nature.

 

At time of writing, now merely a hole in the ground. It survived 53 years from November 1960 until now.

The clubhouse appeared deserted, two joggers would be seen heading north along the beach, three or four folk would be swimming a few laps in the rock pool and occasionally one would notice the odd senior citizen having his or her early morning dip in the surf. The smell of the seaweed on the nearby rocks was almost intoxicating and helped clear the breathing passages, the surf craft would rise and fall as the small swells kept rolling in, seagulls would fly overhead and every now and then one would notice a wobbegong shark or stingray scudding across the sandy bottom in the crystal clear water. What was going through one's mind was four more days of this to go..........What a life.
Why would anyone want to go overseas when it's all here free of charge?

During the early 1960's it was a common sight to see an exceptionally pretty blonde female surfer girl paddling south from North Avalon to join me for what could end up being a three hour surfing session. Sometimes I would have to pinch myself when local girls Denise and Lenya would also put in an early morning appearance on their Mals.Ah!!! There is nothing that comes near the feeling of exhilaration one experiences while surfing, but when one is joined by not one, but three bikini clad goddesses, the feeling goes completely off the scale. Denise, Lenya and Paula.........talk about eye candy. All three could surf as well.

There were, of course many times when I would find myself on my Pat Malone, however there nearly  always was Huey who saw to it that the sacred surf kept on rolling in and although it would have been preferable to have either male or female company, nevertheless the ocean still had the ability to cleanse one's soul, making life more than worth living.
Only someone who surfs, or has surfed could fully undestand what I'm on about. Full on addiction without drugs.


Nothing lasts forever and when one retired to the club's kitchen completely exhausted, into the frypan would go the sausages, eggs and bacon and a high cholesterol breakfast would be washed down with at least two mugs of Moccona premium coffee.

Seeing how the beauties of Mother Nature were referred to earlier on, one is prompted to mention the notorious Avalon sand hills that back then were mostly sand and spinifex. So very much of what occurs naturally took place regularly in those sandy clearings between the grass and we believed it was almost our duty to ensure public promiscuity was performed in an acceptable manner. I became a member of the Phantom Shadows who would lie in wait for  some unsuspecting couple to commence horizontal folk dancing and on the odd occasion we would even award points for an exceptional performance, before disappearing into the undergrowth.

There was more than just one occasion when a small group comprising both sexes would have the odd skinny dip in either the rock pool or in the surf itself during the early hours of the morning. The next day there would be tongue in cheek greetings along the lines of, "Gee, it was good to see you appreciated my company earlier on." Or, "I noticed you were up late last night."

"I thought you looked familiar."

Commencing late 1962 and into 1963 the Surfers Stomp dance craze took off at Avalon and was responsible for a surge in club membership. Not all stayed, but most did and this took quite a burden off our active patrolling members. Prior to the Stomp I can recall being rostered to do 21 patrols one season and afterwards when the membership spiked it became 11 or 12. Avalon Beach was patrolled on Saturdays from 1pm. to 5pm. and on Sundays from 9am. to 1pm. with an afternoon patrol taking over from 1pm. to 5pm.
Sunday morning patrols were the most interesting as many of the local cuties, along with many visiting top sorts would camp in close proximity to the patrol area.

One other thing that kept me busy was I had joined the boat crew and we would attend all the open and restricted surf carnivals. It was common for us to compete at Freshwater on the Saturday and on Sunday we would wind up in Sydney Branch competing at Maroubra. Every now and then there would be a marathon requiring us to row from Shelley Beach at Manly all the way to Palm Beach, or from inside Pittwater, out through the heads and down to Narrabeen.
Were we any good? Well, as an A Crew we were up there with the best of the B Crews. We trained hard and often, but still were able to spend more of our time in the pub downing large quantities of that frothy amber fluid.

Some of this.

Lots of this.

From the mid 60's onwards I was spending way too much time in the Avalon RSL with fellow imbibers. The old gang that was so prominent and full of mischief throughout the early 60's had broken up. Jim and Mike left the club and were never seen again, Michelle and I had ended our relationship and she was frequenting other circles, Jim Rayner and Nipper had taken off to New Zealand, Paula had visited Canada and was attending University and no longer was seen on the beach and her sister Lesley I can only assume lost interest in the sun, sand and surf and fell off the radar. All of the aforementioned were responsible for the happiest times of my sinful life and none of them will ever be forgotten. They were truly special times with special people.
It was the three girls who suggested we keep on coming to Avalon throughout winter. Tom lived at North Rocks, Jim and Mike at Carlingford, Nipper and the other Jim came from Marrickville, Michelle from Eastwood, Lesley and Paula from Fivedock and me from Annandale. The girls parents had holiday homes in Avalon and we most certainly put them to good use. Many a freezing cold winter's day was spent snuggling up together in the Hopewell's house at North Avalon playing board games, darts, table tennis and listening to records.
Even on the coldest of nights, there was something about snogging with a gorgeous blonde surfer girl underneath a blanket that was responsible for a warm, cosy feeling of satisfaction. It only took a matter of minutes to completely fog up all the windows in Tom's station wagon.

We would drive around all over Sydney and have an absolute ball doing absolutely nothing. We would demonstrate what rotten bowlers we were at the Balgowlah Ten Pin bowling alley. God only knows how many Drive Ins we attended. At least two of us would lie on the back seat floor covered in a blanket and would enter the Drive In for free. The Squash courts at Newport were honoured with our presence every now and then and the girls weren't that bad belting that little black ball around. 

We would go on the odd picnic together and enjoy each others company. Therin lies the story. It was not what we did that gave us pleasure, it was who we were doing it with that made it exceptional.

We were different people from different parts of Sydney who derived great pleasure out of each others company and at the time it seemed as though it would last forever, but unfortunately nothing does.
The last time I can recall seeing the two Hopewell sisters was when they were part of a Resuscitation squad being examined on the beach on Sunday March 24th. 1963. Before they had completed their examination a mass rescue took place that involved many members from surrounding clubs. The girls pitched in to help and I found myself swimming a surfline out to our damaged and sunken surfboat with the young ladies as my linesmen. They received commendations from the Manly Warringah SLSA for their wonderful efforts.
All six girls in the training squad were known to me and had been responsible for making my life exceptional to say the least, yet despite this way too many years passed by with me forgetting who they were, despite manning the reel line and belt for my belt swim. Just recently an old surf club annual report resurfaced and reminded me of who they were.
Denise Ware, Lenya Laurich, Carolyn Druce, Patricia Jarrat and the two Hopewell sisters, Lesley and Paula excelled themselves during the mass rescue and went on to obtain their Qualifying Certificates later on that same day.
Several months later I did meet up with Lesley Hopewell, but for some unknown reason she obviously was not too pleased to see me.

It was the end of an era.

Many folk lead lives that are full of satisfaction and I can truthfully include myself among them, but I was given the opportunity to have as friends very special people, even if only for a short period of time. Along with my love of the sun, sand and surf, these dear friends have left their mark on me and during the past 50 years I have always been aware of what a lucky boy I was. In fact I was much more than just lucky, I was indeed really and truly blessed.

VALE

I have only just been informed of the sad passing of one of my favourite people, namely Lesley Hopewell.
Lulu was struck down with the dreaded cancer several years ago and when I was told she had succumbed to it, a part of me died as well.
The happiest years of my life were the ones spent with Lu and her younger sister Paula during the early 1960's.
I was privileged to have known the two sisters during what was all too short a time and those not forgotten memories will still be with me when it comes my turn to leave this mortal coil.

Rest in peace Lulu.
Many thanks to former Nestles co worker Jim Hahn for advising me of the devastating news.

BITS AND PIECES

A POTPOURRI OF CONDENSED TALL TALES FROM WAY TOO MANY YEARS AGO.

My son and heir to the Fuller fortune has requested his old man provide further information and details of past sins committed by said same sire.
Without resorting to the placing of these historical incidents in any chronological order, I will begin to relate snippets from my exciting and meaningful life, the bulk of which occurred during those long lost days of political incorrectness that meant so much back then and even more so to many today.

                  
The Boss and Bob

The Boss was my mum Molly Grant Sym, a Protestant who married my dad Robert James Fuller, a devout full on practising Catholic. Mum only wanted one or two kids, but Dad was happy to let nature decide, he would have been delighted with a cricket team.
We were living at Nelson St. Annandale in my Uncle Jack's house and after several years of marriage, things were going off the boil. Bob and Molly may not have been seeing eye to eye, but I was loved by all and sundry in the household. There was, besides my parents, Uncle Jack, God bless him. Jack's brother, my Uncle Dave and his wife Aunty Kit several years later would be additions to the household when their rented house in Lilyfield was sold. When that occurred there were two left footers in the household and they were Aunty Kit and myself. We would always attend Sunday Mass at St. Brendans Annandale and of course on all the special feast and religious holidays as well.

St. Brendans, Annandale.

I was being raised as a devout little Catholic, but I still used to help Uncle Jack deliver bottled soft drinks to his Masonic Lodge in Trafalger St. on a regular basis. I would also attend the Xmas concert and other events put on by the Lodge as well. 
While attending St. Brendan's Infant School, I became quite good at reproducing patterns in my pastels book and acquired a reputation as a creative little bugger. Even the most talented artists, at times run out of inspiration and when this began to affect my visual masterpieces, I was forced to look elsewhere for patterns and ideas.
I copied the symbol on Uncle Jack's Freemason apron and was extremely pleased with the result. At school however, it went down like the proverbial lead balloon. There was even talk of excommunication...........OOPS!!!!

Every now and then Uncle Jack would take me with him on the Campsie bus to visit his daughter Valerie and her mother, who was Uncle Jack's ex. On one visit we were sitting upstairs in the Double decker bus, Jack up towards the front and me in the back seat. I was 6 or 7 at the time. I thought we had reached our destination and I saw who I believed to be Uncle Jack about to descend the bus's steps, so I followed him off the bus, then it took off. Oops! wrong bloke.

There I was stranded on my Pat Malone somewhere in or near Campsie. A friendly shopkeeper realised I was in big trouble and took me in to his shop and stuffed me full of lollies and soft drinks, until Uncle Jack made an appearance thirty minutes later and claimed me. When the story was revealed at Nelson St. Bob was not at all impressed and he and Uncle Jack began to have a few choice words. I have no idea who swung the first punch, but it was on for young and old. I was in the front bedroom at the time the blue started in the hallway outside. Jack and Bob went at one another like a pair of tom cats. The two relloes went the full 30 feet of the hall from the front of the house and into the living room where poor old Uncle Jack hit the deck. Molly stepped in screaming abuse at both and told Bob to leave the house which he did immediately. This heralded in what was to become the end of their marriage. Bob went to live with his sister, my Aunty Dos at Rosebery and eventually bought her rented house and did an excellent job of raising his three nieces, Maureen, Margaret and Valerie. As the years rolled by there was more than just toleration and life continued along its merry way. When Molly remarried, no one was more happy for her than Bob. Another interesting fact was not one of the uncles and aunties on Bob's side of the family would hear a harsh word said about Molly. Uncle Herbie loved her.

Sadly everyone has entered what we hope is immortality and if so they would be all reunited once again and would be on much better terms than during their mortal life.  Of course it goes without saying,  they would all be attempting to talk over the top of one another.
  

Trev's amateur boxing career.

I was only 10 years old at the time and was waiting my turn to enter the boxing ring at St Thomas's Lewisham. This was the semi final of the Christian Bros. Boxing Tournament and I had managed to go through all the elimination rounds undefeated. Years later when it came to football, I was slow as a wet week, but during my outings in the ring, they couldn't lay a glove on me. This all came about through me seeing Errol Flynn as James J. Corbett in the movie Gentleman Jim. I copied the footwork that was filmed in close up during many of the film's fights and became a difficult target for my opponents.

The trouble was I had run out of the easybeats and some Christian Brother wanker decided they had to up the quality of my human punching bags and on the night of the final I ended up against a bloke twice my size.
I'm not kidding, this guy was huge and in a higher age division and several months earlier he had belted the living bejeezus out of me down at the Annandale Flats after I fronted him for stealing a football that belonged to some extremely young schoolkids. Some of the other members of my boxing team were actually openly praying for my well being.

During round one he almost connected with several good shots that my tap dancing enbled me to partly avoid and when he was off balance I clobbered him with a vicious left hook that knocked him off his feet and he took an 8 count. I rushed in for the kill and all it took was one decent punch to the side of the head to end the fight. Everybody in the hall saw it coming, all except me. All I remember was travelling home on the bus with my extremely concerned mother and nursing the daddy of all headaches. I still made the finals of the boxing comp which was held at the old and long gone Leichhardt Stadium, my last fight being a draw against a fellow classmate from Lewisham, Lawrence Saidi.

The old Leichhardt Stadium. When it finally closed sometime during 1958, it eventually became one of the many Brunswick ten pin bowling alleys.

Three years or so after joining the Avalon Surf Club, I was walking down Trafalger St. towards Parramatta Rd. Who did I see approaching, none other than Samson the bully and thug. I said g'day to him and reminded him who I was, but he recognised me anyway. He may not have noticed, but I had gained some weight and a fair bit of muscle and quite a bit of self confidence. I cannot recall what he said to me, but I do remember resenting it and before he knew it I king hit him flush on the jaw and got several hard thumps to the solar plexus spot on target. He went down like the bag of shit that he was. 

To my satisfaction and enjoyment he never got up. I went along my merry way to the old Olympia cinema. I think I saw the biblical epic, King of Kings.
With Jeffrey Hunter in the leading role it became known as, 'I was a Teenage Jesus.' 

"I sincerely hope you all like fish."

Brussell sprouts.....I told you so.

Not a lot needs to be said here. My mother was one of those folk who hardly liked anything when it came to eating. Some of her shocking habits rubbed off onto me. I was only fed what she liked and never anything that she didn't.
The last person to talk about how one must eat all their vegies should never have been Molly Fuller, as she was at the time.
Despite liking double the variety that she did, nevertheless I was continually being berated for not liking brussel sprouts........Yuk! 
After two years of cajoling and at times pure unabated bullshit Molly decides her young son Trev was going to eat his brussel sprouts whether he liked them or not. Grown ups and more so mothers believe they know better than their progeny when it came to just about anything. I warned her that she was wrong when it came to my likes and dislikes in relation to food.
A large serving spoon piled high with the evil smelling excuse for a vegetable that is brussel sprouts was forced into my cakehole by one determined parent. 
"You are not leaving the table until you swallow it," I was informed.
Being an obedient son I swallowed it and almost immediately I was proven to be a prophet when it, along with whatever else was in my stomach spewed forth all over the table cloth, with a considerable amount landing in Molly's lap. I didn't have to ask to leave the table as everyone else had already done so with great haste to avoid the multi coloured overspray.

Sprouts were immediately withdrawn from the menu......Yay!!

Learning how not to drown

I cannot remember how old I was when my dear sweet mother decided I should learn how to swim. I informed her I was already capable of swimming freestyle and had been doing that for at least 3 years or so. Mum was not having any of that and she made arrangements with the NSW Amateur Swimming Association who were conducting classes at the North Sydney Olympic Pool in the shadow of the Harbour Bridge for her little boy to commence swimming lessons.
Despite knowing it was all a waste of time and money, I began taking the tram to Wynyard and then leaving by tram from the underground station for North Sydney every Saturday morning.

Sure enough, all the other learners were being instructed how to dog paddle the length of the 25 metre long kiddies pool, with several weeks of boring theory and leg kicking while hanging onto to side of the pool. I put up with this for 3 weeks and decided to drop out. Over the next several Saturdays I could be seen swimming in the main pool and jumping from the highest platform on the diving tower. Occasionally I would spend the odd hour or two at Luna Park using my swimming fees on the many rides on offer. When one of the local Annandale kid's parent informed my Mum how proud she was of little Johnny receiving his swimming certificate, I was asked, "Where's yours?"
I answered simply by saying I was never given one and then was told to make sure I was given one the following Saturday.

Arriving at the pool a week later I asked one of the instructors where my certificate was and was told I had to be one of the learners who had completed the required number of sessions to be awarded one. I lied and said I had completed all my sessions and was told to swim one length of the kiddies pool.
After freestyling one lap I was informed that's not how it's done and only after I dog paddled the 25 metres did he agree to issue me with a certificate. Mum was thrilled and I was blessed and dead lucky to have gotten away with it.
Even after I joined the Avalon Surf Club years later and obtained my Bronze Medallion, the certificate stating that Trevor Fuller could swim 25 metres still hung proudly on the kitchen wall for all to gaze upon in awe and wonder. 


A few years later when in my very early teens I spent the afternoon alone watching Bandstand and polishing off 6 cans of Resch's pilsener. I was not feeling too good, in fact you could say that I was pissed as the proverbial newt. When the folks returned home from the footy, I was finally confronted by my mum who asked me if I had been drinking.
I merely farted then burped and filled her apron pockets with liquid chunder......it still had a head on it.


Carn the Koalas

Transferred from Lewisham to Rozelle Christian Bros. as the former had no sport and the latter did. Would you believe, no sooner had I changed schools when the opposite occurred. Lewisham took up sport and Rozelle started to give it a big miss......bugger!
I made the cricket team in 6th class and when four Rugby League teams were picked I ended up, not in the Tigers or Panthers or the Kangaroos, but the mighty Koalas.......Fuck me dead.
The three other teams seemed to know what they were doing, but my mob, what a bunch of non talented wankers. We were so bad we even made Aussie Rules almost appear interesting. We were like the police force of the future as depicted in the Sylvester Stallone movie, The Demolition Man.
"I'm gonna give you a blow job," said a Koala forward.
I replied, "Dickhead, it's I'm going to blow you away." Fair dinkum.

Our team folded when several of the kids lost their handbags and dropped out. They probably ended up playing VFL as it was called at the time.


Annandale, the birthplace of Federation, Transport, Tojo and Bumper.

Most of what went on in Annandale has been recorded in my very first blog, (#1) Tiger Territory, Pre Teen Era (Part 1)

The trams ran from Lilyfield down Booth St., past the Harold Park Paceway, through parts of Glebe then all the way to Circular Quay, then back again.

All Aboard.

Trams and buses used to run down Parramatta Rd from several destinations and into the city. All services would pass through Central Railway and onto the Quay. Unlike way too many areas throughout Greater metropolitan Sydney, we were well serviced when it came to public transport. It was a direct ride into the CBD and merely a tram change at Central for the Eastern Suburbs and the surfing beaches.
I preferred to catch the tram from Lilyfield on Booth St. as the tram stop was much closer to home. I would nearly always return home on the Lilyfield tram as well. Trams had the ability to move people much quicker and more efficiently than the buses that eventually replaced them in 1962. The mind boggled at the speed with which the trams could disperse the weekend crowds at the football and/or the Randwick races.

Trams moved 1000 people per minute.

To make it easier for the public to identify the trams destination, the end boxes as they were called, had coloured patterns for each suburb............here's a selection.

Rozelle end box.

The three types of trams running at the time were as follows..............

Note the end boxes.

The nearest train station was Stanmore, south of Nelson St and Parramatta Rd.

Stanmore Station.

The electric trains back then were known as red rattlers and they went from Waterfall in the south to Hornsby in the north. No such things as auto closing doors back then. You had to either close the door yourself or be a thrillseeker and leave it open while leaning backwards reading a paper or magazine with half the sole of your shoe protruding past the edge of the floor. Every now and then someone would become a little to nonchalant and would suddenly disappear and later on that evening the television or radio news would report the incident, saying he was in a serious, but stable condition in either St. George or Prince Alfred hospital. Any destination outside of those aforementioned would have to be reached by one of the many steam engine services. The most famous steam engine was the green 3801 Newcastle Flyer and my Dad and I travelled on it quite often as we would be all the time visiting the Fuller and Halfpenny families residing in and around Newcastle.
Two extremely popular steam trains at the time were the 'Fish' and the 'Chips,' that would leave Central full of commuters heading home towards the Blue Mountains.
The Fish serviced Mt. Victoria, while the Chips serviced Springwood.




Red rattler.



Loco 3801.  The Newcastle Flyer.



The Fish.

 

The Chips.



Peak hour at Central. 1950's.

The ultimate in rail travel happened to be the interstate service between Sydney and Melbourne. The service was provided by the Victorian Railways modern looking, purple coloured 'Spirit of Progress'. I got to travel on it once when returning from the country town of Henty in southern NSW during 1963, when it made a special stop just to pick me up at the local station at midnight.

Things were totally different back then, as parents would tell their kids to go play in the street, which we all did. There was very little organised entertainment, so we all would make it up ourselves as we went along. Every afternoon after school there would be the mandatory cricket match in the street. Back then cars driving along Nelson St. would nearly always stop to watch an eight ball over before moving off again. This has been given good coverage in my other blogs, along with many other activities.

There was a period when several of us trainee juvenile delinquents would inform our parents that we were visiting our friends and neighbours, but instead would don our Super Hero clobber and it would be off to the small estate being constructed on the banks of the Annandale Canal opposite the Harold Park Trotting track. Any work fully or partially completed that day would be all for nought as the masked and caped crusaders would set about pushing over brick walls and knocking off timber and other materials to be used to construct a cubby house where we could plan our clandestine activities in a degree of comfort.

Sadly our delaying tactics were only responsible for a temporary delay in construction, as the small number of houses were eventually finished and in no time were full of new residents. 




Still here, no thanks to us.

Being so near the canal, some of the kids would use it on a stinking hot day, when the tide was in, for swimming, splashing and paddling home made boats. I am certain no one was aware that where the canal entered Rozelle bay, there obviously was nothing to prevent large fish from entering and swimming upstream. I for one had absolutely no idea.

Low tide with Rozelle bay in the distance.

High tide looking upstream.

All the aquatic events ended suddenly, when what was believed to be either a tiger shark or bronze whaler became responsible for one of the young local lads losing a leg while swimming.
I never swam in the canal, but many of us used to race our home made model boats from the bottom of Chester St. Annandale, through to Jubilee Park Glebe and back when the tide was coming in.

After leaving school at age 14 during December 1957, I had to wait until I turned 15 to be permanently employed by Collies Inks at Lilyfield as a Laboratory Assistant. During 1958 our family became the proud owner of Tojo the wonder dog.


Tojo was a border collie/kelpie bitzer, with a small amount of God only knows what thrown in for good measure. His mum obviously was extremely popular and got around a bit. Tojo was never trained to do a single solitary thing, yet somehow managed to be gifted with abilities and awareness no other dog I've ever known came within cooee of, not even our fully trained labrador Casey.

The Dog Wonder.

When he was still a small puppy, the tiny part fox terrier bitch Judy, from across the road, who had only just had all of her pups taken from her, adopted Toj as her own. She would come over and lick him clean on a daily basis and spend at least 7 to 8 hours a day playing with him. As for Tojo, he adored her, even when he was fully grown and three times her size. She mothered him for around  2 years or so and he still idolised her, played with her and protected her.

Tojo loved everyone and everyone seemed to know and love him. He would chase tom cats, yet play with and protect kittens.
One day Aunty Kit heard what sounded like a kitten squealing in the backyard and after investigating she found Toj had brought home 2 little balls of feline fluff he obviously had found abandoned somewhere, either in the street or on one of the vacant blocks nearby. They were taken to the local Vet and ended up finding a loving home when they were eventually adopted by a cat lover who took both of them.

When news of what had taken place spread, Tojo became almost a local legend. What a dog.


On walks he never would heel, but would always wait at every intersection for you to catch up, then cross the road with you. You would  ask him softly in a very matter of fact way if he would like a walk and after several spins and the odd somersault, he would unhook his lead in the walk in pantry and start hustling you to extract the digit with it in his mouth. I have no recollection of him ever wearing the lead, because whenever we took it with us, he would carry it in his mouth. Every Saturday he would toddle off to Jack Buff's Butcher shop on the corner of Nelson and Booth Sts. and return home with his huge dinosaur bone that would always be waiting for his weekly arrival. He would guide old folk across the road when required and would always look both ways before crossing the street while chasing those tom cats.
You could literally have an intelligent conversation with him and when the family would be in the living room chatting away he seemed aware of what was being said. Uncle Jack would ask Uncle Dave a question and Toj would look at Dave waiting for him to answer.

At first the aforementioned Aunty Kit thought Toj was simply dog ugly and wanted nothing to do with him. One evening she misplaced her glasses and asked all of us if we had seen them, we all answered no. Tojo disappeared down the hall and returned with a pair of glasses in his mouth, which for some reason he dropped into Uncle Jacks cup of tea. We all almost wet ourselves and from that night onwards Toj became Aunty Kit's second best friend and ended up as the Ladies Dart Club Mascot.


Whenever the North Annandale Ladies Dart Club was competing and/or practising on Tuesday nights, their mascot Tojo would always pay them a visit in the Saloon Bar to watch the President, Aunty Kit playing and to lap up his complimentary Middy of Tooths New from his bowl on the floor in what was known as Tojo's corner.

After almost five years as the wonder dog's proud master and companion, I left home and went to live in Avalon, leaving him in charge of the Annandale mob. Whenever I would pop in for the odd visit, Toj would be all over me with love and affection. After 12 months had passed by, I moved into a semi in Marrickville with my mother Molly, who had married the new love of her life Jim Stokes and when Uncle Jack would regularly visit every Sunday morning, he would always bring Toj who could never contain his excitement.

When he was around eight years of age he began to go missing, sometimes for three or four days at a time, but would always return and it would be business as usual according to Uncle Jack and the others. His behaviour was hard to understand at the time, when he vanished for over a week and a half. Once again however he did return and for the next few weeks he was his normal loving self. He took off again on one of his mysterious adventures and was gone for over two and a half weeks. Our next door neighbour saw him reappear in the middle of the day filthy dirty and dying of thirst. He ran up the side passage and drank a large quantity of water from the bucket that Aunty Kit would replenish every day and before the neighbour could lock him inside the backyard, he jogged off, over the front wire fence and was never seen again.

My stepfather Jim always believed he was looking for me, but I believe he had found himself a girlfriend and had simply gone feral. If this was the case, Tojo would have most certainly bent over backwards to assist this ladyfriend if ever she bore a litter. I have always been certain he never would have abandoned her, as it simply was not in his nature to do so. Also, his intelligence was so apparent and his personality so strong, it would not have been that difficult for some other family to adopt him. As sad as it was for all our family members, Tojo's final years saw him doing what he wanted to do, with whom he wanted  and where he wanted to do it.
He knew where his Annandale home was and how he was loved by all and sundry, but chose a new life that to him, I truly believe, although different, was as happy and satisfying as his previous life at Nelson Street. Although convinced that the preceding is true, nevertheless the tears are streaming down my cheeks as I put in writing what occurred all those decades ago.

The garbos from Annandale, Glebe and Leichhardt all knew him and promised to keep an eye out for him, but to no avail.  
All that's left are memories of a one off special and my favourite memory is one that indicates just how popular and well known he was.
 
As mentioned earlier, in my younger days, I was a devout RC who attended Sunday Mass on a regular basis. Midway through Father Heffernan's Sunday sermon, who should wander in through the Collins St. entrance, none other than the wonder dog himself. Locating me he hopped up on the pew and became settled, just before one of the volunteer vergers arrived to remove him.
"That's OK," said Father Heffernan from the pulpit, "Leave him be, it's only Tojo." 

Throughout Annandale's history there have been two remarkable and famous historical figures who resided there, one was the Father of Federation, Sir Henry Parkes and the other was Tojo the wonder dog.

Sir Henry Parkes.

Tojo, local legend.

'Kenilworth'.  Johnston St. Annandale. Home of Sir Henry Parkes.

Kennel.  Nelson St. Annandale. Home of Tojo Fuller.

Decades have passed  since I was last a member of the Annandale and Glebe community, yet I still am guilty of having many nostalgic thoughts on and memories of the area in general.
Every Wednesday back then we would stroll down to the Glebe Police Boys Club that used to be on the shores of Rozelle Bay. We would arrive around 7:30 pm and leave at 9:30 pm or thereabouts, running like the clappers through Jubilee Park to avoid all those shirt lifting pillow munchers waiting in the shadows to seduce us sweet and innocent young lads. During the winter months it was Footy training at Jubilee Oval with the Glebe Youth Club Rugby League team every Tuesday and Thursday. This involved more sprinting home after training to once again avoid those warped chocolate highwaymen lying in wait to rape us all.
The street that was between the Club and Park has now been replaced with a walkway through a beautiful landscaped reserve that once was home to heavy industry, which included an oil and fuel storage facility.
Today, the area provides visitors with wonderful views of the harbour and surrounds and many take advantage of it and go there to picnic. 

Ten out of Ten for all those responsible for the transformation.

From this........

.........to this........

........to this........

........to this........

........Ahh!  Peel me a grape.

Frank Farrell was a former Newtown Rugby League forward who went on to lead the 21st Division vice squad. He also captained the Bluebags and represented his country at League and had a fearsome reputation as both a footballer and no nonsense copper. 

Bumper on the charge.

His nickname was Bumper and he served mostly in the inner city precincts, occasionally making an appearance in Annandale with some of the boys in blue. Generally speaking there was never any trouble with the police, but every now and then something would occur that would get someone's dander up and the next thing you know the police would start throwing their weight around. Quite often young kids, some not even in their teens would be threatened  by the boys in blue if they were seen walking their pushbikes along the footpath......Give me a break. The local milk bar would be visited and everyone hanging out and/or enjoying a shake or soft drink would be hustled out and ordered to go home. None of us streetwise nutters would have been game to say boo, but unfortunately Tommy did. He was taken down to the station and given more than just a good talking too and a boot up the bum. He literally had the living tripe kicked and beaten out of him. 
What followed later on did not involve me and some other not so brave locals, but I personally witnessed the aftermath. The guys marched into the station when the word was spread that one of their mates had been cruelly bashed and was being held in the local lock up. All I will say is he was set free and those on duty at the time all ended up on sick leave. I cannot recall whether this civil disobedience was taken further by the parties involved at the time, but I can categorically state there were no more police bashings from then on.


Chariots and petrol guzzlers.

1964........1967      Morris 1100.  I knew nothing about cars, but decided to go one better than Uncle Jack and his Morris Minor.

1967........1968      Austin Healy Sprite.  Thought owning a sports car would be hot, it wasn't.


1968........1970      Chrysler Valiant.   When Jay bought a British Racing Green one, I bought a Turquoise one. Very comfortable, but no good at high speed and was a    petrol guzzler.

1970........1979     Mazda 1500.  Best car I had owned to date.



1979........1988 (thereabouts)........   Mini 1000 and inherited 1300 cc Toyota Corolla.                                   The mini was fine but the Corolla, what a gutless piece of shite that was. One day after a picnic at Balmoral beach everyone had to get out so I could reverse the car up the hill and when Holly, Patricia and Patrick went by train to Ettalong and Gabi and I took the luggage up in it, this car rolled backwards for 6 metres on a hill, with my foot flat to the floor before moving forward.

Since then there has been the 3 cylinder Suzuki Swift, the Nissan Pulsar, Hyundai Excel, Subaru Forester, the 21 year old Ford Fairlane, the Mitsubishi Lancer and the current Hyundai Sonata.

Of all the cars, my favourites have been the Mazda 1500, the Subaru Forester, the Hyundai Excel and the Sonata.
If I had to choose one it would probably be the Sonata.

When Jay was alive we would quite often spend Friday afternoon and early evenings washing, polishing and waxing both our cars out front at Marrickville. The difference was I wanted mine to look good to drive it, whereas Jay wanted to have intercourse with his. No bullshit, he used to polish inside the glove box and even the ashtrays. When he passed on I got out of the habit. As I type it has been just on 21 months since I last washed the car.


Whaddya mean I'm double parked?

At Marrickville between next door's driveway and ours, there was just enough space for the two Marrickville Mercedes to fit and whichever one of us brothers would arrive and park first we would always move forward leaving room for the second Valiant.
Early one evening I was forced to park 30 metres or so up the street as some mug had parked his car smack bang in the middle of the space out front. He was still there when Jay arrived home later on. At 11pm or thereabouts we noticed he had left so we went outside and reparked our vehicles.
Some days later he was there again, smack in the middle. This time we placed a politely worded
note under his wipers asking him to park further forward so at least one of us could park our car.
A week later he or she was back again completely in the middle. Jay's fiance Sue was visiting and she wrote a strongly worded message in lipstick on the windscreen, a message which warned of a possible reaction from Jay and/or I. The following Sunday this brain dead ignoramus was determined not to do the right thing and when Jay and I noticed his window was open we opened the car's door and I got behind the wheel while Jay pushed it forward in the direction of Livingstone Road. Reaching the end of George St. I took a left turn and stopped the vehicle in the middle of the busy road. I pulled on the handbrake, shut the window and proceeded home and parked our two Valiants in their proper place.

Never saw the car ever again, funny that.


Super Hero.

Coming home late from work one evening. Cannot remember what night it was, possibly a Friday. The train was almost empty and I felt like a cigarette. The carriage had a guards compartment at the back so I went and sat inside it with the door ajar. It was pitch black and those few folk who were boarding the train at various stations had no idea I was there puffing away illegally.

If my memory is correct the carriage downstairs had only one young teenage girl sittng in it as everyone seemed to alight at Redfern I think. Two rowdy young hoons, both in their teens entered the carriage at Redfern and the oldest one began tormenting the young lass. At first I thought they knew each other, but it became obvious the girl was becoming distressed. I was closely monitoring the situation and when the girl rose to leave the guy grabbed her and threw her down on the seat. Earlier on after work I had downed several schooners and the odd Tequila Slammer, which obviously had raised my level of courage. Because of this I flew into action, without taking time to don my cowl and cape, I hurtled down the stairs and let fly with a swinging left and the offending hoon fell semi concious and face down across the girls lap. His younger mate took one look at what had just happened and wisely decided not to become involved in any way. I told him to sit and stay where he was. The troublemaker rose to his feet and copped a well timed clenched fist that landed smack bang in the middle of his temple and he landed flat on his back in the trains aisle. When the other younger bloke attempted to leave by the front someone from upstairs appeared and grabbed him. I think I turned around just in time to see the older hoon pulling a knife as he rose from the floor. A second good samaritan appeared and when I attempted to kick the hoon in the cods, he retreated into the vice like grip of this samaritan.

What happened after that is very, very vague, but the girl was shaken but grateful and we all alighted at Narwee station to await the arrival of the police who were called by the station staff. 

Narwee station.

I believe we all spent at least another 20 minutes with the police before I hopped on a passing train on its way to Riverwood. I was never called to give evidence at any court hearing or trial.


A supermarket mystery?

I have been asked to describe events that involved something that happened at Woolworths. I cannot recall any thing other than a misty, out of focus memory that maybe something did.
I do recollect the security staff at an arcade in Riverwood being given a decent payout by some young hoon caught skateboarding in the centre. He was threatening to sue if any of the staff laid a finger on him. What he was not aware of was me walking about three or four paces behind him and beginning to fume at all the cheek he was handing out. I grabbed his trousers in the groin region from behind and took a strong grip of his longish hair and lifted him off the ground, walked the 5 metres or so to the arcades entrance and threw him onto the footpath. When he threatened to contact the police we all said we would wait for their arrival. 

All the shoppers gave me a warm round of applause, while the security guys were singing my praises.


Resorting to violence.

I was never endowed with anything other than average physical strength, however what always worked to my advantage was thinking quick during a possible life threatening emergency and knowing when and where to hit for the greatest effect. Most street brawlers have a tendency to be headhunters, whereas I was taught and learned a quick hard rip into the solar plexus can end an altercation quite swiftly.

The number of fair dinkum fights I got involved in throughout my life can be counted on one hand and most of those ended quickly because I was able to get in first.
Coming home from golf at Leppington one Saturday, a dickhead drove through a stop sign and unless we both hit the brakes hard it could have been a disaster. He alights from his vehicle and in the middle of a busy intersection has the audacity to abuse me for nearly causing a accident. He was convinced he was in the right, even after I pointed out he had driven through a stop sign and started to get aggressive. I wasn't in the mood to put up with any of this so I simply let him have one of my better rips to the solar plexus. I re entered my car and continued on my way home, leaving a writhing piece of humanity on the ground in the middle of the intersection.

Balmain Tigers.

I never could stand Western Suburbs, because they always seemed to have the wood on Balmain. Years later it was a big shock to the system when both clubs were forced to merge to simply survive and became the Wests Tigers.

As young teenagers in Annandale we used to follow the mighty Tigers along with South Sydney for some reason. I personally had a soft spot for Newtown, who back then were known as the Bluebags and later on as the Jets.

During the 50's, 60's and 70's, there was only one code of football that interested anyone and that was Rugby League and most of us troublemakers believed it truly was the greatest game of all.
Union was played and supported by the GPS mob who wore tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows. Soccer was a game for non english speaking wogs and dagos who obtained great delight out of attacking one another and the referee. Aussie Rules, or VFL was played and watched by no one at all. The VFL grand final would attract around 300 people to Erskineville oval at the end of a big season.


In the League, it didn't matter how bad Balmain was, they always seemed to have the wood on Manly and thanks to 'Golden Boots' Keith Barnes kicking goals from all over the park, they were nearly always able to beat them.

On their day they could beat anybody, including the invincible St George, without ever threatening the premiership's top four positions. Apart from Barnes, the Tigers most consistent player was their centre three quarter Bill Bischoff. He never played for Australia, but he was a great club player who turned the tables on many a better player, including Reg Gasnier himself.

Rugby Reg in full flight.

There were so many good performances, yet near misses throughout the years, but in 1969 they were lucky to fluke a finals win over Manly and took on the previously invincible South Sydney at the SCG the following Saturday.
Souths believed they were odds on, but the Tigers forwards took them on and replacement winger Sid Williams dived over in the corner after receiving a great pass from centre Terry Parker.

The late Laurie Nicholls.



Never thought it could happen.

The final score    Balmain 11          Souths 2

I have no recollection of leaving home that evening, but Sunday morning I woke up on the concrete underneath someone's vehicle in the Balmain Leagues Club's car park at Rozelle with a sore back, a painfully stiff neck and the big daddy of all hangovers.
The opening match of the 1970 season saw the Tigers still pissed and partying on celebrating the Grand Final victory and were absolutely flogged at Brookvale by Manly 42 to 10. 
Entered the ground single and left with a new girlfriend. Would've preferred a Tigers victory though..........Sorry Jude. 

The Balmain Tigers premiership winning team members 1969

Bob Smithies            Fullback
George Ruebner       Left Wing
Len Killeen              Right Wing
Alan Fitzgibbon       Centre
Terry Parker            Centre
Keith Outten            Five Eight
Dave Bolton             Half back
Peter Provan (C)      Lock Forward
Joe Walsh                Second Row
John Spencer           Second Row
Barry Mc Taggart    Front Row
Garry Leo                Front Row
Peter Boulton           Hooker
Sid Williams             Replacement Right Wing 

Coach      Leo Nosworthy

1969 Premiers.

Today, cannot seem to get that interested in the Wests Tigers, but still have some affection for them. Regardless of who's playing, I still enjoy a good game of League as it is streets ahead of any of the other football codes and is slowly but surely spreading in popularity throughout the world despite the idiots that profess to be running it here in Oz.

Surfing, learning to cook and singing.

It was towards the end of 1969 when I became a part of an inspired team of Avalon Beach Surf Club members who, under the inspirational guidance of friend and collegue Warren Mitchell, were responsible for the development of the first rubber surf rescue boat, the IRB, now adopted throughout the world as a primary rescue craft. Throughout the winter months of the 1960's I was a member of the beach football team and played in the Manly Warringah SLSA competition against clubs along the Northern Beaches strip. My longest lasting memory is crash tackling legendary League winger Ken Irvine into touch during a game at Dee Why against Collaroy.
The bulk of the Avalon members were from all over Sydney and on weekends they would nearly all hang out in and around the clubhouse plotting and engaging in anarchy. Some of us would be in attendance over the winter months and the surf club's kitchen would be taken over by would be chefs preparing and cooking culinary masterpieces. I was more adventurous than most and was responsible for many a first class nosh up on weekends. This has been covered in some of my other blogs in quite a bit of detail.

Years later after marrying a first class cook, I was conned by said same cook to eventually take over from her and become the head chef, so to speak.
Many skills were passed on to me and quite a large percentage of my better accomplishments were learned from watching TV cooking shows. It was from Jamie Oliver who I learned to bake and/or roast vegies. Elizabeth Chong unlocked many Chinese secrets and her fried rice is to die for. Most of my sauces were passed onto me by the missus and one thing I can guarantee is we live and eat extremely well for two old farts.

Another one of my loves that I still gain great pleasure from is singing. There is nothing more satisfying than learning the tune and lyrics of a decent song and being given the opportunity to perform it with a degree of professionalism.
Yonks ago I had the opportunity to enter the world of show business, but ended up getting cold feet and stuck with my engineering apprenticeship, as I believed it would enable my future to be more stable than singing for a living. 
In retrospect, when I listen to some of the headlining artists from here and overseas all those years ago, I now know that compared to many of them, I was definitely a better singer, but, unlike too many of them, I was also aware of my shortcomings.
To me, singing was a hobby that gave me lots of pleasure and much satisfaction when I would perform at the odd talent quest and win over the audience by being smart enough to give them what they really wanted.
Any old standard with a strong back beat, always seemed to deliver the best results. I cannot stand the boring, tuneless monotone style that passes as modern music and will go to the grave as a wild rocker and ballad singer still obsessed with the 'good old days.'

I met the missus during 1971 and discovered she too had a passion for music and was part of a quartet that achieved success on television.
Showbusiness being what it is, her musical career was over fairly swiftly and she went on to become an excellent artist, winning many awards for her paintings.

Throughout the many years that have passed by I have been a resident of many suburbs which include Annandale, Avalon Beach, Marrickville, Blakehurst, Oatley, Bexley, Mortdale, Peakhurst. During 1998 Gabi and I decided to retire and sold our tidy home in Peakhurst and moved north to the Hunter region, where we purchased a brand new Pole house south of Toronto in Arcadia Vale.
Several years later we moved just to the west of Toronto to Blackalls Park where we most certainly will be seeing out our final years. 


Although not a top priority, a savings scheme that appears so far to be working, should be responsible for me getting out and about on the lake in a second hand tinnie, to continue the never ending search for a decent feed of fish.

If it happens it will be a bonus, as life is still worthwhile and generally enjoyable and is most certainly much better than the alternative. Bucketloads of multi coloured tablets, insulin and a fitted pacemaker so far have kept me firing on five of my six cylinders and here's hoping exercise is going to be responsible for a massive reduction in weight, as my aching legs are simply incapable of supporting me for any longer than a few short minutes.

As time marches on I am discovering that it is quite often impossible for me to go and be where I want to be, when I want to be there, but as the late George Burns once said at age 99, when asked was he glad to be at a function dedicated to his late wife Gracie Allen.

"At my age," he said, "I'm glad to be anywhere." 




p.s.        Time marches on and circumstances are responsible for a rethink as to one's future. At first Gabi was not overkeen to sell up and move to a retirement village, but the garden was becoming too much and her joints, along with mine, were showing signs of wear and were causing considerable discomfort. We bit the bullet and moved to the Bayway Village at Fern Bay, just north of Stockton in Newcastle.
            
We are now part of a large community and when the settling in process is complete we intend to become active participants in the relaxed lifestyle. We have relloes nearby and absolutely love the area and way of life.