But if there’s one ad I can’t stand, one that really makes me want to slash my wrists and swallow a can of Drano, it’s one of those Resch’s ads. ‘The beer we drink round here.’
It shows these two trendies with their luggage and a guitar getting off a train at some heat-scorched, desolate station in the bush. Up bowls this boofheaded cow-cocky in a battered Akubra and R.M. Williams boots to pick them up in an old Holden ute.
As the laconic-looking cocky squints through the heat haze and wipes the sweat from his brow, one of the trendies, tossing his gear in the ute, says: ‘It’s hot.’
And the cow-cocky nods and says: ‘Yeah. It’s been a scorcher. But I got a cold one waiting for you back at the house.’
The little group then goes back to a huge old country house to be met by more trendies and a couple of good sorts. Then they all proceed to pour gallons of Resch’s down their parched throats. The trendies make out with the good sorts. The cow-cocky gets to talk to the dog.
The main reason I hate this ad is because the cow-cocky driving the ute and complaining about the heat is me. And if you were curious about some of the bollocks that goes on in the glitzy, glamour world of TV commercials, this is a prime example.
It’s a scorcher eh! We shot the thing in the middle of winter and I was half dead with the flu. The shoot was supposed to take two days but we spent a week huddled under blankets, freezing our rings off on the verandah of some old deserted house for sale out past Windsor, NSW.
It rained every day on what was supposed to be a shot of the evening summer sun going down over the paddocks and trees. The director was pulling his hair out by the roots; I couldn’t stop sneezing.
Finally the sun came out for about an hour so we all got in front of the camera and poured hundreds of cans of Resch’s mixed with soda water down our screeches and tried to look as if we were enjoying every drop of it.
Enjoy it! Half dead with flu, standing on a verandah in the depths of winter, I needed a cold can of half beer, half soda water about as much as an Ethiopian refugee needs a year’s supply of Limmits.
We finally got that part done then it was off next day to another glamorous location, Rydal, 30km west of Goulburn.
I thought Windsor was cold. You should see this joint in the middle of August. It’s like the Sino-Soviet border.
It was still overcast and we were all huddled around in two blankets trying to stay alive.
I was sneezing worse than ever and coughing up pieces of lungs while the director ran around burning hubcaps full of kerosene under the camera lens to give it a heat-haze effect. Then every time the sun came out the wardrobe lady whipped the blankets off us, sprayed us with water to make us look like we were sweating and we’d all get in front of the camera and tell each other how hot it was.
Then the locals came down with their banjos and shotguns to check us out.
I’ll say one thing about Rydal: they keep sex off the streets and in the family down there. There were kids there with webbed fingers and toes the creature from the black lagoon would have envied. Girls with three eyes; all different colours. Blokes in funny-looking hats with ears big enough to swat flies with.
I went over to their tiny, one-man pub for a double brandy and even the beer had two heads.
But the locals decided against shooting or burning any of us so we got the thing shot and got out of town.
Which, for me, meant dodging giant coal trucks back to Terrigal on the Central Coast in a rusted-out Datsun 1600 that let the freezing cold wind in and the rain, which began pissing down five minutes past Goulburn.
I got home and spent the next two weeks in bed with what was more like bronchial pneumonia than flu. After paying for my petrol, doctor’s bills, agent’s fees plus tax, I made SFA.
Why am I telling you all this? Just for all the mugs out there who think TV commercials are all glitz and glamour.
As far as I’m concerned, Resch’s is the worst beer on the market. It tastes like tomcat’s piss and you wouldn’t give it to a Nazi war criminal during Yom Kippur.
I’m a dead-set goose. I had my one giant chance with this column to make a big man of myself and I blew it.
When I should have bagged Bruce Ruxton and called him a racist and gone on and on, like a mug I turned around and said I didn’t mind him.
If I’d rubbished Ruxton 15 per cent of Australia would have been my oyster. The ABC would have loved me, trendy radio stations would have interviewed me on prime time, Jane Singleton would have taken me to her breast, along with all the rest of the bleeding hearts in the media.
I reckon even Trish Goddard would have forgiven me for saying she had a backside like the end of a Ford Louisville.
But I have to open my big mouth and say he’s all right.
And he is to a certain extent. You know what Ruxton’s trouble is, apart from being a white Australian with an Anglo-Saxon name? He speaks out on Asian migration, bags certain black Africans like Bishop Desmond Tutu and he told a few truths about the Japanese.
You see it’s very trendy and self-righteous to dump on blokes like Bruce Ruxton and Geoff Blainey no matter what they say, even if it makes a certain amount of sense. Rubbish them and you really make it among the holier-than-thou shining knights in the media and their hangers-on. In other words you’re not a … yes, you know the dreaded word, a racist.
So let’s have a look at what bouncing Bruce baby said that has made him such a dropkick in the eyes of, according to the polls, 15 per cent of Australians.
First he said he wasn’t opposed to Asian immigration. He just didn’t want to see Australia turned into another Hong Kong, that’s all. Which I think is fair enough.
There are about four billion Asians out there who would love to live in Australia. We could let 50 million in and it wouldn’t even be a drop in the bucket.
However, to discriminate against these people would not only be bigoted, it would be plain stupid. If we did, we wouldn’t have any Jenny Kees or Dr Victor Changs here. And believe me, this country needs all the people of that calibre it can get.
But Australia doesn’t have to be a dumping ground for rich Asians of dubious means and so-called refugees. I’m sure the abovementioned people must cringe when they read about Chinese and Singaporean syndicates running heroin into the country. And gangs of Vietnamese youths shooting each other and bursting into houses, stealing the contents and beating old ladies to death. Game bastards, aren’t they? And they certainly show their appreciation for us letting them out here.
But don’t try to deport the little turds. The bleeding hearts will let them hire a QC at the taxpayers’ expense and he’d beat you hands down.
Then Ruxton said what a lot of bastards the Japanese were during the war and they’re not much better now, the way they’re buying out Australia thanks to mugs like Skase and Bond.
He went into bat for all the old diggers when they opposed the idea of building a memorial to the Japanese sailors who died entering Sydney Harbour in their midget submarines during WWII.
I reckon it’s okay to build a memorial to them. As soon as the Jews build a memorial to all the Nazi SS troopers who died putting down the uprising in the Warsaw ghetto. And when the Russians build one to all the German soldiers who died during the siege of Stalingrad.
Incidentally, if those Japanese sailors had reached their objective and blown up the USS Chicago with all its explosives on board, we wouldn’t have a harbour to build a memorial on.
The other thing that Bruce Ruxton said that caused him to be pilloried by the do-gooders and for some hero to beat up 60-year-old Ruth Ruxton, was that half of those black Africans are a bunch of whingers and he called old Bishop Tutu a witchdoctor.
He’s pretty right here again too. Those black African nations put on all the dramas about the place over apartheid to get sympathy and millions of dollars in aid to prop up what are nothing more than corrupt dictatorships. And governments like ours can’t kiss their backsides quick enough to seek ap
peasement in the eyes of the world.
From what I can see, apartheid is a pretty loathsome idea but I’m convinced the majority of these black Africans are dreading the day it ends.
They’ll have nothing to whinge about. Same with their grandstanding supporters out here.
I wonder what the next cause they’ll embrace will be? I’ll bet it isn’t the Aboriginal elders dying out on the missions and the riverbeds.
As for calling Tutu a witchdoctor, I reckon that’s hilarious. I could just picture this shyster with a bone through his nose covered in blood and chicken feathers.
This grandstanding old showpony has been hamming it up in front of the crowds worse than Dame Edna. All he needs when he comes out in front of the TV cameras rolling his eyes is a bunch of gladioli.
A witchdoctor is a reasonable comparison. I reckon he’s more like a black Ian Paisley. Full of religion but not a drop of Christianity.
Anyway, good on you Bruce, baby. Bore it up ’em! Kick a few backsides and tread on a few toes. And if you need a hand, give me a yell and you can borrow my 10-hole Doc Martens.
The duck shooting season is an annual event that all Australians can be proud of.
It’s the time when about 20,000 drunken morons get full of piss, put on their cammies, grab a shotgun, then go out into the countryside to find a lake and blast everything that flies out of the sky.
Kookaburras, Willie wagtails, swans, herons, even tortoises. You name it, these loaded imbeciles will shoot it.
And it’s supposed to be a sport. This isn’t a sport. It’s nothing more than a sadistic bloody slaughter by a crowd of twits who can’t or haven’t the brains to find a better way to get their rocks off.
Crazy, isn’t it? And, instead of arresting a mob of drunks running around with shotguns, the cops arrest those trying to stop the suffering of poor defenceless animals. People with a bit more in their veins than booze.
If you don’t believe me, come down to Martin Place in Sydney during the duck shooting season when the people from The Fund For Animals and Animal Liberation carry around the evidence of what a mob of drunken idiots consider is a weekend of fun — dead ibises, parrots, magpies, swans, tortoises — even if it doesn’t fly, those heroes will still shoot it.
Then they’ll take the mutilated animals up to State Parliament and dump them out the front.
There’ll be more cops out the front ready to arrest any crying children or people with a bit of intelligence that try to come near the MPs. They’re as gutless as the clowns with the shotguns.
I’m not against the genuine sports shooter — the person who knows his/her rifle and goes out into the bush and using some skill, hunts for feral animals. These people do show a bit of professionalism and do the bush a favour.
I used to hunt rabbits for a feed when I lived in the bush. But what chance has a poor little bird got against a shotgun? None. You can’t bloody miss. And these dopes like to think they’re macho men. They’re enough to make you spew.
What about all the lakes they pollute with their shotgun pellets? There is literally tons of lead out there seeping into the water-table.
The government’s talking (whispering) about bringing in tighter gun control. This is a good enough reason to ban the sale of shotguns. And I don’t think I’d get any argument there from the police.
One thing I’ve noticed, when TV crews go down to the lakes the weekend Rambos run for cover. They’re not too keen to be shown standing next to all the unfortunate bloody animals they’ve killed.
So I’ll hand out an invitation to all the heroes of the hunt. When the duck season starts come down to Martin Place and Parliament House. Wear your cammies and your bandoliers and bring your shotguns. And get a few photos and go on TV standing next to all those dead swans, pelicans, ibises and tortoises.
And you can tell Australia the thrill and joy of blasting a swan or a tortoise with a shotgun. Or watching a poor, wretched bird flop around in a lake, dying in agony. It must be a great feeling. Almost as good as the pull they have afterwards, I imagine.
But normal thinking people and those in The Fund For Animals and Animal Liberation can take some heart. Even though it’s not much there is some good that comes out of the duck season.
Occasionally, some of these drunken idiots shoot each other.
I was sitting at home not doing a great deal when the phone rang.
It was the editor of People, Peter Olszewski. He had an assignment for me. They were opening a $6 million resort at Port Stephens — Bardots. It was near my place. Why don’t I go and cover it?
Why not indeed? Free food and drink. Swanky resort, glamour scene. Just the sort of thing a writer of my calibre deserves. And what a good bloke Peter was to send me there.
Only one minor problem — I didn’t have a car. I’d just smashed mine in the last deluge.
So I rang my mate Steve, one of the leading chefs on NSW’s Central Coast. I owed him a favour. Would he like to be my assistant for the day? All he had to do was carry an Instamatic and make out he’s with People. Free food and piss. I’ll pay for the petrol. The opening of an ultra-swish resort.
Steve was round my place at nine the next morning with the hatchback all schmicked up and keener than a greyhound that had just been given a kill.
That @#*%*! Olszewski. Bardots was a resort all right. And an upmarket, ultra-swish one. For bloody nudists!
I know what was on the bastard’s mind. Send me to cover it and I’ve got to get around with no gear on. Me in all my glory — 90kg of dynamite with a 1cm fuse.
We arrived at another resort where the function was being held and there were all these ads for nudism: posters, videos, films and such.
Steve reckoned he wasn’t getting his clobber off. To me it was part of the job. I could stand the sniggers if they could stand the smell. Anyway, seeing I was there in the midst of a lot of nice and, so far, well-dressed people, I thought I’d better earn my keep and take down a few notes.
The first person I interviewed was Tracy, a tall blonde model. And what have you been up to lately, Tracy?
‘I did a streak at the Newcastle trots,’ cooed Tracy, ‘and it was on SKY channel.’
Terrific, Tracy. You got arrested and three million drunks and punters across Australia have seen your lamington.
What else? Tracy ran something called Fantasy Girls and she did mud wrestling. She also wrestled in baked beans, jelly and spaghetti full of baby oil and lumps of fluorescent paint.
The good-looking bloke with her scratching his arse all the time was another model, Ray.
Fleas bad, Ray?
No. Ray was a male stripper with the Big Boys. About 50 drunken housewives had tried to pack rape him in the dressing room of a Newcastle club and both cheeks of his bum were covered in love bites.
I took some more notes then we all went inside where Professor Magnus Clarke from University Challenge was giving an address because he’s a nudist himself.
Magnus looks like TV presenter Iain Finlay wearing one of Brian Bury’s bow ties. His address was witty and interesting at first — then it just seemed to go on and on forever like episodes of M*A*S*H.
He had us at first, till he had to let us all know he had a PhD. Nudism is not an ideology. It’s an activity. The human body has a long history. Nudism was not forced upon people through penury. Evil be to him who evil thinks.
They finally got the professor off and Tracy and Ray got their gear off and jumped in the pool for a photo session.
About the same time Steve and I found a friendly barman with access to an unlimited supply of imported beer.
We ripped into this and scarcely had time to get roaring drunk when they started wheeling out all this grouse food. Teriyaki beef, Atlantic salmon, beautiful crisp salads and fruits the names of which I couldn’t even pronounce. The kind of food they’re going to be dishing up at Bardots.
I asked Steve what he thought and he gave it a huge thumbs up. And Steve ought to know — he’s a ch
ef. We were tearing into all this beautiful food and cold beer when we were told a cruise on Port Stephens had been arranged — the boat was leaving in 40 minutes.
Steve and I pigged out a bit more, got a neat T-shirt each and headed for the marina.
Outside we were asked directions by two strange looking young women with Sydney Stadium haircuts, Jack Nicholson sunnies, severe clothes and Doc Martens with bits of metal on them.
Hello, Steve and I thought. It’s The Women Against Rape In Nudist Colonies. But it turned out they’d been sent along by the ABC. Same bloody thing.
The boat was a beaut. It was like a small Manly ferry with heaps of room and cruised through the swells like a ’38 Bentley.
The best part was the skipper Peter Dawson and his wife Penny. As we chugged gently along, as well as pointing out the sights, he bombarded us with gags and one-liners that seemed to be directed at his wife. But we all roared with laughter — mainly because they kept bringing out all this beautiful Hunter Valley champagne and cheeses and things.
We were on the other side of the bay sipping champers when Steve said he could smell garlic.
Penny was heating this huge pot of garlic prawns that had just been caught that morning. She served them with two monstrous loaves of oven-fresh bread.
You reckon the hordes didn’t give these unbelievable garlic prawns a serve?
I was going to ask Steve what he thought of them but the last I saw of him he had Penny by the throat near the stern trying to force the recipe out of her.
We cruised on, drinking more champagne, taking in the sights and, before we knew it, we were back at the marina. We thanked Jim and Vicki Punch, the owners of Bardots, and everyone else for a top day then Steely Danned it back to Terrigal.
It was definitely one up for yours truly. Olszewski thought he’d got me. But no, I didn’t have to take my gear off. All I had to do was eat grouse food, drink cold beer and meet nice people.
So What Do You Reckon? Page 5