Then I read on and found out my miserable body was detoxifying itself. It’s not only fat we’re carrying around. It’s the kilograms of poisons, preservatives and other crap we’ve accumulated over the years.
Think of all those lovely pizzas, pies, cheeseburgers, chocolate malteds, sausage sandwiches, Chiko rolls, etc., we’ve stuffed down our screeches over the years. Not counting coffee, cigarettes and booze.
The remnants of all this is in our system along with the blubber. You’ve got to get rid of it. And this book tells you how to do that without killing yourself or going hungry. It’s all that easy and simply explained it makes you blink.
Anyway, enough of this. I’m getting hungry and I have to go and cook lunch.
Today I’m having a nice, big, juicy T-bone steak with heaps of grouse fresh vegetables covered in melted butter.
Yesterday I had six steamed dim-sims from this little Thai takeaway place.
Bugger going on a diet.
I’d rather lose weight permanently and stay … Fit for Life.
I don’t know whether anyone else in Australia knows, or is even interested, that in Sydney there’s a radio announcer by the name of Ron Casey.
Ron had the temerity to speak out on air about Australia’s stuffed-up immigration policy, during which he made one or two mildly disparaging remarks about Asians.
This now appears tantamount to a capital offence in Australia for anyone who’s white, was born here and has an Anglo-Saxon name.
Casey is the new whipping-boy for the anti-discrimination board, the ethnic affairs department and the ever holier-than-thou-anti-racist mob that’s sick of putting the boot into Bruce Ruxton because too many people were listening to him and he made too much sense.
I’ve only ever listened to Casey’s show for a few minutes here and there. It’s ordinary.
He’s a boring, droning, one-eyed wombat with about as much sense of humour as a Dalek.
But I don’t believe he’s a racist.
Not that I’d give a stuff anyway. But I’m trying to think what all the kerfuffle is that got ethnic affairs wanting to draw and quarter him and feed his carcass to the vultures.
Evidently, an upset housewife rang him one day and had a beef about a meal she had in Chinatown. She claimed the food was awful and the waiters were dropkicks who treated her like a pig and said untoward things about Australians.
Casey sympathised with the woman and said when that happens you feel like going back with some friends and kicking over a few tables and chairs. Let them know you’re not quite as dim as you sim. Casey’s idea of a joke.
But for these comments he was forced off the air by the ethnic affairs mob who wanted him hung on the spot. It’s a wonder in this climate of multiculturalism they didn’t want to cut off his hand or call for a public beheading!
He got back on air — after the ethnic affairs team spent about half-a-million dollars of taxpayers’ money on QCs and barristers to try to keep him off.
Then some old digger rang him on Anzac Day for a whinge about the Japs and what they did to him and his mates when he was a POW.
The Irish in Casey got the better of him and he went into bat for the old digger, echoing his sentiments about the Japanese being cruel, heartless, barbaric little bastards. And the ethnic affairs mob screamed again.
Casey said it wouldn’t hurt if migrants learnt to speak English when they get here. More discriminatory and racist remarks, came the howl from the ethnic affairs team.
Yet the mayor of Darwin — a Chinese-Aussie — said exactly the same thing on TV the other night. But he’s not a white Australian so he’s allowed to do this.
Casey’s latest outburst concerns the newest boatload of Cambodians to decide to jump the immigration queue. Casey reckoned they should be put on a cattle boat and sent back with ‘Australian Reject’ stamped on them.
I suppose that lacks tack, but in a way he’s got a point.
Do you know it costs us millions each year to fly illegal immigrants back to wherever they came from? And some of them go first class!
Like: ‘Bad luck they wouldn’t let you into Australia, sir.’
‘Thank you, steward
Hawke let 20,000 Chinese students enter in one hit that will cost us another $30m a year in social security benefits — and most of them were here illegally in the first place.
We can’t find the money to fix the salinity problem in our rivers.
We have to flog our forests off to the Japs to make into cardboard boxes and John Williamson has to pass the hat round after his concerts to try to find $40,000 to save our koalas.
We’re being shafted from within and without and they haven’t even got the decency to use a bit of Vaseline.
But for sheer arrogance in treating us like mugs, you have to give it to the Japs. They told Greenpeace Australia that they were a bunch of racists for trying to stop the bastards’ whaling industry — because whaling was a Japanese tradition.
And Japanese multinational Daikyo, which owns half of Cairns, has sponsored some sporting team they’re calling the Daikyo Dolphins.
Can you believe it? After the bastards indiscriminately slaughter more than two million dolphins a year with their driftnets?
Even the arch-villain of radio, 2UE’s John Laws — the mongrel — mentioned it in his newspaper column under the title ‘It’s Time To End This Migrant Rort’ ; he wrote about the 11,000 so-called Chinese businessmen who came here and now the government doesn’t even know where they are. They arrive, buy a house, then piss off back to Hong Kong to keep wheeling and dealing.
Laws mentioned the migrant family reunion program, where a migrant can come to Australia then bring his mum, dad, grandpa, grandma and all the aunts and uncles … and they go straight on the pension — which we all pay for!
Yet a Vietnam veteran suffering from cancer caused by the war can’t even get a disability pension!
Ron Casey mentions things like this and the ethnic affairs mob have him taken off the air.
Yet every letter to the editor I’ve read lately is on his side.
Like I said, to me, Ron Casey is a bore and a pain in the arse and I wouldn’t listen to him in the morning if you held a gun to my head. But he’s certainly got his finger on the pulse of public opinion.
And these ethnic affairs lobby groups pillory him for what is nothing more than having a colourful — if slightly insensitive — way of telling the bloody truth.
If you ask me, it’s wrong.
A column written by Paul Kidd, called Wobbegong Songs, brought a Barrett incident to mind so, without trying to steal Paul’s thunder, I thought I might do a sort of fishing column.
There’s no doubt Paul’s column isn’t half-bad, although I don’t know about this character he’s dredged up — ‘No Knees Norton’.
You don’t take the name Norton in vain, not where I’m concerned anyway.
But to the point. I like to go fishing — not angling. I couldn’t for the life of me stand on some rocky headland, freezing my nuts off for hours on end. Or spend half a day lurching up and down in a leaky boat, breathing in diesel fumes and rotten fish guts while I spewed my heart up.
I like to go spearfishing — get in, get a feed and get out again. And although I’m a dedicated greenie and peacenik, I see nothing wrong at all with getting a speargun and blowing some fish’s brains out, then flaying it, ripping its guts out and tossing it in a pan.
Love and Krishna are very nice, but bream fillets in tarragon and white wine sauce are absolutely beautiful.
This story goes back to when I was a pimply-faced, 17-year-old apprentice butcher at Bondi. Forget about Saddam Hussein, the Butcher of Baghdad. I was Bob Barrett, the Butcher of Bondi.
We used to go spearfishing most afternoons after work. In those days the murk wasn’t so bad and as long as it blew off-shore the water would be reasonably clear.
The fish always seemed to come in just on dusk to feed — mainly morwong, Tassie trumpeters, dru
mmer etc.
This particular arvo I was with two mates, Grant Joss and Johnny Sutton.
Now the idea with spearfishing is the first bloke in on his own generally gets a fish. I told Grant and John they’d been getting a heap of flathead on the sand just down from the boatsheds, so they jumped in at the boatramps while smartarse Barrett, the Butcher of Bondi, jumped in further around at a spot we called the Flat Rock.
Thought I’d knock over a couple of fish while my two mates wasted their time swimming over the sand looking for non-existent flathead. I’ve always been a good bloke like that.
It was calm, low tide, a little cloudy for February and the water wasn’t all that clear. But apart from a school of trevally, there wasn’t a fish to be seen.
I thought this was a little curious as I snorkelled on. I was barely 20 metres out and about five metres down and there was no sign of fish.
I dived down again, came up and just where I’d dived was the biggest $#@%*! shark I had ever seen. It had a nose on it wider than a ’63 Cadillac, was six metres long if it was a centimetre and no more than four metres away.
I’ll never forget the bastard as long as I live. It had all these stripes running down it and dozens of tiny fish swimming in front of its mouth.
It was a tiger shark.
I just floated there for a moment looking at it and automatically pointed my gun at it as it rose off the bottom towards me.
Then this voice seemed to say: ‘Oh, Bob Barrett, Butcher of Bondi, that speargun’s gonna be about as much use with a shark that size as a Violet Crumble bar in a knife fight.’
But I didn’t panic. I just dropped the speargun, turned and made that 20 metres back to shore in about four seconds flat, leaving a cloud of shit behind me Superman couldn’t see through. It was low tide but I went straight up those rocks like a coconut crab.
A couple of blokes fishing on the rocks looked more horrified than me when this thing suddenly materialised in front of them as if Scotty had beamed it down from the Enterprise. I was shaking like a leaf and whiter than goat’s milk. I couldn’t even get the words out.
‘Mark! Spark! Blark!’ I was spluttering it out to Grant and John who were now snorkelling over to where I’d been — I might have stolen the jump on them as far as the fish went but I wasn’t about to watch them get eaten.
They finally saw me jumping around like a baboon, swum over and got out of the water. Of course, by now there was no sign of the shark. So it was on.
‘Bewdy Bob. Saw a big shark, did you?’ Scorn, ridicule. ‘Onya, Barrett. Frightened by your own shadow.’ Guffaw, bleah.
I yelled out to the boardriders in the north corner to get out of the water and who should come paddling over but Bernie Morton, son of the late Tex Morton, the singer.
Bernie was an argumentative dropkick who would start a fight in an empty house. He loved rubbishing me and today was his day.
He retrieved my speargun, which was still floating where I’d left it, and gave me another blast. There was still no sign of the shark. As he paddled off, his parting words were, ‘Barrett’s probably seen a wobbegong’.
He was heading towards the beach when we all yelled out, ‘Bernie, behind you!’ He turned around and there was this fin sticking nearly two metres out of the water and heading straight for him.
The shark wasn’t in the race. Bernie went up the rocks like a torpedo and I reckon he was halfway to Dover Heights before he stopped running.
We all stood on the rocks and watched that tiger shark ripping the school of trevally to pieces till it got dark. We reckoned it was at least six metres long — a monster.
How it didn’t take me, I’ll never know. Someone must have been in my corner that February afternoon.
Sex, glamour, raging — but no TAB.
Remember my mate Steve the chef and how I took him to the opening of that nudist resort at Port Stephens and how we both had a top day? He’s just returned the favour. And I had a wonderful time in the snowfields with him and the Snow Toad. A perfect pair.
Steve cracked it as a chef at the White Spider restaurant in the Eiger Chalet at Perisher Valley. All very swish. Get myself down there, free food and accommodation, ski as much as I like, just say I was one of the staff — a kitchen hand.
I’d never seen snow let alone stayed in a chalet. But I knew it was full-on glamour, beautiful women, non-stop partying and it cost a fortune. And here I had it on a plate.
My bus rolled into Perisher around 4.30 p.m. to five metres of snow and five below zero. Steve met me and we walked across to the Eiger just as about 400 drunks on skis burst out of The Man From Snowy River pub.
I’d arrived just in time for the finish of some cross-country, pub-to-pub drunken ski-a-thon. So much for the sophistication and glamour.
Then Steve showed me my ‘free’ accommodation. The room was a bit smaller than a cell in Long Bay with two bunks and about enough room for a Munchkin on the floor: which looked like where I was gonna sleep.
Luckily the bloke sharing with Steve had a sheila in tow so I got the top bunk. I hired gear so I’d look the part. I was still trying to figure out what this white stuff on the ground was.
Next, dinner and meet the staff, including the Snow Toad, Tracy. I used to work in a restaurant in Terrigal with Tracy where she was called the Terrigal Toad. Now she’s known as the Snow Toad. For a waitress she always reminded me of one of The Belles Of St Trinians.
Steve didn’t tell me he was also the breakfast cook. I was snoring my head off when this buzzer went off and I heard Steve abusing somebody in the room. Hello, I thought, we’ve got a burglar. But no, it was only Steve with the choke out revving himself up to go to work.
I decided to catch up on some sleep — next thing, snow wagons and skidoos started roaring past the window. It sounded like Phillip Island on ice. Worse.
After an hour I gave up and tackled breakfast. It was beautiful outside so I went for a walk in all my snow gear to check the place out.
I trudged and sloshed up and down in the snow twisting my knees, stuffing-up my legs and starting to wonder what I was doing. I persevered for a while but besides it giving me the shits, my feet felt like they were stuck in two rabbit traps and my thighs felt as if I’d lost three rounds of Thai-boxing. I was about to hit the top bunk when Steve informed me I was on at 5.30 p.m.
‘What the @#%$* on?’ I asked.
A kitchen hand cracked a bone in his arm skiing and I was going to do a shift in the kitchen.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d had no sleep for two nights, my feet and legs were absolutely killing me — plus I was half-pissed. Now I looked like doing six hours over a steaming sink. So much for my free ride in the snow.
I threw the towel in at 10.30. They could sack me for all I cared. I needed a night in a kitchen about as much as Peter Garrett needs hair conditioner.
Still in my hire gear I had a few more bourbons then trudged across to ‘The Man’ to do a complete job on myself.
Next morning Steve abused the same bloke at 6.30 a.m. The skidoos started up shortly after. I crawled down to the kitchen still in the hire gear, pigged out, bought a paper and checked the form.
Here I discovered two things: firstly, going skiing is as much a pose as it is a sport. You have to be seen in the right outfit, carrying the right skis and bindings, with the right sunglasses and headband. All preferably imported from Finland or Austria. The idea is to hit the slopes looking as much like a rainbow lorikeet as possible.
Secondly, I figured out why I had the tom-tits. It wasn’t just lack of sleep, the cold, the fact I couldn’t ski to save my life and that I was going to have to work in a kitchen. There’s no TAB down there.
I was into my third day of not having a bet and going through bad withdrawal. And all I could see in the paper were good things to back.
Another day of no punting and no sleep and I’d finish in the rathouse. It was time to haul arse.
I told Steve work had called and I had to get back
quickly. What a bummer and I was having such a good time.
Just for a change I got drunk in the evening and mushed off with Steve across the frozen wastes to the pub to finish the job.
Forget this rattle about snowbunnies. The pub was full of blokes. If Roseanne Barr walked in some bloke would’ve thrown her up in the air. A girl working at the chalet reckoned it was one of the best years she’d ever had in the snow for bonking.
So I had about as much chance of getting a root as Woody Allen going three rounds with Mike Tyson.
Somehow, despite blokes in bulk, the Toad still missed out. So she gave me and Steve a gobful as she left. ‘All men are *#@%$! no good #@%*@’s! Including you two.’ Okay Toad. If you say so.
Steve and I weaved our way back to the chalet, drank whatever we could get our hands on then rolled into our bunks. And that was Saturday night.
Steve abusing the invisible man and the skidoos woke me up again. Despite a roaring hangover I didn’t mind. The Uncle Gus left at 8.30 a.m., I pigged out again, thanked Steve for a spiffing time and said I’d see him back at Terrigal.
I was happier to be home than a hunchback who’s just seen someone with a bigger hunch.
Terrigal may not have the glamour of the snowfields — life in the fast lane there is the eight-items-or-less checkout counter at Food Barn — but I’ve got a bed and at least there’s a TAB.
Some time ago I did a bit of a hatchet job on Alan Jones in this column — mainly about his views on environmental issues.
A lot of people out there who reckon I’m a 25-carat turd and would like to see me boiled in rancid sump oil, still agree with what I say on occasions. The same with Alan Jones.
He wrote an excellent column in the Sun-Herald about Africa and the hypocrisy of Western nations when it comes to pandering to a lot of tin-pot black African dictators and the applying of sanctions and embargoes against South Africa.
So What Do You Reckon? Page 9