On one occasion, I gave a speech exploring the nuances of gerontophilia (relating to the love and sexual attraction to geriatrics), and on another, the psychology behind the serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer’s diet. Other speakers would talk about unresolved aspects of their childhood experiences as survivors of boarding school life.
Despite some of the reprehensible antics of the day, we were as connected to the top end of town as any of the more respectable establishment retreats. We could facilitate audiences with ministers of the Crown, judges, barons of industry and media moguls within thirty minutes of a request. Indeed, a number in our group were household names. Some went on to take high office.
Alcohol was the major drug of choice, although some of the more arty types, in a desperate attempt to salvage their memories of better times in the ’60s and ’70s, would smoke dope. As the consumption of cocaine at our lunches became more regular and entrenched, these blokes drifted away, leaving the rest of us to indulge unfettered in our passion for self-destruction.
The clearest indicator of the escalating coke use at the lunches was in the number of uneaten meals which were returned to the kitchen. Cocaine is a powerful appetite suppressant. When the luncheons first started, the boys would usually devour a three-course meal over several hours. With coke, this all stopped, although to maintain the facade, meals would continue to be ordered. After a respectable period, the waiters would collect the untouched food. This ritual became a standing joke at a number of our regular venues.
At one spectacular lunch, forty meals were returned while an endless procession of members and guests paraded off to the toilets to ‘hoover’ away. As time passed even this gentility was abandoned, with blokes typically laying out lines on the unused restaurant crockery. If a press photographer had passed by they could have retired on the fee for the negatives. And yet, despite the very real threat to our careers and the high esteem which many of us enjoyed from the community, none of us gave a flying thought as to the potential consequences of our actions.
Very bad behaviour would inevitably ensue. With the sense of omnipotence which coke allows the user, the rudeness escalated, as did the grandiosity of thought. Large amounts of cash would be spent acquiring fine French reds, champagne and cognacs to round off the afternoon. Afternoons drifted into evenings with little care or thought for our long-suffering partners sitting at home, rolling pins in hand, awaiting our intoxicated arrival.
To enhance our boyish sense of danger and excitement, we even gave ourselves nicknames to protect our identities. I was simply known as the ‘Doctor’. Andrew Fraser came to be known as ‘Snowy’, in deference to his ability as a level ten skier, not to mention his well-established love of high-quality cocaine. One mate was known as ‘The Troll’. The Troll was contemptuous of authority and the law of the land, as demonstrated through his love of cocaine and his willingness to snort it while visiting some of the country’s most hallowed institutions.
Another regular luncheon attendee who aspired to greatness was disparagingly known as ‘Mr Wimpy’, a reference to the infamous Popeye hero who became a legend because of his ability to obtain hamburgers on the tick. Mr Wimpy had a reputation for never putting his hand in his pocket when it came to paying the bill. He also displayed an intuitive genius for arriving just as cocaine was about to be ingested. His motto mimicked that of ‘Wimpy’.
‘I’ll gladly pay tomorrow for a line of cocaine today!’ he’d squeal as he was being forcibly ejected from the restaurant toilet.
On the other hand, the affable though highly paranoid ‘Topaz’ was well loved by most. Topaz would typically arrive late and leave early.
‘I don’t come here for the fuck’n conversation,’ he would frequently retort upon being chastened for his tardiness.
Topaz was generally there to secure a gram or two of the finest, snort a hasty line and then ‘do a runner’.
Vicious practical jokes would occur, particularly if Mr Wimpy was about. I recall one particular episode of Wimpy payback. A number of us had taken over the kitchen of a top-shelf inner-city restaurant. The Troll and I were in the process of devouring some high-quality coke, displayed in pristine crystalline condition adjacent to the stoves, when our focus was interrupted by the predictable arrival of Mr Wimpy.
‘Just wait outside, Wimpy,’ commanded The Troll.
‘I’m going to fix this bloke right up,’ The Troll muttered to me. ‘Doctor, would you please pass me the bag of Betty Sydney flour? It’s just next to the rotisserie.’
Before you could say ‘parasite’ a line of light and fluffy flour appeared, meticulously laid along the spine of the baking tray and seeming to extend for more than a foot. ‘Ready, Wimpy,’ we called out, inviting the hapless fellow to now enter the kitchen and negotiate a delicate passage through a vast array of dirtied pots, pans and cutlery.
The ‘coke’ was gone in a flash.
‘Jeez, it’s a bit rough,’ he spluttered as the last remnants of the line caused his nasal passage to seize.
‘Straight off the boat,’ I whispered. ‘Champagne Colombian. It’ll grab you in a second, mate, just take a deep breath and you’ll feel it in your nuts.’
‘Fuck yeah, I’m noticing it now, it’s grouse all right,’ he hollered as he returned to the dining area.
As time progressed I failed to notice that my use of coke was escalating. What had initially been a monthly ‘cut loose’ was progressing to a fortnightly then weekly indulgence. This was generally on the weekends, a sort of Friday night ‘let my hair down’. I also failed to appreciate the significance of the shift from my use of coke in social settings, such as lunch, to a more solitary use at home. Had I paid attention to these changes, I would have realised the clear signs of a developing addiction. Alas, that insight still awaited me.
In the meantime I continued with my folly, my delusions of invincibility constantly reinforced by the rationalisations of the high-flying company I kept. It was as though we collectively and singularly thrived on the dichotomy between our highly successful public lives and the anarchy that punctuated our private world. And anarchy it had become.
Although by early 1999, I was habitually using cocaine, I nonetheless managed to maintain my resolve to never use it during the working day. After the Gangitano and misconduct scandals, I was mindful of the need to keep the boundaries dividing my personal life and professional day quite clear and distinct. There were, however, occasions when I would use during the day – typically when there were no scheduled appointments for the afternoon. Relishing the release that this afforded me, I would hastily schedule a lunch with my mates, who would also rule a red line through their afternoon appointment books.
We would then congregate at one of a number of city restaurants. The Savage Club was always a popular spot for hours of protracted self-indulgence and fun. ‘The Savage’, as it is known, is an exclusive club for gentlemen similar in stature to the Melbourne and Athenaeum clubs. Its members are legal luminaries, judges and business folk. No women are allowed. Its decor is nineteenth-century bohemian.
The dining room at the Savage is reminiscent of a boarding school with all its braggadocio, babble and banter. The middle floor boasts a library and Olympic-sized billiards table. The downstairs bathroom houses an old shoe polish and shine box to enable chaps to spruce themselves up prior to dining.
The Savage was well fortified. Entry was only possible after the successful completion of a complex ritual. This entailed knocking on the front door then advising that you were the luncheon guest of a member. The Gauleiter would open the creaky, green companionway, revealing a dark, mysterious foyer. After exchanging pleasantries and signing the register, you traversed the wooden staircase leading to the dining chamber. What better place to snort a few ‘rails’ over the course of an afternoon?
The toilet cubicles and shoe-shine room were ideal locations to ‘chop up’ between the obligatory post-luncheon ports and brandy, petit fours and Cuban cigars that we consumed in sumptuous
leather chairs in the downstairs lounge. Between ‘rails’ we would mingle with judges and other members of the aristocracy, who would gratefully acknowledge the occasional tugging of the forelock. This would occur in anticipation of the next courtroom or business encounter – for that is how the Establishment game is played.
Restaurant toilets were very risky. During one lunch at a South Melbourne restaurant, the adjacent table was occupied by a number of drug squad members. Well-lubricated and fortified with alcohol, we all exchanged predictable banter and jokes.
‘Not us, officer. You blokes carrying any?’ I enquired of one senior constable.
‘Nah, we’ve already sold the stuff we grabbed in that raid yesterday,’ was the reply.
‘No worries, there’s a bloke coming later with a quarter if you’re interested,’ I retorted, as the coppers fell off their chairs, laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it all.
Meanwhile, one of our gang was ensconced in a dunny cubicle upstairs snorting his brains out, while Mr Plod was splashing his boots at the adjacent urinal no more than a foot away.
It was madness. Our behaviour on those occasions clearly demonstrates the power of cocaine to corrupt one’s judgement. I am deeply ashamed about these performances now, but when I was drug-affected, it all seemed perfectly reasonable.
It was not until about March 1999 that my addiction completely took me over. By then the Watson-Munro family had suffered so much loss and grief already – Carla’s miscarriage, Susan’s diagnosis.
The routine Sue and I had established to share the children proved to be a merciful godsend after the diagnosis of Sue’s cancer. Unlike many divorced households where, because of the parents’ inability to put aside their differences, the children become alienated, Jessica and Tom were well bonded not only to their mother, but also to Carla, their siblings and me. This was the successful outcome of years of focused devotion by all of their parents.
Carla had always accepted Jessica and Tom and given them unconditional love. Had it not been for her love and strength, the children – and me – would not have survived the uncompromising progression of Susan’s illness.
True to her own strength of character and her dogged determination to hang on for the sake of the family, Sue defied the predictions of her surgeon and oncologist by surviving for longer than expected.
I had attempted to reduce the level of my cocaine consumption shortly after I recovered a little from the king-hit of Sue’s diagnosis. ‘I need to have a clear head. I don’t want to block this out. I need to be strong and together for Susan and the family,’ I would repeat to myself as a daily mantra.
And for a time it worked.
I desperately struggled not to use. I did this by attempting to avoid my suppliers, by compulsive self-talk and by burying myself in the structure of work and the daily routine of taking Jessica and Tom to see their mother. After what seemed to be an eternity, Sue was discharged from her first hospital stay to the care of her devoted partner Jim Giarassimou. Briefly, she seemed to improve. She was eating well and, after attending an intensive meditation program in the picturesque Yarra Valley, she returned home to spend many hours each day in peaceful meditative contemplation.
She could not, however, manage the kids for more than brief periods of time. This was a great source of angst for them. Suspecting the worst, they were desperate to spend as much time with their mother as possible. Their anxiety and depression concerning her plight and their fear regarding a very uncertain future corroded my soul.
Susan’s parents shifted from Sydney to be with her and she enjoyed regular visits from her siblings. Towards Christmas 1998, however, it seemed as though she was fading. She had lost a noticeable amount of weight and the sparkle in her eyes was clouding.
The children were aware of this and were heartbroken. For a time we had all been able to pretend that Sue would get through but now the hard physical reality of her illness was impossible to escape. The kids were fretting and confused about their feelings.
There were times when they experienced extreme anger towards their mother, but they felt unable to express their feelings. They were hostages to the enormous sense of guilt that their rage and sense of helplessness had created within them. Some evenings I would spend hours trying to console their grief. Thomas at times would be heard sobbing in his bedroom, the consequence of cruel, insensitive playground gossip. One night he could not be dissuaded from the notion that his mother would be dead within a fortnight. This was the result of children in his class repeating the overheard and misinformed telephone gossiping of their parents.
Jessica completely withdrew into herself. She had just hit her adolescent years and desperately needed the security of her mother’s love, support and counsel. She was sometimes furious with Susan and the extreme injustice of it all. At other times, however, Jessica displayed such maturity, sensitivity and strength of character towards her mother that I felt truly humbled. Her strength provided me with some comfort in the belief that whatever happened, at least she would survive.
I attempted to deal with the situation by enlisting the help of Dr Lionel Lubitz, a highly regarded paediatrician at the Royal Children’s Hospital. Lionel is gifted in his way with children and Jessica and Tom certainly warmed to him. But they were unable to fully express their fears and anger. It was all too hard.
Things reached a new level of crisis in January 1999. Sue was readmitted to hospital. The cancer had spread, causing a life-threatening blockage of the bowel. Although highly dangerous, further surgery to alleviate the pressure was required to save her life. As it turned out, it nearly killed her.
Susan survived two lots of surgery that month. She never really recovered. The operations and a futile attempt at chemotherapy had taken away just about all of her strength. After a brief return home, with her despairing parents attempting to control her pain via authorised morphine injections, Susan requested to be shifted to the Caritus Christie Hospice, where she ‘existed’ in a semi-comatose state, her relentless pain controlled by doses of morphine sufficient to have killed an elephant. These were tough times, with Sue fully expecting to die within a matter of weeks.
It was at about that time that I started to seriously lose the plot. My pathetic way of coping with the escalation of her disease was to launch back into my addiction with all the vigour and determination of an Olympic medallist. While there had been times during my depression that I had prayed for death, something always held me back from the final deliberate act of ending my life by my own hand. By entering into a Faustian deal in exchange for the temporary thrills of a drug-focused life, I suspect that my desire was to effect my death by way of a cocaine overdose.
By the time I had finished work, taken the children to the hospice and dealt – albeit poorly – with pressing household matters, my resolve to abstain had evaporated and I would shamefully surrender to the cravings. I would then spend the next few hours locked into the ritual of drug use. This would usually be at home, hidden away in my study or the bathroom. Sometimes I would retreat to my car. Once I had imbibed, I would sit alone in a chair for hours at a time, temporarily freed from my crippling emotional pain.
By March 1999, my addiction had a complete hold over me. The only saving grace, which I clung to, was the fact that I continued my practice of not using while at work. Still, there were days I found it impossible to face a working day after a heavy session of drug-taking the night before. I would ask my secretary to reschedule my appointments. I also changed the structure of my working day, rarely seeing clients until mid to late morning. On days when I was required in court I would cease my evening use early to ensure a reasonable night’s sleep.
By sticking to this, at times difficult, regimen, the quality of my work generally remained high.
I can see now that I should not have been working at all during this time. Indeed, nearly two decades on, I am appalled at my behaviour. However, I was oblivious to the clear conflict of interest between my illicit behav
iour and my professional obligations.
Drug addiction is a solitary affair. Experts agree that addiction is a disease of loneliness. In my case, even though an adoring family surrounded me, I never felt so alone as I did during the final months of my addiction. When my supply for the night was finished, I would sneak into bed, unable to sleep for hours, vowing that I would cease my use the next day. By the time morning dawned, my resolve had evaporated and by mid-morning I would be on the blower trying to secure my next night’s supply.
There were times when Carla confronted me. She had known of my problem for some time, but not its extent. I lied to her about the level of my use and the state of our finances.
The cost of maintaining a coke habit is breathtaking. Robin Williams once said, ‘Cocaine is God’s way of saying you’re making too much money.’ By this stage, I was spending in the region of $2000 per week on my addiction.
Our home was transformed from a happy colourful place that boasted fine antique furniture and a dazzling collection of traditional and contemporary art to one where the walls were barren and the furnishings minimal. Works by Dali, Chagall, Boyd and Davila were sacrificed to the art auction houses of Melbourne in order to maintain my selfish obsession. Because the volume of my workload had been substantially reduced, I was for a time able to explain away the need to dispose of these assets.
My life was unravelling, and I seemed powerless to stop it.
It is believed that as a consequence of using cocaine, the release of ‘industrial strength’ dopamine, which is a powerful mood-regulating neurochemical, adversely affects the frontal lobe area of the brain. The frontal lobes serve a vital function in relation to mood, behaviour, impulse control, self-regulation of action and speech as well as the capacity to anticipate and appreciate the consequences of one’s actions.
During the last two months of Susan’s life, I realised that my psychological wheels were well and truly off the rails. At times I was filled with such despair and self-loathing that I would pray for a heart attack, anything to avoid waking in the morning to a world filled with unremitting blackness. I was in deep shit. I felt too ashamed to confide in Carla and too frightened to tell my therapist.
Dancing with Demons Page 19