The warming rays of the mid-morning sun were just starting to fill Norton’s backyard as he sat there on his banana chair reading the paper and sipping his third mug of tea. How good’s this, he thought, no work till Thursday week. What a ripper. Unexpectedly the phone rang, disturbing his relaxation. Who the bloody hell’s this? he thought as he reluctantly heaved himself off the banana chair and walked into the lounge.
‘Hello,’ he barked gruffly into the receiver.
‘Hullo Les. It’s Warren. What are you doing?’
‘Well, I was sitting in the backyard relaxing. Why?’
‘Listen, you got next weekend off, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Norton cautiously.
‘How would you like to do a TV commercial?’
‘A TV commercial? Oh don’t give me the shits.’
‘It’s a hundred percenter.’
‘A what?’
‘You’ve got to talk in it. You’ve only got to say half a dozen words. Jesus, even a Queensland hillbilly like you could string six words together.’
‘Keep that sort of talk up and I might string six of your vertabrae together, you skinny little prick.’
Warren laughed on the end of the line. ‘It’s a beer commercial.’
‘Yeah! What sort of beer?’
‘Bowen Lager.’
‘Bowen Lager? Never heard of it.’
‘No, it’s a new one they’re putting on the market. Listen, it’s worth three thousand bucks if you get it.’
‘Three grand!’ The cash register inside Norton’s always-keen-for-an-extra-dollar mind suddenly rang up that amount. ‘What do I — ah, have to do?’
Warren started laughing on the other end of the line. He could read Norton like a book. ‘Listen, it’s simple.’
He explained to Les how his agency was looking for a big, red-headed Aussie looking bloke to play the part of Bluey Riley, a Queensland cane cutter. All Bluey had to do was walk into the pub with his mates looking thirsty and mean, say a few words about Bowen Lager and drink a few beers. The ad was being shot in Brisbane, they’d fly him up and back first class, put him up in a top hotel and give him an expense account. He’d leave late Saturday afternoon, shoot the ad Sunday and be back in Sydney Monday morning. The cheque would arrive about a week later.
The idea certainly appealed to Les. Three grand, free piss and a chance to stand on beautiful Queensland soil and breathe beautiful Queensland air again. ‘All right. I’ll have a go,’ he said. ‘What do I do?’
‘Grab a pen and paper. I’ll tell you.’ Warren gave Les the address of the agency and told him to be there no later than 1.30pm for the casting. ‘You got that?’
‘Yeah. No worries.’
‘Right, good luck. I should be home about six, I’ll tell you how you went.’
‘Okay, thanks Woz. I’ll see you tonight.’
Norton made himself a fresh mug of tea and returned to his banana chair, a half smile on his big rough face. Funny if I got the thing, he thought, the folks back home’ll get a laugh. But the $3000 interested him more. He lay there for another hour or so then decided to get changed.
He put on a clean T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. There was no need to shave, he thought, but he did run a plastic ‘bug rake’ through his scrubby red hair. He gave himself a quick check in the bathroom mirror then drove to Bondi Junction and caught a train to Martin Place; a few minutes later he was standing among the passing shoppers outside the advertising agency in George Street. Yeah, this is it all right, he thought to himself as he checked the address Warren had given him over the phone. Dudley, Dunk, Fenwick, Scrartinvitch and Crutchsnack Advertising Consultants. Another quick check of the directory in the foyer said castings and inquiries, third floor. He got behind some other people and filed into the lift.
The lift doors swished open and he walked out into a large, cool, green carpeted room with a small marble fountain gurgling in the middle around which he could see several other people seated haphazardly against the walls. A long narrow corridor seemed to run off into nowhere and next to this a bored looking peroxide blonde, wearing about six coats of make-up sat tapping away at a typewriter.
‘G’day,’ said Les approaching her carefully. ‘My name’s Les Norton, I’m here about some booze ad in Queensland.’
She looked up unsmiling and checked a piece of paper behind the desk. ‘Mr. Edwards sent you. Is that right?’
Les nodded his head. ‘Yeah.’
‘Just take a seat. They’ll call you shortly.’
He sat down next to a thin, sophisticated looking blonde in a leather mini-dress reading a Vogue magazine. Next to her were two other blondes who could have been her sisters, and across the room were three of the best looking, best dressed blokes Les had ever seen outside of the Kelly Club. Nobody was saying anything but every now and again one would look up, check the others out intensely and look away again.
Christ, thought Les, if these blokes are going for the same ad they’re walk-up starts. They make me look like something you see when you’re drunk. Can’t say much for the sheilas though, they all look like a good fuck and a green apple would kill the lot of them.
He reached over, picked up a magazine off a large tiled coffee table and smiled at the blonde next to him. ‘Just like waiting to see the doctor, ain’t it?’ he said.
She gave him a bored smile then looked at him like he was something left over from last month’s garbage strike. In your arse you skinny turd, thought Les, and started thumbing idly through his magazine.
Before long an overweight, happy faced but obviously gay guy wearing a polka dot bow tie stepped out of the corridor with a clip-board in his hand. ‘Les Norton,’ he lisped, glancing round the room.
‘Yeah, mate.’
‘Follow me please.’
‘For a minute I thought you were gonna say walk this way,’ said Norton. ‘Be a bit hard in these jeans I can tell you.’
He ignored Les’s remark and led him down the long narrow corridor. ‘You’re here for the Bowen Lager commercial?’
‘Yeah, something like that,’ replied Norton.
‘Mmmh, useful type,’ he said looking Les up and down. ‘Should be able to do something there.’
‘Thanks. I’m rapt.’
They stopped outside an already open door. ‘Just go straight in,’ said Bow Tie and swished off up the corridor.
Norton stepped into a bright, windowless room with posters all over the walls. Seated around a long velvet ottoman lounge next to a television set with a video recorder on top were three middle aged men and a middle aged woman. The men all wore trendy clothes, trendy hair styles and trendy glasses; the woman looked like a barracuda in an expensive pants suit. Les hadn’t got in the door and already she was giving him the same sort of looks Zeke Wolf gives the three little pigs.
The trendy on the end of the lounge closest to Les introduced himself as Maurice McMichaels the director, on his right was Mitchell Buchannan the writer; the other two remained silent.
‘All right Les,’ said Maurice McMichaels as Norton sat down in the chair opposite. ‘This is the story. We are promoting an exciting new brand of beer. Bowen Lager. And basically what we want you to do is this.’ He stared intensely at Norton, emphasising every word with his hands and spoke slowly and deeply as if he was delivering the Sermon on the Mount.
‘Imagine Les, you’re in a hotel bar drinking with all the boys. You’ve got a beer in your hand.’ He handed Norton an empty middy glass. ‘Now. How would you say, “Bowen Lager, it’s the beer my friends and I enjoy the most”?’
Norton looked at him incredulously. He could just imagine himself standing in a Queensland bar full of meatworkers, shearers and cane cutters and coming out with a line like that.
He lifted up the empty glass with a cheeky grin on his face. ‘Bowen Lager,’ he said. ‘It’s the beer me ’n me mates love to drink.’ What a load of shit, he thought, I’ve wasted my time coming here. These dills wouldn’t have a clue
.
There was complete silence for a moment, then as one they all sat up on the lounge.
‘Would you say that again?’ said the director.
‘Bowen Lager. It’s the beer me ’n me mates love to drink.’
There was another silence then they all started jumping up and down on the one spot, waving their arms around like a lot of excited school kids.
‘Great, fantastic,’ said the director.
‘Absolutely amazing,’ said the writer. ‘We’ll change the concept of the whole campaign.’
‘Incredible,’ shrilled the third trendy. ‘It’s just so, so Oz.’
The barracuda was speechless. She just fell back on the lounge and coughed in her rompers.
‘Stand up, Les, and hold the glass near your face,’ said the writer. ‘I want to take a polaroid.’
Les got up bewildered but still grinning. The next thing a flash went off, temporarily blinding him.
‘All right Les, thanks for coming,’ said the director as he and the writer escorted him to the door. ‘We’ll be in touch with your agent.’ ‘Yeah righto,’ said Norton. They shook hands once more and Les left the building still absolutely mystified as to what was going on.
He was still mystified but had just about put the whole silly episode out of his mind by late that afternoon. He was at home sucking on a can of Fourex and reading the paper when the phone rang.
‘Hello,’ he said into the phone.
‘Hello Les. It’s Warren.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m all right. But how are you? You little film star you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You got the ad.’
‘Fair dinkum?’
‘Fair dinkum. They loved you.’
‘Well that’s good. See, I keep telling you Woz, I’m not just a pretty face.’
‘No, you’re a fuckin’ ugly one. But don’t ever forget one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I discovered you baby. I’ll be home in an hour, I’ll tell you all about it then.’
‘Righto. See you when you get home.’
Well I’ll be fucked, thought Norton as he stared absently at the phone. That director’s got to have a pumpkin for a head grabbing me instead of those other blokes out the front. He shook his head and went back to his can of beer and the paper.
‘Now for Christ’s sake, Les, behave yourself up there,’ said Warren as he drove Norton out to the airport the following Saturday afternoon. ‘Don’t get too pissed and for God’s sake don’t go belting anyone.’
‘Piss off will you,’ said Norton, grinning from ear to ear. ‘I’m a movie star. Movie stars don’t go around beltin’ people.’
‘No, but you do.’ Warren was still lecturing Les after he’d parked his Celica and they walked into the domestic flight terminal at Mascot aerodrome. Mitchell Buchannan was waiting there to greet them.
‘Hello Les, hello Warren,’ he said shaking hands warmly with Norton. The writer’s thinning sandy hair was plastered untidily across his head and he had noticeable dark circles around the puffiness under his eyes. He looked like he could do with about 24 hours’ solid sleep. ‘Looking forward to the weekend in Brisbane, Les? The ad should work really well.’
‘Yeah I am,’ replied Norton with a grin. ‘My agent drove me to the airport.’ He nodded towards Warren. ‘He’s been giving me some excellent advice to help me at this tender stage of my career.’
‘Just remember what I said, Les,’ said Warren evenly.
They had time for a chat and one quick drink at the bar before the announcement came over that Flight 602 for Brisbane was now ready to depart. All aboard the aircraft please.
‘Like it says on the garbage tins Les,’ said Warren, shaking Nortons hand as they left through the departure gate. ‘Do the right thing.’
‘Jesus, you’re a worry, Woz,’ said Norton slapping him on the shoulder. ‘What could go wrong? I’ll see you when I get back. The next thing they were winging their way to Brisbane.
About 15 minutes into the flight the stewardess stopped in the aisle next to their seat. ‘Can I get you a drink at all, Sir?’ she said pleasantly.
‘Yeah. I wouldn’t mind a can of Fourex myself,’ replied Norton. ‘What about you, Mitchell?’
‘Just a brandy and soda for me,’ he said tiredly.
When the stewardess brought the drinks back Norton went to pay her. ‘That’s all right sir,’ she said. ‘There’s no charge for drinks first class.’
‘Oh. Is that right?’ replied Norton casually.
Les and Mitchell didn’t say a great deal on the flight up, but when they landed at Eagle Farm there wasn’t a drop of Fourex left on the plane and Norton was in a pretty good mood.
As soon as they stepped out of the hatch and the realisation that he was back in Queensland hit Les, about four gallons of adrenalin surged through his body like a miniature tidal wave. ‘Ah, smell that Queensland air, Mitchell,’ he said stopping half-way down the gangplank. ‘You can bloody near taste it.’ The writer smiled back briefly. ‘If you like,’ said Les, ‘I’ll grab our swags and you can get us a cab.’
‘There’ll be a car waiting for us,’ replied Mitchell.
They picked up their bags and went to the front of the airport where a shiny black Mercedes and driver was waiting for them. He took their bags and placed them in the boot.
‘Crest Hotel. Is that right, Mr. Buchannan?’ said the driver.
‘That’s right.’
As they left Eagle Farm and cruised quietly through the darkened suburbs towards downtown Brisbane signs flashed past the windows of the car that engulfed Norton with pangs of nostalgia. Cairns Draught. Fourex on Tap. The Courier Mail Sold Here. 4BK Number One On Your Dial. When they pulled up at The Crest Norton was misty eyed. He was true to the old saying. You can get the boy out of Queensland but you can’t get the Queensland out of the boy.
They booked into the hotel and while taking the lift to their adjoining rooms Mitchell told Les that he would be eating in his room as he had some phone calls to make and a few things to organise; he suggested Les do likewise. He wasn’t keen on Norton’s suggestion that they go out for a few drinks later, but he agreed to meet Les in his room and maybe go for a few; he’d see him then.
This is all right, thought Les, as he threw his bag on the bed of his $100 a night room and stepped out on to the balcony to view the Brisbane skyline and gaze fondly at the coloured lights reflecting on the Brisbane River as it wound a long silver snake through the heart of the city. Not too bad at all.
He unpacked his clothes then picked up the phone. ‘Hello room service? This is Mr. Norton in 704, could I have two mud crabs, chips and a large side salad please. And a bowl of strawberries and cream.’ A small bar fridge with an electric jug on top caught his eye. ‘You’d better send up a bottle of Taylors White Burgundy and a dozen cans of Fourex too. Thank you.’ He smiled to himself; James Bond, eat your heart out.
By the time Les had finished a shave and a shower the food arrived. He gave the room waiter $2 then tore into the two muddies; the first bite nearly brought tears to his eyes. By a quarter to ten all that remained was the gleaming shells, the Taylors was gone and Norton was in a terrific mood and starting on his second can of Fourex. He finished that and went to collect Buchannan.
‘Where do you fancy going Les?’ asked Mitchell wearily as he stepped into his jeans.
‘Dunno. I just feel like a few drinks, I’m not used to going to bed early on Saturday night,’ replied Les.
‘And if there’s a bit of crumpet available you’ll be in that too, eh?’
‘Oh yeah. Why not?’
Acting on one of the room waiter’s advice they went to a bar about 10 minutes walk from the hotel. There wasn’t much happening, a few frumpy looking beer bandits were propped up on stools round the bar and on the dance floor several couples were shuffling around listlessly to a hackneyed band murdering some old Beatles songs in the corner.
‘Not much doin’ here is there?’ said Les checking his watch. It was 11.30.
‘Do you want to go up the Brisbane Underground?’ asked Mitchell.
‘It couldn’t be any worse than this,’ replied Les. They finished their drinks then walked out the front and caught a cab.
The Bianca Jagger look-alike on the door of the Underground nearly had a stroke when she saw Les. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed ‘but it’s members only.’ Being a trendy on the door of a half baked exclusive nite-spot she was determined to let only trendy types in and her idea of a non trendy was anyone over five feet six, that didn’t look like John Travolta and dress like Roger Moore. However, like all would-be glamours, as soon as Mitchell told her who he was and mentioned the names of an advertising agency and a film company she started gushing, batting her eyelids and had them escorted to one of the best tables in the place. Norton hardly had his bum on the seat when some money changed hands and a waiter returned with an ice bucket and two chilled bottles of Veuve Clicquot.
‘This is a bit more like it,’ said Les.
‘It’s all right,’ shrugged Mitchell.
After a couple of quick glasses of shampoo, Norton settled back and let his gaze wander around the night club. The place was fairly crowded with punters of both sex all decked out in their Saturday night ‘kill ’em’ gear. On the packed dance floor serious faced couples were pivoting and gyrating under a spinning mirrored ball and doing their best to imitate all the latest dance steps they’d seen on TV. A few disconsolate waiters and waitresses glided among the tables and everybody seemed to have a look of bored indifference, appearing to be out for a pose more than just a good time.
You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids Page 16