Larrikins, Bush Tales and Other Great Australian Stories

by Graham Seal

  The illywacker

  Australia once had an unenviable reputation in the world of crime as the home of numberless confidence tricksters. ‘Illywackers’, ‘ripperty men’ or ‘spielers’, among other names given by those who had been conned, were a real danger in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Journalist and author Ambrose Pratt was apparently well acquainted with some of these characters and wrote a lengthy exposé of their tricks for the English newspapers.

  Pratt began by pointing out that the spieler was ‘a swindler and a black-guard’ who preyed on ‘simple-minded country folk, unsuspicious foreign visitors, and fools at large’, either with one or two accomplices or in a large gang. The police at that time reckoned there were at least 100 spielers in Sydney alone. In 1902, Pratt described the typical shyster:

  In person the spieler is a man of respectable appearance and affable demeanour. A skilful impersonator, his shape is protean; he is by turns a squatter, a lawyer, a millionaire, a lucky digger, a Supreme Court judge, a gentleman of private fortune, an English ‘Johnnie,’ fresh from ‘Home’—sporting a lisp and the conventional ‘Haw! Haw! Doncher know, deah boy!’—a parson, an eccentric retired merchant, a capitalist looking for investments for his money, or a bookmaker. He is always a man of gentlemanly presence, sometimes he is a gentleman by birth.

  The spieler was always well dressed, adorned with plenty of jewellery.

  He puts up invariably at the best hotels, for at such places he meets the majority of his victims. He is a bird of passage, flitting quickly from State to State, and he never appears twice in the same character in the same town or at the same hotel. Finally, he is a man of brains, a keen student of human nature, and an exquisite comedian.

  The article went on to describe some of the cons of the spieler and his many guises.

  His favorite character is that of the wealthy do-nothing, a blase man of the world. In this guise he attaches himself to young men whom he meets at his hotel, fast or giddy young men whose tastes incline to gambling. Singling out a particular victim, the wealthiest, or, at least, the most foolish, he feigns a fancy and flatters the pigeon to the top of his bent. When the time is ripe, he hires two rooms in the same office building in the city, which he furnishes lavishly on the time payment system. Choosing a particular evening, he has his luggage taken to the railway station (without his victim’s knowledge), and then, after dinner, off-handedly invites his ‘dear young friend’ to stroll round with him to his club. The victim consents, and they repair to the aforesaid two rooms, the ‘club’ forsooth. A confederate, in livery, admits them. Other confederates are lounging in both rooms, who, however, affect to take no notice of the newcomers. The spieler calls for drinks. The victim unsuspiciously imbibes a drugged whisky and soda.

  Presently the spieler introduces his protege to his confederates. A game of cards is suggested. The victim sleepily agrees. He plays and loses. When he has lost all his ready cash he signs blank cheques, which are presented to him for that purpose by the spieler. The spieler later on takes him back in a cab to the hotel, his ‘dear young friend’ apparently reeling drunk, and cashes his cheques over the bar, feeing the obliging barman liberally for the service. An hour later the spieler is comfortably seated in a railway carriage—on his way to another town—often hundreds of pounds richer for his trouble.

  Then there was the parson collecting funds for the poor of his parish or feigning to lend money to a mug with a mortgaged property. Another was a special Australian favourite, selling shares in non-existent mines. In the ‘lucky digger’ con, the spieler:

  … exhibits marvellous specimens of gold quartz from his ‘mine!’ He lavishes money about and shouts ‘champagne’ for anyone who will listen to his ‘lucky digger’ stories. One evening, when apparently ‘half seas over’, he offers in a well-stimulated burst of good nature, to give any of those present (he takes care to have a tipsy crowd about him) a half share in his mine for a mere song, say £250. Astounding as it may seem, his offer is invariably rushed, and some would-be rogue (for no honest man would traffic with a drunken man) presses the money into his hand, and induces him to sign a scribbled document.

  I once saw two rascally young idiots fight in a crowded bar for the privilege of buying a half share in such an imaginary mine. They compromised by each handing the spieler £200, and agreeing between themselves to halve the share they had bought. Next morning, to their surprise, and, I confess, mine (for I thought the lucky digger genuine), the spieler had vanished, leaving no address.

  The crook who pulled this one off turned out to be an especially notorious character who had carried out a number of ‘long firm’ frauds.

  Pratt concluded with a warning:

  His tricks are innumerable, the repertory of his characters unlimited. He is, indeed, an interesting and instructive body, but young Englishmen would do well to beware of them—those, I mean, who contemplate a visit to Australia, for their class furnishes him with an unceasing supply of victims, and from long experience he knows them well, their faults, their follies, and their frailties.

  Although the term ‘spieler’ is no longer with us, the practice certainly persists and a mug is still born every minute, if not more frequently.

  12

  Working for a laugh

  We, the willing, led by the unknowing,

  Are doing the impossible for the ungrateful.

  We have done so much, for so long, with so little,

  We are now qualified to do anything with nothing.

  Anonymous

  ONCE DESCRIBED AS ‘the curse of the drinking class’, work is the lot of most people. To be endured, work needs to be laughed at as well as laughed about. Australians have a fertile supply of workplace humour, past and present. From outback yarns to modern office jokes, from stump speeches to secret occupational lingo, we have been working for a laugh since we began to work.

  Droving in a bar

  They were boasting in the bar about the biggest mob of cattle they’d ever driven, here, there and every-bloody-where. One had driven a mob of 6000 from Perth to Wave Hill. At least, he had 6000 when he started but when he finished over two years later, he had 10,000. And so it went on.

  An old bloke sat quietly in the corner, taking it all in. When there was a cool moment in the hot air, he piped up. ‘You blokes talk about droving! Let me tell you about a real drive with a really big mob. Me and a mate broke the Australian droving record. We picked up a big mob at Barkly. Took us two days to ride right round ’em, it was that big. Anyway, we started with this mob and drove them clear down to Hobart.’

  The bar fell into a stunned silence before one of the young blokes piped up. ‘Ow’d ya get ’em across the Bass Strait?’ he asked sarcastically.

  The old drover looked closely at him and said, ‘Don’t be stupid, son, we went the other way.’

  A fine team of bullocks

  They’ve been telling this yarn since Coopers Creek was first named, and probably long before. The story goes that a bullock driver had a crack team of beasts and on one particular trip was forced to get across a heavily flooded Coopers Creek. Usually this is an impossible task, but on this occasion the floodwaters didn’t look too deep, so the bullock driver decided to give it a try.

  He drew his team and wagon of wool up on the northern bank and spoke lovingly to them in the tender way that bullockies have, telling them that they now had a big challenge to get across the torrent. The bullocky then walked into the water and found that it was just up around his knees, showing his animals that it was not too dangerous.

  He then went back and spoke lovingly to each and every one of the 22 beasts in the team. He told them what fine beasts they were and how he wanted them to pull together across the stream. Off they went, the lead bullock bravely forging ahead and the bullock shouting encouragement to the team.

  After a titanic effort, the bullocks, the wool wagon and the bullock made it onto dry land at the other side. ‘Whoa,’ cried the bullocky,
‘time for a rest.’ As they settled down the bullocky looked back and saw with amazement that his champion team of bullocks had pulled the river 200 metres out of its course.

  Without a word of a lie.

  A stump speech

  The ‘stump speech’ is a form of polished gibberish about nothing at all. Stump speeches featured in the United States during nineteenth-century political campaigns and were also used as entertainment and as forms of ‘spruiking’ a product, often of the snake-oil variety. Australia has a similar tradition of these absurd but entertaining rants. This one is thought to date from the early Federation period with its reference to George Reid, leader of the first Federal opposition, free trade advocate and eventually prime minister in 1904–05.

  Ladies and gentlemen—kindly turn your optics towards me for a few weeks and I will endeavour to enlighten you on the subject of duxology, theology, botanology, zoology or any other ology you like. I wish to make an apology, yes my sorefooted, black-eyed rascals, look here and answer me a question I am about to put to your notice. I want to be very lenient with you, but what shall it be, mark you, what shall the subject of my divorce (excuse me), discourse, this evening be? What shall I talk about? Shall it be about the earth, sun, sea, stars, moon, Camp Grove or jail? Now I wish to put before your notice the labour question. It is simply deloructious—isn’t that alright? Yes, allow me to state the labour question is not what it should be.

  Now look here, when I was quite a young man I worked very hard indeed, so hard, in fact, that I have seen the drops of perspiration dropping from my manly brow onto the pavement with a thud. Excuse me—yes, I say we shall not work at all! Then again, my wooden, brainless youths, answer me this: should men work between meals? No, no certainly not; it is boisterous!

  Other questions I would put before your notice tonight are—why does Georgie Reid wear an eyeglass? Ha, ha my friends we don’t know where we are; therefore where we are we do not know. Yes my noble-faced, flat-feeted, cockeyed, rank-headed asses, I will put before your notice other questions but no longer will I linger on these tantalising subjects. As time wags on and as I have to leave you; certainly I will not take you with me, therefore I leave you. Now the best of fools must part and as I see a policeman coming along I will go. Goodnight!

  Working on the railway

  The Australian railways have provided a living and even a way of life for very many people. Railway tradition is rich with poems, songs and yarns about the joys and irritations of keeping the trains running; old-time railmen will tell you about boiling the billy and frying eggs on their coal shovels as they stoked the boilers of steam trains. Or regale you with yarns about having to burn the sleepers lying beside the track when the coal ran out, just to keep the ‘loco’ going and get passengers to their destinations on time. Despite this level of commitment and effort, the slow train is a common feature of railway lore, with countless yarns on the same topic being lovingly retold across the decades and across the country.

  On many rural and regional lines, trains were once so regularly and reliably late that passengers had long been resigned to very long waits. But one day on an isolated platform that shall remain nameless, the train arrived smack on time. A delighted and astounded passenger was so overcome by the experience that he ran up to the engine driver and thanked him profusely for arriving on time this once. The driver smiled faintly and replied, ‘No chance, mate, this is yesterday’s train.’

  An anonymous poet expressed the desolate feeling of waiting for a train that may possibly never come:

  All around the water tank

  Waitin’ for a train.

  I’m a thousand miles away from home

  Just a’standin’ in the rain.

  I’m sittin’

  Drinkin’

  Waitin’

  Thinkin’

  Hopin’ for a train.

  Service!

  In this yarn, a passenger receives impeccable service.

  A passenger boarded the train in Melbourne intending to get off at Albury. But when the conductor checked his ticket he had to tell him that the train didn’t stop at Albury. The passenger went into a panic. ‘I have to get off at Albury, it’s a matter of life and death.’ And pleaded with the conductor to stop the train for him.

  The conductor said, ‘Sorry, Sir, we can’t stop the train at an unscheduled station but I do have a suggestion. I will ask the driver to slow down at Albury and I’ll help you to alight from the train. It will be tricky and dangerous, but if I hold you outside the door by the collar and you start running we should be able to get you down without injury when your legs reach the right speed.’

  The passenger was so desperate to get to Albury that he immediately agreed to this hazardous suggestion. ‘Just one thing though,’ said the conductor, ‘after you’re down be sure to stop running before you reach the end of the platform.’ The plucky passenger nodded his agreement.

  As the train approached Albury, the engine driver duly slowed down as much as he could. As soon as the platform came in sight, the conductor opened the door and held the passenger out over the platform. He began running in the air as he had ben instructed and the train was about halfway along the station before the conductor gently lowered him down. He hit the platform and staggered but managed to stay upright, losing momentum gradually as he slowed his running legs. He managed to come to a teetering stop just before the end of the platform. Just then the last car rolled past and he was suddenly grabbed again by the collar and hauled back onto the train. Shocked, he twisted around to see the guard smiling happily at him—‘Expect you thought you’d missed your train, Sir!’

  High-octane travel

  This is an old railway yarn told in many places:

  A couple of mechanics worked together in the railway sheds servicing diesel trains in Brisbane. One day there is a stop work meeting over some issue or other and the two find themselves sitting around with nothing to do. They’d like to go to the pub, of course, but they can’t leave the workplace. Then one of them, let’s call him Phil, has a bright idea. ‘I’ve heard that you can get a really good kick from drinking diesel fuel. Want to give it a go?’

  His mate, we’ll call him Bruce, bored out of his mind, readily agrees. They pour a sizeable glass of diesel each and get stuck in. Sure enough, they have a great day.

  Next morning Phil wakes up, gets out of bed and is pleasantly surprised to find that despite yesterday’s diesel spree he feels pretty good. Shortly afterwards, his phone rings. It’s Bruce. He asks Phil how he is feeling. ‘Great mate, no hangover at all. What about you?’

  ‘No,’ agrees Bruce, ‘all good.’

  That’s amazing,’ replies Phil, ‘we should get into that diesel more often.’

  ‘Sure mate,’ says Bruce, ‘but have you farted yet?’

  ‘What?’ replies Phil, a bit taken aback. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, make sure you don’t ’cause I’m in Melbourne.’

  Railway birds

  This tongue-in-cheek description of various railway occupations in the form of a bird-spotting guide is at least as old as the 1930s, and probably earlier. No prizes for guessing which occupational group originated this item:

  Engine Drivers—Rare birds, dusky plumage. Generally useful. No song; but for a consideration will jump points, signals etc. Have been known to drink freely near the haunts of man—especially at isolated stations. Occasionally intermarry with station-master’s daughters (see Station Masters). Known colloquially by such names as ‘Hell Fire Jack,’ ‘Mad Hector,’ ‘Speedy Steve,’ ‘Whaler,’ ‘Smokebox,’ and ‘Bashes.’ Great sports, often carried from their engines suffering from shock—caused by wrong information.

  Cleaners—Very little is known regarding the habits of these animals. How the name originated remains a mystery.

  Guards—Fairly common. Red faces. Can go a long time without water. Easily recognisable by their habit of strutting up and down. Shrill whistle, but no sense of time. Sleep betwee
n stations, hence common cry of ‘Up Guards, and at ’em.’ Serve no generally useful purpose, but can be trained to move light perambulators, keep an eye on unescorted females, and wave small flags.

  Porters—Habits strangely variable. Sometimes seen in great numbers: sometimes not at all. Much attracted by small bright objects. No song, but have been known to hum—between trains. Naturally indolent, but will carry heavy weights if treated rightly (i.e. sufficiently). Natural enemies of passengers (see passengers). Treated with contempt by station-masters.

  Station Masters—Lordly, brilliant plumage. Rarely leave their nests. Ardent sitters. Most naturalists state these birds have no song, but Railway Commissioners dispute this. Have been known to eat porters (See Porters). Female offspring occasionally intermarry with very fast Engine Drivers.

  Repair Gangs—Plumage nondescript. Migratory in habit. Nests are conspicuous and usually found in clusters near railway lines. No song but passengers assert their plaintive echoing cry of ‘Pa-p-er’ is unmistakable.

  Passengers—Very common. Varied plumage. Will stand anything as a rule, but have been known to attack porters (see Porters). Often kept in captivity under deplorable conditions by ticket inspectors, guards etc. Will greedily and rapidly devour sandwiches and buns under certain (i.e. rotten) conditions. These birds are harmless when properly treated, and should be encouraged by all nature lovers.

  Rechtub klat

  Butchers in Australia developed a version of a secret trade jargon, or back slang, known as ‘rechtub klat’—Butcher Talk, pronounced ‘rech-tub kay-lat’. This descended from the similar back slang of migrating or transported butchers from London’s markets, among whom back slanging was especially rife. In Australia there was little need for trade secrets to be protected but a secret language allowed butchers to converse while others were present, perhaps commenting on the price to be charged or admiring the physical qualities of a female customer. Another valued use of this lingo was to insult troublesome customers with impunity. Butchers in France traditionally uttered a similar convolution of language; it was known there as loucherbem, boucher being French for ‘butcher’. Got that?