Chopper Unchopped (7 page)

ANYONE who knows me well knows I have the words ‘I LOVE ITA BUTTROSE’ tattooed on my bum. The explanation for this is simple enough. All the boys in H Division loved Ita because the only magazines we were allowed there during the early and mid-1970s were the
Readers Digest
and
Womens Weekly.

For a joke Jimmy Loughnan and I started the H Division branch of the Ita Buttrose fan club. Personally, I feel that if God had a mother she would look like Ita. How could any man not love Ita?

I haven’t spoken much about real violence, so I will give a small true example of how my regard for Ita nearly got a bloke killed.

It was 1977, and I was in an inner-city pub when a well-known criminal and gunman made the mistake of bad mouthing the sainted name of Ita, the woman of my dreams. I will not tell you this drunken lout’s real name. I will simply call him ‘One-eyed Pauly’. We fought tooth and nail, and this bloke could fight. To be honest, he could punch my head in — but for one thing. What I lack in the finer points of fisticuffs I make up for in violence. As far as I’m concerned the Marquess of Queensberry was a poof.

I got him with a series of head butts and elbow blows, a handful of hair and a knee to the face. When he went down I kicked him until he was out cold — and his face all smashed up. I made sure he lost an eye that day, which is how he got the nickname One-eyed Pauly. This was a dockies’ pub and the onlookers were a pretty critical audience, so I had to make sure I left the right impression.

As I said when I finished my beer after the fight, I’d kill any man who spoke ill of Ita Buttrose.

You don’t get a reputation like mine for being a nice guy.

In 1977 I had a bit of action to catch up on after getting out of jail after serving nearly three years for robbing massage parlours. I was out for five months before I walked into the County Court and kidnapped Judge Martin on January 26, 1978, which is another story.

In the five months I was out, I shot five men. I was charged and convicted for only one shooting — that of ‘Johnny Corral’ — a young criminal and knockabout not much older than myself. I got him in the left leg around the kneecap. Since then Johnny has carried a bad crippled leg. He has returned to prison several times, where my spies tell me news of his physical wellbeing.

I have always felt guilty over Johnny’s gimpy leg. It happened because he was getting a bit lippy and got me on the wrong day. But if Johnny is reading this and remembers back, he must admit I did have the barrel at his head, then I reconsidered and dropped it to his leg. We were both young. Why he got loud mouthed with a man carrying a shotgun is beyond me, but Johnny and his gimpy leg have played on my mind for years.

There was no hate or personal malice involved. It was just the way it went. I guess I’m trying to say I’m sorry about Johnny. If I could wave a magic wand and fix his gimpy leg, I would. The bloke stuck solid after I shot him and said nothing to the police. Sorry about that, Johnny.

In March 1975, in Pentridge’s D Division in the billet’s yard I was getting a haircut one day when I saw the strangest fight in my life. It was between ‘Tiger Tommy Wells’, an ex-boxer and former Australian titleholder of the 1960s, and a drag queen named Kelly.

Tiger Tommy was a tall, lanky, big-boned man with a lot of fistic skill. The drag queen was the roughest-looking piece of work God ever shovelled guts into — a body like Maggie Tabberer and a head like Henry Bolte, topped off with a big pair of silicone tits. ‘She’ was a sight to be seen.

The fight was fast and hectic. However, Tommy was a kind-hearted and gentle-natured chap with not a drop of violence in him, whereas Kelly the drag queen was as mad as a meat axe and about as dangerous.

I didn’t fancy Tommy’s chances. Sure enough, after five or so minutes of savage punching Tommy hit the deck. The drag queen then started to kick Tommy. Enough was enough. I stepped in, smashed the drag queen over the head with a mop bucket and bit its ear off.

‘She’ ran screaming and bleeding from the yard. I then helped Tommy up. I couldn’t stand by and watch a good bloke like Tommy humiliated any further at the hands of such a creature.

I was sad to learn years later that Tiger Tommy hanged himself in the Ferntree Gully lockup. He was a gentleman and showed me great kindness. For a man like him to die in such a way in such a place was a tragedy.

Back in the days when I used to work out at Ambrose Palmer’s gym I made the acquaintance of a former Australian heavyweight boxing champion who, for legal reasons and because he probably wouldn’t thank me for mentioning him, I will not name.

However in early 1973, I was having a drink in the Southern Cross Hotel in the city. I had to pop into the men’s room and there I found the former champ engaged in fistic combat with a giant fellow — an American rather well known in Melbourne for his appearances on television’s world championship wrestling, which was on every Sunday morning through the 1960s and 1970s. His name was ‘Playboy Gary Hart’.

I didn’t know what to do. The former Australian champ was punching — but to no avail. I went outside, walked to the bar, picked up a half-full jug of beer, tossed the beer out, went back into the men’s room and smashed the big Yank over the skull. That slowed him down enough for the ex-champ to stiffen him with a very nice right uppercut. The big fellow was flat out on the floor.

I thought that was that. But then the ex-champ bent down and removed his Rolex watch, his rings, gold chains and wallet, and together we left the bar. As we got to the street I realised I was still holding half a broken beer jug by the handle, so I put it in the bin. The ex-champ put the rings, jewellery, watch and dough in his pocket. I said: ‘You’ve got a watch. I want that one. Fair’s fair.’ So I got the Rolex.

About three weeks later, I was in Surfer’s Paradise, enjoying the sun and surf and trying to find an opal dealer, massage-parlour owner, drug dealer and all round wealthy fellow called ‘Chinese Charlie’.

It was hot and I was thirsty, so I walked into a lovely air conditioned lounge bar for a cold beer. As I got inside and adjusted my eyes to the dimmer inside light I saw a big bloke at the bar who looked a bit too familiar. It was Playboy Gary Hart. He was standing at the bar looking at me, trying to remember where he knew me from. Beside him was a bald-headed giant I knew right away from the wrestling on TV and Saturday night at Festival Hall as ‘Brute Bernard’.

I did a U-turn and walked back out. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Gary Hart maybe, but I wouldn’t fight old Brute Bernard unless I was carrying a chainsaw. Besides, I was still wearing the Playboy’s gold Rolex.

‘Bugger Chinese Charlie’, I thought, and went back to Melbourne.

There’s another yarn involving the Chinese, but this time one called Micky, who was from Sydney. As a favour, and for several thousand dollars, I met him because he had a problem to solve.

His niece had been raped and robbed and ripped off by her body builder, karate expert boyfriend, Steve the Greek, who had fled to Melbourne.

Steve was a NSW gangster. The shifty Chinese had tried to kill him in Sydney, but Steve the Greek bashed the attackers. He could fight like ten men, so I was asked to locate him, which was easy. He was a gambler, and it’s not hard to find a Greek crook who plays cards in Melbourne, as Melbourne is a second Greece.

All I had to do was find him, grab him, hold him for the Chinese and call them when he was ‘in custody’. To cut this story short, I did find him, I did render him unconscious and I took him to a house in Footscray and nailed his left hand to a large, heavy Franco Cozzo coffee table with a claw hammer and a roofing nail. Who says Franco Cozzo furniture is no good for anything?

One does not escape and run too far with one’s hand nailed to such a large wooden coffee table. I rang the Chinese and they came and collected him … and as far as I’m concerned that’s the end of the story. The reason I’m being coy about it is that for all I know Steve the Greek may have ended up in 1000 Chinese dim sims. None of my business.

For a short time in 1972 I boxed with Jimmy Sharman’s boxing troupe in the sideshow tent fights. During the 1972 Royal Melbourne Show a right royal brawl broke out between myself and a well known Melbourne street fighter, known to one and all as ‘Stretch’. He beat me quite soundly. I was humbled and ashamed and left Sharman’s and never boxed with gloves on again. ‘Stretch’ was a tall, thickset chap, bigger than myself — or he certainly seemed to be. I didn’t know a lot about him, except that he had a huge reputation as a boxer and street fighter, and had a highly popular following. He was also a bouncer in Prahran.

He was working at a dance at a ballroom in Greville Street at the time I located him. It was a cold, rainy Saturday night and big Stretch was standing in the doorway. As I walked towards him he nodded and said: ‘How are you, young fella? No hard feelings?’

I said: ‘Of course not. Even being beaten by you is an honour, Stretch.’ Then we shook hands. As I clasped his right hand with mine I rammed my left forefinger deep into his right eye socket, then head butted him a vicious blow, and kneed him in the balls. He went down groaning.

I then finished him with a number of fast, heavy, vicious kicks to the head, face and throat. Stretch was down, out and lying on the footpath in the rain. Why? Because my smiling face when I approached him put him at ease. I maintained the big, wide, warm smile throughout. The whole thing took less than 60 seconds.

When it comes to violence, Chopper wrote the book.

I will tell the story of Turkish George, who was once a well-known, up and coming, long-haired, three-piece-suit wearing heroin dealer and pimp in Fitzroy Street, St Kilda.

One day, I had popped in to the Prince of Wales Hotel for a counter lunch and a drink. I had just finished a lovely porterhouse steak, chips, eggs and mushrooms, all washed down with four or five pots of beer. I was standing in front of the pub, picking my teeth and enjoying the sunshine and watching the passing parade.

I saw a young girl, she looked about 13, wearing a short, white summer frock with white Roman sandals. She had lovely blonde hair and was about five foot. She would have looked very pretty if it wasn’t for the fact she was sobbing, and had tears and a smattering of blood down her face.

I asked her what was the matter and she told me that Turkish George had bashed her. I asked her why and she told me, this little schoolgirl, that she was using smack and doing dirty deeds at the weekend to pay for it. She still had some personal pride and wouldn’t do some of the dirty deeds that Turkish George wanted her to do. She said she was only a part-time user and didn’t have a habit.

She pointed out Turkish George, then I asked her whether she knew me. She said she didn’t. I then asked her if she had heard of Chopper Read. She said she had heard the name in the street.

I said, ‘I am Chopper Read … and you are going to run on home and never show your face in St Kilda again.’ She promised me she would clear out, and left.

I walked up the street a bit and saw Turkish George sitting in the passenger side of a P76 car with the door open, talking to some fat-arsed pro.

I had with me a pair of pliers. There is an art to using a pair of pliers in a street fight, but I won’t go into that. I punched approximately 30 puncture wounds into the Turk’s face and nearly blinded him — and I did it all in broad daylight while two uniformed police sat 20 feet away in a police car, eating hamburgers.

When Turkish George was a limp, bleeding mess in the gutter, I said to the cops, ‘Let’s go’. They handcuffed me and I was in the back of the police car when the ambulance arrived to take Turkish George away.

I was released on bail on my own reconnaissance after being charged with grievous bodily harm. It appears that the police hated Turkish George and thought his injuries were poetic justice. At my trial, the magistrate asked if there was anything I wanted to say. I said ‘Yes, I am only sorry I didn’t blind the bastard completely.’

I pleaded guilty, and got two years. Big deal.

I was told later in jail by a junkie who knew St Kilda well that the little blonde girl didn’t return to Fitzroy Street. It was well worth two years.

Sydney may have all the razzle dazzle but most of the deadly serious work gets done in Melbourne. There is no doubt it is the unofficial murder capital of Australia.

In fact, I believe that in the State of Victoria there would be between 25 and 50 murders a year that never see the light of day.

Australia is a big country and shovels are cheap. Victoria may be the garden state but if you dug it up, you would find a heap of bodies. The garden probably grows so well because of all the blood and bone that has been spread over it.

If a crook goes missing in Melbourne chances are he isn’t on holiday at Surfers Paradise. Anybody who adds up the numbers over the last 100 years will see I am right. Victoria is the state of the big vanish.

It is generally believed that I got the nickname ‘Chopper’ because I cut my ears off, but that isn’t right. I got the name when I was a kid after a character in a cartoon strip. The name Chopper has nothing to do with my ears being cut off. The cartoon was called, Chopper and Yakkie. There was a big dog which used to protect a little duck from a fox. I was nicknamed after the dog. Few people know that.

The other thing they don’t know is that I didn’t cut my own ears off at all. The man who cut them off was Kevin James Taylor, the chap doing life for shooting Pat Shannon. If a man tries to cut his own ears off he will make a pig’s breakfast of the job, so I asked Kevin to do it for me. I went into the Number One shower yard of H Division, sat down, folded my arms and sat as still as I could.