Chopper Unchopped (88 page)

I TURNED 39 on the 17th of November, 1993, in the remand yard at Risdon Prison. Meanwhile on the same day at the Hobart Supreme Court, the nephew of my old mate – and now bitter enemy, referred to above – was appearing on a charge of perverting justice.

Big Mick is a six foot five tall, 20-stone giant who, in my opinion, couldn’t be killed or buried without the aid of a fireman’s axe and an earth mover. Yet here he was in court pleading not guilty before Mr Justice Slicer and a jury of 12 honest and true Tasmanians, whimpering like an old moll and crying that if he was sent to prison Chopper Read would kill him and that the dreaded Chopper Read had shot his dear uncle and was now after family members. The hillbillies here love the idea of a family feud.

He went on to say that two hit men had come down from the mainland to get his uncle on my orders, but that uncle was being hidden by the police and that the unnamed hit men were now on the hunt for other family members. Sounds like a bloody Peter Corris plot.

Big Mick said he feared for his own life and the lives of his three children. He said if he went to prison Chopper Read would kill him or have him killed and there was further rambling to the effect that I had also killed his brother.

This fiasco all started allegedly on October 22, 1992, when big Mick allegedly went to the home of Hobart lawyer Mr Brian Morgan and in an attempt to have certain charges dropped, dropped heavy hints that Morgan would be well advised to play ball with him.

Mick’s story was that he only went to see Brian Morgan to offer his sad tale re the dreaded Chopper Read, blah blah blah.

So who really cares? Just another nonsense court case with a general steady flow of non-stop rubbish being offered to the judge and jury by all concerned, with Mick’s lawyer Mr David Gunson bringing tears to a glass eye, with the ‘please feel sorry for my poor client’ routine and laying it on with a trowel. Mick was found guilty and remanded in custody to await sentencing, and while in the remand yard offered me his profuse apologies for using my name in such a manner.

What the court had not been told was that big Mick had already been in the remand yard with me on a previous occasion and that I had nothing against him whatsoever. In fact, we sat at the same table in the mess room when having our meals. Mick was a giant but I considered him harmless, and the sins of his uncle couldn’t be blamed on him or any member of the family and I had told him so. Big Mick went back to court and walked free with his honor, Mr Justice Slicer, not imposing a jail sentence proving yet again that if you mention the name Chopper Read in a Tasmanian court you’re on a winner. When in doubt just blame it on The Chopper.

It would have been a simple enough task to check out the tale but when my name is mentioned in a Tassie court who needs to check out the facts?

Perish the thought, I can only wonder how many other nephews, cousins, brothers, relatives of the idiot I’m supposed to have shot intend to pull this stunt. Heaven knows it works. Good luck to them all.

The man himself used my name to great effect so why not the rest of his family. After all, if your horse has been pinched you’d be a fool not to blame Ned Kelly.

What gets me is that there was some mindless waffle heard in court to the effect that I’d killed Mick’s brother. One would imagine that this would be cause for some sort of investigation, but no, it seems that as long as my name is tossed into the cooking pot then total rubbish can be cooked up, served and eaten with relish in a Tasmanian court of law, or police station for that matter.

Oh well, it’s not the first time it’s happened, and I doubt it will be the last.

FRIENDSHIP is a funny thing. When the good times roll everyone wants to rock and roll with you and when the shit hits the fan you’re on your own. Except, in my case, for a small stalwart group of people who have stood with me in my time of trouble.

My first lesson in this was when I was just a little kid going to Mornington State School in grade three. There was me, Garry Oliver, Kevin Sweeny, Rodger Gully, Peter Burrows, Billy East and Graeme Starr.

We were a jolly old band of scallywag boyhood mates. Behind the school on a walk to the beach we would cut through behind a row of old houses.

Old man Ferguson kept a dozen or so large apple trees in his backyard, all of which hung heavy with beautiful apples. It was a temptation to any group of boys, but old Pop Ferguson kept a shotgun and was a gruff and grumpy old bastard. His backyard had no fence but was protected by a large very prickly row of hawthorn bushes, with long hard spiky thorns.

There was only one way into Pop Ferguson’s yard and that was a small hole we could all crawl through, single file. It was slow and careful going, so as not to get pricked.

Once in the yard we were all loyal and true comrades in arms. But as we picked the apples old Pop Ferguson came out onto his back porch with his shotgun and punched a shot into the air and yelled, ‘Piss off you young bastards, I’ll skin the bloody lot of you’, and we took off at a 100 miles per hour.

On the way in we were seven small boys all the very best of friends, one for all and all for one, but running for our lives and with old man Ferguson on our tail with his shotgun, we were suddenly all pushing each other out of the way to get through the one small hole in the hawthorn bush.

The one for all and all for one brotherhood had turned into a screaming panic-stricken rabble of every boy for himself. One of life’s small lessons learnt early.

Graeme Starr was the leader of our gang of grade three bandits, and Pop Ferguson’s apple trees were a constant source of temptation in spite of the shotgun.

We must have stabbed ourselves a hundred times over on the thorns, making good our escape after apple raids. Then the old man set rabbit traps and put them in the hole in the hawthorn bush, as well as the backyard.

In the end it was all too much, and then we realised that the lady in the house at the end of the road kept grapefruit trees. They weren’t as nice as Pop Ferguson’s apples, but a damn sight safer to pinch.

So we have two lessons learnt. All the security in the world won’t stop crime – it just moves it onto another location. And the most important lesson of all: when the shit hits the fan the best of mates will scramble over each other to get through the escape hatch.

None of us can deny the spirit of Gallipoli and the bravery of the Anzacs and all, but in reality when the shit hits the fan the Aussie anthem is ‘Every man for himself’. What they call the Dingo Principle.

THIS is a short postscript in relation to Harry the Greek. I shouldn’t laugh but how’s this for black comedy. After four years in jail down here in Tassie he got out recently. He was highly excited and was worrying about what clothes he would wear and what he would do first.

He was all set to go and live with his mate Jimmy, who runs a pub in a small town over here. A party was planned and Jimmy had driven down to pick him up. As it was winter and Harry didn’t have any warm clothes I gave him a leather jacket.

He came down to the jail laundry and had his last shower and got dressed and shook hands with all the boys including Eddy the head, the boss of the laundry. He said goodbye to all the screws. It was quite a sad moment watching him get all set to leave.

It only served to remind me that I was remaining behind. Anyway, Harry got all dressed up, put on his imitation made in Hong Kong Rolex wristwatch and waved us all goodbye … and then had the handcuffs slapped on him by three detectives and got extradited back to Melbourne over an old armed robbery.

Poor old Harry’s arse caved in. His mate Jimmy was out the front of the prison waiting to drive Harry home to the pub, but the police drove him to court and then to the airport. He didn’t even get to fly business class.

I can’t recall feeling sorry for many people, but I felt sorry for Harry. How’s that, four years’ jail, convinced you’re getting out and bang – you’re in Pentridge. It’s enough to bring a tear to a glass eye.

MY old mate Robert Lochrie and his third wife Jenny have left Victoria to retire to Surfers Paradise. There was a bit of trouble in Victoria concerning Loxy and a traffic accident with two members of a well-known motorcycle club. Both bikies were injured, but you will be relieved to know that the Fairlane Loxy was driving was not damaged.

On the way to Surfers, Loxy landed up in Bathurst jail for a month over some punch-up, but he and his good lady wife are now both happily living in the sunshine. His third bloody wife. I don’t know how the pineapple-headed bastard does it. He’s got a face like five miles of bad road, but pulls more pussy than a Chinese restaurant.

There are only a few blokes from my teenage years still alive and kicking, and Loxy is one of them. He has suffered probably more physical injuries than I have, and he’s still going.

There he is in Surfers Paradise, with a cold can in one hand and a hot chick in the other.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting in an icebox writing this, watching my breath floating around the cell. If I may quote my little mate ‘Bucky’ yet again … it’s in winter that we really receive the full benefit of our sentence. Ha ha.

THE homosexual debate in Tassie is beginning to take on comic proportions. Every time I turn on the radio or television or look at a local newspaper I’m either hearing about or reading about the homosexual debate with the Tasmanian Attorney General, Mr Ron Cornish, screaming no, no, no! – and in one case using the Bible to back him up – and the United Nations and the Federal Attorney General yelling yes, yes, yes!

I remember many years ago in Pentridge, homosexuality had been legalised for a while but no self-confessed homosexual had tried to join the prison service, until this one particular gentleman did and was proud to tell one and all that he was ‘as camp as a row of tents’.

They all knocked him back but legal action was threatened and I believe various government agencies lost their nerve. The gentleman in question got the job and became the queen of comedy overnight.

He was quite clearly homosexual with the limp wrist and the wiggling walk and the lady-like lisping talk. He would mince about the maximum security division, Jika Jika, like the gay musketeer singing old Shirley Bassey numbers. ‘The minute you walked in the joint I could see you were a man of distinction a real big spender, Hey big spender, Hey big spender, spend a little time with me.’ Ha ha.

This crap would go on all day long and the little faggot would really rev up the ‘Queen of the May’ act to get everybody as mad as he could. If they tried to sack him he’d sue their pants off, no pun intended.

Every Christmas, or so he told us, he would holiday in America and after his first year with the prison service returned with a large metal medallion hanging from his key chain that simply read ‘I left my heart in San Francisco’.

But it got beyond a joke, and a few prisoners and prison officers whispered in his ear to straighten himself up and act normal or the staff would turn a blind eye while the inmates kicked a new arsehole into him. He did indeed straighten himself up and went from a bad imitation of Bette Davis to a bad imitation of Humphrey Bogart. And instead of mincing about the jail like Grace Kelly he started marching about the jail like the little drummer boy and acting as butch as he could.

Instead of singing old Shirley Bassey numbers, he started singing American military songs: ‘Silver wings upon our chest, we are men, American’s best, flying high to save the day where the men of the green beret.’ Ha ha.

It was like a cross between John Wayne and Liberace.

He never lost his slightly gay manner but the jail soon knocked him into shape and he became just another screw and the novelty of the gay prison officer was soon forgotten. He was still working in the prison system in 1991 when I last saw him. In fact, he is not a bad bloke at all and proved himself a bloody good prison officer – honest, reliable and good in a trouble situation. He ended up becoming liked by his fellow officers and the inmates, and the comedy that surrounded his early days at the prison was soon forgotten. He still gets the odd bit of trouble over it now and again, but poof or no poof, he turned out to be not a bad fellow at all.

OF late I have been gripped with a fear that my old Dad will die while I am in jail, hence the sentimental memories. It is very hard for me to recall any past adventures with my old Dad that are not an out and out comedy.

When I was a little kid growing up we always kept chooks in the backyard, like every second household in the street in Thomastown did. Chooks and homing pigeons were the big go, then. Thomastown back in the 1960s was a working class suburb which still had a bit of a rural feel to it.

Every now and again my mother would decide to have roast chook for Sunday dinner – or her version of it, anyway – and my dad would instruct me to catch one of the chooks. This entailed a race around the backyard for 20 minutes with me running for my life after a squawking flapping fowl, with my dad sitting on the back steps yelling encouragement to me.

‘Go on son, you’ve got him cornered. Take a running dive for him, boy.’ It was like the Coyote and Road Runner whenever I got near the chook … ‘beep beep’ and off it went.

Naturally, my dad thought this was the height of good humor. In the end I would catch the panic-stricken poultry and carry it over to Dad. He would take it and over we would got to the woodpile, where the chopping block was, and Dad would grab the tomahawk.

I would squeal with delight. ‘Can I kill him, Dad? Please? Go on, can I kill him please?’

‘Okay son. I’ll hold him and you chop his head off.’ And Dad would hold the chook down on the chopping block and I would heft up the tomahawk and Dad would say, ‘Across the neck, son, a good clean swing. Go on, and don’t hit me with the axe.’

I would swing down hard and ‘whop’, off came the chook’s head and Dad would hold the flapping, headless fowl upright and put him on the ground for the final show, the best part of all.

The chook would take off at a flat rate and run around the yard with blood spurting out of its neck. This was sheer magic to me. A headless chook with blood spurting out of its neck running flat out was one of the highlights of my childhood years. It would hit the fence and fall over and somehow get to its feet and take off again. This could go on for a full minute or two, and I was always disappointed to see the chook at last fall over and give up the ghost.

But I can tell you something, those chooks had more dash than a few drug dealers I know. Most of them would keel over as soon as you showed them the axe. Ha ha.

Watching a chook with no head doing the four minute mile was one thing, but after the show came the hard work. Dad would get a bucket of boiling water and toss the headless chook into the bucket and we would both sit and talk of magic things, like the time Dad reckoned he killed a Japanese soldier by making him eat a plate of my mother’s roast chicken.

I would look at him and say, ‘Are you telling me the truth, Dad?’

‘No son, but shut up and listen when ya old man’s talking.’

‘Yes, Dad.’

Dad would delight me with such nonsense until the chook in the bucket of boiling water was ready, then the very worst job came. I had to sit on the back steps with the chook in the bucket between my legs and pluck the feathers out.

It was a horrible job, but I would pluck away with my dad watching my every move. After it was plucked Mum would take it and cook it. ‘We should have killed a few more,’ I would always say. I thought one would never be enough. That is, until I tasted it. The magnificent roast chicken with all the trimmings that I imagined always ended up being boiled and turned into a chook stew.

After lunch while Mum and my sister, Debbie, washed the dishes Dad would take me up the shop for an icecream and say to me, ‘A bit of icecream will get the taste of that poor bloody chook out of our mouths, son. There is no doubt about your mother; she works magic with the pots and pans.’

I knew the answer to that one. ‘Yeah,’ I’d say, ‘black magic, hey Dad?’ And Dad would clip me over the head and tell me not to speak ill of my mother’s efforts at cooking. But he didn’t clip me very hard.

I never liked eating the chooks, but killing the buggers was wonderful fun and one of the great joys of my childhood days. Ah, my old Dad. I love him.

Kids today are bloody spoilt in my opinion. I’ve been watching a TV documentary on the kids of today and how tough it is for them at school. As far as book learning is concerned I fully agree, but in my day corporal punishment was in vogue and they were tough days, believe me. Half the teachers we had then would be certified if they were still about. I think I started school in 1959 or 1960, and on the first day I got six across the backs of my legs as a little welcome aboard message.

The little kids and all the girls got the cuts across the backs of their legs. The older boys got it across the hands. All the boys loved to watch the girls get the strap across the backs of their legs.

I realise now that some teachers were sadists, and strapping the girls was a great favorite of one teacher. I remember at least once a day he would pull the school fat girl, Bung Hole Judy, out for eating something in class and flog her soundly with a long wooden ruler across the back of her chubby legs.

She wasn’t a bad chick, the old Bung Hole. Once, she copped the cuts across the backs of the legs for three days running in front of the whole school at morning assembly, all because she would not tell who broke the headmaster’s window. And you don’t have to be told, it was me and another kid called Scrapper Scully who broke the window in a rock tossing contest.

Bung Hole Judy had the bad luck to be standing there working her way through a bag of chips and watching us toss yonnies at the headmaster’s window. Both our stones hit the window at the same time and me and Scrapper ran like hell, leaving Bung Hole Judy standing, still chewing. The headmaster looked out the window and there was poor Judy looking guilty. ‘Did you see who did that?’ he yelled.

‘Yes,’ said Judy.

‘Who was it?’ asked the headmaster.

‘I can’t tell,’ said Judy. She stuck rock solid for three days until I owned up and stepped out in assembly on the fourth day. I got six of the best on each hand every day for a week in front of the whole school and won the fair heart of every fat girl in the district for my heroic conduct.

Old Bung Hole had more courage and dash than most crims I know. She would not give me up, which is more than can be said for most so-called gangsters who start to cry and blubber whenever they get near a police station.

I wonder whatever happened to Judy. She’s probably a stunner now. Mornington State School, a great place. If you’re out there, Judy, let me know.

At Thomastown State School in grade two I was given six of the best on each hand and made to stand under the school flagpole for an hour in the rain because I did not know the name of Smokey Dawson’s horse.

On another occasion at a school in Preston, standing up in front of the class in a spelling contest, I was unable to spell the name of Chips Rafferty and was made to stand under the school bell for the remainder of the day in the middle of winter and given the strap on each hand before let-out, so as to warm my hands, according to the teacher. How thoughtful of him.

These days it is all rap dancing and basketball. Shit, the only people to play basketball in the ’60s were poofs and schoolgirls. Boys played footy and cricket. Cricket, the game that made the British Empire great and helped to civilise half the bloody world. Speaking of which, I was flogged silly at Lalor High School for telling a sports master that he could jam his Don Bradman special edition, personally signed cricket bat straight up his clacker. Personally, I think he may have done such things in the privacy of his own bedroom anyway, so I don’t know why he was so outraged by my suggestion. But he was. My hands were blue from the bruising of the six of the best on each hand for a week over that lot.

We had to wear full uniforms and do the old ‘yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir’ routine or we paid for it with our blood, so to speak. These days it’s all Reebok runners, back to front baseball caps, and rap dancing at lunchtime.

The only sport played now is basketball and spot-the-Aussie. At least we were carefree in my day with the classic Aussie couldn’t give a shit attitude. It may have been physically harder but I think it was a bit more relaxed. Today’s kids are all yuppie computerised nervous wrecks with drug habits, and a poor sad lot they are too.

WELL, I’ve just finished spit polishing my Blundstone lace-up boots to a truly mirror shine. I used to spit-polish my old Dad’s army boots when I was a little boy. I’d melt the black Nugget by holding a match under the tin with a small amount of Nugget in it, then dip my polishing rag into the melted Nugget and apply it liberally to the boot. Then I’d polish away. When the boots shone I’d then spit on them and go over them with a dry towel.

As I’ve mentioned, my old Dad was a very violent man towards me as a kid but I loved him, and as I grew older I decided to remember only the good in him and try to forget about the violence as much as possible. He was very loving and kind towards me a lot of the time, and I guess he was no more violent towards me than other fathers of that day and age. I remember once after I didn’t polish his boots properly he gave me a terrible flogging and I went out onto the back steps and pissed in both his army boots with tears steaming down my face. My little sister, Debbie, saw me and ran and told on me: ‘Mummy, Mark is widdling in daddy’s army boots.’ I never was liked by my little ‘give up’ of a sister. Dad came out and gave me a second hiding.

When I’d done something really bad as a kid my mum or dad would say, ‘Mark, did you do that?’ and I’d say, ‘No, Errey did it.’

‘Who’s Errey?’ my mum or dad would ask, and I’d say, ‘He’s the bloke who comes over to our place and does all the bad stuff.’

‘Yes,’ said my dad, ‘well, when Errey comes back give him this from me,’ and smash, crash, bash, I’d cop it.

Dr Spock my old man wasn’t.

Of course Errey was my little boy imaginary mate and whenever I got caught doing the things all young boys did as part of growing up, such as punching holes in the next-door neighbor’s car roof with a hammer and a screwdriver, or setting fire to the chook shed, or lighting fires in general, setting my little sister’s dolls on fire, putting fire crackers down the open petrol tanks of parked cars and pissing in my dad’s boots, it was always Errey’s fault.

Errey did it. No-one ever believed me but as a little boy it sounded like a bloody good story to me. Maybe I should have blamed Errey when I was in many and varied police stations not answering questions over a number of different crimes.

‘Who set fire to the chook shed?’

‘Errey did it.’

‘Who’s Errey?’ Silly question. He’s the bloke who comes over here and does all that sort of stuff. No-one ever believed me.

Once when I got caught trying to burn down St Barnabas’ Church my dad nearly killed me after putting out the fire, then when I protested that ‘Errey did it’ he said, ‘Well, how come the matches were in your pocket?’ and I said, ‘Errey gave them to me for me to mind,’ and Dad laughed and said, ‘You’re a nut case, son, but at least you stick to your story.’ And boy did I stick to it. It got to the point that when I was caught setting fire to the rubbish bins at school and the teachers would scream, ‘Who did that?’ the other kids would yell, ‘Errey did it.’

‘Who’s Errey?’ they would ask. ‘He’s Chopper’s mate,’ and I’d get six of the best on each hand for my refusal to inform on Errey and give his last name and address. Ha ha.

Then when my mum and dad got called in and asked if they knew of my friend Errey, my dad would cover for me claiming that yes, he knew of Errey but didn’t know his parents or last name. Then kick me all the way home. Ha ha. Ahhh childhood, what fun it all was.