For me, being comfortable with myself is not only about how I look. It’s also about living honestly as who I am, even if that’s different from everyone else around me. And it’s about allowing myself to change and discover new versions of me: the fat me, the thin me, the Australian me, the London me, the hairdresser me. If I’ve pissed someone off, it’s only because I’m standing up for myself and my definition of “normal.” And if people have a problem with my appearance, my beliefs, or my very being, they can fuck off. Either take me how I am or forget it, because I’m going to continue to march to my own drum, whatever that may be.
Following Your Own Personal Style
• The problem with me giving “pointers” about following your own personal sense of style is that it’s YOUR sense of style. And that is the pointer. You can read everything from French Vogue to celebrity rags for the latest hot trends to wear. But you need to find ways to make those looks your own. They should reflect what’s inside of you—your passions, your energy, and your taste. Not everyone looks like Agyness Deyn or Lauren Conrad and you don’t need to look like them to be stylish. In fact, trying to fit into those unattainable molds is the biggest mistake you can make. So look in a real mirror and ask yourself what you like, what makes you feel good about yourself, and what makes you happy. When you answer those questions, you have found your own personal sense of style. For me, the answer was simple: black.
Chapter 3
The Mob and My Moral Compass
I HAVE BIG BALLS. I got them from my mum. In fact, my dad was quite the pussy. The truth is, having big balls is about standing up for what you believe in, and you don’t always know what you believe in until you are faced with several directions. That’s when you form your moral compass.
During my childhood, Abe Saffron was Australia’s biggest mobster, and he was involved in everything from drugs, gambling, bootleg liquor, arson, and stolen goods to bribery, blackmail, extortion, prostitution, the suspicious disappearance of a moral crusader . . . and my parents’ strip clubs. Not exactly the right direction for a kid, but Mum and Dad found themselves in business with the man.
Nicknamed “Mr. Sin” and “the Boss of the Cross” in reference to the brothels, bars, strip joints, and various other operations that he ran in the Kings Cross red-light district of Sydney, Abe had so many police and politicians on the payroll that, over the course of sixty years, his only major conviction was for tax evasion. He was Australia’s very own Al Capone, and my parents first made his acquaintance when they lived in Sydney before I was born. That’s where a lot of the drag clubs were, and among the most prominent was Abe’s establishment Les Girls, located at the corner of Darlinghurst Road and Roslyn Street, in the heart of the Cross. The star attraction there was Carlotta, a transsexual showgirl who became one of the inspirations for the movie Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, and my parents owned a nearby coffee shop where Carlotta and a lot of the other strippers would change into their costumes.
Back then the law allowed the cops to arrest anyone who was walking around in drag, so the performers from Les Girls and other local clubs would visit my parents’ coffee shop to get dressed, do their makeup, and style their wigs before rushing around the corner to go onstage. Mum and Dad were fine with that. Because all of these girls worked for Abe in the clubs, he walked into the coffee shop one day, and that was that—my parents were in business with a mobster. But that wasn’t really that, was it? I mean, how many six-year-olds can say, “Mummy and Daddy work with a mobster.” Not that I really knew what that meant. To me, he was just “Uncle Abe.”
A short, fairly nondescript man, Abe Saffron, to me, looked more like somebody’s grandfather than a leading member of what has been jokingly referred to as the “Kosher Nostra.” Abe was old-school. Smartly dressed without being flashy, he had little interest in calling attention to himself unless someone wasn’t paying attention to his demands. Although I do remember his diamond pinky ring because most of the time he’d just walk around with his head slightly bowed, rubbing his hands together as if he was deep in thought . . . or getting ready for action. And by “action,” I don’t mean anything good.
Quiet-spoken, he had an air of equally understated authority that suggested you’d better not mess with him, and even at a tender age I knew what he did and who his top boys were. Still, Abe was extremely kind to me on the four or five occasions that we met, including the time when a guy who’d crossed him was brought into the small office at the back of Jeremiah’s kitchen, where I had a makeshift bed. I often slept in there when I was at the club during a late show, and on this particular night I saw Abe give one of his boys the order to break the guy’s hand.
The burly henchman picked up a slab of wood with protruding nails—normally used to post the kitchen dockets—and was about to slam it through the hysterical victim’s palm when Abe spotted me and calmly remarked, “Not in front of Tabatha. Let’s take care of this in another room.” Turning to me, he then said, “Hi, how are you?” and engaged me in a very pleasant conversation while the three of them—one not so willingly—relocated to a different part of the club and resumed business. Abe could be very thoughtful . . . But the interesting thing is, at that time I was never afraid of him. He was always kind and respectful toward me—that was part of his moral code. I was a kid, and you don’t fuck with a kid.
Since he didn’t show up at the clubs all that often, his visits were always an event and everyone would be on their best behavior. People were petrified of him, including my father, who would get incredibly nervous and rush around shouting “Abe’s coming!” while making sure everything was being done properly. As I’ve said, Dad was a big pussy. He had no balls. In fact, the only time he had any sort of strength to him was when he drank and would get into fights to prove what a big man he was. We found him on the doorstep more than once covered in blood after a brawl at a local pub. Without the alcohol, he would get truly tweaked whenever Abe was on his way. My mum, on the other hand, had no fear of Abe whatsoever and no problem standing up to the man. Despite sometimes playing the old-fashioned role of housewife, making our dinner, laying out Dad’s clothes, and generally pandering to his needs, she was one tough cookie and she always took care of things.
One night, after I’d slept on my makeshift bed at Jeremiah’s, we returned home to discover we had been robbed and that the entire house was emptied out; the sofa, the beds, everything . . . except my bedroom. That was the one room where everything was perfectly intact. The thieves had decided not to fuck with a kid. Naturally, my parents called the police and filed an insurance claim. Then, about three weeks later, Mum received a call from Abe, telling her that in exchange for half the insurance money, she could pick up all of our furniture at the pier in Port Adelaide. “Go fuck yourself!” she responded. “I’m not getting involved!”
That’s how strong Mum could be in the face of real danger. Abe was testing her to see if she’d squeal on him, and Dad was his usual terrified self, saying, “Take the stuff back. Don’t annoy them.” But Mum wouldn’t budge. “Fuck ’em,” I remember her saying. “They can dump everything in the Port River. I don’t care, no one will find it.” She didn’t want any part of Abe’s scam, but she had also proven her loyalty to him. Mum was very loyal, but she also didn’t have a dishonest bone in her body. Well aware of who she was doing business with, Mum never adopted any of Abe’s unsavory practices, and she had rules and values that she’d never betray because she had her own moral compass.
When any of Abe’s “hot” merchandise found its way into the clubs, Mum told him to remove it. The cops were always buzzing around and she wasn’t about to take the fall for him. “Get your bloody stuff out of here!” she would scream, and she’d stand firm even when he’d try to sway her in his calm and collected way. If Dad was there, he wouldn’t say a word. Instead, he’d run and hide somewhere. Probably looking for a drink. Pussy! He knew Mum would handle things, and so did I. Standing five feet ten inches and boasting a powerful, au
thoritative voice, she could be very intimidating, and she backed this up with an iron will and strong self-confidence.
Mum hated weakness; she had no tolerance for it, even with regard to my father. What’s more, she was incredibly hardworking. She couldn’t stand laziness, and letting others take care of the business just wasn’t an option. Then again, she wasn’t about to let anyone bully her, and I don’t like to be bullied either. I admired her as a kid, and I inherited my toughness from my mum . . . as well as her propensity for swearing like a truck driver to get her point across—whatever works!
But despite the swearing, Mum never had a drink, she hated all forms of drugs, and she’d never do anything that exploited children. Again, that was her moral compass. Say or think whatever you like about Mum and the environment in which she raised me, but amid all the craziness there was her compass, and I was raised to develop my own moral code, too. Let’s face it, lots of kids are raised under screwed-up circumstances and are never taught to form a moral compass of their own. The well-to-do kids from my private school came from broken homes with alcoholics and other unhappy people as well. They just didn’t admit to it and they certainly didn’t do anything about it because they were so afraid of being judged for their flaws that they tried to hide themselves from sight rather than develop themselves. Even wholesome family entertainment like Bambi spun me for more of a loop than Abe Saffron’s goon breaking someone’s hand. I mean, what is the message of death and carnage in that “kids” cartoon? Bambi and his mother go off in search of grass to eat and his mother gets shot and killed. Then, when Bambi tries to mate, he has to fight off a violent suitor and kill him to get the doe-fawn. And finally, saving his love from a fire, Bambi is shot and narrowly escapes with his father. When my mum took me to the drive-in to see the film, I bawled like a baby, and her response was “What kind of violent fucking bullshit is this?” I told you Mum likes to swear.
While Abe Saffron was undoubtedly a debauched character in many ways, he showed me that he could also be very kind. Yes, there were the criminal activities and thuggish behavior, but the manner in which he treated me showed that he, too, had values that he wouldn’t breach. And although I’m in no way condoning the conduct that once led Senator Don Chipp to stand up in Australia’s Federal Parliament and describe Abe as “one of the most notorious, despicable human beings—if one can use that term loosely—living in this country,” I do think he lived by a code. If someone crossed him, his code allowed him to seek retribution but only in line with that code.
I’m not saying I agree with the mobster mentality. But as all good Martin Scorsese movies demonstrate, even the Mob maintains a code of conduct, and when you breach it, those guys let you know it in no uncertain terms. Similarly, when you breach my moral code, I will let you know it in no uncertain terms. No, I don’t whack people, but I am very honest and I’m very strong in holding to my beliefs. I have big balls. Just like my mother.
The criteria that people use to judge others are often ridiculous—“She’s a stripper, so she’s a bad person.” Just because someone’s a go-go dancer doesn’t mean she’s devoid of a moral compass, and you don’t have to be a teetotaling Bible-thumper to have strong beliefs. Examples of a moral compass can come from many places—even Abe Saffron. And a good moral compass doesn’t need to condemn other people for who they are.
From Mum I learned not only to stand up for myself, but also to stand up for my convictions. That’s why, in the face of naysayers, I’ve never backed down. If I believe in something, I’ll follow it through to the end, whether this entails confronting someone or simply not giving up. It’s not always about me getting in somebody’s face; it’s also about sticking to my guns when someone decides he or she is right and I am wrong. It’s just like when the kids in school judged me for being fat or when Ronno in Bambi tries to force Faline to go with him or when any other bully tries to mess with the underdog—I become a pit bull with a bone. I can’t let go. I’ll always root for the underdog.
People often won’t do that because they don’t like confrontation or they’re afraid they will be labeled a bitch. No, that’s just standing up for yourself. Of course, doing this can sometimes land you in even deeper shit, but I don’t think about that at the time if I believe in something strongly enough. I do actually have a three-second rule—when I want to make a point, I’ve got to think for three seconds before I let it out. That way, in the heat of the moment I won’t say something that I’ll totally regret. A three-second rule is a good way to remain within the boundaries of your own moral compass. Check yourself by asking, “Is that what I really mean, what I really want, what I really believe in?” If the answers are yes, then say it and don’t back down.
I’m not a pussy when it comes to saying what I think. I’m comfortable looking at situations from other people’s points of view because I want to understand where they are coming from and I’m confident in my own point of view. People who refuse to empathize are simply insecure and feel vulnerable when faced with the possibility that the other person is actually right. Again, if you have a strong moral compass, this is never an issue. You can be wrong and still be a good person—it’s okay to be wrong. And admitting it is a sign of strength.
By no stretch of the imagination am I right all of the time, and I’m totally open to learning from how other people do things. But when I truly believe in something, it’s not about believing I’m right; I just know this is the right thing for me and my moral code, and that if I go with someone else’s point of view or demands, it’s not going to work for me. In that sort of situation, I don’t care if you offer me money—there have been big deals that I’ve turned down because they haven’t felt comfortable to me. They’re against what I believe. Like my mother, I’m not interested in exploiting kids or taking advantage of women in need. I’ll stand by what I believe in and wait for the right reward.
So what if standing up for myself and what I believe in means I’ll be perceived as a bitch? I’ve already reclaimed that word according to my own moral compass: bravery, integrity, tenacity, creativity, and honesty. In fact, come to think of it, being a bitch IS my moral compass. And following it ensures that I won’t do anything that makes me feel like a fraud and a phony. That way, if people do think I’m a bitch, then I’m a bitch who sleeps really well at night. And this book is about helping you to sleep well, too.
The Three-Second Rule
• Heat-of-the-moment words can often burn you in the end. So I have a three-second rule, which is quite simple and can be applied in any situation. I’ve been there, trust me. Someone pisses you off or crosses you in some way and you immediately have the perfect comeback or tell-off. But you need to count to three before you say it. Just to check yourself and make sure what you want to say is what you really want to say. I think of it like having a cop in my head so I can police myself and know when not to say certain things. Those three seconds may feel like a lifetime when you’re in the moment, but they give you just enough time to process what you are saying and whether you should say it. So you can always say what you mean and mean what you say—no apologies later and no unintended consequences. Counting to three has saved me from major escalations with surly traffic cops and ridiculous salon owners alike. It’s as easy as counting one, two, three.
Chapter 4
I Will Survive
MY FATHER WAS A bit of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Or rather, a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Drunk. And when he was drinking you didn’t want any part of his world, which was difficult because while Mum was busy running the clubs, it was Dad who took me swimming, and bought me ice cream, and generally took care of me. I could play with him, talk with him, ask for his help, and even cry on his shoulder . . . so long as he wasn’t sloshed.
He’d frequently have bouts of intense drinking. Sometimes he’d go on benders that would last for several days, and I could immediately tell when trouble was brewing. More diminutive in stature than my mother, he was usually a very personable, jovial, i
mpeccably dressed guy. He’d take a change of clothes to work in case it was hot, and then, when he returned home, slip out of his perfectly crisp, tailored shirt, have a shower, and put on a smoking jacket and cravat. Weird but true. He cared about how he looked and how he presented himself, but that persona would disappear after one beer too many or whatever the drink of choice might have been. And in a flash you’d realize he wasn’t who you thought he was.
His posture would change, the look on his face would change, the tone of his voice would change—everything would change as his impeccable stance began to crumble and it became clear how trashed he really was. The look in his eyes would actually transition from that of an affable person who liked a good conversation to that of someone who was evil, and although he never hit Mum or me, he could be pretty violent. For example, he set a women’s hair on fire at a pub once. I don’t mean, “Oops, my lighter slipped, I’m so sorry.” I mean, “Fuck you!” and he sent her up in flames on purpose. On another occasion, he hit a fellow pub goer in the face with a mug. These were the Mr. Hyde moments.
My father would spin on a dime. As soon as a beer or Scotch tipped him over the edge, he’d go off his head and smash the house, putting his fist through walls and doors or throwing furniture out the window. Mum didn’t take crap from anyone, but she was scared when Dad was drunk. She left her first husband, my brothers’ dad, after he had been physically violent toward her, and she never really knew what Dad might do when he was completely shit-faced. If we were lucky, he’d pass out. That was the best-case scenario. The worst was that he’d just lose his mind, and this could be over virtually nothing. But while she didn’t want to antagonize him if he went into one of his booze-fueled rants, she also didn’t cower. When he screamed, she’d hold her ground and fire straight back. And that made for what one might call a volatile home life.
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