Still Riding on the Storm

by Robert G. Barrett

  Whatever. He’s fantastic in this. One thing however. Don’t see it if you don’t like the #@%*! word. At times almost every second #@%*! word is the #@%*! word. Dennis Leary even tells his mother to ‘shut the #@%*! up’ at one stage. But who gives a #@%*! All my #@%*! books are full of the #@%*! word. But just don’t say I didn’t #@%*! warn you. All right? All up, a very enjoyable movie. Very witty, very funny and at $15.00 for two on Tuesday night special, a #@%*! bargain. As I drove Madam Mudcrab home she thanked me for a wonderful evening and seemed to ooze a little closer to me. Maybe it was the speed, but Dolores definitely had that look in her eye when we pulled up and she invited me in for a cup of coffee and a Tim-Tam. Just my luck. My one chance for a bit of the other and I crack it for Sydney Greenstreet in drag. I thought if I went inside with Dolores I might disappear and never be found again. So I declined the offer. Though I said I’d give her a ring. But that was a lie. In fact. Va-ver-va-va-ver! That’s all f… f… now folks.

  This week Madam Zelda said she had something different for me. A daytime rendezvous with a Cambodian girl from Penrith who was staying at her sister’s place near Moore Park. So out I went to meet Phuoc. Phuoc was around thirty, long black hair, dark eyes, a nice white smile, wearing jeans and a matching denim jacket; much like myself. We piled into the Holden and off we went with me trying to be pleasant and make small talk. Hello Phuoc, how’s things, how’s life in Penrith, what sort of work do you do, what bands do you like etc? You know. The usual waffle blokes have to grind out trying to be pleasant and not come across as too big a boofhead. Yes, Phuoc had lived at Pemriff for over free years and followed the Pemriff Pamfers. She lived in Perf when she first came to Australia, then Norf Queensland near the Aferton Tablelands then Souf Sydney before moving to Pemriff to live with her bruvver who was an Ear, Nose and Froat Specialist. Phuoc was a fisioferapist. Her favourite singers were Garf Brooks, George Furragood and The Destroyers and Darryl Brafwewaite. At first Phuoc’s Cambodian accent threw me off. Then I realised Phuoc was talking Pemriff speak. How they talk out around Penrith. So if this week’s column slips into Pemriff speak now and again, I’m sorry. But that’s just the way it turned out as we were driving fru Sydney and Phuoc was finkin’ about fings to tell me or feorize on. Seeing as it was such a nice day out wif no funderstorrns around, I fort, instead of taking Phuoc to the feerter, I’d take her down to Circular Quay for a bit of Australian culture. Rock ’n’ roll day at The Rocks. A bop-bop-a-lubal-lop-a-lop-boom-bam. Or. Thank you very very much, you’ve been a mahty fahn audience.

  I left the car at Wolloomooloo and we walked past the art gallery and fru the Domain. Having left Dogpatch fairly early to avoid the traffic I’d missed out on breakfast so by the time I got to The Rocks I was that hungry I would have eaten a greyhound and chased the mechanical hare. Subsequently I needed something a bit heartier than Chinese food; even if Phuoc was Cambodian. We slipped into the Lowenbrau Keller on Argyle. It was very nice. Smiling waitresses with German accents, blue or red check table cloths, lots of room, soft German music in the background. We sat out the front in a glass domed area with glass walls to watch the punters and consulted the menu. I ended up ordering goulash soup, a mixed salad and cream schnitzel with cream potato. Phuoc went for calamari, a Caesar salad and chicken schnitzel. The steins of cold beer going past our table looked very inviting, but I ordered two glasses of Mount Franklin mineral water. Sorry, if I’ve upset any horses hoofs reading this, but I happen to like Tasmanian mineral water; it’s the best around. The restaurant was quite busy, but it wasn’t long before our entrees arrived. My soup was tops. Rich, full of tomato and paprika with lumps of beef and capsicum and was made even better with two beautiful, fresh, wholegrain rolls dusted with flour. Phuoc’s calamari was delightful; tender, crisp and not over fried or soaked with oil. About perfect. After that we watched the poor waitresses earning their Sunday penalty rates and the punters going by before the mains arrived. Again my cream schnitzel was tops. Tender veal with this grouse mushroom sauce and a big pile of fluffy mashed potato. I had a taste of Phuoc’s chicken schnitzel and it was equally as tops. I don’t know whether that’s the correct description. But what do you want in this food column. Good grammar or good taste? My mixed salad had everything in it and the dressing was fine. The Caesar was as good as any I’d had; nice little anchovies, plenty of egg dressing and crispy, yummy croutons. I would have liked some more but for a fairly little girl Phuoc was ripping in like she had a match coming up with Brutas Beefcake in the WWF that night. We didn’t bother with coffee or sweets preferring to check out some rock ’n’ roll rather than linger at the table, so I paid the freight and we split. All up, it was around $64.00. Fairly reasonable I thought for all we had and seeing as the fraulein served us with a smile I slung her five bucks. Just tell them ‘Diamond Bob Barrett’s’ in town frowin’ money everywhere. Feeling much better now we ventured out for an afternoon of rock, twist, jump and jive.

  The first band we came across was The Memphis Outlaws, all done up in their red and gold lurex tuxedos, belting out old rock ’n’ roll and rockabilly favourites. They were pretty good and there was a swarm of punters boogieing and jiving, turning the street into a dance floor. I was immediately gripped with pangs of nostalgia, reminding me of callow, pimply faced youth when I used to hit the Paddington Town Hall and boogie to Dig Richards and The R-Jays, Johnny O’Keefe, Col Joye, Lonnie Lee and the Lee Men. For a moment there I thought I felt a few, giant zits start to form on my chin. I even ran my hand over my head expecting my hair to thicken up again. But no. I still part it in a circle.

  The Outlaws finished so Phuoc and I strolled around while we waited for the next band. Apart from the bands, there was plenty of other things at The Rocks to keep us amused. Old Holdens and Cadillacs restored to almost pristine condition. Stalls where you can buy everything from clasp knives to ceramic cats, heraldic coats of arms to bootleg CDs. There’s plenty of pubs and coffee shops, food and drink stalls and if like me you just like to watch the passing parade, there’s no shortage of that either. The next band up was The Swinging Sixties with David Cazalet the Elvis Impersonator — yeah, up there Cazalet, as they say in Melbourne. The sixties were good and so was Cazalet, except he was a bit ballad happy. But he slipped into a few boppers and this time there was a cleared-off dance area which was taken over by The Footloose Dance Studios and another team called Rock Back the Clock. The band slipped into ‘Jailhouse Rock’ and Phuoc noticed my left leg twitching and gyrating a la Elvis, so she dragged me up for a couple of dances, even commenting on some of my fancy foot work. My pride couldn’t tell her that it wasn’t fancy footwork. My knee support had slipped from where I’d had my afrascrope and I was in bloody agony. That and my facial expressions must have looked good though. After a while the shadows grew longer and the band pulled the pin because they were doing another gig at the Woolloomooloo Hotel so we decided to split as well. We walked (limped) down to get a cab when Phuoc suggested we get a water taxi. It seemed like a good idea, so we piled into one at Circular Quay and I asked the bloke could he drop us off at the Woolloomooloo Hotel. Yeah mate, no worries mate, there’s a wharf right opposite the pub mate. The water taxis are okay. It’s a bit like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel and every time they bang into a swell you think the boat’s been hit by an anti-tank rocket. We get to The Loo and start looking for a wharf. There was a bloke fishing off some rocks all covered in scratches with his clothes ripped so we asked him where the wharf was? Sorry mate. There’s no wharf. He’d crawled over a barbwire fence to get there. Great. So the driver nosed the boat up against a wall near the Domain baths and we clambered off. At least Phuoc did. I was wallowing around like some 200kg mud crab till Phuoc helped me up. Apart from the embarrassment it cost me $20. Then I had to limp another kilometre.

  Still, it wasn’t too bad a day. I wouldn’t have minded just the one at the Woolloomooloo Hotel, but Phuoc had to shoot fru back to Pemriff to see her bruvver. Fair enough. I had to head back t
o Dogpatch full frottle and fump out my column before the frombosis in my knee got worse. I dropped Phuoc off at Moore Park. See you later alligator. Ain’t it the troof roof.

  Despite almost crippling myself at The Rocks, I had a good time with Phuoc and was looking forward to writing my next column when I rang the Zanzibar Dating Agency. Though I always get this funny feeling when Madam Zelda says she’s got something special for me this week. However, I was still in a good frame of mind when I drove down to Elizabeth Bay to meet Nazaldreine Skringe. Nazaldreine had a luminous orange crew cut, a stud in her nose, wore black overalls, a black skivvy, black leather jacket and ten hole Doc Martens. She worked in a government department and was a chairperson for SHREW. Singular, Humour Retarded Emancipated Women. Nazaldreine was in an advanced state of feminism and possibly a post graduate lesbian. I told her I was a real estate agent and lived in the Blue Mountains. As soon as Nazaldreine saw me her face looked like Charles Bronson sucking a lemon while a bus ran over his foot and I had this feeling it wasn’t going to be a fun night. But I was prepared to do my best for the sake of the column and I need the money. Then I had to let my blatant male chauvinism spoil things.

  I could have waited, but no. I had to be a typical Aussie mug completely lacking in tact. Being a bit old fashioned I went to open the car door for her. Nazaldreine glared daggers at me and quite rightfully abused me. She didn’t need my condescending, pseudo macho assistance which was nothing more than a cloak for my clandestine male dominance. She could open her own car door and there was plenty of other things she and her sisters at SHREW could do quite well without males either.

  Knowing I was right out of line and had made a complete fool of myself I immediately apologised. I was told I could stick my apologies too. She didn’t need my gratuitous tropological rhetoric and quasi, diaphonous palliation.

  And don’t compromise her either. Being tautologically challenged and a bit of a dill I again repeated once more I was sorry, We’ll start over.

  ‘Stay there Nazaldreine, I’ll open the door from the inside.’ So I walked around, got in the car, put my seat belt on, started the motor and drove off. The last I saw of Nazaldrip was the glow of her hair and the glint of her nose stud disappearing in the rear vision mirror. Possibly, being a typical male, I felt threatened and couldn’t handle it. But I’d just hit town from Dogpatch and I wasn’t quite ready for the catch 22 rat race blues straight up. At least I put her out of her misery early.

  However, blowing it with the young lady from SHREW didn’t necessarily mean I was to have a dud night. This magazine has more clout than I’d imagined. Evidently I am now considered a gourmet food critic around town. I’m getting a sort of clout following. Subsequently, Nine to Five got an invitation from the Tourism Authority of Thailand for me to attend a night of Thai cooking at the Sydney Fish Marketing Authority Seafood School in the Sydney Fish Markets at Pyrmont.

  Can you imagine how fresh the seafood would be? Pyrmont wasn’t far from Elizabeth Bay and despite the afternoon gridlock I was there and up the stairs before I knew it.

  I was met by a delightful young lady with reddish blonde hair who was the host. She thanked me for coming. It was my pleasure Colleen. Would I like a drink? There was beer, Black Silk Australian Riesling etc. Normally I abstain. But after getting abused earlier I needed something.

  I settled for an iced Carlton Cold. I sipped it while Colleen introduced me to some people, hoping I could meet some blokes and get into some male bonding. But they were all women.

  By the time all the guests arrived I took a quick head count. Over 50 women, me and five other blokes. And they were attached. And I’m talking power women here. From big travel agencies, airlines, hotels, DB pin-striped suits, black dresses, black stockings, smart uniforms, more black stockings. Mobile phones, lap tops, CD-ROM digital scanner Swiss watches. Achievers. I’d managed to achieve not having to wash pots in kitchens for the time being, so I just stood there sipping my beer trying to gather courage if I should feel too threatened and before long we all filed into the Seafood School. Tiered up to take 50 easy, I sat in front, where I sipped a bowl of Tom Yam Goong, hot sour prawn soup.

  It was absolutely beautiful. As I sipped it I asked Colleen next to me what the deal was. We were going to get taught how to prepare some Thai dishes, cook them then eat them. If it turned out half as good as the soup I’d be happy. The two teachers got behind the bench in front, Carol and Joe.

  Carol learnt her cooking mainly in Malaysia and was a chef. Joe was a home economist and at times played comedy relief to Carol. They killed ’em. We were cracking up. Anyway after the lesson and maybe a bit of guidance we were all going to cook Gaeng Khiaw Waan Goong, green curry with prawns. Pla Mueik Yaad Sai, stuffed and steamed squid. Tord Man Pla, Thai fish cakes. Yam Polamai, prawn and fruit salad. Carol and Joe figured they’d drummed as much into our heads as was possible, so we were told to form teams of 7 or 8. Then we were led into a large kitchen with benches and sinks with electric woks everywhere. Our team got to cook green curry with prawns.

  All the ingredients were there, you’d been shown how. Go for it. Now with seven gushing, confused women around me, there wouldn’t be a better time to come on a bit Joe Cool. Let the babes know what a funky dude I was. I was just about to give the one next to me my writer’s profile, when the one next to her remarked that I used to be a butcher? Like a mug I nodded my head. So I was handed a knife and while the girls got all the coconut milk, oil, spices etc together, I got to peel and cut the shizen chutes out of 5kgs of fresh prawns. Or de-vein them as the one that handed me the knife said. They’re good. How early do you have to get up to beat them? Fair dinkum.

  Anyway, I did my part as the old tradesman came out in me. I even gave a hand with the stirring and helped wash and dry. That was also part of the deal. You didn’t leave any mess. All the other benches were ready with what they’d cooked, we trooped into a banquet room, laid our dishes out then sat down. There was a bit of light talk then it was go for your life and get into it.

  And I will state here and now, our table kicked arse. Our prawns killed ’em. The other mugs overdid the fishcakes and underdid the squid.

  And the imposters doing the other prawn dish didn’t use enough coconut paste and hadn’t even peeled them properly. They shouldn’t have been in the same room as us. Naturally there was a stampede to our Gaeng Khiaw Waan Goong. But we told them all to piss off and ate the lot ourselves. Stuff them and their stuffed steamed squid too. We came, we cooked, we kicked arse, and you know what our secret was? We reduced. For approximately 7 minutes over a low flame stirring constantly from the middle of the bowl out. The poor mugs never knew what hit them. Even Carol and Joe gave our table the nod.

  I sat back with my table of power women all basking in our culinary achievements and got into some good conversation. Why not? Winners are grinners. I honestly had a good time though. Saw a side of life I’d never really seen before, had a delightful meal and met some nice people. But before long I had to drive back to Dogpatch. So I thanked my host Colleen, said I’d just get a photo or two, then said goodbyes to the extremely pleasant people I’d met and blasted off into the night.

  All I could think of driving home, as the green chilli started repeating on me around the Hawkesbury River, was it had certainly been a night with a difference. All those women and I was Charlie Charmpot. After a baptism of fire like that, things can only get better. We’re on the up.

  The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. I think that’s what it says in the Bible? Just when I thought things were going good, I get my legs kicked from under me and it all falls in a heap. First up, I’ve been outed. Yeah that’s right. Me. Robert G. Barrett, rough ’n’ tough author of the knock down, drag ’em out, sex mad Les Norton novels — poofter. And I can tell you, no one was more surprised to find out than me. You see, I have a single mother who does a bit of house cleaning for me — we’ll call her Jill. Jill’s got a girlfriend who works in a coffee shop at Terrigal,
we’ll call her Jean. Jill came round to do some cleaning and told me the word was all round the coffee shop and all over Terrigal that I was an old closet queen. A poof. And don’t try to deny it.

  I’d been sprung in Sydney hanging around gay bars. I definitely had to think on this. I don’t hang around gay bars. This immediately tags me as being homophobic, but I don’t. I’ve been in a gay bar once in my life. And that was in San Francisco. I was thirsty, I heard music and I walked into this bar in Polk Street to get a beer.

  A waitress in a frilly mini dress and fishnet stockings had her back to me, and as I waited at the bar to be served I was perving on her legs. The waitress turned around and she had a three day growth and a moustache like Merv Hughes. I walked out and I haven’t been in another gay bar since. Sorry, but it was just a, bit too … disconcerting for yours truly. Then it began to dawn on me, I often go to Sydney on Saturdays to the Paddington Markets.