A BOATING WE WILL GO AND THE OTHER BOTANY BAY CHAPTERS

A BOATING WE WILL GO.

I knew Dazza was a wild card but by the end of our contract I was convinced he was a dangerous motherfucker that I didn’t want to be around.  Throughout the loading and unloading of my stuff from the mountains to the sea he dominated the procedure and he was big enough to get away with it.   I had to fall in with his plans every step of the way which included an overnight stay at the house of someone reported to be a friend.  The guy who owned the house at Bowgowlah heights had been imposed on and it showed in the way he frowned at Dazza’s overbaring ways. I layed out my bedroll in the back yard and at first light I was woken by a poking finger and King fuckwit standing over me.  He said that we had to get to Manly straight away so he could pick up some methadone at the hospital.  When we arrived in Manly a short while later he outlined a plan where I was supposed to wait around for him at the hospital before we unloaded the gear.  I found myself involved in a full scale battle of wills that tinkered on threats to my personal safety but eventually I got my way.  At the first available parking spot near the water Dazza skidded the car to a stop and I emptied the trailer of my things.  He sped off towards the methadone clinic without a backwards glance and I felt truly blessed to be rid of him.  My load was scattered all over the pavement and the only possible stash spot was behind a public toilet just along the beach from the Manly Warf.  I was relieved to find a vacant space between the toilet block and a high sandstone wall which I filled with everything but the tinny.  I had been forced by circumstance to go camping in open view of the public so I had to create the most undetectable shelter I could.  The grass area directly in front of the toilets is where small sailboats are pulled off trailers on the weekends and I recognized this an opportunity to execute my plan. The makeshift shelter I devised saw my bedroll stretched out longways under the propped up tinny with the butane cooker and portable TV beside it. When I removed the supporting pole it became just another overturned dinghy in a spot often used for boating activities. The council rangers were my most immediate concern but if I could make it through the weekend I might be able to relocate to a more sustainable spot.  A major bonus connected to my new campsite was the fact there was an unlocked power box behind the toilets.  Driven by a concealed power cable I could sit on the upturned tinny working on the laptop and wet a line at the same time. The weekend passed and I was happy to see that some of the sailboats remained at my campsite on their trailers. This gave me valuable time to scout the surrounding area for anything that might resemble a permanent campsite.  Husky and I did daily bike trips in search of vacant land near the water and the most appropriate location I found was on the banks of the Manly lagoon.  Between the water of the lagoon and a large sports field I discovered a stretch of bush that was perfectly suited to my needs.  There was a busy golf course across the water but behind the cover of thick scrub our campsite was mostly out of view.  Hus and I had to do a number of trips from the toilet block to the lagoon with the bike trailer fully loaded but eventually we were settled in our new camp. I had completed a rough but successful move from alpine slopes to the coast so I started making up for lost time with fishing.  From all reports the lagoon is too polluted to consider eating anything that’s caught but it was fantastic to be wetting a line anyway.  There were schools of mullet and bream moving through the tidal flow and flathead could be landed near the sandier banks.  The best catch I made was a dirty great bull mudcrab that got tangled in one of my multiple hook lines.  He was so fighting fit and healthy I disregarded my concerns about pollution and threw him in a boiling pot anyway.  A bloody mudcrab in Manly. Amazing.

I was spared the need for battery runs when I found I could pry open the power box at the change rooms of the sports ground.  At night when the last of the joggers and dog walkers had gone I was able to slip the charger plug in behind a bendable cover and suck free power off the grid.  I filled my fresh water container from a tap in the toilets and garbage was easily disposed of in the bins out the front. On a return trip to the beach in Manly I found the Council Rangers had discovered my tarped over load behind the toilets.  An official note had been left saying … “Camper, remove your belongings from this site or your things will be taken to the tip”.  Slightly panic struck I sprang into action with no idea of what to do other than recruit the first available owner of a vehicle. My opening came when I spotted one of the councils garden attendants I had spoken with a couple of days earlier.  His name was Brucie and he had told me where I could score pot in the area.  As he tended to his chores I informed him of the rangers note and asked if his services were for hire.  They were and after the geraniums were watered we loaded up his work ute with my stuff.  The tinny took up most of the available space in the ute so only my most needed things were included in the load.  The two roadcases containing my music equipment were spared but the rest of my gear was off to the local tip.  Brucie only wanted twenty bucks for his trouble and that was fine by me because I was down to my last reserves of cash.  To avoid the risk of having to deal with any council officials or police I invested my remaining forty dollars in a busking permit and prepared to hit the street.  My first show on the Manly Corso was a real make it or break it situation because if I didn’t make any money we weren’t going to eat that evening.  I remember my first performance clearly because the takings were exactly forty dollars. The same amount I had paid for the permit.  We eat.

The move from Katoomba brought with it a noticeable reduction in income and I had to really tighten my belt to get through.  The familiarity of performing in a small mountain community was gone and I was left to deal with the disinterested apathy of a fast moving, big city mass.  If I managed to scrape together thirty bucks after four sets it was a good day and to receive a friendly smile was a reward no price can measure.  The well to do residents of Manly have their heads so well and truly up their own arses they wouldn’t know authentic folk culture if it fell on them.  Of course there were the local freaks like Brucie and others of his ilk who were happy to chew the fat and buy the next round if need be.  The most significant connection I made was a good old boy called Blair who I knew from my time in the Eastern suburbs. Blair was always at the bar of the London Tavern which was the place we used to go after busking at Paddington markets.  We did many an impromptu concert in the back bar so Blair knew many of my friends by name.  He and I laughed about earlier times, in another age, where tomorrow was lifetimes away.  I became increasingly disinterested in busking in Manly with each low paying show I did. On one occasion I got so pissed off with being ignored I packed up and went home after just three songs.  I had to concede that it was not the place for a hail damaged old rocker like me when I witnessed a busking rap dancer being showered with money and adoration.  It looked like there was about three hundred bucks in his case and he was being revered by the audience like he was some kind of fucking genius.  You win buddy. I’m leaving.  In a place where mediocrity rules brilliance is invisible, so I decided the rich folk of Manly didn’t deserve me.  Out with the maps again. 

One afternoon as I was returning from a beer run I stopped to help a guy who was wrestling a garden slasher into the back of a ute.  His name was Armin and he was grateful for my assistance. I rode off without mentioning the fact I might be in need a utility in case he thought I only helped out for my own ends.  The next time I saw Armin in his front yard I offered him one hundred dollars to transport my load to Botany Bay and he agreed.  We established a plan of action where I would meet him the following day with my load stacked and ready for departure near the skateboard ramps.  The only directions I could give Armin as we neared the Sydney airport terminal was the Cooks River which comes off Botany Bay at the runways.  Once in the right vicinity we found a spot where I could set up my camp in a recreation park between the Tempe railway station and the Princess highway.  I thanked Armin for his help before he drove away then I set up my bedroll under the tinny camping layout.  There were a few houses on a cul de sac just across the park but it didn’t look like the kind of place any rangers would patrol.  I only intended to stay in the park for one night and I would be gone before any of the locals could complain.  With the dawn I put the tinny in the water loaded up with gear I intended to stash on the other side of the Cooks River. Beyond the mangroves directly across from where I had spent the night there was a vacant lot with tall grass in every direction. Ideal for what I needed.  The load when tarped over was completely out of view among the long grass and the only possible spot it might be seen from was a platform at the Wolli Creek station.  My ingenious stash spot was located in an unused corner of the Sydney metropolitan area where people seldom ever go. The fuel system on the outboard motor had been giving me trouble before I left Manly and when I attempted to fire it up in the new surroundings it didn’t want to budge.  Giving up in disgust I stashed the motor with the rest of my load and I had to row the length of the river assisted by the tides.  With my burden reduced considerably it was time to go micro camping and explore the Cooks River in the tinny. I had to find the most sustainable place I could to establish a camp and winter was closing in so it had to happen soon.  The street directory map I had of the airport showed Alexandra canal which looked like the best spot to take shelter from the fierce Botany Bay winds.  There were rain clouds about as I rowed into the man made canal and they broke into a heavy downpour as I tied up under the disused road bridge I had marked on the map. The rains continued on and off for days and the canal bridge provided barely adequate cover from the elements. 

To get some relief from the blasting winds I pulled the dinghy under the concrete structure as far as it could go.  I had to clear away a mountain of bottles and other floating litter that had washed up onto the clay embankment then I stretched my bedroll out in the tinny.  Tarps were suspended all around the boat to block out the wind and contain endless drips coming off the concrete above.  In the change rooms of a sports ground just over the way I discovered hot showers that could be accessed in the daylight hours.  This luxury in itself was enough to make me like the area in spite of the fact I was yet to locate a place to charge my batteries.  While I sat out the weather I fished the canal and the only catch I made was a halfway decent bream.  There was a warning sign nearby that said the canal contained toxic sediment so I let the fish go not wanting to risk a gastric upset.  During the time I was sitting out the rains I turned from my fishing to see a bearded young man with a camera standing on the slope.  He introduced himself as Dean and said that he was a freelance photo journalist.  Dean asked if I would mind him taking a few shots of my campsite to which I agreed.  Every aspect of my lifestyle was of interest to him and our conversation soon went from my present reality to the journey that had got me there.  He loved it when I said I like to describe myself as a ‘River Gypsy’. After I had given a brief account of my travels Dean proposed that I would make ideal subject matter for a photo journalism exhibition he was planning to be part of.  It sounded like a good opportunity to acquire some free shots of my stay on the Cooks River so I gladly offered my support.  Dean would often pop up at the oddest times. Like the time he turned up at the very moment I caught a big bream or moments after I had been thinking of him.

                                                                                                                    

Fishing across from the airport.

From my camp the closest available bottle department was the Harp Hotel which is just up on the Princess highway.  It wasn’t too far to walk and sometimes I took Hus up with me to get my beer.  The pub had been restored with an Irish theme by the new owners who were a jolly lot in a constant happy hour mood. Outside of the traditional Irish music the backroom was a popular rock and roll watering hole frequented by a young, drug crazed audience.  On one of my beer runs I picked up a free music magazine and threw it in the bag with my beer.  I knew that a friend of mine was hosting an open mike night somewhere in Sydney and I intended to scan the magazine to see where it was happening. Dennis Aubrey for those who have not read the first book was my busking partner in Adelaide when I made my earliest start.  We moved to Sydney around the same time and I lost contact with him sometime in the nineteen nineties.  Once back at the bridge I flicked through the pages of the music mag as I sucked on a coldie and tended my fishing line.  I stopped searching at a studio photo of my old mate Dennis which gave the first indication of what he might look like now. The most astounding part of the advertisement was the fact his music night was happening at the Harp Hotel every Wednesday night. It was late in the afternoon on a Wednesday when I read the ad and I had just enough spare cash to afford some drinks at the Bar.  Thoughts of zombying out to my portable telly were abandoned as I whipped on my cleanest duds and splashed on as much aftershave as I could.  Once satisfied I looked and smelled presentable in a pub situation I hooked Husky up the bike and off we went to the local.  I found Dennis sitting in the beer garden of the pub among a large group of friends.  It was loving hugs for he and I then I was introduced to those gathered for the music night. As I waited around for my turn to perform I sat smoking in a half opened fire door separating the gig from the beer garden.  A muscular Irish security guy walked over and said “Is that a joint?” and grabbed it out of my hand.  Thinking I was busted I gave him an innocent shrug as he stuck the joint in his gob. What a great pub. Just like the ones we knew in the old days.  Dennis and I did a nostalgic medley of old favorites and after our set we were bombarded with compliments.  I spent a lot more than I could afford on their expensive Harp stout but it was well worth it to re-connect with a buddy from so long ago.   

                                                                               

                                                        Busking with Dennis.

In the months that followed our first meeting Dean was to become an increasing part of my Sydney and Botany bay experience.  Whenever I was planning to move to a new location on the river he was there with his camera catching every detail.  An added bonus to our connection was the fact he drove a utility and he was more that happy to help me get supplies in.  From under the bridge I moved to a mangrove lined inlet that was home to a boat club with yachts moored out the front. It was a picturesque setting much like places I had stayed at in Port Stephens and the only difference was the looming skyline of Sydney in the distance. Taking in the view of Sydney from a friendly wooden jetty, over yacht masts and mangroves was the moment I felt the true success of my mission.  To be in a fishing village type of setting on the outskirts of old Sydney town was as surrealistic and exotic as I needed to feel inspired. Being on the Cooks River certainly satisfied my need to go fishing but the newly emergent need to go busking was calling me away.  This is the balance I was dreaming of when I made my escape from Port Stephens.  To catch a fish for breakfast then ride into town and sing happy songs for the locals. Catch another fish for supper and eat him as the sun goes down. That’s my idea of heaven. As I explored the Botany Bay area I was invigorated by the thought I might be following in the oar strokes of the first fleet settlers.  When invading dinghy loads passed this way they would have ventured up the inlet I was now living on and it triggered the notion that I was re-discovering Australia.  My current reality took on a whole new meaning as I pondered the hardships they must have endured.   Here was I a castaway through choice, enjoying the fruits of the lucky land, two hundred years after they sweat blood to create it.  To compliment my list of new resolves I pledged to always be grateful for the world I inherited.
                                                                                                             

                                                        Camping on the tide line.

Discarded near the dumpsters at the rear of the boat club I found a slightly bent but usable canopy frame.  Once attached in position and fitted with my best tarps it provided a critical component for shelter against the weather.  With the addition of the collapsible canopy to my rig I was able to occupy a greater range of locations by camping on the tideline.   On a chilly and windblown autumn morning I was tied up under the airport road bridge at the mouth of the Cooks river.  The noise coming from departing aircraft had kept me awake all night and I was not in the best of moods.  Morning coffee was being guzzled with a passion as Dean appeared to snap me out of my pre-noon irritabilities. He took shots of my new campsite as I told him about a vacant garage I had found just a short distance away.  Dean and I drove my load to the disused house where the shed was and by mid afternoon it had become the first of my winter homes.  The shed was full of dusty old furniture that I had to restack to make room.  There were only a couple of small leaks in the roof and the double wooden doors closed and locked securely.  I was stoked to be out of the elements and distanced a little from the discomforts of the great outdoors. Within two days of my arrival at Kyeemha I was granted permission to charge my batteries at a friendly roadside store.  It was run by a nice family of Lebanese people who wouldn’t receive a red cent for the service.

My previous campsite under the airport bridge was to become my most common fishing spot in the time I stayed in the shed.  Not that it was fruitful at all.  The only thing that happened to bring some excitement was when a small family group pulled up beside me on a rock wall overlooking the airport.  The father only had his line in the water a couple of minutes when it suddenly went off like there was a ray on the other end.  I put my handline down and scrambled to the assistance of a fellow angler who hooted and hollered as the kids went wild.  It was a dirty great Kingfish and his flimsy six pound line was moving dangerously close to protruding oysters.  The fish made a couple of good runs as our once a year angler hauled it in to the bucket I placed in the water.  With it’s large flicking tail gripped firmly in my fist I presented the bloke with his catch and we laughed with the kids as they poked at the monster Kingy.

THE KARMIC RETURN FACTOR.

Once settled in the shed I started doing shows in Newtown which could be reached after long but reasonably flat bike runs through the metropolis.  By traversing a network of public bike tracks out of the Botany Bay area Husky and I were able to follow the Princes highway towards the city.  Staying only to the footpaths we hauled the busking trailer into King street and I set up in front of the railway station.  The contrast between Katoomba, Manly and Newtown is graphic to say the least.  Now I was performing in the hard core hub of inner city Sydney thus completing the cycle back to where I first started busking.  It’s like I kicked back into a familiar, more streetwise mode of delivery and my confidence grew with each ditty I sang. After all the songs were composed in this very type of environment and people were letting me know they empathized with the words.  My daily takings at the shows were much better than at Manly but nowhere near the cash I raked in at Katoomba. Everybody loved Husky as much in Newtown as anywhere else but he wasn’t showered with dog food like he was in the mountains.

                                                                                                                           

                                           Another day another hundred dollars.

The commencement of the shows offered Dean another dimension to his chosen subject matter and he was quick to capture all of the new images it brought.  The water Gypsy come street performer aspects of my lifestyle were now clearly documented and we saw it as a cause for celebration.  Over beers and joints after busking shows and photograph sessions we laughed like men do when they are happy to be alive. With Dean and I it was more than just an artistically inspired photographer meets a silly old fart living out on the river.  We knew instinctively that we had a similar view of the world and our conversations confirmed it.   Regardless of my takings I lapped up the bohemian, uni campus atmosphere that King street offers to all who frequent it’s streets.  There are reminders at every turn of earlier times when I was an urban commando hot on the scent of fun and excitement.  The younger generation of party animals who passed my way displayed approval and exaggerated the throwing of coins.  Some waiting train passengers leaned on walls or light posts and tapped their feet as they digested the meanings to my words.  Encouraging comments were often given like “You’re good buddy” and “Why aren’t you in the clubs?” which always served to validate my function in the world.The bike trailer runs that Husky and I had to do to get in and out of Newtown started to take their toll.  He was getting noticeably weaker with each run which rendered the whole thing unsustainable. I had to re-think my geographic reality and find a campsite closer to the place I performed.  Dean was of great assistance in helping me to continue with the shows.  If he was in the city for the day he would pick Hus and I up with the equipment and drop us off in Newtown.  After the show we were dropped off back at home and it will be remembered as the most low energy expenditure way of doing a gig I have ever found.  While I was working the street in Newtown I linked up with a fellow busker from Nimbin called Greg.  He was off the smack but drinking heavily and his age had really started to show.  Greg and I performed a couple of nostalgic singalongs but it was a half hearted effort on both sides. The years had somehow stolen the earlier magic and we probably looked like a couple of bums who were trying to solicit the next drink.

                                                                                                                     

                                                         And I thought I was high.

One morning in early winter my morning coffee was interrupted by the thing I had been most dreading. A work crew arrived at the house and they were preparing it for sale. The property was suddenly alive with lawn mowers and whipper snippers and furniture was being hauled out of the soon to be sold, deceased estate. The owner of the place was an amiable young bloke who said I could stay in the shed for a couple days until I found somewhere else to go. It just so happened that Dean and I had arranged to meet so when he arrived I filled him in what was happening. I told him about the two days grace I had been given but said I was ready to move right away if he felt like giving me a hand.  This he was more than happy to do so we loaded up his ute with the tinny on top and set off for the Georges River.  When Dean and I arrived at Kogarah Bay on the Georges River no suitable campsites could be found anywhere close to the water.  The whole recreation area was too exposed and I really started wondering where I was going to lay my head.  We were driving out of the area to look for another spot when Dean spotted a run down, two story building just across from the park.  It was fenced off with sections of security fencing that we easily walked through to check out the house.  Many of the rooms in the old beachouse were vandalized but there was one that looked fit for habitation. It was the only other room beside a kitchen that came off a large central dining area. I could tell it had been a study in former days because the wooden book shelves that filled a wall were relatively undamaged.  Dean and I unloaded the ute in record time to avoid the scrutiny of neighbours and within the hour we were having a cold one and laughing.  Looking out over Kogarah Bay through dirty, broken windows I joked with Dean how the house was more luxury than any river gypsy deserves.  He was busy gathering images of my exciting new surrounds.

                                                                                                                          

                                                Dean Sewell the photographer. What a talent.

The beach house was on Ramgate road and my nearest shopping location was a Coles supermarket at the end of it near Botany Bay. The trip to and from the shop was a flat enough a run that it didn’t tax Hus or myself too much even if we did it a couple of times a day.  On my first shopping excursion with Husky I discovered a pocket of the urban landscape that stood out as far more interesting than anything else I could see.  In the front yard of a ramshackle, roadside cottage there was a vintage fire truck called Lady Penelope which was adorned with hippy’esque murals and philosophy strewn banners.  On closer inspection I found the whole property looked like it had been demoleculized from the backwoods of Nimbin and reconstituted in suburban Sydney. Feeling I might know the occupant from the Northern Rivers I was unable to resist the urge to knock gently on the front door.  I was greeted through a fly screen door by a guy of about my own age who wasn’t at all familiar so I introduced myself.  I was to learn that his name was Stanly. He invited me into his home and we got to know each other over joints and coffee. Stanley was an ex foot copper during the eighties around Kings Cross and he packed it in to become a professional surfer. We worked out amid our friendly chatter that when I was busking late in the night around the cross Stanly would have been walking the beat in those far off and dangerous times.  In throwing away his life as a clean living young police officer Stanley became a creative eccentric who delights in displaying messages of hope for the passing public.  In other words an exhibitionist like me and someone it was easy to be around.  After hearing of my boating and squatting adventures Stanly took me for a tour of the outside laundry and shower area saying I could use them any time I Liked.  It was a diplomatic way of telling me I was on the nose but it was quickly forgotten as he showed me where I could hook up my battery charger.  Stanly was to become the only other person beside Dean with whom I got to experience any kind of social life.  Whenever I popped in to replace batteries or take a shower light hearted conversations always transpired between us. 

My windswept beachouse was a cold place to during the winter months when yachts were rocking and the swells were white capping on Kogaraha Bay.  With no form of heating my only defence against the winter chills was to tent off the living area I had established in the study. I spent most of my time working on the laptop and I only ever ventured outside for batteries or supplies.  In that time I got heaps of work done on the computer and when I needed to rest my brain I took Husky for a walk in the waterfront parklands just across the road.  One time while looking for washed up tennis balls with Hus I found an ornamental plastic owl among the assorted tide line debris.  For some reason the old saying “Use your time wisely” popped into my head so I took the owl home and perched it close to the laptop. 

                           A little spliff before I try to knock out some zzzzzzzzzzz's


When Dean and I did the move from the shed to Kogaraha Bay the tinny was left chained up near the boat ramp amid plans to go fishing.  I was able keep an eye out for any thieves who might come sniffing around from the upper level windows of the house so I wasn’t worried about leaving it there.  Early one morning as I was walking Hus I checked the boat over for any signs of disturbance and found the Kogaraha city council had left a large orange sticker attached to the upturned hull.  It was an official warning notice saying that I had to remove the vessel forthwith or risk having it impounded.  Hardly awake yet I had to spring into action and get the boat out of the ramp area as a council truck might roll up any second to cart it away.  From the ramp to the house it was about a hundred meters and my only real option was to drag the tinny across the grass on the sports field.  I remember thinking it was a bloody good job I had undergone the hernia operation as I wrestled the boat over a low fence separating the park from the bitumen road near the house.  After the exhausting ordeal of rescuing the tinny it was chained up in the front yard of the beach house and forgotten until the spring.  Relative to my location the only two places I might be able to go busking were the Ramsgate shops down by the beach or the Kogaraha town center a much greater distance away.  My first attempt to earn money at the Ramsgate Plaza proved fruitless when a butcher approached me while I was setting up.  He said the shop owners didn’t want any ‘busking noise’ in the center and he went on to say that it would be reported.  A move to the entrance of the nearby Coles supermarket proved equally disappointing when I made the stupid mistake of speaking to the staff.  A stern and most inhospitable checkout attendant informed me that busking was not permitted near the supermarket entrance due to rules layed down by the administrators.   My only remaining option was to negotiate the hilly climb to the Kogaraha town center in the hope I might find a suitable spot. I was down to my last few bucks and I needed to earn money as pension day was still more than a week away.

On our arrival in Kogaraha with the busking trailer I set up in a brightly graffitied railway tunnel some distance from the main shops.  I had seen security guards patrolling the shopping center entrance on earlier trips and I was not interested in attracting their attention. The tunnel where I chose to perform was a busy link between small shops and businesses on either side of the railway tracks.  The entrance to the tunnel was well sheltered from the biting July winds and it was often sunny for most of the day. Husky and I created no obstruction to the passers by and we were in clear view of those walking along the main street.  It was a perfect busking spot.  The multi ethnic residents of Kogaraha proved both friendly and generous with the first days takings counting in at eighty five bucks.  From there my earnings increased with each show and it was not unusual to receive notes ranging from fives to twenty’s.  No council rangers bothered me throughout my Kogaraha shows and passing patrols of pushbike cops often gave smiles of approval. On one occasion as I was performing I was interrupted by an attractive, middle aged female who spoke limited English as she asked if I could help her make a phone call.

Her name was Susan and on further discussion I was to find that she needed me to call up a finance company pretending to be her husband. Apparently she wanted to re-negotiate the terms of their agreement and the husband had to authorize it.  I put on my best Eastern block accent as I spoke to the phone attendant and arranged to have the appropriate forms sent to her family home.  It must have been a worthwhile phone call because she slipped me a fifty buck note before saying thank you and vanishing up the street.  With talk of the US credit crunch and economic down turn Susan was the first tangible evidence I had seen that things were in decline.  A street performer depending on handouts from the general public should be among the first to feel the pinch but up to that point it had been barely noticeable.  I was averaging eighty to a hundred bucks with each show and the shoppers continued to leave the market loaded up with stuff.  The fact that Susan employed the aid of a complete stranger to ease the pressure of her weekly debts was testimony that hard times had started to impact on the suburban family home.  This revelation was to give my busking repertoire a greater significance as I sang my song ‘The Big Squeeze’, a folky lament for a world in the grip of greed.  Another song I do concerning matters economic is a people power anthem called ‘The Mess-Age’ which hails the fall of the all powerful Money God and exposes him as a false messiah.

It would seem that looming economic recession and environmental concerns have elevated my role to social commentator and street level promoter of global solutions.  My eco-anthems like ‘Once Upon A Planet’ and Reason or Rhyme are perfectly suited to the new push for sustainability and people are exposed to my philosophy through complimentary CD’s they receive for contributions over five bucks.  The CDs cost me two dollars a pop to produce for discs and photo copied sleeves.  The compliments I receive after the albums have been heard are the most satisfying reward I can imagine and doing the shows is how I intend to get my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames.  The Kogaraha shows came to an abrupt end when a young, Lebanese hair stylist from across the road called up the local council. Two blokes who weren’t even Rangers approached me and said that I had to move on. The only proof they were council officials was the Garden Attendant insignias on their shirts and I didn’t intend to leave without a fight. I used every trick in the book but the worker drones were insistent and threats to bring in the police were made. The Snooty nosed fudge packer from the hair salon gave a self satisfied smile as Husky and I left the tunnel and the worker drones departed. I imagine they had to attend to bin emptying duties and the picking up of discarded condoms in smelly toilet blocks. 

The coldest part of winter had well and truly taken hold as the Kogaraha shows concluded and I was not inspired to be hanging around on any dismal, wind blown streets.  The sudden loss of income meant I had to get by on my pension payments alone so all luxuries were suspended, except for pot and booze. Dean dropped Hus and I off in Newtown for a couple of weekend shows during that period but it was more for our own enjoyment than any serious kind of returns.  Busking is most definitely a summer sport.  The whole experience changes when the bright, warm days of the summer are replaced by the cold, wet, and miserable months in between.  Iv’e worked out that a buskers days takings are largely determined by weather conditions at the time and how the traversing public mass respond to it.  It might be clear and blue one moment then overcast and threatening the next.  The coins will be landing in the case at a steady rate and then suddenly stop because people start thinking about getting their clothes off the line.

To secure the squat against the vandalizing neighborhood kids I had to do makeshift repairs to large sections of security fencing that had been erected all around the property.  I used old doors to fill gaps between the sections so the kids couldn’t climb through and once that was done I laid trip lines all over the place. If anyone entered the property from any point a disturbed fishing line would cause beer bottles to fall upstairs and give me warning of an invasion.  The trip line strategy worked well and the kids soon learned that the house was off limits.  I wasn’t so concerned about the youngsters who wanted to smash the place up it was the roaming gangs of drunk teenagers on the weekends who most occupied my thoughts.  I knew that some of them had been in the place prior to my arrival because of the signature scribing on all of the walls. The glass in the windows of the study had not been broken and through them I could see the street entrance to my home. Two movable sections of security fencing served as my front gate and I kept them chained and padlocked at all times. It was late after closing time on a blustering August night when I was woken by the sound of nearby voices and drunken hollering in the distance.  Still groggy I staggered to the window of the study and looked out to see streetlight silhouetted teenagers climbing over the front gate.  There must have been twenty of them in the group with giggling females in tow. 

I allowed Hus to continue barking and raced upstairs to a glassless window directly overlooking the gate. In the most unthreatening voice possible I poked my head out the window and asked the invading gang if I could help them with anything.   The intoxicated reply that came from an obvious ring leader was “Hey everyone there’s a hobo living here, … Let’s get him” and that’s the moment I opted for retreat.  I barricaded Husky and myself into the study with him still barking his head off and I pushed a heavy lounge chair against the door.  In my estimations five or so of the gang had busted through the front door and they were smashing everything in sight.  Their drunken friends could be heard laughing downstairs and fireworks were being exploded to add to my terrors. With a cocked speargun in one hand and my mobile phone in the other I made contact with emergency services as the large plate glass windows in the main room were shattered.  Objects were thrown at the study door among the mayhem but none of the louts made any attempt to get in.  It’s a good job as I might have ended up on a manslaughter charge for putting a spear in some drunk teenagers throat. Satisfied they had smashed everything worth destroying the gang departed back to the street and fled across the park when a patrol car arrived.  The cops didn’t come to the front gate as I had requested and after a half hearted cruise of the area they drove off into the night. The moment I was sure my surrounds were free of marauding barbarians I left the house and went up the road to Stanleys place.  Husky and I sat out the hours till dawn in Lady Penelope and in the morning I cleared the beach house of my stuff. On reflection I have concluded that this my second encounter with hostile streetkids was a karmic backlash because they were all just like me at the same age.  Mind you the neighbourhood I came from was much tougher than the one these young rebels come from and some old hobo might not have escaped with his life.  I used to throw empty beer bottles out of opened car windows as silly girls squeeked in the back seat and my rowdy, tanked up buddies roared out encouragement.  Now when I encounter a broken beer bottle in my bike travels I accept it as my well deserved karma and I have a private chuckle as I remember  days of teenage fun and delinquency.

ON THE MOVE.

My time in the granny flat came to an abrupt end when an employee of the property owner wandered into the place.  He was a hostile motherfucker with a black eye who pulled a side door open and started ordering me out.  I went along with his instructions and began packing my gear as he raved on about the blokes from the boarding house dumping their rubbish in the back yard.  My uninvited guest exposed himself as a proper fuckwit when he threatened to call in an army of fifteen bikies who would deal with the arseholes next door.  The moment the groundsman grew tired of talking to himself he departed and I immediately alerted my neighbors of the threat.  We all had a good chuckle as they sucked on beers and described the magnitude of the Ramsgate Social Club army who would sort out the bikies.  It’s little wonder the guy had a black eye if he runs around the place acting like the High Commander of the Hells Angels.

  Dean responded to my phone call within the hour and by sundown I had my camp set up in the canopied dinghy. I launched the boat under grey, rain bloated clouds and tied up beside the ramp directly in front of the Cooks River Boat Club. My plan was to spend the first night at the ramp then head off up the river to a spot Brad had showed me in a borrowed inflatable. If I could establish a well concealed campsite close to the boatyard I would have access to grid electricity and showers which would validate trips to Ramsgate by taxi. I might also be able to do shows at the Wolli Creek railway station just across the highway and who knows where it could lead to from there. I saw the move as an opportunity to test my skills in unfamiliar territory and it was later to prove an unwise choice.  The first of my troubles started when the sinking tide retreated in the night well outside my expectations.  I thought I had accurately judged where the boat would settle but it came to rest on a rock I hadn’t seen at a horrible, unsleepable angle.  In persistent drizzle and knee deep in mud I managed to correct the angle of the boat but any thought of knocking out some zeds was gone.  At first light I discovered an open cool room and storage area beneath a vacant shop not far from the boatyard so the bulk of my load was hastily stored inside it.  My most immediate boating equipment and camping gear was left tarped over at the top of the ramp on a grassy area just beside the footpath.  The boat has taken in far too much water during the night and a few age old leak sites had to be repaired before I was going anywhere. As I was pulling the tinny up the ramp I looked over to see someone’s arse in the air looking under my tarp.  I asked in a concerned tone what he was doing and the old bloke fired up immediately. It was the manager of the boat club who I was yet to meet and he made this point known as he asked what I was doing.  I told him I was a mate of Brads and I was waiting for a boat trailer to arrive then I went off to take a shower and find some hot coffee.  Husky was bouncing around with the resident boatyard pup as I had a shower and stole a few moments to eat breakfast.  In the hour or so it took to do these things my belongings at the ramp were removed by a council dump truck, never to be seen again.  A couple of blokes I questioned saw the truck arrive less than ten minutes earlier and they witnessed it’s operators throwing my stuff in the crusher.  The only things left sitting on the ramp were the tinny and it’s canopy everything else was gone. 

I was struck by a sudden wave of relief when I pondered how close I had come to taking the laptop.  I changed my mind at the very last minute thinking it might get wet and that I suppose was it’s saving grace.  My portable TV and radio were taken along with my bedroll, the oars and anchor and a portable butane cooker. The motherfuckers also got my spear gun which was my main defense against any squat intruders or other trouble makers I encounter.  According to Brad the Manager of the Boatclub would have made a call to the council and requested they remove the stuff.  Without proof a confrontation would have been futile so I just had to bite my tongue and get on with it.  If it wasn’t mischief on the old blokes part then what sort of moronic, council attendants are these who can’t distinguish illegally dumped rubbish from some boating enthusiasts private property waiting to be launched.  The last of my good canvas tarps were used to create a new bedroll set up with a length of foam I found in the boatyard.  Until I was able to acquire new pillows and blankets I got by with a tarp for cover and the cushion off my easy chair was used to rest my head on. Heavy rains came down on our first and only night sleeping in the cool room area and Husky was really agitated by all the passing boatclub drunks.  He barked violently at them on numerous occasions and I found it impossible to get any sleep.  With no portable TV or radio to zombie out on I just had to sit it out till morning, deep in thought and totally revising my plans.  The whole move back to the Cooks River now seemed completely unsustainable, having lost so much to a council sanctioned, act of theft. I was totally disinterested in the idea of replacing things like oars and anchors so an act of intoxicated spontaneity saw me donating the tinny to Brad and his cronies before I abandoned the area.

My attempt to seek new horizons had proved a dismal failure so, for the first time in my travels I decided to double back on my own tracks. In light of what I had experienced it seemed the odds were stacked against me, so a return to Ramsgate Beach stood out as my best available option. With the decision a new brand of common sense kicked in and I realized how stupid it was to go prospecting for new busking spots when I was already sitting on a goldmine. What was I possibly thinking?  How could I even contemplate abandoning a location that netted me a hundred and seventy bucks for an easy going, new years eve show?  Besides with talk of a looming global depression at every turn it would be foolish to let go of a proven source of income.  Age and physical fitness play critical roles in the decisions we make and they are the main reason I left the tinny with the lads at the boatyard. It was just too much hard work carting it around the place.  With the boat and so many of my other belongings gone I resolved to go the whole hog and completely lighten my load.  A new baggage transport system based on the principal ‘If it’s not on wheels it can’t come’ went into action and my burden was greatly lessened. A couple of wheeled suitcases and a normal backpack were the only things I intended to travel with other than my bedroll, the bushbike and the busking trolley.  A second sack trolley was included as a late addition as it could also be used as a multi purpose bike trailer. After years of faithful service my two big flight cases were discarded into an empty cool room along with anything else that wasn’t absolutely critical to my needs. At the end of my frantic load reduction an easily manageable assortment of baggage was left standing beside a traffic light in readiness for the next move. 

Dean was off in South Australia documenting the drought effected Murray Darling basin so I was forced to act by independent means to depart the Cooks River.  After a time the very thing I was keeping an eye out for pulled up at the traffic lights in the form of an empty ute wit two knockabout looking blokes in the front.  I ran over to the car and poked my head in the window saying to the driver “Hey! Do you want to earn a quick fifty bucks?”.  He jumped at the opportunity and minutes later I was sitting between the two of them driving my load back to Ramsgate Beach with Husky tied up in the back.  On our arrival in the area I instructed the driver to pull up in a disused caryard on Rocky Point Road.  We unloaded the gear in a shady corner of the lot then I fixed him up with the fifty I had promised.  The guy said he was happy to receive the money as he had just been laid off work and I said I was glad he was there when I needed him.  They drove off up the highway leaving me to savour the moment of my second tangible encounter with people who are trying to survive in times of economic recline.  I really hope that fifty buck note put food on the table for some hungry kids and made their dads lot a little easier.  Poor bastard, he jumped at the chance to earn a little extra cash and in doing so my new transportation system was hailed a great success.

The large showrooms of the car lot were virtual scribe and graffiti art galleries which were great to look at but felt much to dangerous to camp in.  I chose the caryard as a dropoff point because it was the first place I could think of where I might be able to stash some gear.  My next intention after that was to scout the neighborhood in search of a place to camp which was reasonably close to my busking spot.  To my absolute delight I found I didn’t have to look any further than across the street, because there were two empty houses sitting side by side just waiting for someone to move in.   One of the houses had been the target of young arsonists but the other hadn’t even been spray canned yet.  I wheeled my load to the house in five easy moves and left them in a kitchen area then I went off to explore the layout of the five roomed residence I had landed in.   Apart from a big back yard for Husky the other big plus I found was a high, lockable gate to keep the streetkids out.  When I checked out the power box there was no free electricity to be had but the house had no leaky ceilings and all of the taps were working.  I found an active power point in the fire door of a carpet manufacturer just up the road which satisfied my domestic needs and left enough charge for the shows. My newly acquired home represented a successful return to the area and it served as the base camp from which I re-established my position in the community.  I did a victory performance on the second day after my arrival making an easy ninety bucks and it felt like I had made the right choice by coming back.

Glowing embers of resentment and anger still smoldered inside me every time I thought about the theft of my gear by drone council workers.  Brighter by far were the rising flames of self determination that drove me forward in absolute spite of any loss I may have suffered. I made the fast acquisition of funds my foremost priority and this was to be closely followed by a spending spree to replace the items that were lost. My weekend gigs in Ramsgate proved as profitable as ever so it was off to the electric store in search of the best there is on offer. A ‘so called’ portable, mini digital TV worth three hundred dollars went straight back in the box after I read a pamphlet hidden deep inside the packet saying it had to be connected to a conventional, roof mounted ariel.  That’s not portable you fuckwit. The guy at the local pawn shop came to my rescue with a hand held, analogue receiver for only ninety bucks.  My new battery powered radio was picked up for a mere twenty dollars at an Asian discount outlet and a DVD player from K Mart made my home entertainment package complete. A brand spanking new, all weather bedroll was acquired at the local bushmans outfitters on which I could relax and enjoy my new toys as I thumbed my nose at the world. Arseholes.

The complimentary CD’s I was handing out for donations over five dollars were going like hotcakes so I had to devise an on the road manufacturing plant to deal with rising demand.  In a spare room of the house I gradually established a system of CD production so efficient and smooth running it made me chuckle with private delight every time I had to churn out a new batch. While a CD was being burned in the laptop I would be cutting out it’s photo copied cover with scissors and then glue sticking it onto a cheap paper sleeve. In no time flat new piles of ‘Busking Years’ and ‘Once upon a Planet’ albums were ready for distribution and the whole exercise would have cost me less than fifty bucks.  My reasoning is if people have retained your recorded music in their homes it’s far more likely they will throw a coin when next they see you on the street.  It’s as if you have been welcomed into their hearts through a simply ungreedy gesture and they relate you like a friend whenever they pass your way.  Other than my busking performances the low budget, home crafted albums I hand out might be the only artistic legacy I get to leave in the world. Perhaps ‘The Age of Environmental Sanity’ will dawn long after I am dead and my songs will be embraced as anthems by a new generation. Now that would really be something and it would make the life I have lived that much more worthwhile. Fuck. Now I’m hoping there really is a heaven so I won’t miss out on all the fun.

Max. One of the young surfers I mentioned has started showing increased interest in the music on my MP3 backing tracks. I find his interest as exciting as it is daunting you see he’s twenty three and so downright bloody gorgeous he might just have what it takes to be a star.  If his singing ability and guitar skills are up to scratch a serious re-working of my material could send him straight to the top of the charts. A few mornings ago I found myself committing to a meeting with max at his place in Bondi to see what we could come out with.  I only hope it’s not a waste of time.  Potentially it puts me in a compromising position because if he sounds horrible I have to be honest and if he’s the next big thing I have to completely re-evaluate my plans. At the very least I would be required at a studio level and that would mean a permanent home or it ain’t gonna happen. If Max is as talented as he is good looking he might just be the youth ambassador I’ve been dreaming of for years.  Without wanting to sound too vain, I’m positive the lyric content of my best material is potent enough to make him the thinking mans choice in pop stars.  Even if he only chose to work with my love songs and musical tales from the street Max will be a smash hit with the ladies and he might get us both filthy rich in the process.

The house I occupied on Rocky Point Road was part of an industrial complex scheduled for demolition.  On a sunny February morning I spied some official looking bloke walking in the front yard so I went out to greet him.  He said he was the demolition contractor and the place was coming down in less than a week.  The bloke kindly allowed me some time to move out and it was a most civil affair compared to my last eviction.  After more than two months of free accommodation the time had now arrived to road test my squat to squat road transport system.  The spot I had targeted as an interim campsite was a yard at the side entrance to a disused doctors surgery.  The doors and windows were all securely locked with bars in front but the garden was an ideal place to pitch a tent.  Perfect summer, camping conditions were under way in a cool spell between heatwaves as I commenced to tow my load.  Hus and I pulled the busking trolley up Rocky Point Road with my heavy bed roll strapped across the Amplifiers. The sack truck was used in the second load to carry the wheeled suitcases containing my kitchen gear and studio electrics. A third load saw a big tarp roll and an overfull clothes backpack safely in their new home. The fourth and final trip was for things like water buckets and the like.  That day Hus did four fully loaded trips each of about two hundred meters and he was still wanting to play ball as I was setting up a shelter. Friggin superdog. 

Extending from a fence towards the side entrance of the surgery there was a brick wall separating two garden sections.  One section was populated by palms but lucky for me the other was free of plants and flat enough to create a tarped over floor.  I extended my largest, dual surface tarpaulin from the top of the wall to a bordering fence and it made an ideal lean to complete with a zip up shade cloth entrance.  I still went through countless cans of fly spray dealing with bushflies but it was wonderful to be living out under the stars again.  The spot I had been charging my batteries at was even closer now which made battery runs much less of a burden.  In the sunny new setting I decided the time for experimentations with undersized solar panel was over so I invested in two new units I was assured would do the job.  Thereafter each day was spent religiously focused on the panels and they were constantly re-positioned to received maximum sunlight.  I found running two panels each of twenty watts was barely enough to charge a large battery to full voltage capacity.  On the hotter days I was able to run a small fan for a few hours and the TV for a while in the evenings, but just as the weather report was about to come on the power inverter would start to scream it’s head off.  In the end I concluded that a house roof, fully solar paneled might do the trick but for me it had to be a hobby based backup system for the times I was unable to access grid power. Two days after our occupation Husky let out the first warning bark I had heard since we arrived at the surgery. On cautious investigation I found a cleaning lady with a mop just inside the opened side door.  We spoke briefly and she said the Doctor was aware of my presence in the yard but he had not instructed her to turf me out.  She seemed like a nice enough person and we went on to chat about Husky’s playful nature.  Before returning to her cleaning duties the lady requested that I put the bins out on garbage night to which I agreed shaking my head in disbelief. 

Could it be that some kind, faceless Doctor has taken pity on a homeless traveler and allowed him to remain through Christian or other charitable beliefs?  Have I finally arrived at the place of my dreams.  A patch of ground to camp on, close to the source of my income and unhindered by lingering thoughts of eviction. I relaxed into my new environment like a battle weary soldier who has made it to safe territory.  Another victory performance was in order to celebrate my continued stay in Ramsgate and the fact I was making all the right decisions.  With our move to the surgery the distance from my camp to the shops was shortened but on hot days it was still a slog to get back up the hill.  I found the best strategy was to push Hus to the limit up the initial, tree shaded slopes and then walk bike and trailer the remaining distance to the main road.  In this way my leg and lower back were not unnecessarily overwork and I could get dinner ready in the evening relatively free of pain. 

The consistent flow of income I received from the shows guaranteed a bottle of hard liquor to nightcap the events of the day and as the last was emptied it was replaced in a mood of carefree abandon.  The el’ cheapo brands at the bottle barn were overlooked and in their place only the best was acquired.  My consumption of beer was reduced from longnecks of Joe Punter special brew to smaller bottles of imported ale like I used to drink in the nightclub days.  The shift from less beer to more spirits showed a noticeable reduction in body weight to the point I could again fit in my favorite black jeans.  With only four upper, front teeth to go in my weekly extraction program the chewing of cooked vegetables had become impossible so rich and nutritious, bloody Mary’s became part of my bar set up to remedy the problem.  There’s a high population of alcoholics in the Botany Bay area and I see them lined up waiting for the bottl’o to open in the mornings when I do my shows.  I’m sure alcoholism is a genetic problem because I drink like a parched sponge but I have never strayed from my only with dinner principal.  The thought of tugging on a cold one at first light makes me dry reach and I thank my lucky stars I am not in the same boat as those guys.

We got to camp in the back yard of the surgery for about three weeks then an unexpected visit by the law brought things to a close.  Apparently the Doctor was not the unseen sponsor I had imagined and I was given official notice it was time to move on.  My shelter was quickly dismantled after the cops left and packed tightly onto the sack trolley. I packed the last of my stuff in the blistering midday sun then Hus and I were ready for the next leg of my squat hopping routine to a row of abandoned buildings a little further up Rocky Point Road.  The houses had long since become the ransacked meeting place of the local kids but there were a couple of empty sheds near the back lane that might have escaped their attention.  Within a couple of hours I was set up behind a secured roller door with the main house in full view and I intended to watch for any teen activity through the night before I thought about moving in.  

Not long after sundown I heard delinquent laughter about three houses up and the next day I confirmed it was their most common hangout.  There were cushions arranged for seating around a brightly graffitied room and recently used bongs were sitting between them on the floor.   The place seemed far enough away not to be a problem and the only thing I would really have to do was keep my movements in the laneway undetected.  It only took the local mischief makers a couple of days before they realized I had moved into the house belonging to the shed.  I returned from a busking show to find they had attempted to kick in the back door which was barricaded with a heavy stove and some timber. It would had to have been teenagers of reasonable strength because the stove had been moved just short of the distance it would take for intruders to climb in.  A series of brick throwing incidents in the nights that followed saw me brandishing a fishing knife out in the laneway and threatening to cut off their balls.  The three young louts retreated into the night but I didn’t feel like hanging around to see how big their army was.   I pulled up camp on the spot and it was hastily transported to a sheltered location in view of the row of houses.   I watched intently as a light drizzle sprinkled the scene and sure enough they returned in even greater numbers.  I saw about nine of them walk off Rocky Point Road into the front yard of the house and a short while later the windows began to smash.  When the demolition party was over they left the area laughing and joking like they had done something worthwhile.  I wonder if the day will ever come when those teenage larrikins find themselves homeless old men in terror of being assaulted or killed by hoards of Hell bent youngsters.  The rains passed with the night and as the dawn was approaching Husky and I set off down the hill in search of a new base. Things had moved fast since I got the boot from the surgery and I hadn’t yet located a backup camp. I needed to be closer the shops in a place the kids hadn’t yet targeted with a yard for Husky to bounce around in.  My new camping site came in the form of an empty house just a short ride from the beach on Russel Avenue. There was no sign of delinquent activity in the rooms even though the back door was left wide open. The power wasn’t connected but it seemed well tucked away in a mostly apartment filled neighborhood where people tend to mind their own business. 

The best thing that happened in the time I was at Russel Avenue was a pre-arranged meeting with Miranda my eldest daughter.  It had been more than a decade since last I saw her face to face and it was only after I reminded her of this fact our personal contact finally came about.  We had exchanged a number of friendly conversations over the phone since our initial Father and Daughter reunion but nothing can beat the feeling of actually holding someone in your arms.  Our little family get together took place at the Royal Hotel in Bondi in a windy, rain battered beer garden. Now twenty four Miranda had just returned from a holiday in Brazil with friends and she had young ladies, travel tales to tell. I had taken a collection of family photographs along to leave with her for safe keeping which made her giggle and squeel when she discovered shots of herself as a toddler.  As she sat before me changing facial expressions to suit the conversation I saw myself and Beth.E. taking it in  turns to dominate Miranda’s appearance.  Like I said earlier Beth and I were a couple of good looking sorts in the prime of our youth and it reflected in Miranda every time I glanced her way.  We've made a pledge that when my new choppers arrive we are going out on the town for a “Dad’s got new teeth’ celebration at my expense, in the swankiest joint in town.

CRACKING THE TON.

During my stay at the beach house I explored the surrounding territory and located what looked like a viable backup dwelling.  It was an empty, three bedroom house directly opposite the Ramsgate Plaza and just two minutes walk from the beach.  At the end of the driveway beside the house there was a drive in garage with a roller door and attached to the rear of the shed a small granny flat had been constructed.  I decided on the granny flat as the best place to set up camp because the walls in the house had not yet been spray canned and it looked like a magnet for teenage mischief. Besides the small flat behind the shed was sitting in the shade of tall pine trees which would be a big plus in the approaching heat of summer. Dean was right there without a moments hesitation to assist with my next move.  We wrestled the dinghy into the front section of the shed and the granny flat was turned into compact but comfortable living quarters.  As we were checking out the main house Dean made the fortunate discovery that the electrical power had been left on.  Excited by the find I went looking for a power point in the granny flat and bingo there it was.  Now I was in business.  I had landed well and truly on my feet and I saw my new home as the Holy grail of this squat hopping lifestyle.  The ornamental owl took pride of place in my new, grid connected work station and the mission at hand was to complete all of my projects before the lights went out. The wise use of time strategy expanded in magnitude and became applicable not only to an electrical power flow but to my life in general.  At fifty two and counting I had no idea when my own life giving energies would be suddenly cut off so the race was on to complete my projects and perhaps leave an artistic legacy in the world.

My new campsite was directly opposite the busy Ramsgate Plaza shopping center and it felt like a challenge too attractive to ignore. My first attempt in this place had been a dismal failure but after I spied a fellow busker named Dennis playing his banjo right near the Coles entrance I decided to give it another try. The spot I set up in was directly in front of a large, outside carpark between the supermarket and a discount bottle barn. I only hoped it was far enough away from the entrance to the Coles store that my amplified performance wouldn’t become an issue. The strip of pavement I occupied was busy with shopping activity and there was just enough room to put the money case out so it wasn’t in the way of rushing trolley wheels. I kept the volume level on the amp to a bare minimum so as not to attract the attention of the shop proprietors and apprehensively commenced to go through my sets.  The coins started landing in healthy abundance the more relaxed and comfortable I became and within an hour I had made enough to pay for dinner and a bottle of Jack.  As I was kicking off for the second set I spotted trouble in the form of an overweight, young supermarket manager pushing a line of trolleys directly towards me along the pavement.  As he maneuvered the awkward load past Husky and myself he stopped for a breath and took a moment to look me over.  He asked over the top of the music if I had council permition then continued on his way with the trolleys before I had a chance to answer.  If he had of taken the time to look he would have seen my Sydney Council busking permit clearly displayed in the money case.

Once I had finished the song I scooped up the permit and raced over to where he was pushing the trolleys into a rack.  I literally poked the permit under his nose in an irate gesture and complained about how I hate being interrupted when I am performing.  The supermarket boss became all apologetic at my little outburst claiming he just needed to know that I was legally permitted to be there.  My strategy worked.  The permit expired some months earlier but my pre Madonna display was moving so fast the manager didn’t have time to examine the date on the card.  With the supermarket proprietor now satisfied that I was street legal I was free to earn my daily bread just a short walk from where I was living. My first performance netted eighty or so dollars from the locals and things just went North from there.  In the weeks that followed I averaged seventy to ninety bucks a day as I familiarized with the Ramsgate population and instilled myself in the daily streetlife on the shores of Botany Bay.

The ancient guitar amp I had been using since the first Katoomba shows was looking worse for wear after our travels and it would often cut out mid song due to a faulty internal connection. At a pawn shop up on Rocky Point Road I was able to purchase two brand new busking amps for a hundred bucks each and they had more than enough grunt to be heard over the noise of the street. I mounted both amplifiers on a sturdy sack trolley that I found just a few days earlier discarded near a charity bin.  The hard rubber wheels on the trolley were replaced with larger, soft rubber wheels from a modern pram and it was to become the most streamlined and efficient bike trailer I have ever owned. Hus and I were able to haul the trolley along the bike tracks when it was fully loaded  with a bedroll, my easy chair and all of the other stuff it takes to be a beach fishing, gypsy minstrel. The house right next door to the shed was an all male boarding house occupied by a varied assortment of rowdy characters.  The large front veranda and garden area had become a gathering point for all the local piss pots and there was a sign hanging over the front door that read, ‘The Ramsgate Resort’.  I have nickname them ‘The good old boys’ in remembrance of the chorus from American pie. It was easy to befriend my new neighbors and none of them gave a rats ass about the fact I was squatting in the run down shed next door.  They loved Husky to pieces and delighted in his game playing antics on the front lawn.  The lads would inquire after each show how much I had made and if I scooped more than a hundred dollars that day it was a real pleasure to inform them I had cracked the ton.  Through the boarding house crew I got to meet most of the knockabout underclass who inhabit the Ramgate area and it proved a big plus whenever I did a show.  It’s always good for business when you are giving familiar nods and waves to the locals passing by.  Others see the gestures being exchanged and it somehow adds to their sense of local community. People will often throw coins just to feel like they are part of the tribal flow.

The Ramsgate area which sits between Dolls Point and Brighten Le Sands is dominated by those of Middle Eastern appearance with a healthy multicultural mix to make up the rest of the population.  Going by the cars they drive and my average daily earnings I imagine many of them are well off home owners who are undeterred by these hard economic times.  I love the ones who pop out of nowhere for just a fleeting moment to slip me a ten or twenty dollar note then they drive off in expensive foreign saloons. Good looking women in stylish threads will often make a big fuss of Husky and I get to check out bulging cleavages as they bend over him in overdone displays of affection. The hardest ones to crack for some small change are the mostly stern faced Eastern women but every now and then I get a smile.  No chance of any boob shows from them.  Amid the apparent affluence of the area there is still a thriving street life with all the predictable characters you would expect to find in an urban setting.  As I do my shows I am often witness to the antics of a half cast aboriginal called Graham who dines out of the garbage bins and performs a weird little dance as he inter-reacts with inanimate objects.  He has obvious mental problems and he will often cause havoc among the shoppers until a patrol car is called in to calm him down. 

Once when I was performing he came too close to Husky doing his spooky little dance routine and he copped a nasty bite on the leg.  At the peak of his incoherent verbal outburst he got abusive to those gathered around, until a muscular young Lebanese guy stepped in to restrain him. The Spook as I have named him has a campsite near a mangrove lined creek some distance from the beach and there’s been talk of him exposing himself to schoolkids whose playground is directly opposite the swamp. This was the reason the good old boys turfed him out when he tried to move in next door.  On hearing the story I asked the lads why they hadn’t kicked me out as well and I was told I was “different breed”.  I felt honored.  The compliment assured me I was having exactly the kind of big city experience I had been craving when I left Port Stephens and hit the road.  The longer I stayed in the Ramsgate area the stronger my sense of community belonging grew and the anonymity I had known was blown to the four winds. 

My busking shows clicked into their true sociological function somewhere along the way and people started using my musical setting to stop for friendly chats.  The formation of a busking circle is initiated in this very way and it’s always a good sign when people are relaxed. Conversations invariably turn to Husky and often I have found myself in the company of two or more seemingly available females of the appropriate age and body shape. In the final stages of tooth extraction I let countless opportunities slide but when my new choppers arrive it will be a different matter.  Iv’e made a pledge to pursue all potentially sexual encounters with full gusto provided they fit my criteria of what a good woman is.

Among the more regular identities I encountered on the street there was a stern and seemingly unapproachable young man who I learned was called Thomas.  He was about thirty, lean and fighting fit with piercing eyes that can penetrate the very soul of those he is yet to trust. Thomas had heard on the street telegraph about my troubles with the spook and he made it the theme of his conversation when first we spoke.  I slipped him thirty bucks on a gentleman’s agreement that he would have a little chat with the offender and tell him to stay away from my shows.  This was achieved forthwith and Thomas my unofficial bodyguard was to become a regular drinking partner and confidant.  After a couple of hefty slugs of Jack Daniels or Southern comfort from by bar he really opened up and I was to hear his life story from A to Z. Tom was a South African immigrant who had lived through the apartheid years. He settled in Australia after a marriage of convenience to a woman who later mothered his two children.  It was a hostile and messy affair of which I received regular updates at our afternoon pissups.  His main vocation besides hustling pot on the street was cage fighting at back lane events, an occupation that I found intriguing.  I thought things like this had been outlawed a long time ago but apparently it’s a thriving business in the warehouse districts of Sydney.  Thomas vanished from the Ramsgate street scene as quick as he had appeared and I haven’t seen or heard of him since.  I knew he had issues with the law because of his wife and he probably had to go into hiding to stay out of jail.

On a sunny afternoon in late November I was doing my stuff on the street when a battered Toyota van caught my eye.  The reason it got my attention was because my old busking partner ‘Mort’ or ‘Lord Muck all Mighty’ as some might remember him was at the wheel.  He parked the car and got out then he proceeded to walk towards the shop entrance without giving me a second glance.  At the electric doors of the shop he stopped dead in his tracks on hearing a familiar tune.  I was singing ‘The Local pub Nightclub’ a track in which he sang backing vocals in the final recorded version.  The moment where our eyes met was cold and uncomfortable and he pointed at the electric door in a lame gesture that said he had to go shopping.  This is a man who I once traveled very close to and bestowed with the title ‘The brother I never had’. Now after years of separation at a once in a lifetime, chance meeting he has to go shopping. I just happened to be on fire at the time and cleaning up which made it inconvenient to suddenly stop performing.  The fucking ego maniac probably expected me to stop singing at his arrival and make a big fuss, but I’ve become far too professional for that. Besides he doesn’t deserve the attention.

I was again singing as he exited the shopping center and apprehensively walked over to where I was set up. My abundant takings were thoroughly scrutinized as the song concluded and I turned off the amps so we could speak. I hit him with a cheerful “Hi! Morty to lethargic response and all he wanted to do was engage in meaningless small talk about my dog as he floundered awkwardly in my presence. No mention was made of the irreplaceable videos he failed to return or any of the other unresolved issues between us. The years had stolen his once good looks leaving him a bloated and unhealthy mess which prompted me to assign him the new nickname of ‘Mr. Balloon face’. After zero emotional contact or real and meaningful communications Lord shit for brains walked back to his van and drove off into the traffic. The videos Mr. Balloon face cheated me out of contained the only remaining footage of our early busking days in Paddington markets and there was a section covering a performance we did at the Glebe Point Road Street Party.  I guess I’ll never see them again and I hope I never see that sorry old fart for the same amount of time.  I spoke to Young William about the chance meeting I had with Mort and he informed me that he has been receiving annoying phone calls from our mutual acquaintance. Apparently Mr. ‘Use up your friends and then dump them’ has been pestering him for some early photographs.

As we spoke Will and I churned over a list of possible reasons why my once close friend was acting so distant towards me. His first suggestion was the possibility that Mort had been caught out in a lie.  The lie being the fact he told Will he was staying in Palm beach with the old sailing crew but he was actually shacked up with the crack whore he had mentioned who lives in Brighten Le Sands.  This is a plausible reason why I might have seen him at Ramgate Beach but knowing him like I do there had to be other contributing factors. Echo’s of Mort screaming “I wasted eight years of my life on you” and “I’m the only friend you’ve got in the world” returned to haunt me and caused me to wonder if it might not be good old fashioned jealousy. The way he eyed the contents of my money case indicated real surprise.  I think he was pissed off that I might be pulling a good earn in the world without him because he always saw himself as the main star and bread winner of every show. I only hope if Lord what’s his name ever reads these words he gets the message that people can see straight through his bullshit.  I guess I should be thankful I no longer have him in my life. Now he’s some crack whores problem and not mine.

Dean accumulated a sizable catalog of photographs and interviews that documented my campabout and busking activities and they were included in a multi media presentation at a prestigious Paddington cinema. He and Brad a mate from the Cooks River Boat Club picked me and Hus up and we arrived at the cinema as the afternoon matinee crowd were having drinks around the bar.  As we were entering the building Dean stopped to chat with some people he knew and his contribution to the event was praised from all sides as top shelf photo journalism. I also received a number of positive comments about my involvement.  As well as the photographs Dean included edits from recorded interviews we did and selected tracks from the ‘Busking Years’ album.

When his nine and a half minute portion of the film was playing I missed most of it because I popped out to check on Husky and get some more overpriced drinks for the lads. I arrived in the cinema as a shot of myself and Hus camping under a bridge was complimented by a recorded dialogue where I waxed philosophical about everything in general and nothing in particular.  It just so happened the launch of the ‘Streetwise’ book by Peter Adams took place around the same time as Deans exhibition but it was not practical for me to journey to the mountains and I missed it.  Young William attended the opening in my absence and I later received a report on how it went.  Apparently it was a rather posh affair held at the Carrington Hotel which was attended by the Governor of New South Wales.  The combination of Deans shots with those of Peter Adams represents a complete photographic record of my travels since first I resumed street performance.  I am still yet to receive a CD containing the best of Deans shots but he’s a busy man with a young family and I am learning to accept that these things can take time.

At one of my Sunday afternoon performances I was observing the flow of weekend beachgoers when I spied a familiar face getting out of a hired campervan.  It was Don Walker the principal songwriter and keyboardist for the legendary Australian band Cold Chisel.  Don and I met back in the eighties when we were both recording at EMI studios. He remembered me straight away and we exchanged pleasantries as his young daughter played with Husky.  When the conversation turned to music he lent a sympathetic ear as I described the difficulty I was having finding a affordable recording studio that wasn’t a smoke and booze free zone.  I need to be able to relax when I am working in this type of environment and the last thing I need is a studio operator who freaks out if you fire up a joint between takes.  Don and I exchanged numbers and he called me up a couple of weeks later with recommendations for a low budget studio he had heard about in Camperdown.  When Don took the time to call me back it brought the feeling that all is good in the world when a famous star makes the effort to help out someone on a lower run of the music ladder.

With the holiday season underway and the real heat of summer emerging Botany Bay becomes like any other beachside mecca for fun in the sun activities.  The familiar faces of the locals are vastly outnumbered by visitors to the area and my daily earnings greatly increased with the invasion.  As the summer months progressed I befriended a couple of sun bleached, young surfing instructors called Max and Rob who arrived each morning with busloads of backpackers out for a day in the surf.  Whenever the Coaster pulled into the carpark my show would kick off of their days activities and throwing coins to the early morning busker became a regular part of the days fun.

New years eve came around and I was of two minds weather to work my home turf or head into the city to try my luck at one of the free concert and firework events.  I decided to stay in Ramsgate after contemplating the crowds and public transport shitfight I would have to face and it was the wisest decision I could have made.  People I recognized as locals who had never coughed up before were throwing coins along with the tourists.  Family groups and others were standing and sitting around getting into my music and I experienced the same kind of carnival atmosphere that prevailed in Kings Cross way back when.   Groups of young guys were handing me cold beers as I sang and egging me on in a mood of intoxicated festivity.  When the fireworks started going off down along the beach Husky freaked out and hid behind the amplifiers.  I had to encourage him out by flicking the bottle top which is his favorite game and eventually he ignored the explosions. I only had to contend with a couple of drunken idiots which means I got off lightly considering it was such a tanked up crowd.  The first was some paraletic yobbo who attempted to climb on my pushbike, which was leaning on a post and connected to the amp trolley.  I was able to get him off it before he toppled the whole rig and he thought it was a big joke.  Moron. The second idiot was the first ever fuckwit Asian I have had to deal with in the middle of a song.  He was leaning right over me within biting range of Husky screaming “Check one two” into the mike. I turned off the amp and stood up out of my easy chair so the drunk Chinaman could see our size difference and he backed away into the night muttering under his breath.  Happy New Years dickhead. I pulled one hundred and seventy dollars and a swag of free beers that night, my highest ever takings since I resumed my busking career.  It will be remembered as one of my better New Years outings and a valuable lesson in how to exploit your chosen home territory.

                                                                                                                     

Deans friend Brad is a most likable larrikin who has been a part of the Cooks River Motor Boat Club since he was a youngster.  He lives in a bus which is converted into a camper at the rear of the boatyard with a sweeping view of the river and airport runways. To celebrate his recent release from the slammer Brad decided to organize a music festival in the grounds of the boatyard and it turned out to be the best event I have attended since I left the mountains. The gig was described as ‘The Bus, Boats and Bands Festival’ on flyers that were sticky taped to light poles around the Botany Bay area.  An outside stage was erected on the wheeled platform they use to launch boats down the ramp and this was the place I was invited to perform.  A larger stage inside the clubroom was also up and running with live bands all day and into the night. Acts which ranged from country duos to theatrical spectaculars were presented and kids danced among the adults as the odd dog wandered across the dancefloor looking for scraps.  Brads extensive gaggle of cronies are hard core party animals mostly from the Newtown area who have adopted the motorboat club as their favorite hangout.  Many of them play in bands and I suppose this is how he was able to recruit so many acts without forking out a red cent in performance fees.  We all got a voucher for a pig on the spit dinner and some free beers but at ten dollars a head entry fee for the punters someone certainly made a killing. 

When it came my time to perform there was hardly anybody in the boatyard as they were all inside the clubhouse line dancing.  I got the sound system operator to play some recorded music until the country ho down was over and when the audience came trickling outside for a ciggie I opened with my most rocky numbers.  A couple of good looking, middle aged babes started dancing right up close to the stage area and others joined in as I sang along to the MP3 backing tracks I use in my busking show.  By the time I hit them with ‘Better keep Rocking’ there were about twenty people of all ages dancing in the boatyard between the slips. Mid song I took a moment to contemplate the perfection of my current reality.  Surrounded by a fun loving crowd who were digging my songs amid a fleet of boats under repair. If heaven isn’t like this then cancel my flight buddy. My dear friend and former busking partner Dennis Aubrey was scheduled after me on the bill and as greeting hugs were exchanged he invited me to join him at the end of his set.  His favorite song from my catalogue is a piece called ‘None so blind’ which promotes shared abundance and universal prosperity.  After a brief on stage rehearsal we locked in the appropriate key then delivered the best ever version in our history of performing the song.  The harmonies locked in with mathematical precision and the audience let us know that they had been treated to some top shelf, folk rock entertainment.  At the bar late in the night I bumped into an ex fucking partner from the nightclub days called Sonia.  I scored some coke and we had a little snort for old times sake, but she was too pissed to go any further than flirting, let alone getting down and dirty. I broke free of the revelry and snatched a couple of hours kip in the bus before the blinding sun forced me back to the party zone.  Brad and the rest of the crew were still hard at it jamming with guitars and harps as bones from the pigs carcass were thrown to the festival goers hungry, growling dogs.

Days end.