Bernie pic

Bernie pic

Tuesday, 30 May 2017

Rock music's war on Noriega

Manuel Noriega, 1989 mugshot

General Manuel Antonio Noriega, former military leader of Panama, died aged 83, on Monday, May 29,  2017. 
Although my novel Iraqi Icicle Third Edition is set in Australia, my novel explores the exploits of Manny Noriega in Panama and the U.S. Here is an excerpt.

Friday, 26 May 2017

Yarning Circle of Reconciliation

In memory of Ruby Hunter, October 31, 1955 – February 17, 2010
La Perouse, a south-east Sydney suburb, January 26, 1992

NATALIE and I gratefully got out of the cab of my EH ute which had no air conditioning. We had the windows wound down all the way from Brisbane. The breeze rushing past the EH had been warm as in the Australian word for bloody hot. ‘Warm enough for you?’ is a typical comment when the weather is a scorcher. Nat and I adjusted our sunglasses and our broad-brimmed hats.
‘Buddha it’s hot on Australia Day,’ I said, as I put my arm around Nat’s thin waste.
‘Survival Day,’ My Cucumber corrected.
Indeed it was and we were about to become punters at the first Survival Day Concert held in Australia.
We had read about it in Drum Media, a Sydney street paper, which some Brisbane alternative music stores ordered from Sydney in limited quantities. The papers were free so it was thoughtful of Brisbane music stores such as Skinny's and Rocking Horse to put aside the .profit motive for these items.
The Brisbane street press itself was cut-throat at the time with Time Off, Rave, the more dance-music oriented Scene and the downright weird satire/ cultural reviews in the Bug. The free mags vied for advertising chasing the dollars of an alternative crowd who had a huge appetite for live and recorded music but who in the main had limited financial means to fully indulge.
Nat and I liked to know what was happening in Sydney and Drum Media duly obliged with news of the Survival Day concert in honour of the holiday known by most as the more flattering Australia Day. Some Aboriginals and Islanders knew Survival Day as the even less flattering Invasion Day.
These three monikers stemmed from different retro views of January 26, 1788, when Captain Arthur Phillip rode a refreshing breeze through Botany Bay to set up a penal colony. A few arrogant English still call us White Australians ‘convicts’ but that is just a cover for their having carelessly lost an Empire in the space of about 50 years. An irreverent rock band touchingly called Queen is doing all the anthems now. Well they were until lead singer Freddie Mercury inconveniently died, during the November just gone.
The first names to strike us in the Drum-Media concert ad were Archie Roach and his wife Ruby Hunter. Nat and I had seen Roach and Hunter play in Brisbane and we liked what we heard.
Ruby was one of the Stolen Generations of kids considered to have enough white pigment to be able to breed out the blackness over time. The genetic-cultural script went wonky for Ruby and she ended up on the streets where she met another homeless kid, Archie. With the help of music, they turned their lives around together.
Cross-cultural dance band Yothu Yindi was on the bill. In 1991, they had a hit with Treaty. A meaningful treaty between Black and White Australia was never going to happen but the song was a joyous blast of compressed air blowing away the pop rubbish from radio airwaves.
Aboriginal opera singer Maroochy Barambah, also one of the Stolen Generations, would be on-stage. Opera and country are the two musical genres I do not get but Natalie was excited by the prospect of Maroochy’s performance. As for country music, Aboriginals loved it, both from America and White Australia. That was until the youngsters discovered reggae and later hip hop. Then it was ‘bye bye Charley Pride; see you later, Slim Dusty’.
But the winds of change had not swept across Botany Bay to La Perouse. Prominent on the newspaper poster was a photo of a performer I had never heard of: Roger Knox. Above his photo was the tag-line, the Black Elvis. Funny, I thought Presley was the Black Elvis with a paint job. Underneath the photo was a smaller appellation: The Koori King of Country. That was more like it. Kooris are Aboriginals from New South Wales. Queensland Aboriginals call themselves Murris.
At La Perouse, a crowd of thousands had gathered early. To welcome us Brisbane visitors a cooler breeze had sprung up from the northern point of Botany Bay. Feeling good.
We looked for a comfortable spot near the stage. A tall Aboriginal man with curly black hair bumped against my left arm. ‘Are you lost?’ he said in a helpful voice which had an undertone of menace.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘This is the famous French restaurant, Lapérouse, isn’t it?’
‘Natalie dug her fingers into the left flesh of my waist. That was one of her signals which silently said, ‘Don’t start, Steele.’
The Aboriginal man smiled but you could see he made neither head nor tail of what I had said.
‘Where are you from?’ he asked. I told him Brisbane.
He pointed north and I saw he had a stack of leaflets in his right hand. ‘That’s a long way,’ he said ‘You must be carrying a lot of guilt.’
Natalie dug in the fingers.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Left the guilt at home. We came for the music.’
Natalie must have been somewhat satisfied with my response as she released the pressure.
The Aboriginal thought about that before he thrust two leaflets towards Natalie and me. ‘Something to read between sets,’ he said.
‘Ta,’ I said while Natalie responded with the more formal thank-you.
The man watched as we found a comfortable spot about 30 metres from the stage. I looked around. ‘There are plenty of White people here; what was he having a go at me for?’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Did you think he was having a go at us?’
‘Yair, I did,’ Natalie said. ‘Maybe it’s your Bob Marley T-shirt.’ ‘I like Bob Marley.’
‘Awlright,’ she said. ‘Let’s forget about it.’
I agreed and looked at the leaflet which turned out to be a folded six-page brochure.
‘That’s pretty cool,’ I said. ‘This bloke died five days ago and they have already put out a tribute to him.’
There was an empty rectangle above his name, date of birth and death. ‘Looks like they could not find a photo, but,’ I said.
‘Edward Koiki Mabo,’ Natalie read from her leaflet. She continued to read, silently, before putting the leaflet on the ground. ‘He was a Torres Strait Islander. I don’t think they allow pictorial representation during the mourning period.’
She picked up her leaflet and we read on in silence.
It seemed Eddie Mabo and four other claimants contested ownership of Mer Island in the Torres Strait on behalf of the Merian people. They took the action before the High Court of Australia way back in May, 1982. Success could spark other land-rights claims not just by Torres Strait Islanders but Aboriginals throughout Australia as well. The decision was to come down later that year. Poor Eddie, after 10 years of fighting the Man, he died, maybe a few short months before the outcome.
The brochure went on to have some stuff about ‘terra nullius’ which I skipped to read his bio.
In one part it said Eddie Mabo was president of the Yumba Meta housing co-operative which bought houses throughout the Townsville area so Aboriginal and Islander people could live in any suburb they chose. This broke down the barriers of Black suburbs, Australia’s unofficial apartheid.
I put the leaflet aside to think about something else. Earlier that month, on January 11, 1992, Paul Simon was the first major recording artist to play South Africa after the lifting of the cultural boycott of that apartheid nation. Nelson Mandela of the African National Congress and South African president F.W. de Klerk were in discussions about ending apartheid. The lifting of the UN ban was encouragement of fruitful discussions.
What was kind of weird about Simon rushing to play was he had been accused years before of breaking the ban, a charge he denied.
The UN ban was passed in 1980 though the British Musos’ Union had a bar on touring South Africa for more than a decade before that.
In 1984, Queen broke both bans by playing a series of gigs at Sun City in South Africa. Sun City was a casino resort which held more than 6000 people in one concert venue.
Sun City was a funny one. It was in South Africa but it wasn’t. The republic of Bophuthatswana was given independence as a ‘homeland’ for the Tswana people because South Africa looked after its minorities unlike those hypocritical western countries such as the U.S., England and Australia which bagged apartheid. At least, that was how the ruling White elite of South Africa saw it.
Another funny thing about Sun City was, because it was independent, it allowed casinos and topless dancers, both illegal in the righteous Republic of South Africa. Sun City was only a two-hour drive from the Big City of Johannesburg. Buses travelled from Jo’burg to the casino resort. The Big Smoke of Pretoria was even closer to Sun City.
Queen went to Sun City and the Big Bopper of the world’s street press, London’s NME, canned the band mercilessly for it. Queen’s guitar genius Brian May mumbled something about the band not being political and playing for anyone who wanted to listen. But most of us thought they had taken the money and flew over. We rock punters can be very unkind.
Maybe Paul Simon did not read NME. The next year, he travelled to South Africa to hook up with Black African musicians such as Ladysmith Black Mambazo for his planned album, eventually a triumph called Graceland. None of his fellow musicians doubted that Simon’s intentions were good but he had clearly infringed the boycott. His excuse that he didn’t play Sun City (or anywhere else) was lamer than May’s.
The next year, 1986, Steven Van Zandt, formerly of the E-Street Band, put together 50 artists for the protest anthem, Sun City. Van Zandt did not invite Queen or Simon but otherwise it was a group from Alternative/ Crossover Heaven.
Australian Peter Garrett of Midnight Oil was in that number as were Bob Dylan, Bonnie Raitt, jazzmen Herbie Hancock and Miles Davis, hip hop outfit Run DMC, DJ Afrika Bambaataa, Pat Benatar, Lou Reed, Peter Gabriel, metal-heads Motley Crue, Jackson Browne, Tom Petty, U2, Darlene Love, Keith Richards, reggae lad Jimmy Cliff, Pete Townshend of the Who, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Geldof, and Joey Ramone.
The chorus of I ain’t gonna play Sun City reverberated around the world. So it was kinda weird that Paul Simon was the first major artist to play Sun City, post boycott in 1992.
I felt a nudge in my side. ‘Whatcha thinking about?’ Natalie asked.
I looked at the leaflet in my hand. ‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘I hope Eddie Mabo wins his case,’ Natalie said. ‘That terra nullius is the stupidest thing I ever heard.’
‘I didn’t read that bit. It means nothing country, doesn’t it? A bit insulting.’
‘It means ‘land belonging to no one’ and it’s the reason Eddie is being denied justice.’
‘I thought Aboriginals and Islanders believe they are part of the land.’
‘That’s not a concept under British law. They are saying because
Aboriginals were nomadic they didn’t own any particular part of Australia before the invasion,’ Natalie said.
‘I wouldn’t have thought Torres Strait Islanders would be particularly nomadic.’
‘That’s not the point, Steele. Terra nullius is just bullshit. Who do you think will win?’
‘Nat, the authorities have been stringing it out for 10 years. I reckon they will just bumble along until all the claimants are dead.’
‘I hope not.’
‘So do I Nat.’
I thought about Paul Simon and the decisions he made. ‘Nat, do you think we are just a pair of do-gooders?’
She spoke softly. ‘No-one thinks you are a do-gooder, Steele.
I kissed her on the side of her cheek. ‘Thanks, Nat.’

THE High Court of Australia, on June 3 1992, overturned the legal doctrine of terra nullius and found the island of Mer belonged to the Merian people.

Thursday, 27 April 2017

Actors don the cloak of madness

Beenleigh Theatre Group presents Cosi, a play by Louis Nowra
Review by Bernie Dowling

THE comedy Cosi is a very funny play and in the capable hands of the 
ensemble company of Beenleigh Theatre Group, the humour abounded at Saturday’s matinee to satisfy a vocally appreciative audience.
It is 23 years since I saw Cosi at La Boite Theatre in Brisbane but the Beenleigh performance reminded me how uneasy I was about some aspects of the play. But more on that later.
Let’s concentrate on the laughs.

Monday, 3 April 2017

Location in the ‘noir’ crime novel

Me at Pine Rivers Art Gallery, a fantastic place in all meanings of the word

I USUALLY don’t prepare anything for my book launches. I just wing it. But I did prepare a speech for the launch of Iraqi Icicle Third Edition at Pine Rivers Art Gallery on April 1. I even gave what was a verbal essay a title . . .

Friday, 31 March 2017

The Importance of Being Edited

My guest blogger is Katie Dowling who is interviewing me which sounds pretty weird so I will let Katie take over.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Bernie from Bent Banana Books, who has been on both sides of the equation when it comes to editing and being edited. 

Q: What does it feel like to have your 'babies' held under the spotlight?

Wednesday, 6 July 2016

Short story about Hanson

Pauline Hanson is back so it’s time for the return of my story
Prince of Wales Hotel, Nundah, Brisbane, March, 1996
A MAN’S voice from behind me whispered four numbers in my ear. I turned around to see a short Asian man, neatly though casually dressed in a blue polo shirt and brown slacks. He repeated the four numbers.
‘That’s what I thought,’ I said and echoed the numbers.
He nodded. ‘Take them in the quinella and the trifecta.’
I retreated to a far corner of the PubTAB, turning to nod slightly at him. Lonely people, usually blokes, approach strangers in a betting agency to discuss the chances in the next race. He had made no effort to follow me.
His tips ran 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 10th. I did the math. If I had bet one unit on a box quinella and a half-unit on a box trifecta, I would have collected $1900 and change for an outlay of $18. I looked across at him and his face held no expression apart from a hint of sorrow.
He was beside me again five races later, minutes before a Brisbane event. Four more numbers he gave me, again for the quinella and trifecta.
‘Thanks,’ I said and made other wagers which lost. His numbers had won again. This time my collect would have been $1450 or so on $18 of bets. I sought him out.
‘You must be going well.’
His face was blank. ‘I cannot afford to bet. The next race won’t work out. I will tell you when.’
Taking tips from a man who can’t afford to bet is pretty dumb, but I did, anyway, when next he tapped me on the shoulder. I missed out on the trifecta where you need to back 1st, 2nd and 3rd in the right order. The best three of his four horses ran 1st, 2nd and 5th, instead of 3rd. I collected $82 on the quinella ─ backing 1st and 2nd in either order ─ for a win of more than $60.
I offered to buy him a beer and he took lemonade instead before we perched on adjacent bar stools. We introduced one another. I was Steele Hill. He was Mat bin Wardi. He was a 39-year-old from Malaysia. I was not interested in much of that. ‘Too bad, you are short of a dollar when your luck’s running hot, Mat.’
He sipped his lemonade. ‘I have money but not for gambling.’
‘You could have had a lot more,’ I said. He was a rare punter without regrets, could’ves and should’ves, we gamblers call them. The traditional riposte to should’ve-ers is ‘if me Aunty had balls’. The rest of the admonition ‘she’d be me Uncle’ is left understood. Mat was no should’v-er.
‘I only need what I have ─ $10,000 and enough to live on for two months.’
I looked for eavesdroppers. ‘I wouldn’t mention ten grand too loudly. That sort of dough makes some people do nasty things.’
He had already pledged the big money. ‘It’s for the Racing Minister.’
I imagined why Mat would give the Queensland Racing Minister 10 large but I came up empty. ‘See you later,’ I said and walked over to study the form sheet stuck to the wall.
He tipped me another quinella on the last race in Brisbane, $115 collect this time, but no buckets of gold from that elusive trifecta. It was time to go home, have dinner and maybe hit the Hendra TAB for the night’s trotting races.
I saw him walking down the footpath off Sandgate Rd in the opposite direction to where I was heading. I swung the EH around and pulled up beside him. ‘Wanna lift?’
He pointed down the footpath. ‘I can walk to Aspley.’
I suppose he could. ‘Bother, that’s gotta be seven or eight kilometres. Hop in.’
He put comfort ahead of self-reliance. ‘Thank you, Mr Hill.’
‘It’s Steele, and, if you’re worried you told me about that 10 grand, I’ll drop you near your place.’
‘Ten grand? Drop me?’ 
‘Let you off. She’s a tough old emu, our version of the English language.’
He laughed. ‘I love it. It’s just like Australia. Free.’
He gave me directions to the Aspley Caravan Park. We pulled up beside his rented van.
‘Would you like an early dinner?’ he said. He saw my look which pondered whether he could afford to shout. ‘Nothing special but tasty,’ he said.
We entered the van and he flicked on the tiny screen of a television set perched on a round cane table. ‘The six o’clock news will be on soon,’ he explained.
We had rice, pieces of fish and vegetables with both chilli and soy sauces ─ tasty indeed.
We talked; mostly he did, over dinner. Mat bin Wardi had been in Australia for fourteen months. He was a medical registrar in Malaysia and his wife was a nurse. Their two teenage children were in high school. By national standards, the family was doing all right. Middle class, he said. Asian stiffs, I thought.
It was the usual story. The kids have to do better than us. Take them to Australia to study medicine. Happily ever after, I think that’s how it finishes. You’ve probably seen the movie.
He interrupted himself when the news bulletin started. He turned up the volume on the television. I continued to eat and waited for him to re-kick his bio into action.
Both parents tried for permanent residence in the free Land of Oz, as a couple and as individuals. No go, they had preferred occupations but other things were not quite right. Mat came over alone on a 12-month visa to find work and sponsors. He found little of the first and none of the second.
A news item made him leap to his feet and point at the screen. ‘That’s her.’
I looked up to see a 40-something red-haired woman I had never seen before, but I watch little television.
Mat was winding himself up and the words flew from his mouth. Her name was Pauline Hanson. She had been kicked out of the Liberal Party for saying illiberal things about Asian immigration into Australia. She was still running for the Federal election as an independent. She owned a fish and chip shop. Sounded pretty mundane stuff to me – Mr and Mrs Bigot and the Bigot kiddies having a whinge around the barbie.
One aspect was a little strange and I asked about it. ‘Is it relevant she owns a fish and chip shop?’
‘No, I bought the fish we are eating from there and it reminded me I had read it.’
‘You bought fish and chips from Pauline Hanson’s shop? Did she serve you?’
‘Not from her shop which is way out in Ipswich. From a fish shop near here. I asked what sort of fish they had and the man said cod or whiting but they were out of whiting. I ordered a codpiece and chips. In Malaysian markets you can choose from many species of fish. I ate the chips at lunchtime with the batter I cut from the codpiece which we are now eating.’
‘Delicious,’ I declared, thinking Mat must have heard someone in front of him order a piece of cod and chips. His version of the order was close enough not to need correcting. He continued with his story of trying to bring the family to the Great Southern Land of Opportunity. Mat was desperate.
Can you adam-and-eve his luck? He met a man in a PubTAB. His new friend would see the Queensland Racing Minister, and, 10,000 of Mat’s dollars later, he would have permanent residence. Can you adam-and-eve it? Can you believe it?
I could see no point in explaining immigration was a Federal not a state responsibility. The best thing I could do for Mat was to meet this politically connected hustler about to relieve the would-be New Aussie of 10K. I changed the subject to his racing system.
Mat bin Wardi was using numerology to pick the placegetters in races. Certain numbers are connected. More than that, they are the same number, only different. When that number, or series of four numbers, which are actually the one number, will come up is determined by previous results. I know it sounds complicated but it is reasonably straight forward when an Asian numerologist such as Mat explains it.
You are probably saying it is all hoodoo-guru-voodoo tripe and I agree. But I still win on the system from time to time, so I am not sharing any more details, in case you follow the system and erode my winnings.
We finished dinner and I wrote down my phone number in case Mat wanted a lift to a TAB.
I tried his system on the horses over the next month. Sometimes, I used just Mat’s numbers. Other times, I mixed his numbers with my own scientific selections. During the third week, I finally cracked the trifecta, a $2500 collect at the Mooney Valley trots. I lost half my winnings during the next week. Betting on the greyhounds from home on a Thursday night, I received the call. The bloke who knew the Racing Minister had disappeared along with Mat’s $10,000. Mat was skint and needed unemployment benefit. Could I help? We met the next day at the Prince of Wales pub. He looked spent and I asked him if he had walked. He denied it.
He explained why he needed my help. ‘I have no money to pay anyone to get me unemployment relief and I don’t know how to do it any other way,’ he said.
I promised to ring someone. Sexy ambitious public servant Cassie Billings had almost got me killed five years earlier. She owed me. The Nundah dole office told me still-20-something go-getter Cassie had moved to head office. I phoned her there.
She remembered me. ‘Oh, right, you’re the beno I exchanged tongues with a while back on the top floor of our building.’ I was glad I was memorable for my speaking in tongues.
Five years on, I was again sucked into a verbal joust with Cassie Billings. ‘Cassie, I thought you weren’t allowed to use the b-word as in beno for unemployment beneficiary.’
She seemed to be sucking on a lollipop or a biro while she spoke. ‘I’ve made a unilateral exception for a spunky beno like you. How you doing?’
I was owed, that’s how I was doing. ‘You almost got me killed.’
She made a sympathetic sound in her throat. ‘Almost, as in you’re still alive. How can I help you?’
I explained about Mat. She said she expected a more exciting request but she would post the application and identity forms. She could not process the forms herself. She would line Mat up with a Chermside assessor who would play nice. ‘Jamie Harris, remember that name; he’s kosher.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering what kosher meant in public-servant speak apart from consuming too much American culture.
The forms arrived in the post below a With Compliments slip. ‘Call me, Sweetie,’ Cassie Billings had written on the with-comps. I wrote ‘why would I call you Sweetie?’ below her message before I decided the jest was lame. I binned the note.
Mat and I went through his caravan looking for all the items you need to make up the points for identity. We came up a little shy so I rang people I know in the industries of printing and forgery.
Within a few days, Mat’s proof of identity was sweet. We even had a notice of termination of employment and a glowing reference, both courtesy of my illegal bookmaker mate, Con Vitalis. It seemed Vitalis also had a lawful business in office supplies. That sideline business existed only on very convincing paper.
I coached Mat to be respectful but not too nervous when he applied for the dole. He needed to ring beforehand and make sure he would be interviewed by Jamie Harris. Mat was to mention Cassie Billings. If Harris did not respond positively, we would have a re-think.
Mat attained his interview with Mr Harris. Mat said it appeared to go well. Harris asked about his other work besides his stint in office supplies. Mat answered truthfully about his lowly paid back-breaking farm work of vegetable picking, north of Brisbane. Harris asked about his family in Malaysia. The public servant appreciated Mat’s fervent wish to earn enough to bring them all to Australia, the land of the free. Harris said Matt should have his first cheque in the mail in three weeks.
He waited three weeks and nothing turned up. Another week passed and still nothing. Mat asked me what to do and I was unsure. We decided to wait another week.
Two days later, it was I who received a phone call from Jamie Harris. He wanted to see me at the Chermside unemployment office.
Harris was in his late 20s, of average height and skinny. He wore all black from top to toe, including long black hair in a ponytail. He spoke in a deep warm voice. ‘Come in, Steele. You’re quite a character from what Cassie Billings tells me.’ He guided me to a seat at a desk opposite him in a private cubicle.
We spoke about the weather. We talked about Cassie Billings. The conversation moved to music and he was in a bluegrass band. ‘You should come see us play. I will put you down for one-plus-one on the door.’ I thanked him for the offer of two free tickets to a gig. After that, we were down to business.
He asked me how I knew Mat bin Wardi. I was figuring the odds and decided a half-truth was the way to go. I would sort of say we met at the TAB. ‘We both turned up for work at the same place.’ He guessed the end of the tale. ‘No luck with the work, ay?’ I shook my head.
‘Not that day, no.’
He looked down at the desk in embarrassment but raised his head with a smile. ‘It is going to be Mat’s lucky day, today. He is a good bloke. I worked in a country office for a few years. Like Mat, I did a bit of vegetable harvesting to raise a few extra shekels as pub gigs in the bush pay shit.’
I nodded in agreement, knowing, for most bands, pub gigs pay shit, city or country.
His expression became more serious, but still friendly. ‘The thing is, I did not wish to worry Mat, but my superior is holding up the application. I tell you; three times I’ve tried to hide it under her nose by slipping it among straight-forward payments. She has caught me out every time.’ Harris tapped his own nose twice, with a finger, as if that meant something to me.
I felt my own index finger move towards my nose but I retracted it, not seeing value in exchanging obscure signals. ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.
He shook his head and waved his arms to show he had no problem with Mat or me. ‘He forgot to put in his passport. Mat has sufficient identification, but in cases like his, we need to see his passport.’
‘Is that it?’ I said. ‘Mat just has to bring his passport in and you will give him a counter cheque.’
He gave me a vigorous thumbs-up. ‘That’s it. You can even bring the passport in for him. I’ll photocopy it and phone you, Steele, when Mat can come in for his cheque. He has absolutely nothing to worry about.’
I thanked him and said I would see Mat immediately and have the passport for copying within the hour.
Mat took some time to find his passport. I asked him why he had not thought of it when we put his identity together. He said he did not know. ‘I give you my passport and I will get paid, Steele? And you’ll bring it back straight away.’
I laughed at Mat’s worrying nature and at his relief when I brought the passport back within 45 minutes.
Immigration officials came for him, two days later.
They worked fast and said he would be on the plane to Malaysia within two months, after they had interviewed him thoroughly.
They allowed me to visit him in his detention cell. It was funny. He was the calmest I had seen him. ‘It’s not your fault, Steele. I should have told you why I did not want to give you my passport when we first looked for identity documents. You tried to help me, but you were too trusting. It’s not your fault. Your personality is in the numbers. We are friends. When I come back to Australia, I will meet you at the Prince of Wales.’
I said I’d like that.
I rang the bluegrass man. Harris said it was nothing personal but the Australian ecosystem needed zero population growth. ‘It is all our land can sustain,’ he said.
I asked him about the rigmarole of calling me into his office and making me get Mat’s passport.
‘You won’t help another one of them, after this,’ he said and hung up.
Another one of them, the phrase rang in my ear.
PAULINE Hanson was elected to Federal parliament before Mat was deported. I took a little more interest in politics after that and asked Gooroo to send me a copy of her maiden speech.
She was still banging on about her favourite sore points. ‘I believe we are in danger of being swamped by Asians. They have their own culture and religion, form ghettos and do not assimilate.
‘If I can invite whom I want into my home, then I should have the right to have a say into who comes into my country.’ She said her views were based on ‘common-sense and my experience as a mother of four children and as a businesswoman running a fish and chip shop’.

Pauline Hanson

Saturday, 2 January 2016

Gore Vidal lives to fight another day

Thieves Fall Out
By Gore Vidal as Cameron Kay
Review by Bernie Dowling
GORE Vidal biographer Jay Parini reckons Hard Case Crime has done the world a disservice by publishing this 1953 pulp novel written under a pseudonym. Hard Case claims to have discovered a lost novel by Vidal but that’s a bit of a stretch because the author expressly forbade its reprint during his lifetime. Wisely so,
       Like Phillip Marlowe’s manners, Thieves Fall Out is pretty bad. Bland is the best word to describe the finished product which even the publisher concedes was cobbled together from the pages of tabloid newspapers. Vidal biographer Parini, writing in the Guardian, says the author would have turned this novel out in a few weeks. It shows.


THE main protagonist Peter Wells is not seedy nor desperate nor quippish enough for good noir. For Pete’s sake, Vidal calls him Pete for most of the novel. A Pete does not have his life constantly in jeopardy and does not win the femme fatale. Speaking of femme fatale, Helene with accents above the first two e’s does not evoke Bacall or Ida Lupino and her English henchman fails to channel a sinister whisper of Sidney Greenstreet.

BUT there are elements of interest within the novel well worth the investment of US$1.44 which secured me the eBook from Amazon.

OF course you could pay $60 for one of the  second-hand copies of the pulp original. What I do not understand is why the original would have the words “not a reprint” on the front cover. As always, buyer beware.


Vidal in 1948

THE background to Vidal writing Thieves Fall Out was his effective blacklisting by publishers and critics after his 1948 novel The City and the Pillar had a central homosexual relationship, not portrayed with the homophobia required of mainstream literature.
       Spurned by the literary establishment, Vidal put out three crime pulps under the name Edgar Box and they proved quite lucrative. Vidal thought enough of them to lend his real name to reprints (1978, as a box set actually.)

 VIDAL thought little enough of Thieves Fall Out to suppress its reprint under any name.
Given the hostility to The City and the Pillar, you have to wonder why Vidal chose to make one of the deadliest villains a homosexual. The man tries to rape Pete who also learns that homosexuality was rife in the Arab world. I doubt if Vidal researched this. It certainly presents in the novel as stereotyping, an essential element of homophobia. 

WITH the release of the Jay Parini biography, there will be comment on whether Vidal was a self-loathing gay though such discussions, whether based on race, religion or sexuality, soon become entangled. It is quite feasible that Vidal, knowing that homophobia was a staple of pulp fiction, cast his nemesis in that role as an acerbic reflection of the establishment reaction  against The City and the Pillar.
       Vidal appears respectful of the Moslem (sic in the novel) religion. 
       The ban on alcohol and the use of hashish are both mentioned. Vidal uses the word courier in reference to drugs. I wonder if this was  in the 1953 original or whether it was a re-edit. The book could have done with a preface explaining if there were re-edits. An epilogue explaining the genesis of the novel and the politics in Egypt would also have been handy. 


Hedonist King Farouk 1948

THE novel is set in the time (1952) of the military overthrow, with the help of the CIA, of the Egyptian ruler King Farouk. Vidal depicts Farouk as a womaniser and a Nazi sympathiser both of which were undoubtedly true. He also paints him as a tyrant which is less provable but he only vaguely alludes to his extravagant lifestyle which led to Farouk's loss of popularity. 
       I was hoping Farouk would re-enter the novel towards the end. Alas not, we only see the King in a cameo at the beginning when he struts his stuff on the dance floor. 
       Vidal will be remembered for his historical novels Julian, Washington D.C., Burr and Lincoln among a body of work which included essays, plays and screenplays. Thieves Fall Out is not among his serious historical-fiction.
       I would certainly encourage anyone interested to buy the eBook. To my mind further expense to read this pulp novella of seven chapters would be foolish.

Warning: it contains racism and obscenities.