IN ANOTHER of my novels EXXXPRESSO I went for an Elmore Leonard feel which I thought was perfect for the lighter tone of fuck-up criminality and romance for a group of misfits in Perth and Kalgoorlie. It's very important with novels to set the tone early, so here's what I went with as the opening:

EXXXPRESSO
A gun, even a nine-millimetre pistol, was a lot fucking heavier than you thought. Especially if you had to keep it level, trained on a small glass rectangle like Guthrie had these past fifteen minutes or so. In fact, how long had it been?
"Time?"
He snapped the word off the way a rich bastard snaps a fiver off the top of a roll for a go-fetcher, a valet, that sort of person.
"Six fifty-seven"
Joel's whisper crept over Guthrie's shoulder heavy and slow as an elephant's foot.
Yea. That's right, Joel was with him up front. Wade was guarding the back door just in case The Dutchman broke his pattern and came in that way. It was amazing how difficult it was to concentrate when you were so naturally buzzing.
6.57
Guthrie pulled that info back through his brain like a fish and chip man trawling hot fat for a stray chip.
6.57
That made it about twenty minutes since they'd picked the back door lock and snuck through to this spot. The reception hall he figured you'd call it. Guthrie laughed at that. The irony of it.
Reception. Yeah, one fucking reception he was going to get alright. His brocaded vest which he knew was too small but which he liked anyway because it was the sort of thing Mick Jagger would wear, stretched with the laughter.
He felt good. This was right. This was the correcto mundo way to go. His blood told him that. When the ripple of laughter stopped, like a horse you backed that was leading right up to the shadows of the post, getting the staggers as you will it onto victory, his mood quickly grew dark and angry.
That shouldn't happen. Not in this day and age. Happiness should be permanent.
But there you are, one second you are congratulating yourself on your smarts ready to smell the money right out of the bookie's bag, next thing you get this uneasy feeling.
You can't even say which particular horse it is but you know something is swooping late, ready to destroy your plans.
That uneasy feeling was what had killed his laughter. He didn't like the fact it had snuck into his brain. Now of all times. Like some burp building in the middle of a pash with a hot piece of snatch, He snapped his fingers, threw out his palm to Joel.
"More" Joel didn't respond. Guthrie had Joel's number. Joel thought he was eating too much of these pills. As if joel had any fucking say in it. Fucking hired help. Who did they think they were? Wade was no better. The pair of them had been nothing but monkeys in bow ties when Guthrie had given them the opportunity to join his growing operation in important, proactive capacities. Guhtrie held his hand out behind him until he felt Joel put two of the small tabs in his palm.
"That's the last" The slow voice again, begrudging. "Maybe he's not coming?"
To Guthrie's ear, Joel sounding almost wishful at the prospect. Like he didn't have the bottle for this. Maybe he didn't? Maybe Guthrie himself was the only one who cared if The Dutchman ate up the operation or not? After all,it was his business.
These guys were just employees, clocking on and off, using the home gym he'd set up for them. Not bloodsuckers exactly but hardly what you'd call motivated. Or dedicated.
Not like those Japs. They treated their employer with respect.
Maybe he should look elsewhere? Get some Vietnamese?
No, those bastards were too motivated. Stab him in the back the moment he looked the other way. No, what he needed was something between the Gooks' ruthless ambition and these lazy steroid junkies. "Maybe he's not coming" What sort of negative shit was that? He didn't need negative shit. "He's coming."

In CITY OF LIGHT some of the protagonists bear a passing resemblance to those who brought the America's Cup to Fremantle. Who can forget that heady time? Here's my tribute, which I penned to the post 83 cup fervour.

(Dave recites)
AUSTRALIA TWO
That September when we watched the sleek-hulled pride of Australia
Humble the Yanks and make Connor a failure
How our voices rose as one cross the breadth of a nation
Cans zipped, stubbies sipped, champagne corks popped in celebration
But as our first minister luridly dressed, blest the quest and its happy completion
We felt the deflation the frustration that we could not grant this joy its true consummation.
Then into this tempest of despair blew a positive air: somewhere in our midst was the object, the vessel, the sacred ship.
A prize for the man who followed it through
He'd win the hand of Australia 2
Like water through a holed hull we gushed
I and ten thousand others joining the crush
As we scanned for a sign of that virgin yacht
From harbour to sandhill to city block
Till by fate was I led to a revelling bar
Where big bosomed women with thighs ajar
Swung upside down singing national songs
Wearing naught but spangly bikinis and thongs.
One former flapper, floppy and fat
Conducted the choir with Bradman's bat
Sailors, salesmen, welders and builders
Turned red noses skywards sung Waltzing Matilda
Eagerly straining with the rivers of piss
That flowed earthwards from these harpies' lips
And it marked as a man he who could catch
In his mouth the stream that flowed from their thatch
Drunk on this communal brew
I turned I froze I examined the mirror
That held the visage of the marine Madonna, serenely sipping slipped away from her crew
I sidled up to Australia 2
Her sleek skin gleamed with a radiant glow
And her fair hair shone on its Kevlar bows
She asked me how did I find her?
Dropped a shoulder revealing a starboard grinder
I trembling, around it placed my hand
Felt her ballast shift, YES, I was the man
The fortunate, chosen one privileged one who
Would join the loins of Australia 2
With the spirited gum of his personal glue.
She heeled pointing high I kissed he salt face
She invited me to a percolated coffee at her place
Well, what a monument to national fervour
From the white-gum chairs to the kangaroo berber
Men at Work on the stereo Mike Walsh on the ceiling
Authentic sunburned coloured walls zinc-creamed and self peeling
Colonnades shaped like Bondi lifesavers
Supporting a cupola with a mural of Laver
Nolan sketches Bert Bryant tips ripped and trapped in the floorboards
Each etched with the features of a true Aussie warlord
Gumless Graham, sleeveless Hoges, Gormless Gunston
And in the wardrobe Lillee's sweat-caked headband,
Molly's head band's head job
Snapped freeze-framed behind Newcomb's winning Wimbledon lob
To a soft lit chamber was I led
And placed in a beer bottle shaped water bed
Where beneath the doona from Koala Blue
I fondled the stern of Australia 2
Ah, ecstasy words cannot grasp
The pleasures my hands did when they held the brass
Of my sweet sensitive companion's
Glamorous, glabrous, stays and stanchions
My fingers crawled up inside her spinnaker unfastened the kite
Held fast I my lips to the precious ship's side
And my loins surged
There was but one space to conquer
She read my thoughts swayed and weighed anchor
She presented it to me, she coyly revealed
The mystic, magnificent, wings of her keel.
What had taken Ben Lexen so long to originate
I strove and drove and thrust to invaginate
To me had fallen the task to anoint
That arcane perfect pleasure point
And though sharp polyps slashed at my genitals
Yet I would not halt my nuptial ritual
And no barnacled bar would prevent me anew
From repeating that beat with Australia 2
No I could not resist the wooing and wedding
The kissing and cuddling the crewing and bedding
And no barnacled bar would prevent me anew
From repeating that beat with Australia 2
For I fastened my name to history with glue
The night I fucked Australia 2.

Three years before we won the America's Cup in March 1980 I was on holiday in Crete the weather was overcast and cool and I came to read a lot of Agatha Christie which I found in the second hand bin at the seed merchant's who doubled as everything. I came to love the clue puzzle murders of Agatha, the master crime writer. As a kid I had loved Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, and also in my TV watching days as a kid 77 Sunset Strip and Burke's Law – both detective series with a light touch. I tried to bring all these elements together in my comic detective series of Lizard Zirk. The idea was to have an Agatha Christie style cluepuzzle which worked on all the correct crime solving parameters but which also was an ongoing romance series or at least sexual tension series with the Holmes and Watson characters, Lizard Zirk, pompous retired rock musician, and Fleur his sexy, nature girl chauffeur chasing down murderers among the rich and famous.

MURDER IN THE OFFSEASON
Fleur woke to find Zirk's bed empty. She was laying on her stomach on top of her sheets, the long t-shirt she slept in having risen up so that her naked bum was on display to the world. Ridiculous, but she still felt a twinge of embarrassment. Zirk could hardly have missed it. She'd been lulled by the champagne.
That was the problem. She'd brought with her a lovely little camisole and knickers to prevent this very eventuality. The trouble was, last night, by the time she'd got out of the bathroom, Zirk was already in his bed, flat on his back asleep. The light had been off and she was disinclined to switch it on just to locate the bag where she'd put her nightclothes. Zirk, she presumed had slept naked as usual. She had seen him in the buff several times before.
Still, that was different. Barging into a bathroom or a bedroom, or the cabin of a boat to find somebody naked, somehow wasn't quite the same thing as sharing a room with them knowing they were naked. It was the bed thing. That added a whole other, nuance. It made it a sexual thing. Or could have done.
The players' partying had carried on for some hours. Intermittently she'd wake to hear a chorus of drunken men singing along I Should Be So Lucky or Moving On Up before dropping back to sleep.
She idly wondered now about Jacinta and Sarah. Had they been foolish enough to sleep with any of them? She checked the time. After 8.00. A swim in the pool would wake her up. She had just reached up to pull the T-shirt over her head when the door was flung open.
"Good look." Zirk's voice.
She dropped the T-shirt back down. He was standing there in his bathers dripping on the floor.
"Oh great." It was all she could think of saying.
"You've got a wonderful body. No point being embarrassed."
"Thanks. I'll put that in resume for Playboy."
"Pool's terrific."
"I was just about to slip into my bathers."
"Don't let me stop you."
He'd started ferreting in the fridge. Stopped when he noted she hadn't moved.
"I have seen naked women before."
"Not me."
He demurred, unscrewed the top of a tomato juice.
"Actually, you know, that T-shirt rides up a little…"
Before he could utter another word, she stepped into the bathroom where she slipped on her bikini. When she emerged, he gave her a nod of approval.
"Should I wait for you for breakfast?"
She grabbed a towel. "Don't put yourself out."

One thing about novels is that you get to write any character you want and so in MURDER IN THE OFFSEASON I had great delight in spending time developing Gustay the resort owner. Initially I'd created Gustay as a chance to be a suspect but in the end I couldn't resist the comic possibilities of this loveable entrepreneur:

He couldn't help himself, Gustay was excited. Scared but excited. What if there was shooting though? Damage. No, even so, he couldn't turn his back on this feeling. It was terrifying, yet thrilling, all at the same time. Mr Zirk had told him what to expect, well, more or less. He'd also been very encouraging with his talk of front page news in all the Australian papers. "But that is news I don't need, Mr Zirk," Gustay had said mournfully. "Nonsense," Mr Zirk had said. Brushing it off like an unwanted insect was sitting on the back of his hand. "There is no such thing as bad publicity Gustay. Look at Monica Lewinsky. The Viper Room. Think of all the photos of the Village that will make the papers in Australia. Not just little travel papers, Gustay, I'm talking daily, high circulation papers. Europe too. Tudor was sought after by English clubs. Greek clubs too. Think of the shot of the pool "Where Greg Tudor Drowned", it will look like it goes on forever. Commuters from Reading, on their way to London, will be standing in a crowded train, their noses shoved into the newspaper of the person opposite. And what will that newspaper show? Your pool. A dream. A life away from where they are." Gustay wanted to believe but he couldn't quite summon the faith. He thought people might find the idea of planning a holiday around a death pool, he had searched for the word, morbid. "No. No. Only at first. In six months time when the holiday season comes, the name Ulambor Village will be wedged into the back of their minds. They won't remember how it got there but they'll remember it. Maybe even have an image of your beautiful big pool. And they'll say, "I've heard of that place." And they'll assume they've heard of it because it was made of rock airlifted from the pyramids, or because famous rock stars got married there." By this time Gustay had been swinging nicely to Mr Zirk's tune. Zirk had gone over what was required of him a couple more times and Gustay had got it down pat. It was going to be terrific! For a few moments Gustay allowed his visions to carry him away. They were the QE2; powerful, luxurious, pushing aside the petty concerns of the world the way the big powerful liner slid through oceans. On the world's biggest billboards, atop all the world's major departure terminals - LAX, O'Hare, Kennedy, Mascot, Heathrow, Hong Kong - he saw a giant photo taking up the whole forty metres of the billboard, showing him with arms stretched enormously wide, shot with one of those distorting lens cameras. A slogan, "ULAMBOR VILLAGE - OUR WELCOME IS THIS BIG", in several languages, would dance across the poster. It would be the last thing passengers saw before their plane lifted off. And then, at the arrival terminals of those same airports, another giant forty metre billboard would welcome passengers, this time showing a photo of the pool in its actual size. And the slogan would read, "BECAUSE OUR POOL IS THIS BIG." Oh yes, would that work a wonder! Soon he'd be booked here fifty-two weeks a year. Every room. He would expand. Lombok, Denpassar, Kuta, Sanur - maybe even take over the old Bali Beach? Why not. Presidents would stay there. More scandal would no doubt ensue, which would mean more publicity, more tourists!!! It was Sui that that threw the mighty ship's propellers full astern. His face materialised somewhere between the fore and aft funnel stack. His mouth made words that were lost initially in the churning turbines. Then Gustay rallied and made out what his boatswain was saying. "They're ready, Sir."

In BIG BAD BLOOD, RAY SHEARER the anti-hero is a bagman for a big SP bookie and you would have picked up the horse racing reference in EXXXPRESSO. Around the Red Laminex table and in my grandparents flat in Fremantle there was always a form guide handy and my ears rang with exotic names like RIVER SEINE, LORD FURY, ROYAL SOVEREIGN, TOBIN BRONZE. The names of racehorses. Horseracing is part of Australian culture and I wrote a little book HORSE RACING'S HALL OF SHAME which recounts many tales of malfeasance. Here's one of my favourites:

Punter and owner Fred Angles planned a coup and wanted to keep it as quiet as possible. On the day before the race only Angles, his trainer and jockey knew he planned to wager a vast sum on his horse. At the last moment, Angles decided that there was no need for the trainer to know so he told him that the big bet was off. He then informed the jockey to win anyway. The jockey did his bit, the horse bolted in and Angles was delighted. But his jubilation evaporated when the horse failed to weigh in correctly and was disqualified. Angles trainer confessed that he hadn't trusted the jockey to pull the horse so he had taken a lead weight out of the saddle bag to make sure the horse would be disqualified.

The other great element of Australian life is football. To me, football was an electric charge – watching it for the first time, playing it for the first time. With Martin Cilia here, I recently recorded for Sony Music 16 CDs, one for each of the AFL clubs. On each CD are a number of songs – club anthems, dance versions of the anthems and songs about players.
My favourite is a song called WHERE IS JACKIE MIOHCEK? Jackie Miohcek was a ruck rover in the 1970s who played about 13 games for Essendon. I remember seeing him play on the ABC show The Winners, and he was fantastic in this particular game. It led me to this song about how everybody has in them their 15 minutes of deserved fame, one instant where they are the star, and I wrote the song from the point of view of a fan who had never been committed to a footy club until they saw that game.

(Dave performs)
JACKIE MIHOCEK
Where is Jackie Mihocek?
You never hear about him yet
The reason I am red and black
Is down to Jackie Mihocek.
I was an uncommitted fan
Until one day I saw that man
Dashing fast and splitting packs
Where is Jackie Mihocek?
In every tribute on TV you'll see Whitten and Barassi
They'll replay Jesaulenko's mark
Manassa's dash right down the park
But all I ask
Is where is Jackie Mihocek?
Every player has at least
One game where greatness touches them
And maybe now looking back
'Twas such a game with Mihocek
Where is Jackie Mihocek?
You never hear about him yet
The reason I am red and black
Is down to Jackie Mihocek
In every tribute on TV you'll see Whitten and Barassi
They'll replay Jesaulenko's mark
Manassa's dash right down the park
But all I ask
Is where is Jackie Mihocek?

I wrote a book for FREMANTLE ARTS PRESS – FOOTY'S HALL OF SHAME, and in it there are many funny stories but here's a favourite. Jim Sewell (East Fremantle, Footscray) found himself acting as Mal Brown's runner in a state game. When the umpire made a series of decisions with which Browny disagreed, he sent Sewell out to tell the umpire he was a useless piece of &*^$%%.
"And I'll know whether you tell him or not" thundered Brown down the phone line. Sewell ran to the umpire and as instructed dutifully told him he was %^$%&*. The umpire coolly told Sewell that he would disregard the message this time but any repetition would lead to a report and possible fine for both coach and runner. Sewell got back to the bench and relayed this to Brown.
Things went okay for a while but then the umpire paid what in Brown's mind was another unjustified free kick resulting in a goal. Sewell prayed the phone wasn't going to ring. It rang. Brown was livid.
"Go out and tell that useless piece of %^$%^& that he's a useless piece of &^%$%&," thundered Brown. "You know what he warned," said Sewell trying to defuse the coach. "I know and I don't care, now get out there and tell him."
Sewell got off the bench and came jogging out. The umpire guessed what was coming, he waited in the centre refusing to bounce the ball until Sewell had made it all the way out. The panting Sewell reached the square, he saw the umpires set jaw the angry and determined countenance.
"Ump," said Sewell "he said it again."

Time moves on. State games no longer happen, the WAFL is a meaningless competition. Now the only real heat in a footy season is when the Dockers meet The Eagles.

(Dave performs)
THE EAGLES AND DOCKERS
Where the Indian Ocean laps the coast
Two mighty football teams each want to be the best
And they don't care about the rest
To them what matters most
Is to wear the crown
Of the Indian Ocean Coast
When the Eagles and Dockers stand toe to toe
Every heart at Subi beats to know which way the match will go
Who will take a screamer? Who is going to win?
So umpire get that ball aloft and let the game begin.
On this very soil champions past
Like Doig and Naylor, Cable, Farmer plied their art
And their spirit moves in every dash and every fiery clash
That determines the victor of the Indian Ocean match.
When the Eagles and Dockers stand toe to toe
Every heart at Subi beats to know which way the match will go
Who will take a screamer? Who is going to win?
So umpire get that ball aloft and let the game begin.
When the Eagles and Dockers stand toe to toe
Every heart at Subi beats to know which way the match will go
Who will take a screamer? Who is going to win?
So umpire get that ball aloft and let the game begin.
So umpire get that ball aloft and let the game begin.

What has happened to football, around the same time happened to music. In 1976 when I came back from a dying and decaying UK music scene this joint was jumping - Beagle Boys, Duck Soup, Loaded Dice were all packing them in but not with "our" music. I tried to change that by writing about the local and the political while keeping it fun and on a pop culture level people could relate to hence: Phantom.

(Dave performs)
PHANTOM
Deep in the jungle, deep in the jungle, deep in the jungle in the Bay of Bengal.
Ghost Who Walks strength of 10 tigers,
What you gonna do
If the MRPA builds a freeway through your skull cave
Where you gonna screw,
Diana and Guran?
Hey, Ghost Who Walks the Wambesi have gone commo,
The Llongo are no longer on your side
So if Charlie Court gets the jungle patrol after you
Where you gonna hide?
'Cause, all the little Pygmy Bandar people,
They want to shake your white man's rule,
They're taking tanks from Russia
In exchange for Diana's jewels
The capitalists are ripping out our jungle
The communists ripping out our brain
You're the only leader left now
Who is immortal and slightly sane.
Ghost Who Walks strength of 10 tigers
Leave your Bay of Bengal
Come to Perth where we've got the Edgeleys
And 2 pedestrian Malls
Ghost Who Walks strength of 10 tigers
I implore you
Come land a skull mark on Charlie's jaw
Before he progressides you
Ghost Who Walks strength of 10 tigers
Time's running out
The posters are already up in Moscow,
Poor pygmies terrorised by imperialist lout
You see, in the West They want your jungle and
In the East they want your blood
So get out quick while you still can
Before you find your name is mud
And, I know you'll just love Garden City
Though Devil might have to stay outside
Still Hero can become a police horse
Providing you teach him how to take a bribe
The capitalists are ripping out our jungle
The communists ripping out our brain
You're the only leader left now
Who is immortal and slightly sane.

Now the innocence and vitality of the pub scene has been replaced by soap packing - Delta, Guy Sebastian et al. In OLD GUITARS, a song Martin, Greg Macainsh and I wrote a decade ago, I yearn for a better time, a time of the Shents and the Subi and creativity.

(Dave performs)
OLD GUITARS
NO-ONE CARES ANYMORE ANYMORE
WE'RE JUST A BUNCH OF AGEING WHORES
PLY OUR TRADE ACROSS THE BOARDS
WITH CHORDS AND WORDS
YOU'VE HEARD SCORES OF TIMES BEFORE
WE'RE THE T-SHIRT NOUVEAU-RICHE
SEARCHING FOR OUR PRIDE AND NICHE
WE'RE AN OLD GUITAR
WAS A TIME I RECALL IN LOCAL HALLS
WHEN YOU MEN TOUCHED SOME MAGIC SPACE
SMALL AMP AND A CHEAP GUITAR
MAKE US TINGLE
MINGLING IN THE ATMOSPHERE
WE'RE THE SMILE ON MAGGIE MAY
THE CHALK MARKS WHERE JOHN LENNON LAY
WE'RE AN OLD GUITAR
OLD GUITARS NEVER LOSE THEIR HEART
THEY LOSE THEIR WAY AND FALL APART
BUT NOTHING ELSE REACHES THE STARS
LIKE THE SOUND OF OLD GUITARS
NO IDEAS ANYMORE ANYMORE
JUST SCISSORS SNIPPING OUT BEFORE
PASTING HISTORY INTO PLATINUM
NUMBING PASTRY TASTY FOR THE PLEBIANS
BACKGROUND FOR THE VIDEO
PLAYGROUND FOR OLD ROMEOS
TIME SOMEBODY LET YOU KNOW
STOP BELIEVING IN ME
NOW WE'RE THE T-SHIRT NOUVEAU-RICHE
SEARCHING FOR OUR PRIDE AND NICHE
WE'RE AN OLD GUITAR
OLD GUITARS NEVER LOSE THEIR HEART
THEY LOSE THEIR WAY AND FALL APART
BUT NOTHING ELSE REACHES THE STARS
LIKE THE SOUND OF OLD GUITARS
WE'RE NO VIBRANT YOUTHFUL FORCE
MARRIAGE OVER SWEET DIVORCE
FROM OUR OLD GUITARS

I'm sure I have outlasted my welcome with you but I hope this talk has all made sense. I will continue to write, to try and deliver unique personal visions across all genres. I still hope that I have some massive universal success but I guess that gets less and less likely with time. It's a problem I've wrestled with for years, since I first sat at the red laminex table with a pen in my hand, dreaming of being a famous writer who wrote about his own pathetic, mundane, suburban world. I think I summed it up best in this song.

JOHN ARLOTT MAKES ME CHUCKLE
John Arlott makes me chuckle
With his stories of the forties from the Oval
And her soft hand makes me giggle
As it tickles from the buckle to the navel
And I don't know how a song can come from this
Bruce Springsteen wouldn't have me as his main protagonist
I'm far too ordinary
I work a steady job
I'm a journo into porno
I vote Labor I've got a quarter acre block
A small to average cock
And a fence that I went halves in with my neighbour
Still I sometimes feel I'm on the wrong side of a timewarp
My feet beat their retreat down footpaths never touched a sidewalk
I'm a no one in my loungeroom
But I'm sure I'd be a someone in New York
She always makes me tingle
When she scratches certain patches down my spine
And I bite her ear and kiss it
And a wicket falls while Frindle's marking time
It's a simple life I lead
And I feel guilty that I lead it
I'd search for more excitement
But I'm not sure that I need it
I've an ex-wife and a sex life
That it took me years to find
And there's just no greater pleasure
Than John Arlott on the tele
And her etching little numbers in my spine.
So this is my dilemma
On the one hand I'm a man with great potential
On the other I'm a lover
Much more potent
Than some glamourous credential
Still I sometimes feel I'm on the wrong side of a timewarp
My feet beat their retreat down footpaths never touched a sidewalk
I'm a no one in my loungeroom
But I'm sure I'd be a someone in New York