The Trials of the Vampire on PodcastOne

Vamp Shot

Hey there,

Yes I know it’s been a while but I have been off learning a new media and there’s only so many digital forms this analogue unit can cope with at one time. The latest foray for me is podcasting and my first production is available on the PodcastOne app on your iPhone or android. The Trials of the Vampire is the dark story of Shane Chartres-Abbott and his murder in 2003. You may recall it all began when he was accused of raping a client in August 2002. He was shot dead on his way to court so we never got hear whether he was guilty or not.

I assumed he was 100 per cent guilty but quickly pulled back from that when I got to know more of his story. I’m still not exactly sure but I can conclude there was more than a hint of reasonable doubt in the case. Anyway, it turned out to be a much more interesting case than I ever imagined and consumed 6 months of this year. It’s out now and I’d love to hear your comments and feedback. Just for the record, I’d like to thank  a bunch of people but will single out a few here including my friend Chip Le Grand at The Australian who always had the courage to look deeper into this story and was terrific talent for our production. Also Chris Kosto, Sandra Gibson, Petina Stevens, Ross Privitelli and George Slim offered invaluable assistance. Here are a few of the links to publicity to whet the appetite.

Download the podcast here

That’s a start, but if you have any questions, this is the place to ask them. Hope you enjoy it.


Day of the Dead in Paris

Some might find this post a little morbid but today was a day of the dead for me and daughter Noli Shand in Paris. First we went down  into the Catacombs where the remains of six million people from cemeteries and churchyards across Paris were gathered in an underground ossuary from the late-18th century. We both found it rather depressing and even a bit tacky. I can’t imagine any of those poor souls can be resting in peace with tourists like us tramping past taking selfies with them.


No rest for the anonymous exhibits in the Catacombs.

Then it was on to Père Lachaise cemetery for the obligatory visit to the grave of Jim Morrison (or whoever is in there). I was prepared for the graffiti and rubbish strewn about by the whacked-out fans coming to pay homage and get high or drunk at the grave of their idol that I had seen in press pictures.


Jim’s visitors didn’t show much respect to his neighbours before a fence went up.

A friend of mine was at Pere Lachaise in 1991.

“It was the 20th anniversary of Jim’s death. 30000 people camped outside. Queued up to get in – next thing a riot broke out – cars rolled and set on fire as well as the huge wooden doors at the entrance. Terrifying!! Cemetery shut for a few days. Returned when it reopened. Walked around eventually got to Jim Morrisons grave. I had been taking photos up to then. Went to take a photo there and the camera became possessed!! Started taking photos uncontrollably! Walked a away and camera wouldn’t work at all.”


However, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the fence erected a while ago has prevented people from desecrating the grave and the others around it with Doors lyrics and self-indulgent messages of love and loss. There’s apparently a policeman stationed there to stop people from gaining access to the grave but they were absent today, allowing a few to clamber over the fence and lay floral tributes to the Doors’ frontman.


The grave is different now than when he was buried in July 1971. The fence has certainly changed the vibe from earlier times, I understand, as if not being able to sit alongside Jim renders the pilgrimage somewhat less personal. It took nearly a decade for a headstone to be erected for Morrison, a flamboyant affair complete with rock star bust that was stolen in May 1988. This headstone was replaced with the more sober and low key one, erected by Jim’s parents in 1991 you will see today. It bears the inscription Kata Ton Δ Aimona Eaytoy, Greek for “according to his own daemon.”


A Greek inscription: “According to his own Spirit” Or Daemon, depending how you translate it.

It’s a beautiful quiet cemetery but I couldn’t help but wonder why Jim’s family didn’t bring him home to southern California, rather than leaving him there, a stranger in a strange land. Sad really, perhaps hinting at his deep and utter rejection of his upbringing. He told many that his parents were dead.
We then set off in search of Molière, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Frédéric Chopin, Isadora Duncan and the rest of the myriad celebrities buried in Père Lachaise.
But then, by accident, we came upon the grave of Suzon Garrigues, a 21-year old student killed by the jihadi mongrels in the Bataclan on November 13 last year. This young woman had gone with her brother to enjoy a rock concert, a simple night of fun just as my kids (and yours probably too) have done on so many occasions. She paid for that freedom with her life.


The grave of Suzon Garrigues in Pere Lachaise Cemetery

Further sightseeing seemed pointless and irrelevant, the Jim Morrisons et al will be remembered, their achievements celebrated but what of Suzon Garrigues and the other 129 innocent people who died that night? Will their names be remembered, will people beyond their loved ones visit their graves?

We in the media spend so much time discussing the disgusting cowards who perpetrated this senseless slaughter, awarding them a bizarre immortality and power they simply do not deserve.
So, next time you’re in Paris, maybe on your way to Morrison’s grave, go and visit Suzon. Spend some time with her and look at her pictures. We must always remain inconsolable at acts of terror like this and right across the world, or we risk diminishing our own humanity and normalizing the obscene. Suzon is my child, your child, everyone’s child and she must not be forgotten.

The Overcoat War or Who Hid the Sausage?


IN August 1976, Mark Read scored the plum job of H Division billet in Pentridge Prison. He was installed in the cell number one right next to the screw’s box. Unlike other prisoners, Read did not move between cells. He was not subject to the constant cell searches and pat downs that the rest copped. Above all, he had freedom of movement around the division. It was his job to clean the showers and dish out the food, moving up and down with a plastic trolley, accompanied by a screw. The theory was, according to Read, that the most dangerous man in the division was given the billet’s job so they could keep an eye on him. Predictably, Read abused the privilege, using his freedom to launch biological attacks on the entire division.

“I would get a little bit of the old doings (faeces) and drop it in the stew and put a sufficient amount of mustard and Keen’s Curry Powder to disguise the aroma,” he said in an interview in 2000 (Pentridge Village).

“You only need 2 or 3 tablespoons of the old doings to go into the stew, everyone eats heartily, about 24 hours later the whole place comes down with gastro-enteritis,” he said.

Read told different versions of this story. In one he claimed to have made a culture of faeces, phlegm and other material, which after several days sprouted toadstools. He claimed he was visited by members of the National Crime Authority concerned that he was creating biological weapons in Pentridge. However, there is no record of any such a national security scare.

He didn’t tell his handful of friends in the unit that he had crapped in the stew “because a secret shared is a secret lost.” His mentality back then, he explained, was that if you had to get everyone to get one then so be it.

He held the billet’s job right until December and by all reports was doing a good job until “he showed his immaturity during the month and was sacked” according to a progress report. Read claimed he was caught distributing tobacco in the division (smoking was banned in H) but one contemporary recalls the sacking had something to do with “putting foreign objects in the stew.”

As word spread of Read’s culinary stylings, his list of enemies steadily grew. Even those who had been neutral now joined the haters. Food is always a sensitive issue in jail. Most of the riots in Pentridge were caused, or at least ignited, by issues over food. The food in H Division was terrible and quantities  miniscule, so for Read to add his “extra ingredients” served only to add insult to indigestion.

At Christmas 1976, H Division inmates were pleased to hear that they would be issued with pork sausages, two per man. However, when Christmas lunch rolled around the sausages did not materialise.

Read was instantly accused of stealing and consuming all the sausages. He protested his innocence: he had been sacked as billet the previous month so had no access to the food. It was hardly surprising Read was the prime suspect, given his record for “tampering” with the food and his prodigious appetite.

In the industry yard, a prominent Painter and Docker John “Piggy” Palmer complained loudly that “Read, the fucking dog, must have eaten them all.”

Read’s popularity was already at a low ebb, but this was intolerable. The next day, when he walked past Palmer in the yard, he dropped him with a heavy right hand.

“Teach you to call me a fucking dog, you cunt,” he roared.

Read always denied stealing the sausages. It’s doubtful whether they ever actually existed. It was a common tactic from jail authorities to withhold treats from prisoners to place pressure on them to conform. If it was a psychological tactic from management, it backfired, setting off a gang war that eventually made H Division ungovernable. The failure of authorities to contain the five-year conflict led to a revolution in prison security and construction, which also in turn failed.

“Piggy” Palmer was well connected, a key member of a gang that controlled Pentridge Prison at the time. These were men with a rich criminal pedigree: murderers, thieves and gangsters from the Painters and Dockers who controlled all the rorts on the waterfront. informer in Victorian history.

In 1976, they were the most popular gang inside, on account of their open defiance of authority. They were spread out all over the prison and had a strong information network. If a rival crossed them , they could get to him no matter what division he was in. Let’s call them the ‘Hungry Boys’ in deference to the purloined pork sausages that sparked the war with Chopper. To Read, the Hungry Boys were just ‘two-bob gangsters’, ‘weak-gutted mice’ who went to water when confronted by a criminal psycho like him. There was a great deal of envy and resentment in his attitude to the Hungry Boys.  He had sought to be among them but, once rejected he courted their scorn and fury. It was their arrogance that Read despised. He said they were ‘terrible ambassadors’ for the union, lazy pricks who took phantom pay packets for work they hadn’t done.

To them, Read was a nobody, one of ‘the ordinary blow flies of life’ that needed exterminating. No-one had ever heard of Read until he had got to prison.


In earlier years, the Hungry Boys have got short shrift from the prison guards. They would have systematically bashed the arrogance out of him, but in 1976 life in Hell had changed. Screws could no longer continue the so-called carnival of violence that had played daily in H Division until the early 70s. Inmates were no longer keeping quiet about the bash, and the media was asking questions about what happened behind the grey walls and was prepared to publish the answers. From 1973, prisoners were permitted to make complaints about their treatment direct to the Victorian Ombudsman, rather than going through the charade of talking to prison management or visiting magistrates. Most of the reports to the ombudsman went nowhere, but it held the worst impulses of the staff in check.

Given this, it made sense for screws to use a bloke like Read to do their dirty work. Arming Read and his allies against the Hungry Boys made sense (even though former H Division guards deny it happened). Read made it abundantly clear he was on their side. He once even requested permission from the governor to worship him ahead of God. According to Read, the governor granted the request, noting it was the first sensible one he had heard in seventeen years.

The Hungry Boys made a powerful enemy when he attacked the governor of security, Jimmy Quinn, in November 1976. The incident followed a murder in B Division. According to one account, the inmate was killed simply because a group of Hungry Boys were drinking ‘a homemade rot gut which included a dash of copying fluid to give it a bouquet’. The victim and another inmate were playing chess in a cell adjacent to a common area where the rotgut drinkers were playing snooker. The cell door was open, which brought them into peril. The Hungry Boys were steadily drinking their chemical concoction, ‘growing more psychotic with each plastic mug they drank’.

One chess player went to the lavatory and returned to find his opponent dead in a pool of blood. The alarm was raised and all prisoners were ordered into the exercise yard. One of the Hungry Boys, still affected by the hooch, saw Governor Quinn talking to other staff and launched himself at him, smashing him in the face and breaking his nose. This sparked a mass brawl between staff and inmates that lasted for ten minutes, until the lags were all driven into the yard and the gate locked behind them. Bashing Quinn made the man a hero to his mates for a while but it was a very poor strategic move.

When members of the Hungry Boys were moved to H Division after killing the chess player, conflict with Read was inevitable. Read told a story about how it began. He had been waiting to see the chief of H Division just as screws were taking the Hungry Boys’ leader to see him about a request. Without warning, Read attacked him and the screws did nothing to stop the fight. In fact, Read claimed that the screws also laid into the man with their batons. In Read’s version, the attack was a set-up by the screws.

Despite this attack taking place right in front of guards, no disciplinary action was taken against him. His January 1977 progress report noted only that he was ‘involved in disturbances in this division. Just makes the grade for satisfactory report.’

The Hungry Boys declared Read to be a screw’s lackey, a dog, an informer, and soon the entire division, except Read’s handful of mates, echoed the insult. It was perhaps not surprising if Read’s version of events is correct. Your enemy attacks you in front of the guards and they let it happen and even help Chopper to flog you. There could be no other explanation than Read was ragingly sweet with authority. The informer tag stuck to Read for the rest of his life. By March 1977, with the Overcoat War hotting up, Read was sent back to the labour yards, as much for his own protection as that of others. He spent the next four months breaking rocks, but had the company of allies like Danny James and Jimmy Loughnan.


Jimmy Loughnane

There was nothing else the guards could do but keep him isolated from his rivals. His report noted: ‘Will never be any different, any trouble he will be in it.’ In April: ‘. . . same problem, cannot get on with fellow prisoners for long’.

H Division was descending into a different kind of hell. The screws had once ruled by fear and secrecy, but now their authority was dissolving. The screws still beat the newcomers, but that no longer worked on the hard men.

At night, Hungry Boys taunted the guards from their cells, according to Read. He knew where their families lived, he growled. People were going there right now to get their wives and kids. Their daughters were getting special treatment: rape, torture and a slow death. The guards believed that Read was a psychopath but they trusted his word that he would never hurt them, much less hunt down their families. He was the lesser of two evils.

According to Ted Eastwood and other contemporaries, Governor Quinn had sanctioned the protection of Mark Read and the arming of his forces. A selection of about two dozen deadly weapons was secreted in H Division at any one time, according to estimates of various inmates. These included tomahawks, ice picks,shivs made of razor blades and toothbrushes, butcher’s knives, pliers and hammers. These items had been carried into H Division over the years and stayed, being passing on to new prisoners as their owners left the division. There was enough hardware in the drains and toilets, crammed behind loose bricks and cracks in the bluestones, to arm most of the unit. A biro stabbed into an enemy’s eye was effective enough.

According to Read, the attacks on the Hungry Boys were relentless. Whenever they spotted one of the enemy it would be on. They attacked spontaneously whenever a cell door was left open or rivals happened to pass each other in the tunnel en route to the yards. The vast majority of criminal assaults were still committed by guards on prisoners, but there was now the prospect of violence between the Read and Hungry Boy factions.

The screws could not stop the conflict altogether but they could regulate the outcomes to suit their preferences. One day Piggy Palmer was in shower yard number 1 alone, when Read appeared, with a broad smile spreading across his face. ‘Hello, Piggy,’ he said, quietly. The screw had let him in, knowing that Palmer was on his own. Read was under instructions that he had an open go at Palmer but there was to be no blood, which still left a wide range of options. Palmer sunk to his knees, cowering at the sight of Read. There was no way he could hold his own against this leering, crazy giant. He braced himself for pain. If he didn’t resist, maybe he would survive it. Instead, Read looked down at his groin.

‘You know, it’s been a while, Piggy,’ he said, with a lascivious chuckle. Palmer watched in horror as Read undid his jeans and took his penis in hand. He thought about making Palmer suck his cock but perhaps there was a shred of manhood left in Palmer. He might just bite it off, rather than suffer the indignity of swallowing his enemy’s seed. So he rubbed it all over Palmer’s face. Palmer closed his eyes and whimpered in terror. According to Read, Palmer was never the same again. Friends of enemies became targets now. Read took a steel vice handle to the head of Bobby Barron simply because they thought he had stolen the razor from the shaving kit that all the lags shared. He justified the pre-emptive strike because Barron, a double murderer, had been a dockie and therefore close to the Hungry Boys.

The screws could do little more than keep Read away from everyone until he was paroled in August 1977. It was normally unheard of for a parolee to be released direct from H Division; to send a man straight from the brutality and isolation of H straight onto the street was asking for trouble. Most would be transitioned to freedom through the mainstream divisions of the prison, but not Read. He had four months straight in the labour yards from March to June, then spent about six weeks making brooms in the industry yard, and then he was pitched straight onto the street. It had been ‘a good month to his credit’, according to his official progress report.

No doubt the Slot was a quieter place without him.



Outlaw Nation




Melbourne March 2011

The driver hears the threat long before the infernal rumble takes ghastly form in his mirrors.

A biker is snaking his way through the cars at the traffic lights. The handlebars of his chopped Harley all but graze the paintwork of the cars as he glides to the front of the queue. Cars drifting to a stop pull up quickly, like they are all sharply inhaling to let him pass.

He stops, the bike straddling the pedestrian crossing.

Behind reflective sunglasses, the biker’s expression is impassive, but the mouth, amid a thick ginger beard, is set in an expression of grim belligerent assertiveness. He plants his heavy steel-capped boots on the road and crosses his thick tattooed arms across his chest. He is a massive, implacable force.

A man driving a vast GM Suburban is displeased at losing his pole position at the lights. He throws a poisonous glare at the biker’s back and starts lecturing his wife on the dangers of lane splitting. While everyone else is following the rules, the biker is making his own, doing what he likes.

It’s an opportunity to see the beast up close, like viewing lions at a safari park. He’s dressed in familiar biker garb – faded grimy jeans, a plaid shirt and a leather vest.

There’s no club insignia on the vest, no rocker on the back explaining which “gang” he is from. That’s how it is now – if you ride in your club “colours” you’re going to be stopped by cops every five minutes. A day on the bike with a patch on your back becomes a procession of questions, warrant checks and defect notices. So mostly the patch is reserved for massed club runs, quick escapes to the country, or days when you feel defiant enough to take it all on.

But even without the patch, there’s no mistaking what he represents – this is the bikie menace. This is the 1% of bikers that no-one else will claim. He lives beyond the pale.

They’re the brutish barbarians with vulgar chunky gold rings like knuckle dusters; the hungry-eyed satyrs who could strip a woman’s virtue with just a lascivious leer. They’re the vicious cruel thugs who would leave a good man broken and bleeding in the gutter for defending her honour.

Suburban man know this from shows he watched on pay-TV.. Amid the peace and tranquillity of a Sunday morning, the bogeyman still lives. He’s blown in from the wastelands of their worst nightmares.

Suburban Man edges his car forward till the bumper is almost touching the back wheel of the Harley. He’s letting his wife know he won’t be intimidated.  She wants none of this.

The biker is now aware of the vast chrome grille looming over him. He’s used to this and the belligerent attitude of people to him.

His reputation sparks fear and loathing and he enjoys that. It reminds him that the world is divided into Us and Them. The hatred validates his choice to become an outlaw. It makes him seem real, much more than a grown man playing dress-ups. There’s no justice; there’s just us. And this is our sign – the patch.

He can easily picture what they’re thinking – he’s en route to a drug deal, to bash a rival, or to partake in some sadistic orgy. He believes he’s above the law, free to do whatever he pleases, and that’s why they hate him. Well, the feeling’s mutual.

The biker suddenly throws his Harley into gear and, after a cursory check for oncoming traffic, he breaks the red light. But rather than just blast through the intersection, he drops his hip and takes the machine sideways onto the pedestrian cross-walk. It’s the same cheap, irritating manoeuvre that cyclists use every day; but if you pull it on a Harley, it looks infinitely more heinous.

As the back wheel smokes and fishtails, the biker looks at Suburban Man from over his shoulder. C’mon, no-one will know and no-one will be hurt – even if the cop’s station is just 50 metres away. Just make a decision.

Then the rider snaps the back wheel under him and opens the throttle. As he guns the bike up the hill, there’s a great thunderous roar that echoes off the walls of the concrete canyon.

You can read the disgust on the face of Suburban Man. This is a clear statement, a hideous wet fart in his face: Part of you wants to be me. You would run me off into those parked cars, if you could But you can’t because, in your heart, you are a sheep.

For all his badness, there are moments when the biker feels free, or what he believes it to be.   And freedom, even to be bad, is a rare thing indeed.

Chopper Reading


The new edition of The Real Chopper is on sale now. It’s the smaller B format for those who like to carry their reading material around with them. Still one of my favourite works, showing how Chopper didn’t just lie outright but told a deeper story with another set of true characters that he sought to protect, even as he exploited them to build his own legend. Chopper’s story really speaks of the way myth is created in jail and the underworld. Another chance to thank Nathan Billings for his great researching work on this book and many others who helped unravel the mystery. Copies happily signed. Nice work on this photograph above by Jack Shand by the way.


Chapter 1 − Myth-Man

October 2013

In the dreary morning light, Read’s face radiated a brownish-yellow hue. He had recently returned from a final holiday, on Daydream Island in Queensland with his  wife Margaret and son Roy. The suntan had mixed with the jaundice to produce a startling burnished patina, almost like a bust moulded in clay. His face so drew the eye that it drained the colour from everything else around and the trees, the grass and the sky had all merged into an indistinct grey murkiness, like black and white television from the 1970s.

Stricken with liver cancer, Read’s condition had deteriorated quickly; the weight had fallen off him in recent weeks. The yellow eyes were weary and hollowed out, and his body seemed to swim in his now oversized down jacket. As I shook his hand, my left gripped his shoulder and drew him to me in the studied, manly half-embrace of the Melbourne crime set. The 18-inch biceps of his heyday were long gone, but the middle-aged padding was disappearing too. Under his clothes, the skin hung on his bones like a loose-fitting skivvy embroidered with a tapestry of prison tattoos and scars. Once a sign of his power and persona, the skin seemed no longer to belong to him, as if a frail and vulnerable Mark Read was wearing the pelt of another: the myth-man Chopper Read that he’d created.

‘So you’re going to write a book about me? Is that right? I’d better be nice to you then, hadn’t I?’ he said, arching an eyebrow in mock horror. Even that seemed to be an effort but he could still summon up the old repartee, delivered with a flash of the gleaming cobalt false teeth.

The idea amused him: talking to a biographer whose work he would never get to read.


There were many like me looking to get their last piece of Chopper Read, he said. Plans for documentaries, TV exposés, tell-all stories for the women’s magazines were all well underway. He had recently met with Frank Howson, the writer and producer of Chopper the Musical. He was somewhat disappointed to learn it would be staged in 2015, two years after his anticipated demise, if the doctors were right. He wasn’t expected to see Christmas.

He was nonetheless pleased to learn the piece would be highly authentic, only slightly embellished for dramatic effect. ‘It’s not a piss-take or a send-up,’ added Frank Howson in the Herald Sun. ‘If you look at Chopper Read’s life, it’s quite operatic − there’s drama, there’s violence, there’s wit and there’s redemption.’ Authenticity was important, or at least defending the legend.

In the latter regard, I was clearly a threat.

‘You could just go and do a bloody Chopper Read on me, couldn’t you?’ he said.

I nodded. We both knew what that meant. I could say anything I liked once he was gone.

‘You’ll be there writing, “Oh, there I was walking along the street and suddenly out of a gay massage parlour comes Chopper Read!”’

Mark Brandon Read was always the storyteller. Yes, there had been ghostwriters and collaborators, five at last count. There had been a legion of journalists, documentary makers, music producers, screenwriters and authors, all trying to interpret what his life had been and what it meant. But the voice was always his, no matter how unreliable the content.

In jail, he had created a legend, and on the outside he had moved into it. He inhabited and exploited it, like no other criminal in Australian history. He undermined Australia’s criminal elite, stole their stories and then laughed in their faces. Then outlived most of his generation.Chopper Read article by Virginia Hodgson 001.jpg

But we never really knew Mark Brandon Read. Chopper sneered at the notion that anyone could have real insight into others. Everyone is a mystery to themselves, he said, so how could anyone presume to know somebody else? It was the height of arrogance to suggest such a thing. He did not become a writer to get people to understand him. In some sense, the creation of an alter ego afforded Read the luxury of avoiding scrutiny of himself. His writings were just a gimpse  into hisheart and mind’.

Everyone looked for  the meaning of life. But if God came down to earth and we could ask Him personally, we would be disappointed, according to Read.   God would tell us to piss off, he’d be too busy looking for the truth himself.So why bother asking.

Chopper Image 001.jpg


Pell Mell Straight to Hell


As far as I can tell, Cardinal George Pell in his evidence to the Royal Commission into Child Abuse has confirmed that his fellow priests were acting as pimps for the abusers, providing fresh victims by moving them from parish to parish. It was a criminal culture of cover-up and deception, he said. By raising his hand weakly in protest at some latter stage he suggests that he was some kind of Saint? Wrong- in my opinion he should answer a charge of criminal conspiracy or obstruction of justice along with the rest of those revolting purple vipers.

Funny how no one is mentioning the Tim Minchin song any more. It seems to me Pell giving evidence via video link was quite sufficient after all. It has demonstrated that justice can be seen to be done, without having to give into the baying mob?

I would argue that by having it in Rome, his appearance has become a worldwide news event that has brought much greater focus on the suffering of the victims and will force Pope Francis’ hand. In fact, as the Ballarat Courier noted that “the Cardinal fronted a global media frenzy” after his appearance.  Would that have been the case if he fronted in Sydney? I doubt it very much. I found the cries from the mob that Pell’s medical condition be ignored and that he be dragged back to Sydney quite troubling. The rule of law is a tricky thing, either you believe in it absolutely or you don’t believe in it at all. You can’t pick and choose when you extend procedural fairness, you either believe in it as a universal right or you don’t. Many people have shown an equivocal attitude, suggesting that it was right and proper to hold Pell to a higher standard than anybody else. I find this so repugnant and make the point convictions based on such an approach would lack integrity.

Having heard Pell’s carefully crafted evidence, what happens next? I wonder whether there is an investigator who will take up this brief and actually try to lock up the priests, like Pell, who either actively supported the abusers or stood back and failed to report. In my opinion, this was a conspiracy- either a conspiracy of silence or an active conspiracy to protect these evil doers. However, proving a conspiracy is a very difficult thing, unless that is, you can encourage a conspirator to assist. To that end, my suggestion is to throw a rope around the lot of them and keep tightening until their eyes bulge. It won’t be long before clergymen faced with the prospect of jail will start opening up like watermelons falling off a truck. Even if the prosecutions fail, we owe it to the victims, and those who want to clean up this mess, to have a red hot go.




Trouble Doubled in Paradise

wedding cake rain

I love reading the letters page of the local newspaper, it’s truly the home of the first world problem. A lady trips on a piece of broken pavement and hurts herself, she goes to complain only to find council has fixed the problem before she gets to have her whinge. She still manages a bleat, why does it take someone to hurt themselves before action is taken? A man goes for a browse at the local tip shop, (yes what we throw away is so good it can be resold) and finds a tin of toxic paint that he complains he can’t open thereby denying himself the life threatening injuries that were promised on the tin. Another complains that people living in expensive apartments are having to put up with “the blight” of people selling drugs in the street below. And Fremantle has a crisis, says another, too few charging points for electric cars, the sea will no doubt rush up High St this afternoon. And finally a lament as to why politicians keep giving money to Africa the “I can’t help myself can’t feed myself” continent. And meanwhile in the real world….

We are so used to everything working and having someone to blame when it doesn’t we have become utterly useless and non-resilient. Or maybe we are so used to living with anxiety that we search for stuff that justifies it. Thoughts?

Shaming Belle

Great piece by John Elder on Belle Gibson

Yes, Belle is copping loads of abuse and many are calling for her to be prosecuted for the fraud she committed on cancer sufferers who believed her alternative therapies could cure them. And yes it’s unlikely she will be pinged for deceit, even though she made a substantial amount of money from The Whole Pantry cookbook and App. But why? She seems clearly to have gained a financial advantage by deception. The problem is, law enforcement seems disinterested in most fraud cases, even when the deception is egregious. Perhaps shaming is the best we can hope for, but the feeling that she may have killed other people with her narcissism lingers on.

This Morning on Monument Hill

IMG_0077As the streaky glow of dawn lit Monument Hill in Fremantle this morning, I looked around at the sea of faces gathered to commemorate the centenary of Gallipoli. They were Australians of all descriptions: young men in high viz jackets straight from iron ore mines, fathers with children hoisted upon their shoulders, old women who had lost husbands to war decades ago, motorcycling Vietnam veterans in leather vests seeking fraternity in paramilitary dress, brawny sailors from ships in the port, girlfriends, wives and families of military men serving in Iraq.

They had all come to pray at the altar of nationalism. Gallipoli was the moment the newly federated colonies of Australia became one people, it’s generally understood. The young men who came ashore at Gallipoli on April 25 1915 all bore the curved text on their battle tunics “AUSTRALIA”, said one speaker today. So the ANZAC legend has been drawn since Banjo Paterson wrote his ode to Gallipoli “We’re All Australians Now.”

The mettle that a race can show

Is proved with shot and steel,

And now we know what nations know

And feel what nations feel.

Paterson’s words ring down the years. Only in war can a nation be born, only when the blood of young men stains foreign shores can we be taken seriously as a nation, he wrote.

Our six-starred flag that used to fly

Half-shyly to the breeze,

Unknown where older nations ply

Their trade on foreign seas.

Flies out to meet the morning blue

With Vict’ry at the prow;

For that’s the flag the Sydney flew,

The wide seas know it now!

I’ve been a lifelong fan of Paterson but I find these lines disturbingly anachronistic. They have not stood the test of time. With a century of hindsight, it’s clear that it was the curse of nationalism that sent 8000 ANZACs to their deaths in the Dardanelles. Yet, still, we justify their sacrifice through a prism of nationalism.

Above all, Gallipoli should be remembered for the horror and futility of war. Instead, this centenary celebration has sought to elevate pointless slaughter to a moment where national character was defined. Our troops went to war with pride for King and country but as the body count grew at Anzac Cove, they fought not for some abstract notion of national glory, but for the men alongside them in the trenches.

I hope that one day we can move beyond this narrow jingoistic view of ANZAC Day. This day should underscore the senselessness of war, it should recognise and commemorate the losses of all nations in battle.

I was disappointed that this morning on Monument Hill there was no mention of the Turkish and Arab soldiers who died at Gallipoli, defending the fading and despotic Ottoman empire. The Ottoman losses of 250 000 killed or wounded were nearly ten times that of Australia, but who remembers that? The enemy remains fixed in time as simply “Johnny Turk.”

The tragedy of war is young men sent to fight and die for unjust and spurious causes. I do not seek to diminish in any way the sacrifice of those who served at Gallipoli. What greater courage is there than to march into battle with nothing more solid than a sense of duty? What should be remembered is the cowardice of leaders, whose poorly  defined notions of courage prevented them from stepping back from the precipice of war, who instead sent millions to their deaths.  Lest we forget this, or we are bound to repeat the bloody folly over and over.


Dear people,

Apologies, it’s been a while since we last spoke as I have been settling in to Perth and my new life as the Drive host on 6PR. But now  that every day is no longer the white knuckle plunge into uncertainty, I will be back on the blog, as it were, more often.

Just taking a break from writing since the release of The Real Chopper last September.  I am sure that something will grip my attention sufficiently to commit to my next project but for the meantime I am enjoying not waking up with 1000 words to write before breakfast. Six books in seven years is probably enough for the moment. I look back and think: “How the hell?” When I come back for another project, it may or may not be a crime book. I’d be keen to explore some other genres and ideas. Maybe fiction in Africa…look out Wilbur Smith.

I still have the “King of Thieves” screenplay to satisfy my felonious urges. Co-writer Andrew Knight and I will be resuming the task of peeling the onion towards a final draft later in the year and I can’t wait to finish that. I visited our co-producer in the UK in December and was amazed that people really like the screenplay. He called it “our film” which is a bit startling (not to mention pleasing) after 5 years of dreaming and wishing a screenplay into reality. So many people have said that I should have gone the easier route to a telemovie or a series but the advice of my agent Richard Walsh to go for the highest ambition (a feature film) and work our way downwards was right. Learning patience has been the greatest by-product of writing (and waiting) for film.

So, for the moment, I will be focussing exclusively on my radio program which is really an unfolding delight. I especially love talking to the listeners with their views and stories. It’s been wonderful how they have accepted me, despite all my mispronunciations of local suburbs etc and my tendency to cut in when I get excited. Sorry.

Esconced in a lovely little studio in Fremantle, things are settling down after a tumultous few months of change, ending with the death of my father on Easter Saturday. RIP JWS. Got a double bunger that week, with news that my pooch Buddy lost a battle with a puff adder in our garden in Zimbabwe. Got back and sent for Teddy the Bichon from Melbourne. It’s a time for keeping things I love close, I’d get the kids over from Melbourne but prising barnacles off a rock would be easier. I’m not offended, they are busy with their lives and I am proud to watch them developing their skills and personalities without Dad looking over their shoulders and constantly passing judgement etc.   Anyway, another sapphire blue sky beckons me to work. Talk soon.


Going Berko on the Burqa: A Police Perspective

Exploding Undies

The Ban the Burqa lobby has been battered into abeyance in recent times. The attempt by the Speaker of Parliament Bronwyn Bishop to make Muslim visitors to the House wearing the burqa (full facial covering) or the niqab (just eyes exposed) sit in a glassed off area in the public gallery was ill-considered and divisive. It failed and it cost Bishop a plum retirement job and whatever credibility she had left.

In the wake of this, security chiefs, the Chief Commissioner of Victoria Police and the Prime Minister have all rushed to reject the notion that facial coverings represent a security risk in Australia.

I should make the rider here that I default to the principle that people should be able to wear whatever they choose in a democracy. The quaint idea that styles of dress can “outrage public decency” depends on whether one accepts that such decency still exists, or has any useful value.

Like most moralising twaddle, this is an attempt to impose one’s views on the wider society. It begins with shrill condemnation and inevitably progresses to some form of legal coercion. The campaigns are often nothing more than an attempt by the high-minded to manifest “hostility to lifestyles they personally dislike,” according to AC Grayling in The Meaning of Things. Many of the opponents of the burqa fall into this category.

On that simplistic level, I reject much of the anti-burqa argument. However, when you talk to police practical considerations arise.

A former very senior policeman argues that the security risks of the burqa (and all facial coverings) are being underestimated. I should hasten to add that he is not a racist or anti-Muslim, far from it, but he prefers to remain anonymous.

He says garments that cover the face are able to defeat facial recognition technology (FRT) which is being used to combat terrorists and criminals.

The biometrically based FRT camera takes measurements between facial features and makes comparisons against previously taken photographs.

Such tools have been employed widely overseas with great success by law enforcement but so far are only in limited use in Australia.

There is talk of the creation of a national database of faces so it’s on its way here. Our Customs and Border Protection Service is set to introduce an FRT system for passport checks.

Few would argue against the need for biometric identification systems to thwart the use of false passports by terrorists such as Khaled Sharrouf.

Sharrouf left Australia on his brother’s passport to join Islamic State’s blood orgy in Syria and Iraq. He made headlines when pictures of his seven-year son were published holding the severed head of a Syrian soldier.

Who would argue that new measures at airports would make Australia a safer place by preventing the free movement of degenerates like Sharrouf?

Obviously, a person wearing a burqa or the niqab will simply have to show their face at immigration points to officers and there would be little conflict.

But with Australia’s terrorism alert recently raised, the security arsenal will be greatly enhanced. We have been warned by authorities to expect greater intrusion and control. It’s likely that FRT cameras will be used to conduct security sweeps on crowds in public venues. A whole new set of problems then arise, my retired cop says.

Imagine if Samantha Louise Lewthwaite, the world’s most wanted female terrorist, were to be in the crowd at a sporting venue in Australia, he says.

Lewthwaite, who was raised as a Christian but converted to Islam at the age of 17, is rumoured to have been behind last the September 2013 Westgate shopping mall massacre in Nairobi. She is said to employ disguises to conceal her identity, according to media reports.

If she was in a crowd wearing either a burqa or a niqab, FRT would not identify her. What’s to stop a male terrorist also disguising his identity and gender by wearing such garb, the cop argues.

It’s not surprising that police are unabashed fans of FRT.

A system used by Victoria Police has achieved a flawless track record in the identification of suspects, SC Magazine reports.

The home-grown iFace biometric system was so accurate that it reportedly outed an identical twin who tried to evade prosecution by using his brother’s name.

iFace was introduced in 2010 across hundreds of police stations to help identify persons of interest with criminal histories.

Yet iFace is useless if the face is covered. Of course, this applies to anyone wearing full face covering, including a motor cycle helmet, balaclava or joke mask – anything that effectively hides their primary facial features and their placement.

There are limits to personal freedom already. Walk into a bank wearing any of these items and see what happens. There is a public interest in forbidding or discouraging the wearing of what in effect can be a ‘disguise’ in the dictionary meaning of the word, my cop argues. To FRT cameras, any facial covering is in effect a disguise, he says.

For those who must cover themselves for religious or cultural reasons, the hijab (head scarf) with long robes would be acceptable from both perspectives, the retired cop argues.

Whether we like it or not, we are now in a “heightened security environment,” we are told. How much freedom we have to give up to maintain our security is the burning question. As soon as Australia joined the fight against Islamic State, we effectively declared war on a section of our own community. It’s inevitable that there will be the home grown terror attacks that we have thus far been spared. In that scenario, political correctness will not save us. If we accept that FRT is a legitimate tool in the fight against terror, this will become the next field in the battle for and against the burqa.

The Real Chopper’s Mail Bag

Courtesy of Mark "The Hammer" Dixon

Courtesy of Mark “The Hammer” Dixon

With my new book The Real Chopper hitting the shelves this week, I received my first piece of fan mail last night. It was from one of the libertarians who believe that authors need permission to write about their subjects.
“Does Chopper Read give you permission to write a book about him? Why would you wait till the mans dead to write a book about him?
You my friend are a…”
And that’s as far as my fan got. I am sure he was about to write “jolly good fellow” before he was tragically struck down by an aneurism, or a falling asteroid. RIP. It’s a bit of a silly thing to say given Chopper was the greatest posthumous re-writer of history since the authors of the Bible. His books are full of his views on, and experiences with, dead gangsters. Many of them were transformed into blood enemies or bosom buddies under his pen. In reality few had anything to do with him. I took the time to research those stories on behalf of the people who, being dead, didn’t get the right of reply. Almost all of it was puffery and fantasy.

For the record, Chopper did give me his permission to write the book. That discussion forms chapter one of the book. Read knew what powered his celebrity. He knew that his books would keep selling after his death if people kept talking about him. I have no doubt that The Real Chopper will send readers back to Chopper’s books, if only as a basis for condemning my efforts. And Chopper will continue to provide for his family, which was really his most worthwhile achievement. After 23 years nine months in jail, Chopper became a successful author and artist, an extraordinary turnaround. I explore and applaud that in my book.

For those who missed it, here are the extracts from the book which ran in News Ltd mastheads and websites on the weekend.

And keep the nasty letters flowing people, it’s what Chopper would have wanted.

Scotland The Brave

The strongest argument against Scottish independence is that the rich and powerful in England don’t seem to like it, which is the best reason for cutting the three-hundred year old bonds with Britain.

There are dire predictions that if the “Yes” vote succeeds this week, the Royal Bank of Scotland will move its headquarters to England and GBP17 billion will leave the UK economy. If they go it alone, Scots won’t be able to use the British pound any more and the British and Irish Lions rugby team will have to become the British, Irish and Scots Lions.

So does it matter, especially to colonials with distant ties to the old country? I was moved to consider this after a London-based friend Paola Totaro asked on Facebook last night how much interest/coverage there was in Australia in the Scottish referendum. Very little seemed to be the answer. Most of us seem to take our connections for granted.

I didn’t feel the slightest bit Scottish until five years ago when I began to research our family history, tracing my paternal roots to a little village in Morayshire called Mosstodloch. In 2009, I headed up there for a few days during a trip to London while writing my book “King of Thieves.” I googled bed and breakfast accommodation and found the two options available were both run by members of the Shand family. “I am home!” I announced to my reluctant relatives as I arrived at Castle Cottage. They seemed eager to put even greater distance between me and their family tree. “Oh, we’re actually not from round here. We’re from Keith,” they said. Keith was all of 10 miles away. I got the impression that I wasn’t the first from the Scottish diaspora to turn up like a prodigal son. At least, I wasn’t wearing the family tartan.

Over three days, I learnt more about our Scots heritage than I had in my entire life. Arriving in 1852, our original pioneer John Shand and Mary Barclay were Scottish through and through. All of their offspring were born into the Presbyterian Church and received the maternal Barclay as a second name. However, the next generation tried to erase the family heritage. As I have written before, my great-grandfather Alexander Barclay Shand decided his son Jack would get “Wentworth” as a middle name. It has survived right down to the present generation. It was a fraud. AB Shand, then a leading member of Sydney’s (very English) Bar, decided to appropriate the colonial prestige of the Wentworth family. At some stage, (or at least in death) AB also decided he was an Anglican, eschewing the family burial plot in Rookwood’s Presbyterian section for a niche in a wall at a dreary crematorium in the northern suburbs. It seemed an awfully drab thing to do, though I’m sure it was important in getting ahead in colonial Sydney. It was an advantage to be English.

We had begun our journey in Normandy France, joining the invasion of England by William the Conqueror in 1066. After a short stay in Bath, the family was given land in Scotland and there we stayed for 700 years until the English took over Scotland in the 18th century. By this stage, all the continental airs and graces were gone, we had become hoary, whiskery Scots. Even the men too. We lost our lands to the English aristocracy, the new power in town.

By the early 19th century, John Shand’s family members were poor tenant farmers and travelling merchants. However, they caught a break when the absentee landlord, the Duke of Gordon, awarded them the concession to run the toll bridge over the River Spey. They made enough cash in two generations to get the hell out of town. In Australia, they could be anything they wanted to be.

Once I learnt all this, I could only ever support Scottish nationalism. The story of the Scots is one of subjugation and dispossession. Even if the economic future for Scotland looks bleak, roll on independence. This is not just a question of money, how revenue from North Sea oil reserves will be divided or who will shoulder the burden of outstanding public debts. It’s about shared identity and purpose. It’s that, more than money alone, which determines national progress.

“We come here with no peaceful intent, but ready for battle, determined to avenge our wrongs and set our country free. Let your masters come and attack us: we are ready to meet them beard to beard.” William Wallace’s statement before the Battle of Stirling Bridge 11 September 1297.

Death Cult in the Homeland

Australia is riding into another conflict in the Arab world but the real fight will be at home.

Two hundred elite special forces soldiers are headed for Iraq within days after the PM Tony Abbott agreed to provide planes and 600 personnel to the US-led multinational strike force against Islamic terrorists running amok in Iraq and Syria.

The decision follows US President Barack Obama’s declaration last week that a coalition of nations would degrade and ultimately destroy the group that calls itself Islamic State.

This operation does not present a daunting strategic challenge. At best, IS has about 30 000 fighters and is no match for US airpower.  There is nowhere to hide from the drones and fighter aircraft raining down destruction from above. It must be a welcome change for Obama’s military commanders to face an insurgent force that is prepared to fight like a conventional army seeking to take territory and towns.

But even as they kill the militants, new recruits and converts to the struggle will take their place. They won’t be fighting in the deserts of the Middle East but in the streets of Sydney and Melbourne and other western cities. The Federal Government and ASIO are right to raise the terror alert. There is a sense that a local terror attack is now inevitable. Sending troops to fight our own kids who have joined IS as foreign fighters has guaranteed that.

The thread of resentment and radicalisation has a long history in Sydney’s south-west. In 1999, a street gang called “DK’s Boys” gang carried out a drive-by shooting on the Lakemba police station.

Five officers ducked for cover as 16 bullets from semi-automatic pistols passed through the station’s foyer windows. It was an incident without precedent in Australia, an open declaration of war from Muslim youth. This has followed years of claimed harassment and racial profiling of Middle Eastern youth in the area.

Then NSW police commissioner Peter Ryan pledged to track down those responsible and to make the streets of Sydney safe. This was never achieved. The police response was heavy-handed and poorly thought through. Ryan’s forces descended on south-west Sydney like an invading army.  Soon the Middle Eastern crime squad was kicking down doors as if the only sources of local crime were Middle Eastern youth. The alienation of young Muslims in Sydney was profound. Within a few years, the Cronulla race riots underlined the gulf between young Muslims  and their “Aussie” counterparts.

Ryan’s march into south-west Sydney failed dismally and divided the community. People who had previously co-operated with police now avoided being seen talking to cops. Police lost valuable resources in the Muslim community. Without intelligence from insiders, policing this diverse ethnic community was impossible.  Fifteen years later NSW Police are still trying to recover lost ground.

A number of Sydney Muslims who grew up in this period have joined IS. They see no place for themselves in mainstream Australia. So instead, they seek fellowship and purpose in Tony Abbott’s “death cult.”  If we don’t address the root cause of IS’ popularity among disaffected Muslim youth, no amount of success in the Iraq or Syria will have any value. There will be no peace in our streets.

We need to respond with passion in our own community to support the idea that decency and compassion can survive. Instead, our media has sent the message that we have something to fear from Muslims in our community.

We fear those in our society that yesterday we were unaware of. The harrowing vision of the killing of innocents in Iraq creates outrage in the media. The anger that follows further alienates Australian Muslims.

I have watched disaffected young men of Middle Eastern origin queue up to join 1% motorcycle clubs in Australia over the past decade because they achieve a sense of belonging and fraternity they feel they cannot get in Australian society. Ironically, they are less likely to commit crime while a member of a club than in the religious or criminal milieus they otherwise fall in with. The future looks bleak unless we resist IS’ dismal message getting into our kids. I find myself reluctantly but inexorably drawn to vague ideas of censorship, even if it’s self-control. To maintain the value of our existence and the real weight of our opinions, perhaps we need to be slightly less informed, slightly less connected. We might be more resilient in our belief in the concept of human grace when not faced 24/7 with this foul tide of savagery. These killers who behead innocent journos and aid workers for the camera are winning the propaganda war. But we disarm them when we stop clicking on the links to their depraved videos.


Dan Saunders

I was driving to Sydney last November when Daniel Saunders called me. He had first contacted me in March 2013 via this website saying that he wanted to talk to me.

“I have a story, I would love to know your opinion and also if you think it would make a good book. I’ve always been a bit of a party guy and that’s the only reason I came across this, I’m not a computer whiz, I’m just an everyday bloke. Until of course, this happened….”
“This” was the story that finally appeared in the Good Weekend Magazine today.
He had taken the National Australia Bank for about $500 000 in four and a half months and now he wanted to come clean, he said.
For a long time I was sceptical, it’s taken 15 months to get this extraordinary tale in print. At first, I told him I wasn’t interested. I didn’t want to be responsible for Dan going to jail. We kept talking over months and I could tell he had been serious in his first message when he said:”I’m not looking for a moral compass here, I know what I did was wrong.”
Still, every instinct told me this was not a story that was in Dan’s best interests. If the bank had decided not to chase him, he should bless his luck and slink off into the night. A lawyer was more blunt after hearing the story: “They aren’t after him, considering it’s been nearly three years. Tell him to shut the f**k up.” I told Dan this many times but he was determined. He didn’t want a black cloud hanging over his life, he could never move on until this thing was resolved one way or another, even if he ended up in a jail cell. I told Dan that jail was not a place he should ever aspire to, even a short sentence could be life-changing and not in a good way.
He understood what the stakes were and was determined to press ahead with the story. Above all he didn’t want to become a crook, even though he had broken the law. It sounds like an artificial distinction when you have stolen half a million dollars but a man who wants to be punished is not a crook in my book. A crook would never ring up a journalist and confess to a crime and virtually demand to be exposed. If this was not resolved, he feared he could disappear into the moral abyss of crime.
“Walking around with the blueprint of a bank’s internal clock in your mind is a dangerous thing, my mind constantly entertains thoughts of other potential bank glitches. I ultimately want this to stop at some point,” he wrote me in an email last night.
“I want people to know how it really happened, I’m not a card skimmer, I overdrew my own accounts. At the end of the day Adam I’m just a worker, who loves a bet and a drink,” he wrote.
So, now the story is out there, who knows what will happen next. Dan feels like a weight has been lifted. It’s hard to believe the bank will do nothing but whatever consequences flow Dan is ready.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the queues at NAB’s ATMs might be a little longer today.

Camp Hell

Kids waiting for Sunday School to open at Camp Pell late 1940s. They carried the moral stain of growing up there for years.

Kids waiting for Sunday School to open at Camp Pell late 1940s. They carried the moral stain of growing up there for years.

The inquest into the May 2004 murders of Christine and Terry Hodson is being held in Melbourne this week. The man who ordered their killing Carl Anthony Williams is once again in the public spotlight, perhaps for the last time. It took me a long time, nearly ten years, to fully understand what motivated him. Here was a family that was at odds with the law and the State, but also with the criminal elites that ran the underworld. They seemed to have materialised from the suburban ether, poor white trash from nowhere. But they had risen above the rest of them. There was a streak of rat cunning and resentment in the Williams clan that made them push back against much greater forces.

They had built a small empire in the space of a single generation and Carl was fully prepared to slaughter anyone who crossed the family. Their bloody feud with the Moran clan and the rest of the Melbourne big shots was the climax of an untold history. It was about ingrained poverty and disappointment, of generations beaten down, neglected and despised. The descent into crime and murder spoke of what happens to the self-esteem of people when they are denied the opportunity that others regard as a birthright.  It’s the bitter realisation that the Australian ethos of the fair go is in fact a cruel joke. It’s the story of what happens when the have-nots finally get a grip on the main chance.

The Williams’ journey to infamy began in the squalor of a transit camp for the homeless and destitute on the northern fringe of Melbourne’s Royal Park in the mid-1940s. In the years after World War II, Camp Pell was a human tip for what many regarded as the detritus of Melbourne society. It’s almost forgotten now. It’s a memory that jars with the post-war prosperity story that most Australians learn in schools these days. This place of degradation and suffering has been transformed into an “Urban Camp”, a quiet patch of cultured bushland nestling between busy Flemington Road and the State Hockey Centre. Teenagers come here now for school excursions. Nice people from the affluent adjoining suburbs walk their dogs among the eucalypts and wattles, enjoying the serenity of this oasis in the urban jungle. It seems benign and peaceful.

In the 1940s, when Carl’s grandparents on both sides of the family came here it was far from that. Camp Pell was their last resort. It was a choice between this stinking sinkhole or the streets for the Williams and the Denman clans. To George Williams, it seemed that everyone he knew had come from Camp Pell. It was his first memory. And his bride Barbara Denman had been born there too.

The sprawling shanty town had begun as a camp for Taskforce 6814, the forces that US Supreme Commander General Douglas MacArthur had thrown together after the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbour in Hawaii in December 1941.  As a military camp, it had been suitably hard and uncomfortable but it was only ever meant to be temporary. The soldiers had stayed in tents or Nissan huts, igloo-shaped iron sweat boxes with dirt floors and no insulation.

The place had acquired a sinister reputation almost from the beginning. In the space of two weeks in May 1942, an American serviceman Private Eddie Leonski stationed there had murdered three local women, gaining the sobriquet the Brownout Strangler. On Macarthur’s orders, Leonski was hanged at Pentridge in November 1942 but the scandal cast a morbid shadow over Camp Pell. Later, a rumour swept Melbourne that American military police had shot and killed a number of GIs and some locals who had been involved in a vicious mass brawl outside the Flinders Street Railway Station in December. The story went that the incident was covered up on MacArthur’s orders and the corpses were secretly cremated at Camp Pell and the ashes spread on the grounds. The story was apocryphal but it helped cement public notions that there was something evil about Camp Pell.

After the war, the camp was turned into a transit camp for homeless families who moved straight into the Nissan huts the Americans had vacated. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement for one year while the Victorian Government built new state housing for the poor. However, it stayed open for ten years amid government inaction and growing public revulsion.

In 1947, the Building Trades Federation wrote to government saying that living conditions at Camp Pell were “worse than the worst slums in Melbourne.” At any one time, more than three thousand people lived in Camp Pell sharing communal washing and cooking facilities. When it rained, the camp quickly became a quagmire, a dismal playground for hordes of filthy children with no shoes and ragged clothes. In summer the iron huts were intolerably hot so many took to sleeping out in the open. There were frequent outbreaks of diseases like diphtheria and whooping cough, diseases of poverty and overcrowding.

Camp Pell kids were ostracised at local schools for being unclean and spreading illness and head lice. Carl’s uncles and aunts even found the teachers gave them a hard time for their ragged dirty appearance.

Despite occasional half-hearted attempts to tidy it up, Camp Pell remained “a breeding ground of physical and spiritual disease…an evil intolerable plague spot,” according to an editorial in the Argus newspaper in April 1953.

“Nobody with eyes to see could bring himself to call any such monstrosity as this “a housing settlement.” Camp Pell is, in plain language, nothing but a dump for human beings.”

Little wonder then that the settlement became known as “Camp Hell.”

Privately, the State’s leaders could only agree the conditions were disgraceful but there was simply nowhere else to house these poor families. A slum reclamation programme had begun after the war and many families had been displaced from cheap rental accommodation across the inner-city. A wave of middle class migrants from Europe had bought up many of the old tenements in inner- city suburbs like Richmond, Fitzroy, St Kilda and Carlton. The original inhabitants, many of whom had been living there for generations on cheap rent were given their marching orders.

There had always been a shortage of housing for the poor in Melbourne but by the late-1940s the situation was dire with evictions running at 100 a month. There was little sympathy for the poor souls forced to live at Camp Pell and a number of other transit camps around the state. It seemed to them that the migrants got a better deal than the poor families of the city, many of whom had sent sons and daughters to fight and die for King and country in the war.  While the migrants were praised for their work ethic and family values, the Anglo-Celtic poor were reviled for their moral degeneracy.

In 1949, the state housing minister had complained his “big problem was the provision of accommodation for habitual drunkards, sex perverts and sub-normal people living in emergency camps.”

Barbara’s parents, Bill and Mary Denman were none of those things, just decent hard working folk who left their home in Fish Creek in south Gippsland to look for a life in Melbourne. Bill Denman was a qualified welder but work was scarce and accommodation virtually non-existent so the only alternative was Camp Pell.  With a growing brood of children, they tried to make the best of what they hoped would be a short stay. They stayed for nearly five years until they had seven children crammed into their iron hut.

George’s family had lived a few rows away from the Denmans with his mother, two sisters and a brother. George’s father had been a wharfie though he spent little time with the family.  In fact George was not sure that the man was even his father. “You only know your mother for sure don’t you,” he liked to say later. Despite this George had fond memories of Camp Pell. It was a hard life but they were together, sharing the hut with its dirt floor, huddling around the saw dust burner for warmth in winter and sweltering under the tin roof in summer.

Camp Pell was overrun with children, many of whom remember those days with nostalgia. George had cousins living nearby and they formed a gang of urchins who were always getting into trouble, cutting down trees for fun and generally running amok in the camp.  They had their own catch cry: “Camp Pell kids. Camp Pell kids. Camp Pell kids are we. We’re always up to mischief, wherever we may be.”

Yet the camp was an extremely dangerous place for adults, especially under the seething smoky cover of night. The newspaper archives are full of stories of murders, robberies, rapes and domestic violence that were commonplace at Camp Pell. Police regarded the camp as the epicentre of crime in Melbourne.

But the kids generally were exempt from these horrors and, as kids do, adapted to life in the mud and filth. George Williams remembered nights roaming the grounds with other kids, seeing groups of men drinking around late night fires and hearing their stories.

In January 1950, as the rest of Melbourne warmed to the beginnings of post-war prosperity The Argus ran a story depicting barefoot children playing in the rubble of Camp Pell. “Is this our heritage,” the correspondent asked. “Broken huts and disused stoves are Camp Pell children’s playground.”

By 1953, there were 1300 children under 16, like George Williams and Barbara Denman living at Camp Pell. There were fears that “this evil pernicious place” might poison its inhabitants and the city in general.

In 1953 The Argus mounted a strident campaign to have the camp demolished.

“First the camp holds many hundreds of decent, hardworking men and their families, who want homes but can’t get them.

Second it holds an unhealthy number of work-shy parasites who wouldn’t move out of Camp Pell at any price.”

The social consequences of the moral contagion that had flourished in Camp Pell would be felt later, the newspaper warned.

“We can’t expect people, basically decent people, to go on living there for four, five, six years, as some of them have done, without contracting the moral diseases that Camp Pell breeds. We cannot expect children, basically decent children, to grow up in the miasma of this foul place as children are without becoming Dead-End kids – and graduating as Dead-End men and women.”

Families in the adjoining areas would warn their kids to stay out of Camp Pell as if the contagion of poverty could somehow be transmitted by contact with “the inmates” as the residents were described as if they lived in a jail or an asylum for the insane.

The public condemnation of Camp Pell brought the residents closer together. In 1954 they formed an association to correct the public perception that everyone living in their “suburb” was “an undesirable.”

“Every suburb has its undesirables – even Toorak” one resident, AF Gelsi told The Argus.

“But 99 per cent of residents at Cam Pell are good clean families who care for their homes and their families and behave as well as anyone,” he said.

Some families seemed content to stay in the camp indefinitely.

“I have lived here for two years and spent more than £400 on furniture,” said a widow, Mrs EM Stanley who was raising a 13-year old daughter.

“There are hundreds of other families here who have done the same,” she said.

In July 1955, the Labor Government of John Cain issued mass eviction notices to the residents without any plan of how to re-house them. With the Olympic Games coming to Melbourne the following year, the State Government had built 800 houses for the competitors in the Games Village but apparently could not find any funds to accommodate the residents of Camp Pell. Instead the residents had been told to move their belongings out as soon as possible so the decrepit hovels could be razed. The indignity of their treatment welded the people into mass action. Protest meetings were held to complain of the inhumane treatment.

“No self-respecting person wants to live in this filth and squalor but most of us have to,” the chairman of the Emergency Housing Tenant committee told a meeting of residents.

“As he addressed the open air meeting children played in pools of mud and slush,” the Argus reported.

“This is what we have to put up with,” said Mr AA Black, a member of the committee said his eyes sweeping the scene.

“We don’t want to live here. None of us with any decency would. But we have to have shelter for children.”

When the authorities came to forcibly evict residents, members of the Communist Party and trade unions helped families stand their ground, wresting back furniture and personal belongings and returning them into the huts.

Eventually sense prevailed and the camp was given a reprieve while government worked out what to do with the 600 families who stubbornly refused to move until offered proper housing. Despite all the outrage there was still nowhere to put these destitute people who seemed to threaten the moral health of the city.

In 1955 Liberal Party leader Henry Bolte came to power and vowed to put an end to Camp Pell as one of his top election promises. The last family left Camp Pell on May 31 1956, giving the Public Works Department enough time to clear away the remaining 50 huts before the Olympic Games came to Melbourne in November. It was not from a sense of pity or compassion. Bolte privately said that he could not allow Queen Elizabeth and husband Prince Phillip to gaze upon the filthy eyesore as they came in from the airport to open the Olympic Games.

The Denmans had already left Camp Pell in 1954 when Barbara was six but George’s family had been among the last to vacate.

Most families had been shifted to Housing Commission dwellings while others had found their own housing. George’s family had ended up in a rundown worker’s cottage in North Richmond that was only marginally better than the hovel they had left in Camp Pell.

But families who had lived at Camp Pell could never remove the stain, at least in the eyes of the good middle class folk of Melbourne. While they abhorred the conditions and castigated the government for its inaction there was a sense that the people living in Camp Pell were beyond redemption. Soon the chickens would come home to roost in the form of crime and social dysfunction. The vermin would infect the city.

“We hear of marriages breaking, men turning to crime, children becoming tough young dead-end delinquents under the ugly spell of Camp Pell,” one editorialist thundered.

“Is it surprising? The family that spend months or years in Camp Pell and comes out untarnished must be of uncommonly strong moral fibre.”

“Men, women and children are not only physically ravaged by life in Camp Pell; they are also irreparably damaged in spirit.”

More than fifty years later, the moral arbiters were still passing judgement on the families who had passed through Camp Pell. Even though society had been tainted by drugs, violence and official corruption at the highest levels, the blame could still be sheeted home to individuals as if all was perfectly well on the high moral ground. At Carl’s death in 2010 radio broadcaster Derryn Hinch declared him nothing more than “a piece of greedy human flotsam.”

“Carl Williams is dead and believe me the world is better for his passing. It’s one more vote for a cleaner Australia. He was scum and don’t let TV shows like Underbelly ever fool you otherwise,” he said.

How laughable it was that Hinch and others could wish away half a century of social exclusion with the death of one man. There were thousands of people who recognised their own lives in Carl’s story.  To them, it was hardly surprising that Carl had put family before the law or society’s norms.


Grace The Cold Case


Tommy Wraith at his birthday party hosted by the infamous Richmond crime matriarch Kathy Pettingill (background)

Tommy Wraith at his birthday party hosted by the infamous Richmond crime matriarch Kathy Pettingill (background)

The commotion upstairs stopped abruptly, like a radio on full volume was switched off that night in London in late 1974. The neighbours, a middle-aged couple, had heard voices -two women and a man. An argument had raged for hours, but after midnight, all went quiet. Some time later there was a rhythmic “thump, thump, thump” down the iron backstairs of the building in Seymour Grove Paddington. From their kitchen window, the neighbours watched two people in the car park struggling with a heavy rolled-up carpet. They had tossed the carpet into the boot of a lime-green Ford Cortina and driven away.

The couple on the second floor had maintained a passing acquaintance with their Aussie neighbours. They were an unusual pairing. The woman was a handsome dark-eyed lady in her mid-30s. Though the bloom of youth had faded, she carried herself like a lady, a gloss of rich red lipstick and powder. She was courteous and polite when they passed her on the stairs with the baby in a pram. There was no in-depth conversation but the woman just gave off a good vibe.

By comparison, the man was shifty and sly, much younger than his partner. There were lots of Australians living in the Paddington area, so two more were unremarkable. They had been quiet and easy going. That is, until a second woman had arrived on the scene a few days before. She was big, brassy and loud with the hard eyes of a prostitute. For the first few nights there had been laughter and music into the night upstairs. But this night it had turned nasty and now there was this deathly silence. They hadn’t called the Old Bill, despite their concerns. You learn to mind your business living cheek by jowl in London’s inner-city.

On the same night, the telephone had rung in the apartment of an English villain well-known in London’s Australian circles. He struggled out of bed to answer it, annoyed to be woken so late. This man was the West End’s top distributor of illicit pornography and adult products. He did a sideline fencing whatever goods would sell. Business was good but the hours were long. People just didn’t buy dildos during business hours. And the Aussies kept him up late too. They pitched up at all hours, looking to fence some hot gear or to ask his help in a jam. What the Aussies did not know was that this man had connections in the Flying Squad. The price of his criminal franchise was a steady flow of information back to the Sweeney. He liked the Aussies and they trusted him, but he had to look after number one. Business was business.

The caller was Tommy Wraith. A small time thief in Melbourne, Wraith was a minor player in the West End, trading false passports, stolen traveller’s cheques and credit cards. He hadn’t even made the Australian Index in the Police Gazette, such was his lack of form and reputation.

It had been a surprise to many that Wraith had hooked up with the best female take of the day, Grace “The Case” O’Connor.

By mid-1974 Grace now 36 was living with Wraith in a top floor flat on Seymour Place, Paddington. They had a child together, born in England, and seemed set to stay. It was a shame, other members of the Kangaroo Gang had said. A top thief like Grace could make money for all of them. It was a waste of a good earner for her to be tending house for Tommy Wraith.

Grace "The Case" O'Connor. Not just a headpuller but a top thief in her own right.

Grace “The Case” O’Connor. Not just a headpuller but a top thief in her own right.

But now, Grace was dead, Wraith told the informer. He needed to get rid of the body before morning. The informer was torn. He had made good money from the Aussies but this was too hot to hold, so he rang his handler at the Yard. He recounted Wraith’s story and asked what he should do. The detective told him to go down there as requested by Wraith. He should confirm there had been a murder and confirm the victim was Grace O’Connor. But then he must beg off and let the Old Bill take over. Nobody would ever know he had shopped Wraith.

The informer hurried over to meet Wraith. He recognised the other woman in the flat when he arrived.  “Val” (not her real name) had been working in London and on the Continent since the late 60s. Nicked in Teneriffe, Spain in April 1969 for theft, Val had slipped back and forth into London using passports in assumed names. She had just returned from a few months lagging in Germany. She wasn’t in Grace’s class, just a head puller for whoever would take her on. Grace was the lady thief, living “respectably” on her hoisting. She had put away a tidy float if things ever turned sour. She didn’t need a man, while Val was entirely dependant, a survivor. She had slept with many of the Aussie thieves over the years, but she was no beauty, a big blousy blonde, with a hard jaw and thin cruel lips.

She was still drunk when the informer arrived there. She seemed unconcerned at the scene before her. On the bed lay Grace’s lifeless body, a stocking lashed around her throat. Wraith filled in the details for the informer.

He had been sleeping with Val behind Grace’s back. Grace had found out and an argument had broken out. Dead drunk, Wraith had watched the whole thing unfold, sitting by when the women came to blows. Grace had run into the bedroom with Val in hot pursuit. The smaller woman hadn’t stood a chance against an attacker of Val’s size and strength. She had proceeded to choke the life out of her on the bed. By the time Wraith got in the bedroom, the murder was well under way. He could have stopped it, but killing Grace had seemed the best option at that moment.  Everything that was hers became his instantly.

The informer didn’t want a bar of this and as per orders made his apologies and left.

The following morning at 4 o’clock, PC Carol Bristow mustered with 20 other officers at Harrow Road Police station, two miles from Seymour Place. They were briefed on the information to the Flying Squad had been given, but warned there could no mention of the informer or the murder allegations. They could not risk the informer being exposed, as much for their convenience as the informer’s well-being.

The flying Squad could not afford to have its informers exposed.  They were to execute a ruse, pitching up to the Seymour Place flat with a search warrant for stolen cheque books, credit cards and passports. Once in, they could search for evidence of the murder. A back up squad of 18 members was ready to pounce if the villains jerried.

At 5:30am when Bristow and a detective-inspector knocked at his door Tommy Wraith had been cool and calm. He welcomed the police in. There was just him, the wife and their baby at home, he told them. Val emerged from the bedroom, with Grace’s baby in her arms. Where Wraith had been cool and accommodating, Val was sneering and belligerent. Furious the baby had been woken, she had let fly with a foul-mouthed tirade. When she calmed down, Val was asked her name. Without hesitation, she told them: “Grace O’Connor”

Bristow’s heart leapt into her mouth. She and the DI had to stop themselves challenging the blatant lie. They searched the flat and, finding a cache of stolen chequebooks and credit cards, hauled Wraith and “Grace O’Connor” back to Harrow Road station. They would be remanded on conspiracy but these were just holding charges, until murder could be proven. Clearly Val was not O’Connor, but the lie was allowed to remain until the demise of the real Grace could be proven. Meanwhile, detectives were secretly despatched to Australia to recover items from Grace’s mother that might help with identifying a corpse, if and when they found one. They came back with hair from brushes and clothes and dental charts.

Meanwhile a search was mounted London-wide for O’Connor’s body. There was a tip that Grace had been dropped into a grave with a table-top in Hampstead Cemetery, someone else said Highgate Cemetery. Officers flipped the lids on hundreds of graves with no success.  There was also a story that Wraith had buried Grace in one of London’s eight Royal parks, which narrowed the search area to a mere 20 square kilometres.

A week later, Wraith’s lime-green Cortina, possibly a hire car, was located at Southwark police depot. It had been abandoned not far away from Seymour Place. The carpet from Wraith’s flat was still in the boot, but there was no other evidence linking it to Grace O’Connor.

Police delayed taking the holding charges to court as long as they could, but never revealed the true reason. Bristow would sit in back of the prison van with Val as she went to and from court. She didn’t expect a confession. She wanted to see how this person could take someone’s life then steal her identity and her baby. As a woman, PC Bristow had begun to identify with Grace. She wanted to tell this foul-mouthed oaf of a woman what she thought of her but she always bit her lip.

Eventually,Val admitted she was not Grace O’Connor but still she was never questioned over the murder. She and Wraith were tried on the cheque fraud and sentenced in late 1974 to nine months jail and deported in March 1975. With the suspects out of England, the Metropolitan Police gave up the investigation into Grace’s disappearance without ever opening a murder docket. It is not known what happened to Grace and Tommy’s child. That’s what made the case stick in PC Bristow’s mind when I met her in London in March 2009. Over the next 20 years she would often check the file at Missing Persons section of the Criminal Records Office. There was never any progress. On the day she retired, she checked the file one last time, still nothing. Grace’s case was closed and forgotten. Though the police knew there had been a murder and who had committed it, Grace’s file would never see the light of day again.

In 1982, legendary Melbourne detective Sergeant Brian “The Skull” Murphy took a call from a junior colleague. The young policeman was in quite a state.  He feared some villains were trying to harm his family over an incident that had taken place in England nearly 10 years earlier. His wife was an agency nurse posted to a small psychiatric hospital in suburban Melbourne. One evening, a patient had told her an extraordinary story of how he had killed the mother of his child.

The private hospital was one of many treating a range of mental illness with one brutal, catch-all therapy. Electroconvulsive (ECT) therapy involved sending an electrical charge of up to 120 volts through a patient’s head in order to “reset” the brain chemistry.  It had been a popular therapy in many hospitals for treating addictions and depression, but in this institution just about every patient got a burst of ECT. Some it actually helped but the nurse suspected nothing would help this man. When she first laid eyes on Tommy Wraith he was strapped to his bed in a Posey restrainer, a kind of strait jacket that kept the patient flat on his back in his bed.

He was trying to come off heroin for the umpteenth time and as he went through the horrors of withdrawal staff kept him sedated and strapped to the bed. His chart said he was in his 40s, but he looked much older. His arms were covered in track marks from needle use. Most of the veins in his arms and legs had collapsed and among his many tattoos there were scars and fresh sores. The staff cut his greying unkempt hair short at the temples in preparation for the ECT electrodes.

After a zap or two, Wraith seemed to pick up a little. Though he was a hopeless junkie, the nurse could see he had lived another life before this dismal descent into substance abuse.  One evening on her rounds, she stopped at Wraith’s room and they began talking.

Wraith already seemed a shell of a man, just waiting for death. Something, more than the heroin, had hollowed him out. He had died years before, the nurse thought. As police of the day would say he had “the hopeless expectation of impending doom.”

He was haunted by guilt. He had killed someone in England, he said. She hadn’t believed him at first but, as he spoke, the clarity of his story changed her mind.

Wraith said he had murdered a woman in his home and buried the body in a park or wood 10 years earlier. She recounted her meeting with Tommy to her husband that night and he was straight on the phone to “Skull” Murphy, who organised a meeting with Victoria Police’s Bureau of Criminal Intelligence. A message was sent to detectives in Scotland Yard and word came back that Wraith had indeed been a suspect in the disappearance of Grace O’Connor. Murphy was thunderstruck, he had nicked O’Connor in the early 60s for housebreaking and she had given up a whole team of her associates. She had been helpful and polite. To help find her killer, not to mention her mortal remains, was the very least he could do. But it wouldn’t be easy: there was no way Wraith would repeat his confession to a policeman. So it was decided that the nurse would go back to Wraith and gently probe him for more information. If she could find out where Wraith had buried the body, Scotland Yard would almost certainly re-open the case. The nurse was terrified, but with a little cajoling she agreed. In their second chat, Wraith told her that he had taken the body to Hertfordshire. He said it was buried in “beautiful country.” It wasn’t much to go on though it had narrowed down the potential burial site to 634 sq miles. In 1973, police been looking for Grace’s body in London, so Hertfordshire was new information. It was a logical place to bury a body. From Seymour Place, the murderers could have been in the pleasant countryside of Herts county in just 45 minutes. Though just 26 miles away from the West End, this was farmland and country estates, the setting for Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. In his novel Howard’s End, E. M. Forster described Hertfordshire as “England at its quietest.” It was a perfect place to bury a body in the middle of the night.

Meanwhile, Wraith had picked up enough to be discharged from the hospital. He hadn’t died after all, so perhaps he thought his confession might come back to bite him. One night after work, the nurse was followed all the way home by a man in a black utility. “Skull” Murphy’s inquiries suggested the car was Tommy Wraith’s. The nurse and her family could well be in mortal danger, he said. Shortly after, someone broke into their home, nothing was taken, but it was enough to spur Murphy into action. He rang a mate of Wraith’s and told him to relay a message that Tommy had nothing to fear from the nurse, but if he kept bothering her there would be trouble. “Tell him that if he doesn’t stop bothering her, I will personally come and shoot your wife and kids in front of you, okay?”  That was enough for the Wraith camp to drop off.

In 1983, Sgt Murphy received a call from a woman named Rae Elizabeth Collingburn,asking for his help. It was a surprise, given that Murphy and another policeman had stood trial for the 1971 manslaughter of her husband, Neil Stanley Collingburn. They had beat it, but the widow had persisted with a civil action for wrongful death. Finally she had dropped off and disappeared. Now, out of the blue, she needed his help. Her de facto husband Tommy Wraith was beating her and threatening to kill her. She feared she would have to kill him first to survive. Murphy begged her to come in and report Wraith but she refused. Our people don’t lag each other, she said. Murphy resolved to pay a visit on Wraith to quieten him down. But before he got there, tragedy had intervened.

In the midst of another drunken beating, Rae Collingburn had grabbed a tommy axe to protect herself from Wraith. He had pulled his gun out but before he could shoot her, she had smashed the axe down on his head.. With a few more blows, she made sure he was dead and then covered the body with a cloth “so the kids wouldn’t see,” prosecutors told the Victorian Supreme Court in 1985.

She then rang her sister to say: “You know what he was always going to do to me? Well I’ve done it to him.” She was found innocent of murder but was convicted of manslaughter.

Murphy noted, on behalf of Grace O’Connor, that Wraith had ended up with his right whack.

Someone knows where the body of Grace O’Connor still lies buried. My information is that Val remains alive.

The Abhorrent Vacuum



Long ago I read that you could tell a columnist was in trouble when he started writing about stuff that happened around the house. Now there are entire careers based on nothing else but domestic ephemera. There are a legion of writers who seem to trail behind their children and their pets with notebooks in search of material. Today I join their ranks.

I sacked the cleaner a few months back when I realised he spent his time talking to me while his partner did all the work. I don’t regret that but every so often I am forced to clear a path to vital locations such as the fridge, the toilet and the sofa. For this I put my faith in labour-saving devices.

The vacuum cleaner is designed to appeal to single men. How else can the faux-automobile styling be explained? The whooshing motor, the sleek sports car lines, the red paint job, the impressively telescopic nozzle, it’s all about seducing the gormless male buyer. It was ever thus. The first motorized vacuum cleaner circa 1901 was a petrol-powered, horse-drawn monstrosity which relied upon air drawn by a piston pump through a cloth filter. It was invented by a man and yes it was red. Its inventor Hubert C Booth spent as much time picking up the horse’s droppings which no doubt limited the effectiveness of his device. Ever since, men have been inventing new versions, which are invariably useless, every last one of them.

I grew up watching the Godfreys TV ads where the guy with the comb-over picked up the 16-pound bowling bowl with his trusty Electrolux. It’s that kind of grunt that has kept me buying vacs for years. The fact that the bowling ball suction cup never came as an accessory should have been a giveaway, because they keep dying on me. Inevitably they end up with the suction of an emphysema-stricken chain smoker. An hour’s furious activity knocking the paint off walls and the only impression I make are wheel tracks in the muck. And my cleaning regime is erratic. I haven’t covered the surface area of a tennis court since 2000.

Recently, I bought a “cyclonic” bagless model because, as everyone knows, cyclones move heavy stuff like houses and caravans with ease.

It was a thing of beauty with a grille like a mini Mack truck and a dust canister fit for biohazard storage. For the first month, it sucked the labels off beer bottles but soon my $500 purchase was reduced to the feeble wheeze of all its predecessors. Now I can grind away on a feather for 10 minutes and still finish picking it up with my fingers. To add insult to injury, my vac has an adjustable power control. On low speed, it wouldn’t part the hair of a cockroach. On high, the roach gets a little resistance training but scuttles away. Really my dog is doing a better job of cleaning up, at least the random pests and meat scraps.

The next time I buy a vac, I want the guy with his bowling ball again but this time I want it suspended just above his head. Then someone can pull the throttle back to low, not because I want to check the power of the vac. I want to be sure the damn bowling ball is real.


The People and Putin

A friend of mine rang last night to take issue with my blog on Putin’s treachery over MH17. He’s a rather shy fellow so I will summarise the argument on his behalf.

In seeking to censure Putin, we appeal to our politicians who allowed the conflict in Ukraine to continue for months, he said. It’s a fair point, we didn’t seem to care too much about the loss of life in Ukraine until it affected us directly. We didn’t give a toss that Russia was destroying the lives of thousands of people and taking Europe into a new age of imperialism. Not our problem. Just like Israel’s invasion of Gaza.

To suggest that Abbott was doing a good job over MH17, as I did, missed the point that he should have been on the job earlier, my friend said. But we are fixated with our own political issues, mostly esoteric arguments about carbon and mining taxes etc, invariably connected to our hip pocket nerve. We give Abbott too much credit for precious little in demanding that Putin front up for what he has done, my friend said. A struggling government will bounce in the polls for doing what is right, rather like being paid twice for turning up to work. It’s a reasonable argument but I’m inclined to give Abbott some benefit of the doubt. At least he didn’t call it Ukrainia.

My friend says we need a new politics, possibly without politicians, that recognises the fundamental connections between people of the world. If that were so, then conflicts like Ukraine might not get so far, and he’s not talking about a UN-style body that fosters inequality and lack of accountability. As another friend said yesterday: “Rule 1 of international relations – countries with nukes and who are permanent members of the UN security council tend to avoid action from the “international community”(love that meaningless term).”

It’s the abiding love of self-interest and expediency that has rendered the term “international community” meaningless. I hope this time things begin to change. We are globally connected like never before. We no longer rely upon politicians to speak for us. Our thoughts are no longer shaped and controlled by a few media gatekeepers. Is there a new fellowship of nations possible through direct communication of peoples, or is that hopelessly idealistic?


Send a message to Putin

It’s time to find the political will to do what is right. If there is no independent investigation into the shooting down of MH17, no pursuit and prosecution of the guilty, we must send the Russian Ambassador to Australia home to Moscow. Our allies must follow suit or face charges of cowardice. If China backs Russia on this outrage, its ambassador should also pack his bags. To hell with the niceties of diplomacy and trade. The remains of victims are being desecrated by their killers.

Vladimir Putin said if there was peace in eastern Ukraine this incident would not have happened. He looked uncomfortable, head down over his papers, his eyes everywhere but on the camera.

Putin has backed separatists in eastern Ukraine, causing the deaths of many civilians. Now his filthy wickedness is stripped bare.

Australia’s understanding of this far-off conflict has been abstract, now after the murder of 36 of our people, it has become real and visceral.

Tony Abbott has been a polarising figure as prime minister but his actions so far on MH17 have been exemplary. He was among the first leaders to call this what it was – a crime. He must keep his nerve and drive international condemnation and justice for the victims. Kicking out the Russian ambassador is merely symbolic, but it’s a statement about important values: fairness, compassion and the faith in international morality.