Sally McManus (below), the Boxer Boys (above). From left to right, Australian amateur lightweight champion Jack the Ripper, former NSW Heavyweight champion the Balmain Boxer, and weight trainer extraordinaire, great Australian larrikin, gold merchant, and all round top bloke Digger Dave. The little prick on the left backed 3 out of 5, at odds too. The rest of us did our arse. Sal didn’t have a bet.
Well here I was strolling back along Macrossan Street from Rex Smeal Park, where I had wandered off on my own to smoke a joint because the boxer boys are all fitness fanatics who don’t imbibe, when who did I see sitting with her hubby – who seemed a very nice bloke – at at an al fresco table outside the best wog joint in Port Douglas but Sal the Gal, also known as Sally McManus, the ACTU Secretary and reportedly one of the most powerful people in Australia.
“Sal!” I stopped and shouted, as I stuck out my hand to say hello.
“It’s Archie. formerly known as Brenden! Remember when we stuck those Samurai warlords up in the strike at Kodak and you charged the Emperor’s car? Huge fun wasn’t it?”
I was about to launch in the finer details of the great moment when I noticed the hubby’s eyebrow raise, and Sal blush, and suddenly I realised that the ultimate union boss in the land hadn’t shared the story of the great left-wing Australia v right-wing Japan film stoush with her better half, despite the fact that he would no doubt enjoy it, and then it dawned on me that I am extremely handsome, which may cause Mr McManus to draw the wrong conclusions about why Bob Hawke’s successor hadn’t mentioned our brief time together, and I thought to myself this is no good.
So with a wink and a wave I bid the very well matched and good looking couple farewell, told Sal she was doing a great job. which I truly believe to be true, wished them a wonderful stay in Port Douglas aka Paradise, and continued on my weaving pissed, speeding and stoned wander back to the Irish pub to gargle some more grog with the boxers, who by the way are great blokes, the best in the world. except the Coach when he drinks rum, for when Bundied up the bastard has a bad habit of getting his gear off and passing out on top of the blanket before he has time to put his PJ’s on.
The best looking bloke in Port Douglas. He could dead set be my identical twin.
Anyway. back to Sal the Gal, who I worked with back in the day at the ASU.
It’s amazing the good straight people that you meet in Macrossan Street on a Saturday night on the punt, juice and weed isn’t it?
Ain’t life grand.
God Bless Australia.
What a wonderful country this is.
Good on you Sal.
Editor’s note:
As usual this is a true story, and it got more bizarre as the evening went on. I have witnesses to prove it, including Sally McManus, her hubby, Maggie, the naked Balmain Boxer, Digger Davc, Jack the Ripper, six pommie birds on the beach in the dark tripping on mushrooms, and two stooged members of the Port Douglas constabulary who were wanting my notch on their belts but weren’t quick enough to get it. They obviously didn’t grow up in Geebung.
And Jack the Ripper reckoned he could beat me over 2o yards, and offered a stake of twenty bucks on the proposition. I didn’t want to to take the young bloke’s money. It felt like stealing candy from a baby, especially after I had already fleeced him for plenty by winning 2-0 at pool, which apparently prior to the match the Ripper was a world champion at. Just ask him.
Yeah good son.
I finished the last game off by triple banking the black into the middle hole. It was a smart arse shot that gave away the hustle, but it taught the lad a bit of humility. The 20 yard sprint from the coppers in the trippers direction into the darkness taught him who the real title holder was though. Fuck gold laden belts. They slow y0u down too much over the tenth of a furlong, and make you sink when you swan dive into the swirling dark waters where constables are afraid to tread.
I told Jack the Ripper I was a certainty in the thin blue line dash, and howled at him to sprint with me as a pacemaker. They breed them weak south of the Tweed though, and the young blokes in Balmain jerseys all seem to prefer Mrs Palmer to viagra style drugged up pommie sex sirens.
Each to their own I say, and all the more for the brave.
David Tua’s cousin when the best looking bloke in Port Douglas rolled in off his chops and smelling of pommie mushroom perfume at 3 in the morning, with his knees covered in sand. She didn’t buy the excuse that he didn’t ride flat on the tripping bird on the beach because he didn’t want to give his beloved crabs.