Anzac night

It was another busy evening as folk made the most of a free night, ahead of a holiday Monday. I was hoping to pick up a Veteran returning home from the Anzac Day festivities. Taking a punt, I accepted a radio job from Balmain Leagues Club. On busy Victoria Road and a real pain to get to, I arrived to find the job gone. In disgust, I logged off the radio and headed to the City.

Around 8 pm outside the Centennial Hotel in Woollahra, I picked up a bloke who wanted to go to an Irish pub out near Windsor. Being from Queensland he didn’t realise it was an hour away, on the north-western outskirts of Sydney. He had just divorced his second wife and was in Sydney on a blind-date. I said, ‘Mate, this is going to be an expensive root - it’ll cost you $80 to get there !’. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he replied, ‘sex with my last wife cost me $40,000 a throw !’

He estimated she’d cost him $600,000 upkeep over 10 years, plus a divorce settlement of $1.2m. Divided by the number of close encounters of a meaningless kind, he reckoned he was forking out $40,000 each time. Funny how some blokes look at divorce. Oh, and they had a couple of kids. He didn’t care. He was drunk with freedom and on the prowl, for a woman he’d never met. Out the back of Windsor, for Gods’ sake. Mate, give up.

On finally arriving, he flicked me $100, as 4 drunken young skippy males jumped straight in, yelling and carrying on. They’d just been ejected from the hotel for brawling inside. The worst of them - there is always one, the one with the small dick - rounded on me with a torrent of abuse, before screaming out the window feral-style. Once out of the carpark, he figured a spot of roof-surfing was the way to go.

Within 50 metres, I’d stopped the cab and yelled, ‘Listen shithead, I’m an Aussie, not a refo, so don’t treat me like shit or we’re off to the police ! How do ya wanna to do this ?’ We were in a semi-rural area with no buses. Even though he hadn’t heard me, his three mates had enough smarts to keep him under control. Barely.

Shithead needed to change his pants before they launched their next assault on the Castle Hill Tavern. So he broke into his parents home by ladder, because his Mum was sleeping. A quiet middle class neighbourhood of well appointed homes had their peace shattered by this bunch who skylarked around for 20 minutes, yelling on the street and carrying on. Finally, after more stupidity - the gear-stick gets thrown into reverse - and more threats - ‘maaate...we’re seriously joking, you’re an Aussie’ - I deliver them to the Tavern, only to have them surprise me by tipping heavily.

At midnight, grid-locked in Kings Cross, I observed a crowded two-up game on the footpath. The spinner was calling for last bets as his offsider counted down the seconds to midnight. After which the game, a traditional soldiers game involving 2 coins and a flip-stick, would be illegal for the next 12 months. The money went down, the coins were tossed, heads bent forward, bets were quickly settled, and a small round of applause broke out.

On board were two stylish women and a Naval Officer, resplendent in full uniform. They were happy and drunk, excitedly soaking up the crowded Kings Cross atmosphere. Midnight radio news filtered through the din with the strains of the Last Post from Pine Ridge, in the background. The Officer locked onto it and soberly requested to have more volume, bringing a change in atmosphere as we listened to the Anzac Day news.

The girls had picked up the Officer at Barons, a laid back bar in the Cross, and were taking him home to Double Bay. However on arrival there, confusion reigned. It appeared one girl expected them all to come in to her place, but her friend had other ideas. And so a muttering stand-off, at close quarters, ensued for some minutes. In the end one girl huffed off. A lost friendship. Very embarrassing.

The remaining girl requested I take them down to the nearby Ritz Carlton, but the Officer had now lost interest and just wanted to go home to Elizabeth Bay. So I turned around and headed back to the Cross, with both of them. The meter was ticking so I didn’t care. However, she had the shits and refused to talk to him on the way back, where he jumped out with as much dignity as possible, while she sulked.

Once again, I turned around, to take her home to Double Bay and her live-in boyfriend. On arrival, her phone rang, ‘Where am I ?’, she slurred, ‘I’m out the fucking front, in a cab !’ Good night.