Reasons you will hate me

A life of crime.

Last night, Slugger surprised me with tickets to a show. Needless to say, when I found out I was going to see WILD COLONIAL PSYCHO's (sic) - starring crooked cop Roger 'the Dodger' Rogerson , former VFL thug and Energizer battery spokesman Mark 'Jacko' Jackson and notorious underworld gent Mark Brandon 'Chopper' Read - I was a little taken aback. Not in a bad way. More like when you're expecting a Barbie for Christmas and you get a blood-stained meat cleaver with human flesh still attached. That kind of taken aback.


Anyway, here are some things I noticed about my big night at the theatre with the Dodge, Jacko, and Chop-Chop.
1. People who attend these kind of performances are very big bogans.
I have never before felt like such a middle-class, arty fuck-wank tosser. Everyone milling around in the foyer had clearly either done time in the 'big house' (I believe that's what it's referred to in the vernacular), or at the very least buried a body in a shallow grave. Especially the women. There were a lot of fucking rough sheilas in that joint. And they were all drinking bundy and coke.
If you don't know what a bogan looks like, here are some of them being 'amusing':

2. Roger Rogerson seems dangerously normal.
Hand in slacks - either absent-mindedly jingling keys or playing pocket billiards, I'm not sure which - Roger entertained us with sly tales of 'the best police force money could buy, ahahaa.' He also gave us his side of the shooting of Warren Lanfranchi . You found yourself almost half-liking the genial old fucker; comparing him to a half-cut gramps on Christmas Day. Then a cold glint appeared in his eye as a reminder of just what he's seen and potentially done in all his years as a bent cop. Then you got a bit scared and wanted your mummy.
3. Mark 'Jacko' Jackson hasn't changed much since he used to beat people up on the footy field.
Except that now he's a 'public speaker' with what could be kindly described as a 'blue streak'. Example 1 of routine:
'How the fuck is Sydney, eh? Fucking FAG CENTRAL. I'm sittin' on Oxford street with me three year-old son Jasper, and all of a sudden it's fucking Mardi Gras. Poofs everywhere; kissin', holdin' hands. Jasper's tuggin' on me pants, like: 'dad, dad, what's goin' on' and he pulls me wallet out and it falls on the ground . Had to kick the fuckin' thing all the way back to Melbourne, AHAHAHAHAAAAA!'
Example 2 of routine:
'I only wanted tickets to one event at the Olympics - the female weightlifting. Aw, yeah. How's that? One hundred and twenty kilogram snatch.' (to man in the audience) 'You'd know about that wouldn't ya mate? You're sitting next to one, AHAHAHAHAAA!'
4. Chopper Read is a scary guy.
I think it's safe to say Mr. Read 'had a few under his belt' by the time he hit the stage. Whether the booze was responsible for the jaw-dropping tale he spun about stabbing a 'Croation homosexual bodybuilder*' up the arse with a ten and a half-inch hunting knife, or whether it was a regular part of the 'show', I'm not sure. All I know is that by the time he got to the part about splitting the bloke's anal webbing so bad it needed eleven stitches and was 'pissing blood', I was about ready for a cup of tea and a lie-down.
5. Chopper wears his pants quite high.
But you didn't hear it from me.
6. The show was, of course, a triumph.
And if any of those fine gentlemen were to Google themselves and find my page, I'd like to again reinstate what fine, upstanding members of the community they are, in addition to being first-class raconteurs and entertainers. Bravo.
Here is a picture of Chopper:


* Chopper's wisdom: 'There are two types of poofs in prison. Hocks and Cats. Hocks do the fucking. And the Cats - no-one talks to them. They get fucked. So obviously they're poofters.'

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