what you need in order to get a good job is a solid employment record. like mine.

Absolute gentlemen, these men of the sea, even Mark Evans. He’s the little guy with the scuzz in the boat build doco here.

Imagine sitting around a board table with a bunch of boatbuilders once a month for ten years. Punishing indeed, wind wankers the lot of them but fine young men with very little understanding of exactly what I was doing. This was always the plan. Job security is job secrecy.

Just kept the hollow logs full until the year-end so no surprises, that was the key. Who needs a degree.

Left with honour intact.

Information Resources: Director, Finance.

St Leonards. NSW. 1990 to 1999

Data gatherer and disperser, Woolworths data slave, a small part of a large American IT company with Grade A software for hire. Express. Conglomerate bought by Larry Ellison when he had a day ashore.

Mr Oracle had the best corporate offices in North Sydney. But just another wind-wanker and just as well, the local boys sure could spend the yanks money. I should know, I was counting it at the time.

Six MD’s in six years, none of them able to read a balance sheet. The Professor, Ranga, Russell the Dip, Little Hitler, Keitsal and The Committee. Plus you should never have to deal with Woolworths, if you must take some fly-spray.

– and not to forget the quantifiably nasty little yank corporate accountant who liked to slip over the Pacific from Chicago just to dump on Australians. Thin man with a large skull. Like a nob on a stick, first name David. Last name Dead-acre.

– and I learnt how to use Javelin  The Spreadsheet, peerless.

Where is it?

An unfortunate redundancy.

Coloroll Australia Pty Ltd: Director, Finance.

Allambie Heights. NSW. 1984 to 1990

Levered the accountant out of a job he was doing badly and was soon introduced to Visicalc – wonder of all self-calculating things.
Then somebody else invented Lotus 123 This is how the addiction started. Later we got colour.

Because being an accountant is dull day at the office.

The English Parent of Coloroll was found floating belly up one morning and I learnt that signing a personal guarantee for a company liablilty was unwise.
The Receiver though was a lovely fellow – he bought an early Toshiba laptop that fell off the back of a truck in Fivedock and from that day on he treated me very kindly.

An unfortunate redundancy.

Activity Plastics: Accountant.

Brookvale. NSW. 1982 to 1984

Met Wally, the Eminent Accountant – then had his job off him. He didn’t know a prepayment from a provision. Extrusion company, full of Islanders working with lead based colour powders. One of them lost a finger in a microniser one day. Then he found  it and put the thing in a jar. Then I found it behind the milk, in the canteen fridge. Guy had a dirty nail.

Deadly material. Dead – end. Company sold.

An unfortunate redundancy.

Spartan Paints: State Credit Manager.

Botany. NSW. 1980 to 1982

Purchased by Wattle. Receivables down to 30 from 120 days in three months – and this meant knocking on the doors of every spray-painting business in the Sydney south-western metropolitan area, looking for overdue money. ‘ G’day mate I’m the bloke from Spartan who rang you yesterday, remember? .. so whaddya reckon I pick up that cheque you were goin’ to write, like you said.?’

Never had a problem in a work shed since. One of the lads gave me a flagon of semi-dry sherry for Christmas.
I charmed the money out of them.

An unfortunate redundancy.

Mariner Cruisers: Financial Controller.

Mona Vale. NSW. 1979 to 1980

Luxury Boat-Builders. Lots of mogul attitude. I took a bag home one night with $25,000 bundled up inside. The next morning Iron Bar Tim Bristow called by the office to confirm that I’d banked it. He was the kind of visitor who never knocked at the door.
Watched Bill Barry Cotter‘s work in awe. The boat-builder. Now there is a guy who can do The Business. Left quickly and with rancour. It wasn’t my fault, but try telling that to Harry Shead. Bless him, and look what happened anyway as the parent Enacon floundered.

The only and the best ‘ I Quit and Fuck You ‘ moment of my career.

Centre Industries: Chief Accountant.

Allambie Heights. NSW. 1972 to 1979

Otherwise known as The Spastic Centre. 1,000 employees. Contracts to build semi-conductors and tele-printers. Government contracts a foot thick. Worked for Alex Clarke, the genius. He showed me how to build a manual spreadsheet, and hold onto a job. The local lads taught me how to play chess. Pushed two young blokes through TAFE and one of them went back home to Indonesia where I think he’s running the country right now.

Everybody cried, I still read their card from time to time.

Waltons Retail Stores: Accounts clerk.

Sydney. NSW. 1971 to 1972

Creditor reconciliations eight hours a day five days a week when we weren’t watching which babe of the day was being asked to do the typing for the Chief Accountant, in his office, behind the closed door. Met Mario Fachinelli, the master reconciler. Egyptian. I copied his writing it was so beautiful. He didn’t mind as long as it all added up. Met my first accountant. Nobody was impressed.

A record shop across the road sold vinyl Phillip Glass albums. Two lovely girls sold black hashish in a stairwell up the street on Friday nights. The job though wasn’t a winner. Accountants are hard to drink with.

Thank you but no thank you.

The Bondi Diggers: Barman, cellarmen.

Bondi Beach. NSW. 1970 to 1971

Friday night all the prawns and oysters were delivered into the cellar coldroom for the night’s big show. My cellar, ergo MY prawns and MY oysters.
This was too good to last so they sent me upstairs to pull beer and wait tables. Here I learnt a few laws of economics courtesy of the bar manager and the other waiters, like what to share and what to keep, plus which poker machine had the fiddle on.

A man moves onto better things.

The Woollhara Hotel: Barman, cellarmen.

Woollahra. NSW. 1969 to 1970

A little fraught seeing as how the Licensee was married to Abe Saffron’s sister and I shouldn’t have dropped the carton of Glenfiddech onto the stone floor the day he was to come for lunch. Strange also was the number of grim-faced men who would wander in and out of the public bar without having a drink. Just looking. Everyone was a criminal in 1969.

There was never a good day in this pub. Broke an arm in the cellar and got sacked for being careless. What Union?

A man moves onto better things.

The Centennial Hotel: Barman, cellarman.

Woollhara. NSW. 1967

Family affair. All the weekly takings in the safe promptly transported to the nearest baccarat tables on Friday and Saturday nights. Female impersonators on stage on Saturday nights. A little violence in the public bar from time to time. The cook was done for receiving although he had the best steaks in Sydney. The  corner room was mine.

Never employ a relative. This works both ways.

The Fox and Hounds Nightclub and Bar: Shift Manager.

Gibraltar. 1966