Mr. K. Slater, bare-arsed and unashamed.
a revisit
Oct 14
9 Comments
the slaughterhouse, the cooking room.
A dark passageway, all the walls wet and over there a young man racking up a firehose. He watches you pass by. The smell in here is overpowering.
the engine fitter
Wordless, he beat Vince insensible, and then left him by the roadside. Roadkill.
justin beiber, his sorrow, and what it means to professional surfing
Justin Beiber doesn't surf, yet - but he might.
remembering crankin ‘baa
I’ll stick with the pros, jews and prostitutes, after all, Bondi is my background.
mona vale – a slide show
The man had grabbed at the girls' bikini bottom and yanked it off.
erin and the idealogy of hate
We would croon soft and intimate abuse as he raged back at us for our illegitimate insults; us, the founding Bondi Fascista.
why chicks don’t dig you – the body
Women don't look at men with the same hot-blooded concentration as we do them, this is anthropoligical. A man's glance is like a searchlight, it always goes the same route when it's switched on.
surfing journalism – where is the truth?
The secret surf corporation agenda - exposed here.
being a schoolboy surfer in 1959
We had no time for their Prefects and sport-games, their cadet corps and exams, no time for their rules and commandments, their uniforms, their classrooms and lessons. Their floggings.
the lennox point hotel – no longer the bloodhouse
Lennox head is more than just a perfect wave - the pub does sausages
petebowes.com 