the kook and his buddies
thanks for the shot, mike.
Nov 4
Nothing is true, all those stories about surfing in the the sixties are fiction.
We would croon soft and intimate abuse as he raged back at us for our illegitimate insults; us, the founding Bondi Fascista.
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.
1961, bondi is invaded by the transvestite dancers from the kings cross nightclub, 'the all male review' - everybody hurts
Then the hangover stood up and waved at me, waved a big red flag at me. Lots of drums in the background.
I don't see anybody doing this manoeuve, even up here at Byron where the waves are so easy you can surf them with your eyes closed
Ben Buckler, the world's bumpiest wave. A condensed appraisal.
One mile away to the south Bondi would greet the dawn like an overworked whore on a Sunday morning with dozens of French Letters littering her high water mark.
And when the long awaited set finally did arrive the only person in the right position to take it was Terry T-shirt, every bloody time. He had this uncanny knack of being able to time the arrival of the next set of waves, not only that but until his private alarm bell rang he’d be inside pinching all those waves as well, and all alone.
The ad also displaces the myth that surfers in the sixties all had long bleached hair, as the dudes in the pic are no doubt typical of the era and all have the look of Junior Executives ready for some hang-ten time.