the kook and his buddies
thanks for the shot, mike.
Posts tagged ‘Bondi’
Nov 4
1 Comment
surfing in the 60’s .. what a bloody shambles.
Nothing is true, all those stories about surfing in the the sixties are fiction.
this was bondi ~ barry mcguigan – magoo – the string magician
He's not a legend - he was always magoo. This was Bondi.
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.
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.
les girls, the boys from the cross come to bondi, things do not go well.
1961, bondi is invaded by the transvestite dancers from the kings cross nightclub, 'the all male review' - everybody hurts
a bright future in retailing
Then the hangover stood up and waved at me, waved a big red flag at me. Lots of drums in the background.
mick dooley cutting back
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, ben the bumpy – the hero wave
Ben Buckler, the world's bumpiest wave. A condensed appraisal.
another history of bondi
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.
Terry T-Shirt
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.
a summer story
Right now Doug decides to pull back the dressing on his ulcer for a looksee, and the swollen wound swallows half his hand before some babe wearing a black lace hanky strolls past, all silky wobble and perve. We observe the moment with a tranquil and hormonal grief as Ken retires into the dank shadows for another piss. Five an hour is the usual but who’s counting.
what surfers drive – the 1964 mini-minor
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.
cliques, the bondi variety
These lads are known to meet from time to time around one of the tables of the Great Northern in Byron Bay with their part Filipina grandchildren squabbling around underfoot, and they mutter and grumble over their drinks about typhoons and squalls, and Catholic wives.
street fighting and falling over
Street fighting is basically an artless exercise but not one without a degree of creative culpability, shrill histrionics and very real and enduring pain, and there are several basic rules that should not be forgotten by the receiver.
aub laidlaw, bondi lawman
Aub Laidlaw also had a very big problem with women in small two-piece swimming costumes – so much so that he took to measuring them when he was unsure of their legality, being a measurable requirement of municipal morality ordained by the local council at the time,
maurice and his white lady
He would usually brew up his White Lady at dawn, mixing a fearsome combination of banana skins, half a pint of milk and a pint of methylated spirits; and we boys used to wonder at the tumultuous state of his mind after he had sucked back this poisonous brew; when the echo of his laughter rose above the roar of the surf.
from bondi to the bower
Five warrior bikers on their way into the café stopped on the footpath, and they too turned towards the car as we slid away, their faces expressionless; massive men, armour plated under their jackets, brutal men, fear mongers.
