this was bondi ~ barry mcguigan – magoo – the string magician
He's not a legend - he was always magoo. This was Bondi.
Posts tagged ‘out of bondi’
Dec 26
2 Comments
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.
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.
voyeurism and the outlaw south bondi boardriders
Everybody fell off in those conditions, and their loose boards smashed and collided their way to the beach - a rolling logjam of splintering balsa and spearing boards
the jewish kid, harry
Imagine counting every grain of sand on the beach, and in the park, and all those carried away in cars over the last 30 years. Tourists travelling from here to all corners of the earth. Imagine.
ben buckler, ben the bumpy – the hero wave
Ben Buckler, the world's bumpiest wave. A condensed appraisal.
the balconies
So hard to resist the welcome breath of a summer north-easter, and the allure of that bone white arc of Bondi.
bob evans and his bronte surf movies
Grunts and gasps, howls and sighs, laughter and heavy breathing. Ecstatic groaning. Roaring approval. Surf movies, or porn? ..
the stomp, the dance of demolition.
The Stomp was never a dance; it was a stamping grinding deafening assault on the integrity of whatever building was unwisely hosting the event. It was a wrecking ball, a demolition dance, a brutal thing
the bondi astra, barry, and the death cut
There was so much sand on the floor of the public bar at closing time that the tiles were covered, and after twenty years all the colours had been rubbed away, sandpapered off by the bare feet of a generation of shoeless drinkers.
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.
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.
petebowes.com 