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The Daily Truth
A few days after the death of David Hookes in 2004, I traded my suit and hat for a tracksuit and sneakers and parked myself all day against the bar of the Beaconsfield Hotel in St Kilda, in the hope that I might lassoo something useful as it drifted from whispering staff and muttering patron. I didn't learn anything about Hookes' death that we don't know today,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], or if I did it was all but erased by the gallons of beer I consumed while 'disguised' as a drunk. But I did jot down some notes - things I spotted or thoughts that percolated as I slacked through the hours - and, last night, while cleaning out my drawers, I happened upon my "lost" text. I'd say it makes interesting reading, but only as the document of a desperate journalist in the midst of a passable idea most poorly executed indeed. Much in the manner of Clive James, who, at the end of the millenium, donated a pile of his old manuscripts to the State Library of New South Wales (thus solving a troublesome storage problem), I'm going to generously donate my 'works' to The Age, though I suspect the appropriate catalogue to be The Daily Truth.
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A few wreaths lay outside on the footpath, against the wall of the pub. Don't think this is where Hookes fell - it's a bit further down Cowderoy Street, the papers are saying.
Walls festooned with B photographs,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], including obligatory print of 'the pub that once was'. They rip out the guts of the charming old saloon, replace it with mock-timber, coloured concrete and chrome, then try to disguise their abomination by covering with photos of charming old things. A multi-million dollar waste of time. Renovator's bulimia.
Female reporter outside gesticulates for the camera,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], but it wasn't good enough so she stops. Gesticulates for camera once more, but it wasn't good enough again. How many ways can you screw up the words: "Behind me is the Beaconsfield Hotel"? Why doesn't she just get out of the road, then everyone will see what she's talking about and she won't have any lines to fluff?
Girl behind bar's being cagey. Unfriendly. Suspects I'm journalist? This notebook doesn't help. Will say I'm writing a letter. Yes, "a letter for a friend abroad".
Staff hates journalists - TV reporters the worst. Journalists are "creeps, the lot of them", "sleazy" and "worse than lawyers, seriously". I shake my head in disgusted agreement. Have told them I'm an "engineer".
An old man with a small wreath (looks home-made) politely asks Staff if he can leave it in the bar. She directs him to the footpath, where the other wreaths are. He thanks her, walks outside,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], leans down and lays the wreath,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], then backs up a step, stands for just a moment, then moves along. He would have thought Hookes just a kid when he scored his first test century,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], now he's laying flowers for the same guy, dead. Strange.
Frank (patron) is a labourer. He knows his industry and seems keen to talk shop,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]. Everyone "very shaken up". Pub might close if Bracks shows love for cricket by revoking license. Like Carr showed love for underage drug users by closing the Phoenician Club. Joke didn't work. Am sounding too much like a journalist.
Why can't there be "undercover journalists"? Why should I have to declare: "My name's Jack Marx and I'm a journalist" any more than Donnie Brasco had to say: "My real name's Joey Pistone,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], actually, and I'm an undercover cop here to blow the lid off your Mafia". No wonder newspapers are so boring.
Staff says this might not be first time Hookes has had trouble with security here. He is (was) a "cranky bloke". Bob (patron) says Aussie cricketers are anti-social as a rule, their "license to be bastards" having its genesis in surly old Don Bradman. (Good theory). Says there was a big brawl last September (2003) during a cricket function at the Savoy in Spencer St (Melb). Many "legends" involved, but the flaks did a good job of "hush-hushing" it.
Publican pulls Staff around corner for quiet chat. She comes back wiping surfaces, staying out of conversation. Been ticked off for singing like a bird. There'll be slim pickings from here on in.
Cowderoy Street - so named, perhaps,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], because the cattle that grazed here in the olden days had a daggier, ribbed sort of hide,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], compared to the "cooler", leather-clad cows from better pastures.
They reckon "his blood stains are still on the street", but I can't see anything. The blood's always still there in this bloodless country - dripping from the signage of the Sydney Hilton, gurgling down the gutters in Hoddle Street, and sprayed over a considerable arc of asphalt where that goofy golfer walked into the propellers - like human exclamation marks on a land where, for once, there has been a bit of melodrama worth talking about. It's a national mirage. Blood's easy to wash off. I think the law in such matters should observe a "bad luck" clause. If someone punches you and you die, that's "bad luck" for you, 'cos you're dead, and "bad luck" for the other guy, too,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], 'cos he's going to jail and that's tough. Put it down to a lousy day at the office all-round. Saves time, saves money, and if the other guy don't like it he's welcome to swap.
They should have fingerprint identification technology in poker machines, so that the first press of the button tells the machine whether the gambler's an old hand or a greenhorn. If the latter,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], the machine will know to squirt a weighty cash prize,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], encouraging the player to come back again until addiction settles in. The police could then remotely program the machine to pay out repeatedly, keeping the felon rooted to his stool until capture,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], the arresting officers even scoring a bit of the traditional copper's graft thanks to the machine's winning streak going "a little longer than expected".
The technology could also be routed to the private sector, so that impatient creditors and divorcee mums can know immediately when old Mr No-Cash has hit the jackpot on Queen of the Nile.
Gadzooks! It has just occurred to me why I might have lucky-dipped the word "engineer" - I must have subconsciously noted the unusual number of construction sites I passed as I strolled on my way here this morning. No one once thought to look at what it did to the staff everyone blamed them the spitting at them and the absolute horror that became their everyday life at work. How would you all feel if something so devastating as a death occurred at your work and you were spat at and ridiculed forced to hide and not do your job! We complain that people are on the dole but yet you are happy to force people there. Peoples don't lay the blame so quickly or easily. Just because the staff weren't the superstar doesn't mean they were in the wrong,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych].
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