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Authors: Mark Brandon "Chopper" Read
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Womens Weekly.
For a joke Jimmy Loughnan and I started the H Division branch of the Ita Buttrose fan club. Personally, I feel that if God had a mother she would look like Ita. How could any man not love Ita?
I haven’t spoken much about real violence, so I will give a small true example of how my regard for Ita nearly got a bloke killed.
It was 1977, and I was in an inner-city pub when a well-known criminal and gunman made the mistake of bad mouthing the sainted name of Ita, the woman of my dreams. I will not tell you this drunken lout’s real name. I will simply call him ‘One-eyed Pauly’. We fought tooth and nail, and this bloke could fight. To be honest, he could punch my head in — but for one thing. What I lack in the finer points of fisticuffs I make up for in violence. As far as I’m concerned the Marquess of Queensberry was a poof.
I got him with a series of head butts and elbow blows, a handful of hair and a knee to the face. When he went down I kicked him until he was out cold — and his face all smashed up. I made sure he lost an eye that day, which is how he got the nickname One-eyed Pauly. This was a dockies’ pub and the onlookers were a pretty critical audience, so I had to make sure I left the right impression.
As I said when I finished my beer after the fight, I’d kill any man who spoke ill of Ita Buttrose.
You don’t get a reputation like mine for being a nice guy.
*
In 1977 I had a bit of action to catch up on after getting out of jail after serving nearly three years for robbing massage parlours. I was out for five months before I walked into the County Court and kidnapped Judge Martin on January 26, 1978, which is another story.
In the five months I was out, I shot five men. I was charged and convicted for only one shooting — that of ‘Johnny Corral’ — a young criminal and knockabout not much older than myself. I got him in the left leg around the kneecap. Since then Johnny has carried a bad crippled leg. He has returned to prison several times, where my spies tell me news of his physical wellbeing.
I have always felt guilty over Johnny’s gimpy leg. It happened because he was getting a bit lippy and got me on the wrong day. But if Johnny is reading this and remembers back, he must admit I did have the barrel at his head, then I reconsidered and dropped it to his leg. We were both young. Why he got loud mouthed with a man carrying a shotgun is beyond me, but Johnny and his gimpy leg have played on my mind for years.
There was no hate or personal malice involved. It was just the way it went. I guess I’m trying to say I’m sorry about Johnny. If I could wave a magic wand and fix his gimpy leg, I would. The bloke stuck solid after I shot him and said nothing to the police. Sorry about that, Johnny.
*
In March 1975, in Pentridge’s D Division in the billet’s yard I was getting a haircut one day when I saw the strangest fight in my life. It was between ‘Tiger Tommy Wells’, an ex-boxer and former Australian titleholder of the 1960s, and a drag queen named Kelly.
Tiger Tommy was a tall, lanky, big-boned man with a lot of fistic skill. The drag queen was the roughest-looking piece of work God ever shovelled guts into — a body like Maggie Tabberer and a head like Henry Bolte, topped off with a big pair of silicone tits. ‘She’ was a sight to be seen.
The fight was fast and hectic. However, Tommy was a kind-hearted and gentle-natured chap with not a drop of violence in him, whereas Kelly the drag queen was as mad as a meat axe and about as dangerous.
I didn’t fancy Tommy’s chances. Sure enough, after five or so minutes of savage punching Tommy hit the deck. The drag queen then started to kick Tommy. Enough was enough. I stepped in, smashed the drag queen over the head with a mop bucket and bit its ear off.
‘She’ ran screaming and bleeding from the yard. I then helped Tommy up. I couldn’t stand by and watch a good bloke like Tommy humiliated any further at
For a joke Jimmy Loughnan and I started the H Division branch of the Ita Buttrose fan club. Personally, I feel that if God had a mother she would look like Ita. How could any man not love Ita?
I haven’t spoken much about real violence, so I will give a small true example of how my regard for Ita nearly got a bloke killed.
It was 1977, and I was in an inner-city pub when a well-known criminal and gunman made the mistake of bad mouthing the sainted name of Ita, the woman of my dreams. I will not tell you this drunken lout’s real name. I will simply call him ‘One-eyed Pauly’. We fought tooth and nail, and this bloke could fight. To be honest, he could punch my head in — but for one thing. What I lack in the finer points of fisticuffs I make up for in violence. As far as I’m concerned the Marquess of Queensberry was a poof.
I got him with a series of head butts and elbow blows, a handful of hair and a knee to the face. When he went down I kicked him until he was out cold — and his face all smashed up. I made sure he lost an eye that day, which is how he got the nickname One-eyed Pauly. This was a dockies’ pub and the onlookers were a pretty critical audience, so I had to make sure I left the right impression.
As I said when I finished my beer after the fight, I’d kill any man who spoke ill of Ita Buttrose.
You don’t get a reputation like mine for being a nice guy.
*
In 1977 I had a bit of action to catch up on after getting out of jail after serving nearly three years for robbing massage parlours. I was out for five months before I walked into the County Court and kidnapped Judge Martin on January 26, 1978, which is another story.
In the five months I was out, I shot five men. I was charged and convicted for only one shooting — that of ‘Johnny Corral’ — a young criminal and knockabout not much older than myself. I got him in the left leg around the kneecap. Since then Johnny has carried a bad crippled leg. He has returned to prison several times, where my spies tell me news of his physical wellbeing.
I have always felt guilty over Johnny’s gimpy leg. It happened because he was getting a bit lippy and got me on the wrong day. But if Johnny is reading this and remembers back, he must admit I did have the barrel at his head, then I reconsidered and dropped it to his leg. We were both young. Why he got loud mouthed with a man carrying a shotgun is beyond me, but Johnny and his gimpy leg have played on my mind for years.
There was no hate or personal malice involved. It was just the way it went. I guess I’m trying to say I’m sorry about Johnny. If I could wave a magic wand and fix his gimpy leg, I would. The bloke stuck solid after I shot him and said nothing to the police. Sorry about that, Johnny.
*
In March 1975, in Pentridge’s D Division in the billet’s yard I was getting a haircut one day when I saw the strangest fight in my life. It was between ‘Tiger Tommy Wells’, an ex-boxer and former Australian titleholder of the 1960s, and a drag queen named Kelly.
Tiger Tommy was a tall, lanky, big-boned man with a lot of fistic skill. The drag queen was the roughest-looking piece of work God ever shovelled guts into — a body like Maggie Tabberer and a head like Henry Bolte, topped off with a big pair of silicone tits. ‘She’ was a sight to be seen.
The fight was fast and hectic. However, Tommy was a kind-hearted and gentle-natured chap with not a drop of violence in him, whereas Kelly the drag queen was as mad as a meat axe and about as dangerous.
I didn’t fancy Tommy’s chances. Sure enough, after five or so minutes of savage punching Tommy hit the deck. The drag queen then started to kick Tommy. Enough was enough. I stepped in, smashed the drag queen over the head with a mop bucket and bit its ear off.
‘She’ ran screaming and bleeding from the yard. I then helped Tommy up. I couldn’t stand by and watch a good bloke like Tommy humiliated any further at
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