Read Online Chopper Unchopped by Mark Brandon "Chopper" Read - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Brandon "Chopper" Read
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the hands of such a creature.
I was sad to learn years later that Tiger Tommy hanged himself in the Ferntree Gully lockup. He was a gentleman and showed me great kindness. For a man like him to die in such a way in such a place was a tragedy.
*
Back in the days when I used to work out at Ambrose Palmer’s gym I made the acquaintance of a former Australian heavyweight boxing champion who, for legal reasons and because he probably wouldn’t thank me for mentioning him, I will not name.
However in early 1973, I was having a drink in the Southern Cross Hotel in the city. I had to pop into the men’s room and there I found the former champ engaged in fistic combat with a giant fellow — an American rather well known in Melbourne for his appearances on television’s world championship wrestling, which was on every Sunday morning through the 1960s and 1970s. His name was ‘Playboy Gary Hart’.
I didn’t know what to do. The former Australian champ was punching — but to no avail. I went outside, walked to the bar, picked up a half-full jug of beer, tossed the beer out, went back into the men’s room and smashed the big Yank over the skull. That slowed him down enough for the ex-champ to stiffen him with a very nice right uppercut. The big fellow was flat out on the floor.
I thought that was that. But then the ex-champ bent down and removed his Rolex watch, his rings, gold chains and wallet, and together we left the bar. As we got to the street I realised I was still holding half a broken beer jug by the handle, so I put it in the bin. The ex-champ put the rings, jewellery, watch and dough in his pocket. I said: ‘You’ve got a watch. I want that one. Fair’s fair.’ So I got the Rolex.
About three weeks later, I was in Surfer’s Paradise, enjoying the sun and surf and trying to find an opal dealer, massage-parlour owner, drug dealer and all round wealthy fellow called ‘Chinese Charlie’.
It was hot and I was thirsty, so I walked into a lovely air conditioned lounge bar for a cold beer. As I got inside and adjusted my eyes to the dimmer inside light I saw a big bloke at the bar who looked a bit too familiar. It was Playboy Gary Hart. He was standing at the bar looking at me, trying to remember where he knew me from. Beside him was a bald-headed giant I knew right away from the wrestling on TV and Saturday night at Festival Hall as ‘Brute Bernard’.
I did a U-turn and walked back out. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Gary Hart maybe, but I wouldn’t fight old Brute Bernard unless I was carrying a chainsaw. Besides, I was still wearing the Playboy’s gold Rolex.
‘Bugger Chinese Charlie’, I thought, and went back to Melbourne.
*
There’s another yarn involving the Chinese, but this time one called Micky, who was from Sydney. As a favour, and for several thousand dollars, I met him because he had a problem to solve.
His niece had been raped and robbed and ripped off by her body builder, karate expert boyfriend, Steve the Greek, who had fled to Melbourne.
Steve was a NSW gangster. The shifty Chinese had tried to kill him in Sydney, but Steve the Greek bashed the attackers. He could fight like ten men, so I was asked to locate him, which was easy. He was a gambler, and it’s not hard to find a Greek crook who plays cards in Melbourne, as Melbourne is a second Greece.
All I had to do was find him, grab him, hold him for the Chinese and call them when he was ‘in custody’. To cut this story short, I did find him, I did render him unconscious and I took him to a house in Footscray and nailed his left hand to a large, heavy Franco Cozzo coffee table with a claw hammer and a roofing nail. Who says Franco Cozzo furniture is no good for anything?
One does not escape and run too far with one’s hand nailed to such a large wooden coffee table. I rang the Chinese and they came and collected him … and as far as I’m concerned that’s the end of the story. The reason I’m being coy about
I was sad to learn years later that Tiger Tommy hanged himself in the Ferntree Gully lockup. He was a gentleman and showed me great kindness. For a man like him to die in such a way in such a place was a tragedy.
*
Back in the days when I used to work out at Ambrose Palmer’s gym I made the acquaintance of a former Australian heavyweight boxing champion who, for legal reasons and because he probably wouldn’t thank me for mentioning him, I will not name.
However in early 1973, I was having a drink in the Southern Cross Hotel in the city. I had to pop into the men’s room and there I found the former champ engaged in fistic combat with a giant fellow — an American rather well known in Melbourne for his appearances on television’s world championship wrestling, which was on every Sunday morning through the 1960s and 1970s. His name was ‘Playboy Gary Hart’.
I didn’t know what to do. The former Australian champ was punching — but to no avail. I went outside, walked to the bar, picked up a half-full jug of beer, tossed the beer out, went back into the men’s room and smashed the big Yank over the skull. That slowed him down enough for the ex-champ to stiffen him with a very nice right uppercut. The big fellow was flat out on the floor.
I thought that was that. But then the ex-champ bent down and removed his Rolex watch, his rings, gold chains and wallet, and together we left the bar. As we got to the street I realised I was still holding half a broken beer jug by the handle, so I put it in the bin. The ex-champ put the rings, jewellery, watch and dough in his pocket. I said: ‘You’ve got a watch. I want that one. Fair’s fair.’ So I got the Rolex.
About three weeks later, I was in Surfer’s Paradise, enjoying the sun and surf and trying to find an opal dealer, massage-parlour owner, drug dealer and all round wealthy fellow called ‘Chinese Charlie’.
It was hot and I was thirsty, so I walked into a lovely air conditioned lounge bar for a cold beer. As I got inside and adjusted my eyes to the dimmer inside light I saw a big bloke at the bar who looked a bit too familiar. It was Playboy Gary Hart. He was standing at the bar looking at me, trying to remember where he knew me from. Beside him was a bald-headed giant I knew right away from the wrestling on TV and Saturday night at Festival Hall as ‘Brute Bernard’.
I did a U-turn and walked back out. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Gary Hart maybe, but I wouldn’t fight old Brute Bernard unless I was carrying a chainsaw. Besides, I was still wearing the Playboy’s gold Rolex.
‘Bugger Chinese Charlie’, I thought, and went back to Melbourne.
*
There’s another yarn involving the Chinese, but this time one called Micky, who was from Sydney. As a favour, and for several thousand dollars, I met him because he had a problem to solve.
His niece had been raped and robbed and ripped off by her body builder, karate expert boyfriend, Steve the Greek, who had fled to Melbourne.
Steve was a NSW gangster. The shifty Chinese had tried to kill him in Sydney, but Steve the Greek bashed the attackers. He could fight like ten men, so I was asked to locate him, which was easy. He was a gambler, and it’s not hard to find a Greek crook who plays cards in Melbourne, as Melbourne is a second Greece.
All I had to do was find him, grab him, hold him for the Chinese and call them when he was ‘in custody’. To cut this story short, I did find him, I did render him unconscious and I took him to a house in Footscray and nailed his left hand to a large, heavy Franco Cozzo coffee table with a claw hammer and a roofing nail. Who says Franco Cozzo furniture is no good for anything?
One does not escape and run too far with one’s hand nailed to such a large wooden coffee table. I rang the Chinese and they came and collected him … and as far as I’m concerned that’s the end of the story. The reason I’m being coy about
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