The Boy Voted Most Likely Never to Succeed.

 

When I was 7 in 1957 Melbourne my parents got back together,  I was 4 years without a mother because my dad had beat her up. They both suffered trauma from wartime blood, so they fought each other till they'd had enough and split. It was hell to be so lonely, without love life is shit.

My dad had no job for 11 broken years, he finally found work making cars, and drinking beers, down Fishermans Bend for Chrysler, clink clink, raise the glass, three cheers.

My mother came back in 1956 from the wilds of sanitoriums where she'd been sick from a bashing that I witnessed near the kitchen sink, much blood on the lino made my little heart sink. There were no jobs for women in the harsh post-war, she survived as best she could as a dolled-up  braveheart whore.

My dad sometimes went psycho in a wounded tiger way, he king hit me as a baby and a child on life's hard grade. Teachers in Primary spanked me bad, growling, "That chalk from the blackboard we saw you had you stole which makes you really bad."

I found the colours scattered in the school's playground, my wish to draw existence, myself astound. I was only 6 when that lynch mob gazed at me, they saw the truth, my soul the proof, they shook their boots surprised my youth and rebel empathy.

I'd been put with my granny in working class Richmond. She was nursing my old grandpa dying in the front room. I had no supervision and I ran free and wild on the grungy streets of Richmond  like a voodoo child.

When ny mom squeezed into the crowded house she was treated as if she was a wayward mouse, There was uptight tension and frozen vibes, scraps for dinner and daggers from eyes towards my mum, the scarlet woman, from the family tribe. Relieved to get away from the judging straight-laced skunks we scored a social housing flat where I learned to be a punk.

In 1957 we moved to West Heidelberg, to the Olympic Village an enslaved cattle herd, a four flat block for 10 years our domicile, arranged in a circle with other blocks in brutal style, like a wild west wagon train to ward off outside guile. The Olympian athletes left Aussie paradise post-haste while swarms of worker's nasty brats increased suburban waste.

Our favourite sport was making trouble, law and order boiled and bubbled, trashing, romping, ripping, stomping down upon the flowers of the Olympic rings. We set on fire communal backyard sheds, shot rockets from bottles at each other's heads. We enacted Ben Hur chariot races in our billy carts, whipping chains on arms and legs, with hard laughs and thumping hearts, tearing down steep hills our billy carts would crash, we'd tumble as we rumbled and get a gravel rash.

We blew up neighors garden gnomes with crackers big as atom bombs; the meanest of these rascals shot cats with spear-guns. I screamed, "No! Don't do it! This is not bloody fun! I don't want to live in a world that hurts dear animals, or be friends with ugly killers with souls of criminals."

Still I believe there are mugs who deserve to be undone, to disturb their minds is a guerilla battle won. Take Dirty Dick across the road, at his window blows a load for school girls quickly pasing by, what dirty trick would make him cry? We stole his bottle of pineapple lemonade delivered  to his doorstep every Friday,  we drank it then pissed in it till the bottle was full, resealed it nice and yellow to fuck that fool.

Darebin Creek bordered the Olympic Village, Preston a next door haze, exploring down the creek our boyhood craze. In 1957 the creek was clean, with fish and ducks swimming  all serene. Blue tongued lizards roamed the rocks, magpies in gum trees, kangaroos hopped about chased by our dog Spot. This was keen adventure for uncontrolled boys, riding rafts down rapids yelling loud in joy, climbing trees and swinging from ropes into raging water like fearless dopes. And fighting the Preston boys with lethal slug guns, it hurt to be shot but it's where the warrior male begun.

Deviant misdeeds also played out down the creek. Hard-up girls were gangbanged for a lousy quid, the boys then kicked them in the face, they saw girls as real cheap. Boys from the nearby British migrant lodge were captured and thrown into muddy bogs, all the time Aussies yelled at them, "Go home you fucking pommie wogs!" For me it was too horrible, it was an unwilling bloody flog.

A naked suntanned man lurked in the blackberry bushes enticing naive young boys come rub lotion on his tushy. Though I was a burgeoning gay boy the sight of him made me sick. I kept my distance, told the others, don't go near that twisted dick.

Northland shopping centre eventually got built on top of it all, and the creek got filled and put through an ugly sewerage pipe for us to explore, splashing through hepatitis shite. Before the grand opening of the shopping wonderland us boys broke in and made a renegade's last stand. We hotwired a fork lift driver and smashed through prefab walls while we cried, "Im El Cid, come to destroy it all!" Somehow we twigged it was a citadel of plastic crap, then the security guards chased us threatening to shoot us in the back.

 As my teenage years crept upon me I heard older boys curse with insults about something that was the worst. "You dirty fucking poofter" sang like a bad pop song and I trembled as I worried, "What the fuck is going on?" When one of my mates asked me what a poofter was I could only stutter, "I don't know but it sounds real gross. I think they're cannibals who only come out at night when the moon is full, like a were wolf they bite, worse than zombies and vampyres, they stab you in the back, set your arse on fire while your legs go slack."

It came to be that I gulped with fear when the boys stripped off and my guts changed gear. I figured it meant illicit desire for my cock rose up and my heart felt dire. Beauties of my own sex wickedly turned me on, I couldn't avert my eyes, I couldn't stop perving on. It didn't take long before I was seducing my mates into the game of bumming, body sliding, it felt so great, and I tried not to think about how it would bring big hate. All I could think about was the boys' round arse, we both enjoyed it, we groped and laughed.

When I was 14 I got the shock of puberty as I entered the 2nd year of high school intrepidly. In 1964 it was called Rosannah High but by mid 1960s it got changed to Latrobe High as Latrobe University got built alongside, whatever the snooty name I was in for a bumpy ride.

All the boys came to know about my sexual proclivities as I was always horny trying to seduce the big spunkys, down the back of the football field or anywhere hidden so a touch I could feel. They sniggered when I smiled at them as I strolled on by, I was a nonce, a pansy, a poofter, a nasty blow fly. I didn't like sports and I couldn't fistfight, I liked to read books and dance in disco lights. I was bashed at recess on the basketball court and bashed on my way home from school, a hard lesson taught.

In the face of this bigotry and dehumanisation I escaped to the movies and their rainbow fascination. In fits of rebellion I was thrown out of class for tourettes like disruption calling out, "Stick it up your arse!" I took refuge in the school library, I read all the books and realised life is scary, full of crooks. I wagged school a lot and snuck into the city to watch movie classics, witty and gritty, at cinemas such as the Regent, the Capital and the Forum, my mind got blown and I lost all polite decorum, I met handsome men and I went for 'em.

I lay on my bunk bed in my prison bedroom and I dreamed that one day I would be given a boon, become a movie star or a novelist Nobel, both if I could swing it, if not I'd be in hell. I wrote in a diary every movie that I saw, and I also wrote stories, naive, fantastic, raw: Huckleberry Finn adventures "down the creek" or Time Machine pale creatures, me a hero future freak.

In my 5th year of high school when I turned sixteen we got a sweet teacher for English named Miss Greene. She asked us to write a short story that would intrigue the mind and I wrote "Venessa and Modessa", a satire about humankind. Based on a potboiler, Bette Davis as twins,  I saw it at the Atheneum, a movie turgid and grim. One twin was a failure who murders her sister because she was a rich success and takes her place only it all turns into tragic distress. Miss Greene was so impressed she got me to read it out in class, all the kids were entertained, I was a star at last. Modessa was the brand name of menstrual pads advertised on TV which every girl must have.

The class thrummed with laughter, didn't stop till the end, pissed themselves fully when the murderess's heart was rent. She clutched the sanitary napkin she'd stolen, no longer to pretend, screaming, "My sister was a stingy bitch, shared nothing, never lent me what was  needed when I finally got a root, a condom, though I pleaded, that cunt I had to shoot!"

The class laughed till the walls fell down, I was extremely chuffed, I was a literary genius and as well a clown, my talents recognised at last. Now I was somebody and my life would be a blast.

But then the time came when Miss Greene had to leave, she was getting married, no more to be seen. The class decided to buy her a farewell gift, a thankyou for her encouragement that gave us all a lift. Six responsible prefects were chosen, an honerary elite, I wrangled my inclusion, so innocent, so sweet. They all fell for my con and so off we set, into Ivanhoe village, a Holy Grail to get.

From shop to shop we sauntered with consumer zeal and a few precious knick knacks I decided to steal. I showed all the prefects porcelain dolls and plates, silver tea spoons, brass ladles, all if it in haute cuisine good taste. I convinced them to add to the treasure, more, galore, she will adore. They shoplifted with me, doilies, cups and vases from every store.

We toddled back to school with a bag full of loot and told all the kids who were nonplussed and mute. When lovely Miss Greene came for her last class we presented her a statue of Venetian glass. She thanked us profusely and smiled with bonhomie then was given silver teaspoons to which she squealed with glee. And with every present that was pulled from the sack the class started laughing, they couldn't hold back. Vases and knife sets, dolls and doilies, the gifts piled up and Miss Greene smiled so pleased, but with every gift the class laughed harder, guffaws of class war for sure, and Miss Greene looked confused as the class began to roar. The gifts were never ending, as if from Ali Baba's cave, and the 7 thieves were blushing, now not so brave.

As the class screamed the roof down and Miss Greene looked to faint, one prefect lost her cool and knew a hero she aint. She ran to the headmaster and confessed the crime, and blamed poor little Toby who'd hypnotised them the whole time. Dastardly Toby was marched to the big boss and was strapped like a bastard for the headmaster was uncontrollably cross.

The police couldn't be called as it involved precious prefects and I was told I would be expelled because of my defects. I had to go back to Ivanhoe and to every shop alone, give back all the treasure,  apologise and thus atone.  I begged for forgiveness to avoid the cops, I acted so convincing, I pulled out all the stops. Amazing every shopkeep, they were compassionate and kind, they understood my honesty and generosity of mind.

Poor Miss Greene sat in the staffroom stunned and crestfallen, she defended little Toby, said he was an angel that had fallen. When many of the teachers were calling for his blood a few spoke up for him and said, "He is an intelligent lad. For all his interjections he is top of the class!" The librarian praised him, said, "He deserves a pass. I can't get most kids to read even one book while Toby Z has gone through every pile where I told him to look." So they agreed not to expell me, it would create too much of a fuss, just let me sit for my exams which I definitely did pass.

Every Monday morning was school assembly time and 800 kids were made to stand rigidly in line. I was pushed to the front and stood upon a dais, the teachers glum and stern and me wanting to die. The headmaster harrumped and intoned sonorously through huge loudspeakers that screeched agonisingly, "Toby Z is a thief and a menace to society. He is the boy most likely never to succeed." The microphone gave one last shriek and the school crowd smirked, then briskly stalked off to class to continue boring work.

I ran behind the boy's shelter shed and cried and cried. A birdsong flowed down upon me, my spirit the magpie. Two mates followed quickly and gave me a hug. "Don't worry Toby, they can all get fucked! You've blown this crap school away, and we promise you, you've made our day. To turn six prefects on their heads, what a joke, the scandal really rocked them dead! We bet you got it in you to get wherever you want to go, probably give Australia a run for its money, surprise the brainwashed, you know."

I dried my eyes and shook his hand, "I wonder what surprise? I don't know where I will land or where my future lies. I hate that the Beast stands over me, my future as a slave. To stand against Goliath is my constant mad rave. Whatever, fuck 'em! I'll get a life, that bug to win has bit.  And one thing I fucking know, that headmaster's a shit! Adventure, knowledge, achievement, I will go for it!

I won't let stuff get in my way, not hate, not sex, not money, nothing will defeat me, not even god, I pray!"

3) Bus Chicken.

 

LONE STRANGER

3) BUS CHICKEN.

One cold winter’s night Arthur found himself, mind in a fugue, way down the bottom of Sydney’s Parramatta Road in some outlandish suburb beyond the boundaries of his inner-city sanctuary, wondering as ever where his life was going. It was pouring rain and he huddled in a bus shelter. His only means of assuaging his disconsolate heart was to buy some sloppy Kentucky Fried chicken, mashed potato, gravy and coleslaw and wolf it down in the shelter of a bus stop while the cold rain pelted down inches from his face. He was longing to get back to the relative safety of his Pyrmont squat and he had just enough money for his bus fare.

 Out of the spooky mists the bus finally appeared and Arthur clambered aboard, his mouth full of mangy chicken, clutching the soggy cardboard box to his chest as if afraid someone might rip it from him. The fat, old Ocker bus driver gave him a disgruntled look when he spotted the dripping carton and his displeasure increased when Arthur flashed his dole-card and asked for a concession. He brusquely threw the meager coins Arthur gave him in his tray as if they carried leprosy and glared, his eyeballs bulging out of his piggy face. Arthur shrugged and swept up his ticket then struggled with his messy box of chicken to a seat halfway down the bus.

 The bus roared off and Arthur tucked into the unsavory mess, getting mash potato and gravy smeared round his mouth. He could see the gronky old bus driver watching him with malevolent eyes in the rear-view mirror as they sped through the night but he ignored the surveillance, nonchalantly stuffing his face without a care in the world. He was out of the cold, he was eating and he was going home. For a few glorious moments he could forget his troubles, the bus being like a protective womb carrying him through the desolation of Parramatta Road’s suburban wasteland.

 They had only gone a few blocks when the burly driver turned to glare at Arthur and gruffly announce his trip was over, his fare only taking him the few stops. From his warm seat Arthur protested loudly that his ticket should get him all the way to the city but the old bastard would have none of it, pulling the bus over and insisting Arthur get off. Arthur whined on about how unjust the driver was and how it was his right to be taken to his destination. "No, you've come to the end of your section, get off ya bludger!"

 The doors hissed open and the mug growled for him to disembark, still Arthur refused, clinging steadfastly to his seat and his chicken. Colonel Blimp turned red with indignation and barked that if Arthur didn’t comply he would be driven without ceremony to the nearest police station. Arthur sneered and called his bluff, daring him to do it, adding that he was nothing but a fascist pig with his seven cents worth of power. The driver swelled up like a malignant tumor and jerked about in a fury, shutting the doors, crashing the gears and putting his foot to the pedal.

 Off the bus rocketed, into the wet gloom, the driver’s face closed down in a determined grimace, his foot to the floor. Arthur ruminated upon the alien Pig shop he was being shanghaied to here in the middle of nowhere, the monstrous bus driver hunched over the wheel, Jabba the Hutt staring ruthlessly into the storm, implacable.

 Arthur’s resolve melted, the last thing he wanted was a stoush with the Pigs in Nowheresville. Grasping his box of slushy shit food as if it was his last consolation he sighed in resignation and sidled up to the front door, slowly, approaching the ogre’s back with trepidation, cringing at every step, whining like a beaten puppy. He then began the big wheedling act, pleading obsequiously with the driver, “Please sir, don’t do it, don’t be so cruel, life is hard for me, the police will only give me more trouble, a wrong bus ticket is so trivial.” King Pong sneered and increased speed. 

Humiliated, Arthur surrendered to his fate  and with sincere contrition wailed, “You win, you’re the boss, I’ll get down. Down, down, down wherever you say sir.” The driver grunted in satisfaction and screeching gears pulled the bus over to the curb, his face creased with smug pleasure.

 The doors hissed open and Arthur stepped tentatively into the dolorous night, turning in the doorway to take one last look at the driver’s self-righteous, bigoted mug. Snarling “Fuck you, arsehole! Cop this!” Arthur hurled his carton of slushy Kentucky Fried Chicken straight into the driver’s fat face, mashed potato, gravy and chewed up chicken splattering all over him as he shrieked in dismay as if he’d been hit with molten lead.

Before the blob could do anything, Arthur ran off into the storm, laughing demonically at the aggrieved expression on the fool’s messed up face, a grimace full of guts and gravy as he stewed in his seat in a puddle of chicken slops. 

For all the horror of the ride, the cold night and the long walk home, Arthur felt exhilarated, as if he’d won a small battle in the war against the quasi-fascist mentality that ever attempted to take over the world. He thrust his fist into the wind with a shout of triumph and danced a jig like the town idiot, thinking he was one of the disempowered who’d gotten one lousy little punch in.

2) Kiss-In with Rev. Bile.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

1) Reject From the Anything Goes Cafe.

 

LONE STRANGER

7th Life: Public Enemy No.7

1) Reject From The Anything Goes Cafe.

Ok, listen up, if you want the nitty gritty on a deviant pilgrim's progress through the unchartered underground, keep reading. Take a trip on the wild side via the backstreets of Sydney, Paris, Amsterdam, Morocco, Delhi, Mumbai and Goa. Follow Arthur Farthing as he fulfils his heart's destiny and renounces the poverty of violence. 

Here he is, reacquaint yourself with him, sitting in the window seat of the Anything Goes Cafe on Kings Cross Sydney staring into his coffee, spliff in hand, reminiscing on his past adversities and adventures, praying there’d be no more hazards and plenty of fun to come.

Arthur snapped out of his reverie when Vitto, the café’s barrista, screeched invective into his ear, telling him, "You bring drama like a dog brings fucking fleas, you'd fight with your own shadow!" Vittorio Bianchi was the tout for a freakshow café on Desolation Row so he'd know.

He’d first met Vitto in 1979 at Garibaldis Bar in Riley Street Darlinghurst when Arthur arranged a benefit show for the old Italian manager, Mario Abiezzi, as he needed some money to pay the rent. Arthur enlisted Cabaret Conspiracy with the great drag artists Doris Fish and Jacqueline Hyde as M.C.s. He created a lurid, fluorescent poster with a cartoon of Doris and cabaret star Fifi L'Amour striding out of Kings Cross with a bunch of queers following in their wake and he pasted 300 copies of it on the walls of Sydney to advertise the gig. The heavy fluoro colours against a black background enhanced his ribald cartoon talent to a monotone Sydney and created quite a stir among local artists and within a year the style of bright fluoro images with heavy black outlines became ubiquitous.

Arthur found Vitto drooling over the table where he'd stacked some of the posters, hoping to sell them for one dollar each. (In 2024  they sell for $2000 and more if you can find one). Tight as a crocodile’s arsehole Vitto refused to part with a dollar and Artie told him to, “Fuck off!”  That's kind of been the style of their love/hate relationship ever since. For forty years Artie’s been watching him as he's sung like a canary given the third degree, to any and every magazine, newspaper and pamphleteer that's shown up to interview him on his favorite subject, himself. Oh, and the celebrities he's waited upon at the Cat’s Whiskers Cafe.

The role-call of stars is endless, Marianne Faithful. Jeff Buckley, Geoffrey Rush, Chrissy Amphlet, Penny Arcade, Noah Taylor, Martin Sharp, Irving Walsh, squealing on and on to the media sob-sisters to satisfy Sydney’s celebrity addiction, forgetting all the mere mortals that were regulars and gave him his bread and butter. In thirty years of going there nearly every day Arthur rarely spotted a celebrity, they bought one cup of coffee every six months, hardly enough to pay for the juke box let alone anything else. It was amusing when the actor Richard Roxburgh showed up there to be interviewed by the winner of a Peace Prize because he was reprising his television show persona "Rake" with the Cool Cat’s Cafe as background. His character purportedly lived in a flat upstairs and many a  flaky thespian, desperate for one second of fame, rushed to the café while they were shootong 'Rake' to sit slurping coffee and get their mugs on screen as a vindication of their showbiz travails. Arthur thought Richard was a jolly good fellow for publicizing the place but made sure he wasn’t around for the televising, hating to be yet another rubber-necker on public view.

Thankfully Vitto never forgets to mention his particular favorites, a gang of friends who regularly patronised the business to gossip and promote their shows, darlings whom Artie also loved such as Elizabeth Burton, godess of the Kings Cross strip clubs; Fifi L'Amour, gorgeous cabaret artist famous for her performances across Auz and Europe; Jeannie Lewis, inspiring folksinger and comrade in many international social struggles; Danny Aboud, outrageous drag artist and male hustler selling his donkey dick in New York; and Ayesha, the famous  Les Girls Dragon Lady. But in all the years, no matter how many shows Arthur did or continuous support he gave to Vitto, he never got mentioned as another artist in residence. He was just one of the faceless nobodies who spent a lot of money there, helping to pay Vitto’s bills and buy his flat in Randwick. It's not so much that Artie wanted his ego stroked, he’d had a great life with enough limelight to satisfy his “hero in his own toilet break” narcissism. It just grated on him that show-biz stars are the only worthwhile humans in Vitto’s world.

There was a whole mob of deadbeats who gathered there over the last fifty years, many of them now dead in inglorious circumstances, though some are still alive and kicking, (or getting their arses kicked.) Yet in Vitto’s eyes they’re quotidian plebs, non-stars and monstars. Tramps, junkies, hookers, sluts, thieves, hustlers, paupers, painters, strippers, dealers, potheads, rockers, pagans, witches, maniacs, the entire crew from Nightmare  Alley passed through that Hotspot Cafe. They fought, squabbled, philosophised, loved, smoked, drank and fucked, and kept each other company on lonely nights, forking out their last few dollars for the cheap lentil soup and bad coffee. (Vitto was notorious for using old, used coffee grounds.)

Oh, and let's not forget the quiet angels that sat among the demi monde but didn't blow their trumpets, yet are the real stars of "society": nurses, carers, teachers, pro bono lawyers, street musicians, single mums, low-paid cleaners. The place was a sanctuary for them to also rest their tired feet and get some attention, from Vitto and the unruly mob of deviants. 

The Piccolo was often referred to as "the artists' cafe", sadly 99% of artists don't get famous, they die in penury. While Vitto lauded the phenomena of “the star artist” he often disparaged Arthur who had wall-papered Sydney with his posters, grumbling if Artie asked for a coffee on tick, “You bludger, you’ve never got a job!” Kings Cross had the reputation of being a "devils’ kitchen" for much of the twentieth century and Artie figured he should be grateful to never get a mention as a patron of such a disreputable "lifeboat for losers" cafe as Vitto’s for it would look bad on his non-career’s CV. Still, it's the thought that counts, every little bit helps in the promotion of a try hard artist.

He wasn't exactly a non-entity. In 2019 he shared an art show with the work of the illustrious Martin Sharp, (he of the Cream album cover and Jimi Hendrix poster fame), called "My City of Sydney." Both of them supposedly dedicating their lives to creativity. But otherwise they were opposites, Martin was born in Sydney into a wealthy family, went to an elite art school, was famous, heterosexual and his work wonderfully decorative. Arthur was born in Melbourne and from an extremely poor family, was rejected from that same art school, NAS, and was an ignominious nobody, unashamedly queer and his work politically cutting social justice commentary, (or so he thought.)

Arthur was sad that all those years of pleasure and pain had been wiped, forgotten, ignored by Vitto's selective memory. There was the time when the electric transformer for the area blew and all the bums sat with Vitto in the café’s gloom with candles barely lighting the dark for four days and nights, a storm raging outside, all of them freezing their arses off, this event forgotten by his celebrity obsession. Then there were those few times Vitto got dragged up to Kings Cross police station to be questioned and psychologically tortured by the pigs, accused of selling marijuana, while his bad-arsed crew anxiously waited outside, including Arthur, this never to be mentioned by him. 

Farrrrrk, how many times did the pigs raid the cafe, locking all the potheads in while they searched everybody. There was the night they went over that "hole in the wall" cafe with a fine tooth comb, all the while the baggies of pot were hidden at the bottom of a large can of Nescafe that Vitto would stir with his sticky hands to fish them out. All of these contretemps Arthur only just survived yet he was written out of much of the café’s  history.

He cried with Vitto when his Clayton's boyfriend, David, took his life-savings and squandered it on a truck which he then crashed and destroyed. David sold the wreck to buy a motorbike, then ran away to Queensland, the last time Vitto saw him he was disappearing into the sunshine with an Asian girl clinging to him on the back of the bike. Arthur hurt for him when a certain drag queen who lived across the road once took that same useless boyfriend home and Vitto stood under her bedroom window and wept as the lights in her inner-sanctum were turned on and off, on and off. David later confessed to Arthur that he stupidly thought she was a woman and when he edged into her bedroom she dropped her panties and revealed her peanut penis. He nearly fell over in shock and fled, stumbling down the stairs. Vitto needn't have thrown a tizzy, David’s lust went unsatisfied. David also confessed to Arthur that while living with Vitto he paid the rent by letting him suck his cock once a month. If David wasn’t in the mood and refused him Vitto would erupt in a fury, traipse out of the bedroom and kick his cat in the arse in the kitchen.

Arthur winced with him when a rough-trade Lebanese hunk named Tony slapped him across the face because he wouldn't give him fifty dollars. Tony was a hustler working the Fitzroy Gardens and it was curious that he thought he was owed fifty as that was the price of a cock-suck on the Kings Kross sex circuit. Artie was ready to rush upon the bastard and get his nose broken for the 7^th time only Tony ran off knowing the whole Piccolo Café mob would jump into the fray and beat the shit out of him.

Arthur went to the movies with Vitto every Monday night for 21 years and boy was it embarrassing. He laughed out loud and called out insults if the acting was bad or the plot improbable, he shrieked to shatter glass at any form of violence as if he’d been punched-out himself, even the hard slamming of a door or a spit in the face had him squealing. One time, at a screening of "The Evil Touch", every time Charlton Heston came on screen with his bad Mexican make-up Vitto hooted with derision, a guy sitting behind us tapped him on the shoulder and told him to "Shut up!" He replied, "Fuck off!" and carried on laughing, ruining the movie for me as well.

Arthur  giggled hysterically, like Jimmy Dean in the police station in "Rebel Without a Cause", when Vitto showed up one afternoon with his head shaved and a huge lump on his skull, making him look like a concentration camp victim. He'd been attacked by some home-invasion thug in his flat and again his savings robbed from under his mattress, (the non-boyfriend David the 1st.) He mistook Arthur's sympathetic hysteria for callous laughing at him and ran up Roslyn Street weeping, Vitto's nephew, Lorenzo, having to fetch him back. From that day on he never went on night shift again, only daylight would get him to the Piccolo, and thus the good old "Nights of Cabiria" at the Piccolo wound down. (Actually it's possible Vitto had taken home some rough trade and bit off more than he could chew. He never was forthcoming about his sex life.)

When he let it be known that he longed to go back to Europe in 1994 to visit his old family home it was Arthur who put in the hard work, hiring the venue, (Les Girls), lining up the acts, creating the posters and pasting them up, handing out flyers, organizing the show on the night, him being one of the acts, and getting Vitto $2000 for his trip. It hurt when the old shit not only claimed it wasn't enough money, it really cut Arthur to the bone when some years later he announced from a stage in Redfern that it was Elizabeth Burton who organized the show for him. Artie didn't want any medals or gold cups, let Vitto keep them all. While he thought the Italian puto was an amusing character who had put in an inordinately long time sealed in a concrete box shouting "helllo" and “fuck you” from the doorway, Artie didn't see him as a saintly Mother Theresa caring for  the down and out peasants, though he did look a bit like her.

Arthur had been bashed-up there 7 times, no kidding, once actually knocked out and dropped to the floor, on that "strange attractor" spot in the middle of the café, with Vitto screeching like a mother hen and trying to protect him under his wings. He had been arguing with a deadbeat named David Massacre when a Maori moron ran full pelt into the cafe and sucker-punched him, allegedly to protect his mate from Arthur's smart mouth.

 Arthur does acknowledge that he'd also received 7 art awards because of the help he'd received from Vitto and the Cafe's patrons, all assisting in putting on his shows and handing out his flyers and posters from that Cafe of Ill Repute. Thus he had a lot of appreciation for the joint, he wasn't completely left off the dance card. But he did run away quite a few times in a huff, swearing he’d never go back, and it was Eulalie, the part-time manager, that got him back in there with her honest friendship. The tussle with Vitto was ongoing. One day Arthur called him "Mary Poppins" and he flipped, saying “I hate Julie Andrews and you, Arthur, are a cunt!” Seriously, who hates Julie Andrews? 

There is a labyrinth of roads criss-crossing the globe that Arthur had restlessly trod with many oasis where he stopped off for a rest and friendly banter and the Piccolo Café was one of them. Various refuges strobed in and out of his conscious soul as if hurtled through parallel universes under a flashing strobe light, crowds of people leering up, seeking attention, recognition, respect and love. He let many pass by, forgot quite a few, took others to heart, the mystery of existence was unfathomable yet it was sweet people who gave it substance. Vitto wasn’t pure sweet nor wholey sour, he was unforgettable, like a white light luring one in from a red-lit maze.

He raged with angel care and devil angst, like most people, a crazy human, lonely while crowded, wise while confused, loyal though promiscuous with his favours. It hurt to hear him lionize a mob of fame-desperates while true supporters got short shrift, as for him familiarity bred contempt, he only really liked those who visited once a year. He never really had a boyfriend and he resented his needy lust for men, he shouted to the world he could only love women, men were nasty, they urged him to sinful fantasies. Arthur was there the day in the Noughties when Cardinal Pell was brought in by Father Syn from the Catholic church down the street. Pell's eyes popped when he clapped them on Artie as if he'd seen Lucifer, then he turned his back on him and was introduced to Vitto. The old devil held out his hand and Vitto kissed his ring, like a good, somewhat deranged, lapsed Catholic, (Artie was reminded of the hallucinatory scene from "Rosemary's Baby" when the Pope kissed Satan’s ring).

Smugly satisfied that he'd received obeisance from the queen of Roslyn Street the theological monstar retreated with nary a look Arthur's way. After he'd gone in a puff of smoke Arthur rounded on Vitto and hissed, "How could you kiss that man's ring, you silly old poof? He’s a kreep, he hates queers even though he’s probably a repressed one."

"What can I do?” Vitto moaned, “I believe in God, and yet I don't, at the same time. I'm terribly conflicted!"

"Hmmmm... that sums you up," Artie thought. "We're all in a similar sinking boat, only each of us has a different type of leak."