The Lonely Traveller - Goa.

Me about to get f#cked by Goa.

This is what happens when an online business won't guarantee its product nor support its customer. It's my recent experience travelling to Goa and getting both ripped off by WOTIF and thrown on the streets of India like a mangy dog after robbing me of my money by the hotel, Goroomgo Laxmi Guest House in Anjuna Goa.

WOTIF - Hi, we're willing to help you with your concern. Please allow us some time to check and review the previous conversation with one of our representatives. We will get back to you shortly. ^Ian

ME - The woman manager was extremely rude, there are crowds of people here at Xmas demanding rooms and offering big money. I think she simply dumped me for better money but didnt have the good grace to return mine. Things are always desperate in Goa, greed is tantamount. She told me she had been hacked, that's the excuse. Being ill with a fever it was a terrible experience. The fact I was refused accommodation there should be proof enough.

WOTIF - Thank you for patiently waiting. We have spoke with the property and they mentioned that your reservation is confirmed on their end. They also stated that you denied the room that was offered to you initially and was offered a different room but you rejected as well. The hotel told us that they don't have your phone number so they didn't able to contact you as you leave the property. Our apologies for this inconvenience. May we know why did you deny the room that was offered? ^Iaìn

ME - I didnt deny the room, she is lying! At first she said she had no rooms, all were booked but on Jan 3rd she had a small room I could have for 2 days. I said I had booked and paid for a "deluxe room with city view" from Dec 23 to Jan 3. She then screamed there was no booking for that date and no payment, she screamed it twice then said she or WOTIF had probably been hacked. When I said I had the receipt for the booking and payment she screamed for me to go, to not come in. Why would I refuse after a night of hard travelling, tired and with a fever, longing for the room I'd booked and paid for, twice the price of the smaller rooms, absolutely looking forward to resting in a cool room. She's lying, she offered me nothing, she cruelly shouted for me to go. I had to wander, with my luggage, under a hot sun, all day going from house to house asking for a room, told everything everywhere was booked, finally at sunset on the next beach, again going from house to house, finally I found a room, and tired and ill I grabbed it, fairly expensive, and no receipt, but I was desperate. Why would I put myself through this? What's in it for me? Zilch!What's in it for her? More money from other customers and her keeping my money as well. She actually shrieked, "Dont come in here!" She couldn't care if I died. She didnt even think I'd complain to you, she must've known you wouldn't care. Think about it: why would I refuse any room? She didnt offer me one! Get the money back from her and banish her from your listing!!!

WOTIF - We hate to disappoint any customer, and we imagined the frustration you experienced over this. We do apologize for all the inconvenience it has caused you. We strive to provide the highest level of customer service, and it’s disheartening when one of our vendors does not work to meet that goal as well. Our sincerest apologies for the inconvenience that it has caused you.

We tried our best to communicate with the property regarding your refund concern, however, they decided to stick with their policy as you denied accepting the room that they are offering. ^Anikca

 We have checked that your reservation is confirmed on our end. Our apologies for what you've experienced for this inconvenience. We assure you that this is not the experience that we want you to have. Please allow us some time to coordinate this with the property directly. We will get back to you with an update. We will appreciate your patience and understanding while we are working on your concern. ^Ian

ME - Of course they're sticking to their lies and you are complicit with this. WOTIF is getting a bad reputation. They didnt offer me a room at the time I arrived, they told me to go. Why wasnt the room I booked and paid for available? When I booked and paid I wasn't told , "Oh, we'll take your money but you wont get the room you paid for" Because they had sold it on. If this is your response to a lying, thieving vendor then your business is complicit. All your apologies are just white-washing your uncaring business practice. I will keep telling this story online and report your response. Like many businesses you refuse to guarantee your product, but dont mind taking the money. As I said, what's in it for me and what's in it for her? You should refund my money and ban that hotel!!! Why dont you believe me the customer? Ok, I will report you to Consumer Affairs and contact TV and radio talk shows to tell of this outrage!!! (I know some insiders who'd love to report this story.) I was ill and she refused me something I paid for and I could've died. And you support her. It's a great story. What makes my blood boil is she screamed at me not to come in, she didn't offer me another room, and you blather on with apologies and refusals, and belief in her lies. Great company WOTIF (NOT)

WOTIF - We understand where you are coming from, and our sincere apologies for the inconvenience this has caused you. As much as we love to assist you with your refund, however, our hands are tight in regard to the policy of the hotel. As a travel agency, Wotif is subject to the rules and restrictions of the vendors whose travel products we sell.  ^Anikca

ME - Its not true what she says!!! I will report this in all the media. She screamed for me to get out. You can squirm your way out of it but I will report all this verbatim. WOTIFs bad reputation will grow.

WOTIF - We understand how you feel right now. As mentioned, we tried our best to communicate with them regarding your refund concern, however, were advised that your reservation is confirmed they offered an alternative room, but you denied accepting the offer and left the property. ^Anikca

ME - Oh, the robot has taken over. I wasnt allowed onto the property!! She offered me nothibg! She screamed for me to "Go!" This provides great reading for all those interested in a travel companies response to a failed booking and obvious robberry.

WOTIF they screw me?

The Long Con For a Short Shlong.

I first met Raksham when I had hired a car and was driving from Rishikesh to Gangotri, the source of the Ganges River. I was going alone except, just as we were leaving, my driver stopped and two strange men piled in. My driver informed me they were two friends of his and would I mind if I gave them a lift to Uttarkashi, about 2/3s of the way to my destination.

I threw a temper tantrum and screamed, "I'm not running a fucking bus service!" I jumped out and tried to drag my luggage from the boot and as I did I caught sight of the second stowaway, he had the face of an angel and a humble mien. I immediately relented and, beaming upon him, got back in the car and urged him to join us, turning to face him and gloat upon that gorgeous visage throughout the journey. Eventually he taught me a hardwon lesson, a handsome face and a winsome smile doesn't necessarily mean a good heart.

Halfway to Uttarkashi we stopped for lunch and to thank me for the lift he bought me a banana sandwich. I was most impressed as in my experience very few Indians have bought me anything, they expect me, the Angrezi Maharaja, to pay for everything.

We talked in an almost intimate, friendly manner, I found him quite charming and dreamt of him being my close friend. We dropped him and his friend off at the place they requested and I promptly forgot him.

Three years later he reappeared as a waiter in my friend Pankaja's restaurant. I didn't recognise him and he reminded me where we'd first met. I was swept away, stunned that my fantasy of getting close to him could come true if I pumped out the good vibes. Over the weeks we conversed, laughed and flirted but as he was straight I saw little chance of seducing him and gave up on it. What O didn't flash on was him being an expert in the ling con and he slowly reeled me in.

I noticed he was often sitting with a young woman who looked upon him adoringly. On talking with her I discovered she was Israeli, a psychologist by profession, and was very hard-arsed about her opinion of everybody's approach to life, particularly mine, sternly informing me I was a naive fool.

Pankaj, who knows everything about everybody, told me Raksham had been fucking her for 6 months and that they were possibly going to get married. I didn't care about what they were up to and turned my attention elsewhere, there were adventures to be had and Raksham didn't figure.

One day I saw her sitting in the restaurant, staring into space, not just glum but quite distraught, devastated actually. She moved as if in shock, in slow motion, like a zombie. Raksham sat distant from her, not kooking in her direction, with an unconcerned, blank face, as if to say, "Who me? It's got nothing to do with me."

She soon disappeared and on questioning him he confessed she was coming on too strong, saying "I love you!" a hundred times a day, insisting he go to Israel with her, he was the man of her dreams, she even swore they'd shared a past life together. And he wasn't ready for such a heavy relationship.

I asked him if she'd given him any money and he replied, "A little." Hmmm.... a little, that's interesting, usually the guys get a lot. He told me he wasn't interested in money, he wanted to be free to choose his own destiny and I agreed with him, she was a tough lady, a psychologist carrying a huge psychodrama in her head, things in Israel probably wouldn't have run smoothly with her as boss.

Sometimes I think yoga and meditation are not the only tourist attractions in Rishikesh. Every second doorway is an adventure business with a sign that says, "Rafting. Trekking. Camping." I think a more truthful sign should read, "Rafting. Fucking. Camping." So many Indian guys sniffing around the tourist areas have white women hanging off them, as if the poor cows aren't getting fucked enough at home. Or maybe their Indian sojourn must include a holiday romance with a brown guy as something neccesary on their bucket list.

Over the next few weeks Raksham and I developed quite a friendship though nothing too intimate, me telling stories but ommitting my queer nature as it was simply inappropriate. He knew damned well where my eyes strayed. He seemed a genuine fellow, honest, hard working, curious about the greater world. Eventually I returned to Australia and again forgot about him, as a political artist I had much to do in my fight against the neo-fascist govt that was poisoning Australia.

Then I got whatsap messages from him and I was quite chuffed, it looked like I mattered to him. Then he sent me a dick pic, I was quite surprised, he wanted an affair with me, he promised a torrid romance if I ever returned to India. His dick looked like a little black worm that even a starving fish would flee from so I can't say I was very attracted. But I thought I'd play along with him to see where it led. After all, he had that incredibly beautiful face and I have a gut-dropping face fetish.

I should've remembered that one clear sign you've got a Rakshas on yourvtrail is the fact that they're always eager to drop their pants, and their genitalia is malformed. Another sign is tbeir feet are turned backwards and Raksham never would show his feet, always tucking them out of sight.

2020 churned on and COVID took over, all planes grounded, no visas to anywhere and 2 years of lockdowns crashing upon our heads. India was out for the forseeable future and I filled my isolation time completing my second novel "Punk Outsider."

I got more messages from Raksham, he had COVID and was wasting away. He lived on  a mountaintop, medical treatment was hard to come by, his weight was down to 49 kilos, he was dying and was desperately afraid.

I freaked out. My dream boy on his death bed! Oh no, what can I do? I sent him money to buy nutritious, fattening food and any medical treatment he needed. His condition didn't improve, he continued to lose weight, things looked grim, months drifted by and I was distraught, I even cried in terror for him, fearing the worst.

He kept asking for money, only that would save him. "What is money compared to human life and health?" I quivered. 2022 finally dawned, vaccines were keeping Covid in check, planes started to fly, visas were again offered for India, and Raksham informed me he had now recovered thanks to my munificense.

He asked me for one last tranche of money to help him get on top of things and start life again and I, as a ditzy dope, sent it to him. Then he went silent, he disappeared, I even feared he was dead. I finally tracked him down where he was working in another cafe and rang him. In so many words he told me to "Fuck off!" He was never interested in me, he despised me for I wanted to "fuck him like a woman!"

I laughed bitterly, "No, if I wanted to fuck you it would be like a man! But you're ugly, behind that angelic face you are a demon, preying on whoever you could to gain their confidence!"

When I got back to India Pankaj informed me Raksham never did have COVID, it was all a ruse to get money. He had a few other firanghi suckers also sending him money. He was seen buying an expensive Smart phone. He wore a brand new three piece silk suit to a wedding. He was a complete cheat. In Indian mythology demons are called Rakshas and that's what he is, his name suited him perfectly. 

Now I know why the Israeli woman looked so shocked. I'm sure he'd promised her marriage, and for sure he took a lot of money from her. Demons like him think they've gotten away scot free with their egregious behaviour but that ugly nature is what he will carry with him for the whole of his life and that is not a measure of success.

We foreign tourists are seen as ATMs on legs, we're all rich, and I suppose we are in comparison to many of them. When tbey crack a firaghi tbey call it "capturing" them, it's an unspoken project they work on. And quite a few of tbose women captured by a horny brown man are in for quite a shock. I myself have recovered from the betrayal. What did I expect? Farrrrk, I pray I don't get sillier in my old age.

Trip to an Indian Goddess.

Oh humanity, where are you going, what do you know? In an infinite universe there's no high or low, just us in the dust swept along with the flow.

I have been exploring the Himalayas since I was 22 in 1972. Byways and highways, backroads and dirt tracks, always something beautiful, wondrous, even mind-blowing to discover. I've been all over the mountains on motorbikes and scooters, buses and share-jeeps, friends' cars and taxis. I even went on foot in the 1970s when such vehicles were not available, walking the old pilgrim paths to get to sacred sites such as Badrinath above the snowline, abode of Vishnu.

Recently I visited a small temple perched on a mountain's edge which I'd driven past 49 times but never looked close at.  On going down to it and peering inside the mandir I discovered it was dedicated to a snake god. 7 snakes had appeared on that spot over a hundred years ago when they were constructing the first proper dirt road to Gangotri, the source of the Ganges River. I now zoom about on a perfect ashphelt highway but the reverance for the snakes still exists, and it stuns me that Indians often find the number 7 in many of their numinous sites and happenings. I'm in nirvana in these high mountains and am always sad to come down.

In 2022 I decided to go somewhere I hadn't been before so I chose Nainital, the Goddess of the Lake, in the Kumaon Himalayas. I had tried to go there once before, in 2003, on the back of a motorbike with an experienced biker, a German friend. Halfway there a young Indian fuckwit on a motorcycle ran straight into us and broke my leg, horribly, and we had to turn back.

(Read about it in the third instalment of my trilogy, "The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cat",  the story "Escape from the Jungle but Not Without My Leg.")

I hired a car and off we went, me determined to make it this time, though as usual the Indian psychodrama descended upon us like a flock of excited swans.

At one point we got stuck in a traffic jam in a grungy, medieval/cyberpunk town, me squabbling distractedly with the driver over money. The car jerked slowly forward in the crush of vehicles, motorbikes, buses, trucks, rickshaws and buffalo carts.

Amid my tight-arsed bargaining a fat man of about 50, wearing a dirty turban that unravelled as he ran, squeezed through the slowly moving traffic and rushed up to my open window waving two arms that had been severed at the elbows. He thrust the two stumps into my face, wailing his existential downfall while I tried to out-yell my demanding driver and reach for my wallet. One of the stumps poked me in the eye, the other threatened to enter my gaping mouth as I yammered in annoyance, the poor turbaned beggar also screaming for mercy. Before I could hand him some rupees the traffic opened up and our car shot forward, leaving the poor fellow in the dust, a look of utter desolation on his face. 

Cruising up a newly built highway we came to a roadside dhaba, old style, thatch roof and dirt floor. Finally I could have a break, maybe even a cup of milk coffee, Nescafe! My Indian friends had their paranthas for breakfast, stuffed chapatis, while I nibbled at the edges of mine as I hate chillis. Just when I was starting to relax, the cook who was making the chapatis in front of me suddenly dropped his fistful of dough, snatched up a slingshot, looked up into the ceiling and shot a monkey sitting directly above us. 

It screeched, fell, but managed to hang on by one arm and swung about. I spat out my chapati, anxious about the shrieking monkey that looked as if it was about to drop onto my head and into my plate. But all was well as it scampered away into the rafters and we continued our breakfast, me not as relaxed as I hoped I'd be.

We made it to Nainital Lake,  an old British Raj hill-station for the English elite to retire to when the summers got too hot down in the plains. My friends went into the temple to make pujah to Goddess Naini, an aspect of Durga who is the female half of Siva. I waited outside in a cafe and had a blessed vanilla milkshake, wondering why they were taking so long, all that pleading for divine intervention sure dragged on.

At last they exited, yellow paste dripping from their third eye and satisfied smiles on their faces. We spun down the hill to the retreat of the famous Hindu saint, Neem Karoli Baba, now long dead. It had once been a quiet jungle abode with few visitors, then around 1969 Richard Alpert visited and got converted into Baba Ramdas, broadcasting his newly-found enlightenment to the world in a famous book titled "Be Here Now", an obligatory read for all us hippie seekers of "The Light."

Neem Karoli Baba

(Richard Alpert was the leading proselytiser for LSD,  along with Timothy Leary, as a radical means of changing the selfish, warmongering West into a utopia of peace and love. Secretly he was gay and known to live at American homosexual beats, sucking a lot of cocks, but now he was a Baba, possibly beyond all that foolish maya. Hey, we all gotta try to rise above the muck somehow.)

Leary and Alpert as young professors

He promoted Neem Karoli Baba as the hottest thing since they put holes in crumpets, years later even Steve Jobbs and Mark Zuckerburg drifted into the ghost's Samadhi pavillion to hopefully suck up a bit of left-over charisma.

Now this retreat has become a bustling, commercial town, hotels, restaurants, souvenir shops, fashion shacks, honking traffic shoving taxis right up one's nether regions, what a circus. Hordes of desperate looking people crowd in to get a blessing for there's a legend that says anyone that makes a wish in front of a marble statue of Baba Neem Karoli will recieve success in their endeavours. I watched Indians of all shapes, ages, classes and castes stand fervently praying, intense hope radiating from their panda eyes. I myself felt nothing and was quite bemused by the commercialism of the site, everyone giving money in the hope of getting more in return.

When Richard Alpert showed up in a huge, expensive 4-wheel drive the Baba asked him to give him the car, which he duly did, and thus was in like sinful Flyn. I imagine if I arrived in my 1970s ragged Ali Baba clothes and bare feet I'd be shown the door, told to exit through the toilets, the story of my life.

Baba Ram Dass

As we drove fast back down the mountain road, away from Neem Karoli Baba's ashram, I thought of my early travels in India in the early 1970s and all the Big Babas I sat in front of. In some ways Timothy Leary and his "Politics of Ecstasy" catapaulted me onto this Jungle Book path as I wanted to complete my journey in the parallel universe of LSD and I hoped India would do it for me.

After my ordeal with Anne Hamilton-Byrne's "Family" at her cult's clinic, Newhaven, I needed to overcome the "bummers" that I suffered there. She had conned me into four sessions of strong, pure LSD supposedly to "cure" me of my homosexuality and then snatch any babies I might produce, but the trips were screaming nightmares that turned me off her set-up.

(As young professors Leary and Richard Alpert had set up a college of experimental LSD tripping for students at Harvard which they called Newhaven. It caused a scandal and the two them were kicked out of the University.)

After a booster shot for my final trip with "The Family" I finally broke free of the demons and danced with the angels. Still I wanted more "experience", Jimi Hendrix told me so.

Every decade seems to experience a wave of cosmic soul-searching, bordering on religious hysteria, psychological breast-beating and intense dissatisfaction with contemporay civilised lifestyles,(warmongering, over-consumption and exploitation of the environment.) The irony is that in the quest to overcome the narcissism at the heart of modern life and the individual's contempt for it he/she seemed to indulge in even more narcissism when seeking "self-enlightenment."

1965 to 1975 was a particularly intense period of "Self-awakening." It was hip, cool, de rigueur to grow one's hair long, wear meditation beads and find a guru, even sojourn to India and get lost to find oneself. By 1968 I was traumatised, confused and anxious upon realising, at 18, my queer sexuality was permanent and my future looked bleak. At 21 I  figured I either had to find the strength to overcome my given nature, through the discipline of yoga and asceticism, or find the strength to accept my queerness and live it in the face of maddening social opprobrium. Perhaps a life in India would set me on one of these paths. I lived, studied, danced and tripped there from 1972 to 1976.

By the Ganges River

I sat in front of most of India's Big Babas of the 1970s: Rajneesh (Osho), Prabhupad (Hare Krishnas), Satya Sai Baba, Guru Maharaji, Maste Ram Baba, Tatwallah Baba, Yogeshwaranand, Chidananda, Satchitananda, but few of them gave me a spark of "knowledge" or "nirvana." Yet there were two who blew my mind.

I was 22 in 1972 and lucked out in the first two weeks of my arrival by being taken to meet a wild old man living by the Yamuna River in a hut built on stilts. He was called Devraha Baba, the ageless one, reputed to be 700 years old, and he gave me 7 oranges, a blessing that set me up for my whole life. Indira Ghandi visited him and asked him what the future held for her. He replied, "You better watch your arse madame, great danger is near."

Devraha Baba

The other and most impressive saint was a woman, India's most famous, Anandamayi Ma, (Mother of Cosmic Bliss.) She had been discovered sitting in nirvana as a child, her relatives thought she was out of her mind as she was always happy and so entranced she never put her mind to the chores she was given. She was married off at the age of 12 but when her husband attempted sex with her all he saw was a vision of Death so he abstained and she remained a virgin her entire life, he becoming one of her most devoted disciples.

I was fortunate to be taken to her ashram in Haridwar in early 1975 when she was 78. I sat in front of her for half an hour and, no kidding, went into an ecstatic trance merely from her smiling presence, her eyes rolled back in her head.

Before I knew it I was hustled out the door and into a courtyard where some Indian drummers were going full throttle banging huge drums in a mesmerising beat. I couldn't help myself, I was thrown into a joyous dance, the dance of life, more manic and erotic than Nijinksky. As I came out of my trance I looked up and saw Anandamayi Ma watching me from a window with her handmaidens, and she was smiling beatifically upon me. In later years I discovered she had a particular enthusiasm for dance as a key connection between people and an awesome, sacred universe. She died in 1982.

(Read about my adventures in India in the early 1970s in the first book "Vagabond Freak", of my trilogy, "The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cat" available on Amazon.)

Anandamayi Ma

I pondered these mysteries and strange meetings in the 1970s as our car hurtled away from the mountains and back to Rishikesh. Suddenly my driver stopped and got out of the car, wandering down a dirt track to mill about a makeshift tent with other men, all of them distracted by something in the thatch and plastic structure. I ambled down and asked him what was going on.

He then related a strange story that only India could come up with. Some 20 years previously a mad woman had been found living naked in the jungle, apparently never eating, the wild animals steering clear of her. The natives imagined she was divinely mad and called her "The Seer of Chirripurr, (Meeting Place of the Birds), and as an auger could predict the future from within her insane ravings. They then ensconced her in this dilapidated hut with a blanket around her to cover her nakedness and spread the word that a fortune-teller was in residence.

They swore she never ate or slept and a fire burning outside her tent was never attended to or extinguished, it burned eternally.

Her greatest talent was to produce from her babbling a number, given to every supplicant who knelt before her, a number they believed could win them a lottery.

The Mad Woman's Tent

I peered through a hole in the grass-thatch wall into a grungy room full of expectant men. One was on his knees grovelling before her and she babbled and raved while putting her hand on his head. He gave her a two-hundred rupee note, ($4) which, uncomprehending, she dropped to the dirt floor and it magically disappeared. Getting some kind of prompt from an unseen attendant behind her she mumbled a number and the supplicant thanked her effusively then crawled backwards to be replaced by another hopeful fellow.

I talked to a young man who was wandering about outside the tent and he told me he'd recieved a number 6 months previously but none of his lottery tickets had won anything. This he said was because he didn't believe enough in her powers, now he did believe and had come again to apply for another number.

As we left in the car, my driver waxed ecstatic over the saintliness of the woman and lamented that he didn't get a number from her, (he was forever gambling on his smart phone.) I went into hysterics of laughter, realising they were all mad, not only the woman with the matted hair.

I myself shared that madness for I have bothered to live in India much of my life and love it so. I live in wonderment at India's crazy capriciousness, the human condition writ large, the human heart breaking and re-igniting constantly, all of us struggling as if within a magic spell.

We made it safely back to Rishikesh, our feet back on the ground, me with both my legs intact. How sweet it was to hug Pankaj's son, my soulson, something tangible and real, where life must go on, irrevocably.

(In case you're wondering, I'm not religious or "spiritual", I'm a rationalist and an atheist. But I'm interested in mythology, comparative religions, the semiotics of cultural narratives: deconstructing the myths to get to the underlying existential meanings, the psychological underpinnings and history of any specific culture, in this case Hinduism and ancient India.

I contemplate the human condition in all its perverse, glorious, sad, absurd aspects, and translate my impressions into my art and writing.

I'm a wanderer, an observer, a participant in the joyous festivities of whoever I meet, dancing, singing, laughing, story-telling. Sometimes cynical, always with an eye to the "dark comedy", the "divine madness", human folly.

I agree the universe, life and consciousness are sacred and awesome. I try to have compassion for all the foibles, mistakes, downfalls and sorrows humanity experiences, and I try to forgive myself for being a narcissistic f#ckwit.)

Smiling in the face of adversity and nessesity.

Australian Psycho

Watching American Psycho for the 7th time I get it, 

why selfies are the rule of 21st century habits:

narcissism and self-interest being the key concern,

other people are burger meat, bloody, raw and burnt.

A neoliberal brainwash has produced a populace

greedy for status, celebrity and a perfect face, 

sacrificing humanity for designer clothes and homes,

environment exploited with a design of skull and bones. 

Compassion is for fools, love is commercial crap,

politics virtue signalling while food and booze distract.

War explodes, neo-nazis march, the world is burning down

and anyone who protests and fights is just a boring clown.

I feel a fucking idiot crying in the wilderness,

I'm just a dumb consumer contributing to the mess.

Australia is utopia in lotus eating land,

and I'm a screaming psycho, my ego out of hand.

The Poverty of Violence, The Violence of Poverty.

 

Please excuse my constant raves about my book "Punk Outsider" but daily I can't helping thinking about what my underlying themes are. One of them is "violence" as experienced living in the late 20th Century, particularly for those in the lower strata of society, the poor, the marginalised, the rebel, the disaffected.

Each story in Punk Outsider can stand alone and also is connected to the next story, like pearls on a necklace, the whole giving a picture of the protagonist's life and journey, with no destination and no conclusion. Each story depicts some form of violence, all the variations inflicted upon the unlucky, the unwary, the unstable. The first story, "At the Cafe of the Fool's Nemesis" reveals, for me, the greatest and ongoing violence perpetrated upon us street level citizens, the constant harassment by the State and the Police.

The police beat us up, frame us, arrest us, busts us for drugs which they sell themselves, then verbalise us in court and lock us in cells. If we dare complain the pigs are sent in to break strikes at our work-places and protests on the street. The State throws us off the dole, our pensions are cut, there's no jobs to get, it's all been outsourced. If developers lobby the crooked pollies we are kicked from our homes, the State drives us to suicide by hounding us for debts, sends us to war and blows off our legs, and for all the horror never regrets or our trespasses forgets. We're spied on in our homes and as we walk down the street, we are badgered and slandered, depressed with defeat. Our water is poisoned and environment exploited so life is made cancerous and hospitals too crowded to provide relief. We're made into slaves and worked to death, the violence against us is never ending, the air polluted with every breath.

So we turn to drugs as an escape from the terror and tedium, preferring to pass-out and dream of a better world. And some of us die from overdose or we become brain-dead. Or we're murdered by other desperadoes to steal our bread. Street gangs of thugs, skinheads and gronks take out their frustrations by beating us up or are just plain filled with hate for anyone different or who they think don't rate. They hurt us and chase us and kill us sometimes or put us in hospital where we die in the line. We're turned against each other instead of our overlords who laugh as they control us from their castles, we're made into gladiators fighting it out in a pit, for the few crumbs they toss us where we survive in the shit.

We're constantly berated if we fight back, when we have to defend ourselves from a fuckwit attack. We're labelled as toxic, masculine and slack, somehow we should negotiate with a knife in our back. I can't just stand there and let some hoon beat me up, singing peace, love and lentils and sweet kumbayah. I never go out and pick a fight because I enjoy it or I'm mean and cruel, I'll even negotiate if threatened to a duel. But when my friends are threatened and their blood is spilt then I jump into the fray and I don't feel any guilt. When my girlfriends are raped and all I own is purloined then my temper is inflamed and the battle is joined. My friends and I try to live in peace, we don't try to be bosses or become police. For months we put up with deprivation and fear, then one day our backs break by a straw, our eyes fill with tears, and up against the wall, with nowhere to go, we hit back at our tormentors, that's all that we know how to react: when our survival is threatened, our violence is shown.

I absolutely don't condone violence against women, I come from a broken home where my mother was beaten constantly by my drunken father, a returned sailor from World War 2 with PTSD. They fought over money, and his jealousy, sure she was meeting men at the factory where she slaved. And he had a hair trigger temper, little things set him off, he first hit me when I was an infant and cried too much which jangled his nerves. When my mother slapped me for being naughty she called it a love tap, but my father punched me in the face often out of the blue. Unlike my father I never hit a girl, I walked away in a huff. But I admit there was that time when my non-girlfriend got me sacked from a much needed job then spat insults in my face till I exploded with wrath. She was a spoiled, self-entitled brat from a millionaire family who never had to work hard or be in need, but sold clothes like a hobby, rags that she stole from St Vincents or old ladies market stalls. Her mother gives her a few thousand every time she asks and there she was calling me a piece of shit. I agree, I was a bastard male, I grabbed her by her rats nest hair and dragged her around the kitchen, driven to a fury I threw her to the ground. Her boyfriend pulled me off her, and I stormed away, she then insulted my mother and I've never spoken to her again, till this day. I'm not saying their are times women deserve it, but this is what happened and I'm ashamed to say it.

When dancing at many electric rock clubs, Mod, Punk, Grunge or Rave, boys and girls jump in the mosh pit and grapple and punch, shove and pogo, twist and stomp, go-go and hustle, rustle and romp. We get punched in the eye and kicked in the groin, dropped to the floor and picked up again, our nose maybe bloody but it's all in the fun. We spew when skinheads push in with their hate and break a bottle on somebody's skull, or pick on a loner and rough them up, without any mercy, it's really fucked up. Eventually punks get fed up, we've had enough, we beat the shit out of the skins and tell them to fuck off.

Drunks are a particular drag, in a mindless rage they attack for no good reason, just out of plain stupidity and belligerence. So blind drunk they will pluck out your eyes and bite you so vicious you think a brain-eating zombie's got a hold of you. And no amount of hitting them back or kicks in the nuts will get them to cease and desist, they just keep on keeping on, alcoholic violence is the worst of the lot. On the streets, in the clubs, in cafes and in pubs, the drunks are a pestilence, pot heads are like monks, quiet and peaceful, staring into space, it's a crime pot is illegal while booze is sold on every street corner. But the powers that be, who pass the laws and reap the fines, consider grass is the devil because it can be grown in all climes. And as booze is the pigs' drug of choice they can't stand the competition from the high that ganjha gives, they'd prefer car crashes where they can pretend they care, or domestic violence and street fight nightmares. The pigs stash the extra money from bribes and confiscations, and the high prices from all the substances the ruthless control have made criminals of us all.

Being Queer invites violence, from the bigots, the repressed, the cruel and the ignorant. From childhood as a sissy to my youth as a poof, I was beaten at school, on the streets and at home, punched in the face if I squealed like a girl, kicked in the arse if I sashayed and swirled. I was raped several times as a teenager by brutal men who got their rocks off diminishing someone vulnerable with nowhere to turn for help or redress, the cops would only laugh and say "you got what you deserve and if you protest too loudly you'll be under arrest for deviant behaviour." As a sexual outlaw and psycho deviant I grew up a monster, threatened with gaol or shock treatment in a mental hospital. At 19 I was conned into having chemo-conversion therapy in an attempt to cure me of the disease of "homosexuality," in fact given LSD by a fascist cult which blew my mind out of my arse. They attempted to turn me straight, marry me to one of the cult members, then steal any kids we might have to bring them up as good Aryans to take over the world after a nuclear apocalypse. After four sessions I ran away, but I never got my feet back on the ground again and have been a dysfunctional visionary crackpot ever since.

Knowledge makes a person unfit to be a slave. The neoliberal capitalist state has tried to limit access to universities as a means of disempowering much of the populace, dumbing them down so they can't figure out what's going on in the world and can be made obedient, malleable and brainwashed into doing heinous acts like harming others or stupidly allowing themselves to be sent off to war.

The First Peoples of Australia, indigenous Kooris, have been displaced, dispossessed and murdered from the earliest days of the white colonial invasion. They've been enslaved, had their culture destroyed and their children taken away from them. To this day they are gaoled in greater numbers in proportion to the rest of white society, they are still murdered on the streets and killed while in custody. In the face of this intense oppression they have been known to fight back. The violence against these black people is intense. Australia is an apartheid society. One rarely sees black and white people socialising or coexisting in the same space. They are still having their land stolen from them by govt-backed mining companies and pastoralists. Most of the "welcome to country" and paying "respect to Koori elders" done in every govt function and cultural space is PC virtue signalling, one rarely sees a black face in the white crowd. It is traditional to have a Koori do this "welcoming" but most organisations are too tight and secretly racist to actually hire a black person to do it.

So says the Punk Poofy Cat, we live in the violence of poverty the same as a fish swimming in water, the poverty of violence is pushed on us, we are as lambs to the slaughter.

If you enjoy my writing please consider buying my book "Punk Outsider" available at Pass-Port Store and Gallery Oxford Square Darlinghurst

or order from tobyzoates@hotmail.com