(This is a story I've written for a prison newsletter, Paper Chains.)
Growing
up queer in the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s was tough, I was criminalised because of
my very existence, looked at as less than zero by “straight” society. As a
“deviant” I was chased relentlessly by the cops from the few pubs and clubs
that gave space for those who were different, and from the toilet-beats where we were
relegated like unwanted shit, as if condemned to a concentration camp but not even allowed to suffer there. The only
place we felt free were those outlaw lands, dark parks where we hunted for our
illicit liaisons and were in turn hunted, by cops, perverts and poofter bashers,
hunted like beasts of the night. We were crippled and misshapen by the hatred,
fit only for imprisonment, the lunatic asylum or early suicide. Thus I had more
than a chip on my shoulder, it was a raging bushfire.
I grew
disaffected, resentful, rebellious against this oppression, detested how the
world had been organised for an elite to rule in luxury, a middle class to be
whip masters for the crumbs that were thrown them, and the lower working class to be
the whipped slaves living in poverty and hopelessness. Being working class
I was relegated to the lowest of the low, at times in menial jobs, living by my
wits, my guts, my nerve, grabbing survival where I could, on the streets and
teenagers’ crash-pads, all very Dickensian and Oliver Twisted.
My
back-story is that I grew up in social housing in West Heidelberg Melbourne,
went to a rough and tumble govt high school, both my parents were returned
World War 2 veterans and worked in factories. I left home at the age of 17 and moved
from boarding house to couch surfing to an old queen’s chi chi flat, as the
kept boy who refused to put out till I was kicked out. At 18 I became a student
nurse and eventually specialised in palliative care. At 19 I was conned into
having psylocibin therapy to cure me of my queerness, they shot me up with pure
Sandoz LSD which tripped me out furiously and changed my life irrevocably, and made
me more queer and rebellious.
Unbeknownst
to me the therapeutic Acid clinic was in reality run by a cult whose leader,
Anne Hamilton-Byrne, had convinced a coven of fools that she was Jesus Christ
come again. They had recruited me hoping to pair me off with one of their
“aunties”, witch-like cult members. Because of my bright blue eyes, Hamilton
Byrne wanted me to have blue-eyed babies with the nurse-aunty hag of her choice, a child which she could then kidnap and brainwash into her crazed apocalyptic cult,
for she was of Nazi Aryan persuasion. I intuited they were cosmic crackpots and
ran away, graduated as a nurse and fled to India where I smoked hash and took
acid with the international freak set till I got on top of having nightmare bummers,
dancing in the Garden of Pan instead. After 5 years on the road, and relinquishing
the LSD lifestyle, I returned to Australia to take on the snooty art
scene as an iconoclast outsider.
I was promised the low-life of the "punk" and more, the boy at school who
was voted the least likely to succeed. Every time my father drove us past
Pentridge Gaol in Melbourne he would warn, “Watch out Toby, if you’re not
careful you’ll end up there!” So I was very, very careful and never got caught
at any of my illegitimate shenanigans.
By the
mid 1970s I was educated in the way of the world and became intensely
politicised. I participated in civil disobedience acts and Situationist stunts,
protesting all the nasty elements of neo-liberal capitalism: cuts to public
services, anti-military/industrial complex, anti-nuclear industry, against environmental
exploitation and the fossil fuel industry; like Marlon Brando in “The Wild One”,
when asked what was I rebelling against I replied, “What have you got?” If I
wanted to get gay lib I had to fight against patriarchy and for women’s lib as
it was all tied in. As a queer I had to fight for housing, employment and
prison reform for I was constantly threatened with homelessness, unemployment and
gaol just because of what I was. And I totally identified with the ongoing
battle for Koori rights, one of my great, great grandmothers was an Indigenous Australian and my blood boiled over
at the theft, murder and cultural devastation perpetrated upon my fellow Australians. I participated in the 1978 LGBTQIA riots, got
kicked in the head by a cop and never felt right since. Altogether I was
arrested 7 times during this long struggle and the State did not approve.
My art
practice thus screamed act-up, the acting out of my being pissed off with the
cruelty of the world, even if I was pissing in the wind. My posters, paintings,
murals, commix, writings, memes and films all obsessively shit-stirred and
grouched about the injustices, cruelties and crimes of this neo-liberal,
imperialist, war-profiteering, earth destroying, class-bound world. I’ve pasted
49000 posters upon the walls of Australia; handed out 70,000 flyers from many street corners, libraries, halls and
shops; showed my films in theatres, cafes, community centres, schools, TV
stations and art galleries; flogged my books shamelessly from every possible
niche the world has to offer... yes, all of it hair-brained, lunatic fringe,
“wild child” bitch-slapping “fuck you happy clapper” straight-laced
money-grubbers, “I’m mad as Hell and I want everybody to know it!” And the
beady-eyed pigs knew it for sure! (This is not to say I think I’m a hero, I’m a
fucked-up sour-puss and I see the world through jaundiced eyes.)
My
movie “Virgin Beasts” smacked of this rebellious anger in every frame, a
part-animated, sci-fi, burlesque, agit-prop rock opera: an arms dealer on his
death bed thinks his money will allow him to live forever = Beauty Meets the Beast
at the Masque of the Red Death on a Quest for the Holy Grail to Beat Brand
Rights for Grey Males. I wrote the script in 1986 then had all hell struggling
to make it for the next 7 years, greedy State sanctioned plagiarists trying to
stop it halfway through production. But I persevered, never taking “NO!” for an
answer. I premiered it in 1992 at Jelly Headz Punk Garage in Chippendale. I put
on two grunge bands with it and sci-fi/horror movies upstairs, it was a riot of
a night, the Underground Sydney crew screamed their tits off in enjoyment. And
the pigs infiltrated, sure there’d be the dreaded drugs on offer and they could
make an easy bust. While there was an assortment of deviants caterwauling there
were no obvious drug-deals going down, there was just poor little me standing
out like cat’s balls in the crowd, the centre of attention and the pigs zeroed
in on me.
A year
later, in 1993, on Black Thursday, they framed me for an armed hold-up. It was
Easter and I went to my local cake-shop to buy some hot cross buns. The
backpacker bimbos behind the counter made bugaboo eyes at my appearance but I
took little notice, I’ve had a lifetime of moronic eyes bulging in my
direction.
Being a chronic cake fiend I went back for a lemon tart and this time one of the
shop-girls became somewhat hysterical but the other one perused me closely and
said, “No, it’s not him.” I said, “What’s happened here, have you been robbed
or something?” To which Miss Hysteria started frothing at the mouth. “If
there’s any suspicion of my involvement here’s my address, I can prove I’ve got
nothing to do with whatever the problem is.” What a naive fool I was, I
could’ve walked away and my life would not have taken a dive over a cliff. The
pigs jumped on it; it was what they were waiting for, some contretemps
involving me.
I was
at home with the lead actress from my film “Virgin Beasts”, about to go to my
lawyer for the signing of a contract. Two plain clothes pigs showed up and
pushed their way through my door. They started screaming, “Where’s the
money shithead!” as they tore my flat
apart. Michelle, an American, a graduate of Yale drama school, spoke up in my defence,
“He was with me all day yesterday.” They
growled in her face, “Shut your mouth cunt or we’ll bust you as well!” Her jaw
dropped, she’d never seen this side of Australia and she quietly slunk away.
The pigs kept throwing my stuff every which way till my flat looked like a
garbage dump. They found items they said were used in the robbery and led me
away in handcuffs.
I was
taken to a convict-era pig station in an alley of Surry Hills, interrogated,
tortured, told to drop my pants while they sniggered at my shrivelled cock and
kept demanding I confess to the crime which I steadfastly refused to do. They
then put me in a line-up, with office-workers in white shirt and tie, me in
torn, black punk gear. They brought the cake shop bitches in, me thinking they
would surely exonerate me as they’d seemed to agree it wasn’t me back in the
shop. Both of the European backpacking moles didn’t even glance at the squeaky-clean fuckwits in the line-up, they straight off pointed their bony fingers at
me and said, “Him!” I screamed in horror, “How could you do this to me?” And
the clean-cut robot office workers laughed.
The
bitches probably colluded with the pigs, perhaps promised extensions on their
visas, they couldn’t give a shit if my life was ruined, damn them. And I
recognised one of the pigs, the blond one wearing an Armani suit and Rayban
sunglasses, he was one of the plain-clothed Nazis who’d infiltrated my movie
launch-party at Jelly Headz a year previously and must’ve decided then that they
would get this uppity fag who the punk cognoscenti had fussed over. “Fuck him,
we’ll bring him down a peg or two, he’s guilty as Hell, all that civil
disobedience proves he’s a no good criminal.”
I was
then trucked to the cells at Surry Hills Pig Citadel and locked in a cage with
a giant, obese Greek youth who was withdrawing from a cocaine habit and who
shrieked all night, not just at the pain of drying-out but in fear that I, the
punk fag, was going to rape him. On the wall of the cell was a giant swastika in
red crayon, quite fitting as a symbol for the milieu. In the morning I was taken to the ancient
sandstone courthouse in Liverpool Street, to a musty courtroom and stood before
a prim, prune-faced magistrate who’d been dragged in from his holiday and was
mighty uptight, for it was Good Friday and he sorely wanted to crucify someone,
anyone. While I watched he sent several sorry souls off to Long Bay Gaol for Easter,
accused of shoplifting and possession of marihuana, heinous crimes in his piggy
eyes. Then it was my turn to be dragged across the hot coals of his
displeasure.
“Armed
robbery is a terrible crime, shocking in its deviousness, so serious as to want
hanging. I will send you off to Longbay to await your trial which will be in
about three years and you’ll get seven years hard labour for this!” I shat my
pants. Michelle’s husband had shown up holding his baby in his arms and he
spoke up for my good character. The prick of a magistrate harrumphed and
grumbled how “serious” the matter was and Steve continued pleading, promising
to go bail for me. The high and mighty Lord of Law hissed and pissed, and
finally relented, but I was condemned to report twice a week to the pig shop
and forbidden to leave the city until the trial.
For 3
years I dragged myself to the pigs’ dungeons and signed their register while
the oinkers glared at me with baleful eyes. I went into deep depression and had
to have psychiatric intervention for I was suicidal. This because I’d always
avoided hard crime, it would never enter my head to rob anybody, I could always
go work as a nurse if I wanted money. Maybe you will throw scorn upon me but I
was basically a guy who used his art to shit stir and that was the sum of my
criminality, apart from trespass, causing affray and obstructing the law. I
went to many of my “leftie compatriots” and told them of my dilemma, they all
tut-tutted and said they were “Sorry” then hurried away, the mention of the
police gave them the willies and they wanted no part in it.
I had
to go to Central Courts every few weeks to beg for small freedoms where I saw
up close the brutality of our glorious system of Law and felt vindicated in my
opposition to it. Thankfully, through Legal Aid, I got a Queens Counsel to
defend me and eventually my court date came up.
At
first I was delegated a “hanging judge”
and my lawyer was dismayed because the bastard was a purple nosed, dyspeptic
alcoholic and growled in disgust when I stool before him. But he collapsed with
delirium tremens and I was given a benign judge, and my lawyer felt relieved when told of the replacement. Such is the blind, impartial Goddess of
Law. The pigs said my trial would go for 7 weeks as they had much evidence
against me. On walking towards Campbelltown Courthouse I spied a mob of
reporters squirming and squalling, hustling and bustling, crowding my path.
Again I shat my pants, I thought they were there for me. But my lawyer said
“No!” and pushed his way through them, they were awaiting the arrival of Ivan
Milat, the notorious serial killer, he was being tried in the courtroom next to
mine. They ignored me, thank no god!
Inside
my dreaded courtroom the two scrag shop girls sat vengefully, ready to give false
witness. The first one said my face was clearly seen and she was positive I was
the perp. The judge inquired, “You reported the hold-up man to be about 25, Mr.
Toby is 45, do you really think he looks 25?” And the dog said, “Yes!” The
judge said, “I don’t think so.”
The
next bitch was ushered in by her pig chaperones. She said, “He wore a mask but
I’d recognise those blue eyes anywhere!” The judge said, “You say he was
masked. The other woman said he wasn’t masked. Surely you’ve had three years to
get your testimony straight?” After lengthy deliberations that made me squirm
the judge finally acquitted me on a case of “mistaken identity.” The trial had
only taken 4 hours. The pigs came up to us and snarled, “You’ve made my witness
cry!” It was the one who said I was 24, willing to sell me down the river for
thirty silver pieces. “Oh wow,” I smirked, “she’s only ruined my life with nasty lies.
I want her tits cut off!” My lawyer quickly hustled me out of the torture
house.
All
this reinforced my opinion that I lived in a fucked-up world, there was no
objective law and honest justice, it all depended on luck, liars and money.
Australia still has convict colony mentality, especially Sydney. I gave up
filmmaking, it was too bloody hard to begin with, and offered little reward.
Australia didn’t deserve my hard labour, its cruelty typical of a devil’s island and the arsehole of the planet. I got no compensation for the ruin of my
life, I was told it was all par for the course in the precious functioning of
our dear God, the Law. The bastards did me a favour. My life’s path took
another direction, I ended up doing what I’d longed all my life to do but could
never find the wherewithal to do it, and that is write and paint to my heart’s
content with no one looking over my shoulder telling me what to do.
If you are interested in my writing please buy my latest book, Punk Outsider. Order from: tobyzoates@hotmail.com or The Bookshop Oxford Street Darlinghurst.
