Readers will undoubtedly brand me a braggart when I use a megaphone to alert the world that I was once told that I could be the next Henry Lawson. This flattering utterance was delivered by a journalist, in a Sydney pub, who was actually related to thirsty Henry Lawson , whose stories and poems about the bush used to be a quintessential part of the European Dreamtime . The person massaging my ego was a household name at the time. The rebel publishing enterprise he co- founded had massive sales and took the mickey out of the establishment , clergymen ranted about him from pulpits , saying he should be flogged, various politicians denounced him. The walls of his house were covered with Australian art. He’d had a spot of bad luck - somehow , he pranged his Mercedes sportscar near the Journalists’ Club .
As I say, the venue for his declaration of my writing genius took place in a boozer frequented by News Limited scribes when I was on a visit from Darwin . My talented drinking companion was in a relaxed, reflective state of mind . His eyes were glassy and he was wrestling with an unruly , unlit cigar, which he was trying to insert in his tonsils and adenoids , it progressively crumbling and falling into his beer. In that philosophical condition , he knew a literary giant when his eyes eventually focused on one -moi, Henri Lawson 11.
We swapped notes and jokes about workers, world leaders and wankers . From my satchel of oddities, I plucked an account of the time President Lyndon Johnson , who reckoned dogs loved to be swung around by their ears, said Jerry Ford, who became another dynamic US president like George Dubya , could not fart and think at the same time . Other journalists joined us and one noticed I had a bundle of books bought at a warehouse sale . He asked if I had turned into a book thief due to my time in the tropics . So , in a short space of time, I went from a potential Aussie literary genius to a troppo book thief. Such is life.
As I say, the venue for his declaration of my writing genius took place in a boozer frequented by News Limited scribes when I was on a visit from Darwin . My talented drinking companion was in a relaxed, reflective state of mind . His eyes were glassy and he was wrestling with an unruly , unlit cigar, which he was trying to insert in his tonsils and adenoids , it progressively crumbling and falling into his beer. In that philosophical condition , he knew a literary giant when his eyes eventually focused on one -moi, Henri Lawson 11.
We swapped notes and jokes about workers, world leaders and wankers . From my satchel of oddities, I plucked an account of the time President Lyndon Johnson , who reckoned dogs loved to be swung around by their ears, said Jerry Ford, who became another dynamic US president like George Dubya , could not fart and think at the same time . Other journalists joined us and one noticed I had a bundle of books bought at a warehouse sale . He asked if I had turned into a book thief due to my time in the tropics . So , in a short space of time, I went from a potential Aussie literary genius to a troppo book thief. Such is life.
