Writing Goodoo Goodoo
Writing Goodoo Goodoo started out a complete shitfight. It was supposed to be called something else and I intended setting it in Cape York and Thursday Island. I had this idea nutted out about Norton’s sister being abducted by a bunch of religious fanatics. There’d be gun running, fauna smuggling, sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll, whatever, and it would all end at a place called Chilli Beach.
I was planning on going to Cape York to do my research, and the night before I left I rang up a resort to make sure I had accomodation. The bloke on the other end of the line asked me which direction I was coming from. I said Cairns, then Weipa, and told him that I’d be arriving in a 4WD. He said: "You’d better make it a submarine because it’s the rainy season and the rivers are up."
I couldn’t believe it. I had this story half sorted out in my head and now I couldn’t do it. But I had to leave because I’d put an old so-called mate on the payroll to help me with the driving. We headed off from Terrigal to Sydney airport at 5.30 in the morning, and before long I’m winging my way to Cairns with abosolutely no idea what I’m going to write about.
I picked up a magazine and it had an article in it about two divers that went missing off the coast near Cairns. That’s what I’ll do, I thought. I’ll change the synonyms to protect the antonyms, start with a capital letter, end with a full-stop and have Les find two missing SCUBA divers. Buggered if I knew how though.
In the meantime, my so-called mate has lobbed broke, so he’s put the snip on me. I should have known better, but gave him $200 anyway. The minute we book into the resort in Cairns, he picked up a copy of the Financial Review and started ordering drinks and swanning around the place like he was the Duke of Bedford. He’d convinced himself he was doing me a favour being there. Two days later, at about 8.30 in the morning, he was getting ready to have a shower before having breakfast delivered to his room. I told him to have breakfast at the airport. The bus left at 9:15 and he was on the next plane back to Sydney. Not before I’d relieved him of $100 for the two bottles of wine he’d had with dinner the night before. He still managed to get me for a day’s white water rafting though. Bastard.
Once I got rid of His Royal Highness, however, everything fell into place. I got to see all the people I needed to see in Cairns for my research. I visited the local newspaper, checked out the local nightlife, then hired a 4WD and headed for Cooktown.
The inland road’s a bit hairy, but Cooktown is a fabulous place. It’s absolutely beautiful with the harbour and the views north. The people at the Sovereign Resort couldn’t have been kinder. I got all my reasearch done, found an old pub near Black Mountain and got caught in a downpour near Cedar Bay.
Then it was back to Terrigal to start writing the book. Oddly enough, I was three weeks into the book when I was going through my notes and discoved that I’d checked out every bar in Cooktown except the one where I was staying. So I had to go back again and fly into Cooktown this time. What an experience! But it was worth it for the view as the plane banked around the Endeavour River. Then it was back to Terrigal again and head down and arse up into the book.
I’m going along OK, then my publishers decided to send me to New Zealand on a promotional tour (to see if we could get those sheep herders interested in Les Norton). We were mainly flogging Mud Crab Boogie and the tour wasn’t going too bad.
Then, some sheila on TV in Auckland sneeringly asked me if this was the type of book Pauline Hanson would Read. I said: "I bloody hope so, because I’ve dedicated it to her." Christ! You would have thought they’d found me with my hand up my grandmother’s dress and a Nazi uniform in my wardrobe. They just about ran me out of New Zealand on a broom after that. However, I’m not a Nazi. I just dedicated the book to Pauline Hanson for a stir. It was good to get back to Australia. The one thing I like about the people who live in New Zealand is that they choose to do so.
I started writing again and, the next thing I know, I’m taken into custody by the Queensland Police Force. They flew me up to Dirranbandi, Les Norton’s home town, to open the Les Norton Bar in the local hotel and raise some money for charity.
I got to Moree with a publicist and a friend, then got bundled into a little plane with all these monstrous footballers. I didn’t think the plane was going to get off the ground. The pilot looked like Keith Richards and smoked about ten cigarettes a minute and reminded me of those pilots you see in war movies who fly in and out of Vietnam or South America for the CIA.
But we got there OK. And what a hoot of a night! They came from everywhere and we raised a heap of money for charity. I donated some original scripts and photos and officially opened the Les Norton bar to much clapping. I had the time of my life and considered it an honour. So, if you’re ever up Dirranbadi way, call into the local and sink one in the Les Norton Bar. The XXXX on tap is like nectar from the Gods, the food is sensational, the publican and the locals are good people and you never know what memorabilia you might see on the walls since they fully refurbished the old hotel. I can’t wait to get up there again myself.
I have to admit that Goodoo Goodoo wasn’t one of my best books. It’s a little bit over the top. But it was written on a completely empty tank at the time. But have you noticed that, since then, the Genome Project has been in the news, along with DNA and geneticism, and they’re starting to come up with new theories about the pyramids and Mars. I’d dug up some weird research while I was writing Goodoo Goodoo, and I did see a UFO.
When I finally finished Goodoo Goodoo, I was off on another book tour. The book went really well and my lovely readers were there to say hello. From Cairns, Townsville and Rockhampton, to Melbourne, Adelaide and all over Victoria. Adelaide surprised me: I’ve got some terrific readers down there, and good looking one’s too. The best buzz was coming across Mrs Les Norton in Bendigo.
So that’s it for this month’s installment. Next month, I’ll give you the run down on writing The Wind and the Monkey.
Take care,
Bob