From Bob's desk

Hello out there on the WWW from the WWW: the World's Worst Writer. Again, I'm sorry I'm late updating my website. But I've been busy running around writing and researching books and doing speaking gigs, whilst at the same time, trying to keep my weird awther's shit together. Fair dinkum. It ain't easy being an awther; particularly when you're basically bone lazy and left school at fourteen with very limited edjookayshin. However, they say a picture speaks a thousand words, so I've put plenty in this time for you to peruse; including some of Afghanistan…

Okay: to The Tesla Legacy. Although it wasn't a Les Norton, everybody liked it, including my publishers; who said they would keep me on for another year, providing I stop stealing books every time I visit the office. (Okay, I admit I do hoist the odd book. But I send them on to the gaols and the military. It is not as if I sell them to buy drugs and visit massage parlours). I did a speaking gig at East Maitland library and asked some of the delightful women that came along if I should bring Mick and Jesse back. They all said, 'Yeah, bloody oath.' So I will. I’ve got an American mate who lives on the Island of Halewei who's a mad fan of my books and wants me to come and stay with him. So I might send Mick and Jesse out there looking for another kind of secret weapon and we'll find out the real reason the Japs bombed Pearl Harbour in 1941. However, that will be a little further down the line. I said in the Author's Note in my latest book, The Case of the Talking Pie Crust, I was thinking of setting one in Western Australia. And I will. I've got a huge readership amongst all those sand-gropers. But I've got a bit of running around to do over the next few months between Terrigal and Shoal Bay in New South Wales, so I reckon I'll set the next one in Nimbin. It's an interesting place and I know a couple of people up that way. Nevertheless, if anybody's got any ideas or knows where some bodies are buried around there, drop me a line. I'm all ears. I'll probably call it High Noon at Nimbin.

Now to my latest offering, Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust. Like I said in the Author's Note, a more stupid name for a book you could not possibly imagine. But it sort of revolves around an old cartoonist and humourist who lived in Sydney -- Emile Mercier. We've put some of his cartoons on my website, so you'll get an idea where Emile is coming from with his references to gravy, the name Shrdlu and the old bloke with the beard wearing the boater and pince nez glasses. Emile captured and found a humourous side of a conservative, straight-laced era in Australia that's gone forever; probably for the best.

But what a wonderful and enthralling time I had writing it. Yeah Pig's *@%# arse. During that wild storm when the Pasha Bulker got washed up on Nobby's Beach in Newcastle, I copped a tree through my roof. Half the house was wrecked, I had no power and when it came back on I had to get builders in. In particular, gyprockers. I swear, I would rather have my home sacked by Attila The Hun than get another visit from gyprockers. They're not bad blokes as far as blokes go. But they leave shit everywhere. I'm still scraping up white dust and lumps of white gunk from all over the house. Yes, it was a real blast sitting in a flooded kitchen, eating Chinese take away food by candlelight with water pouring in everywhere. Still, compared to what some poor punters copped during that storm I got off lightly.

Anyway, I still finished the book on time and according to the letters I've been getting everyone's happy with it. There's plenty of photos on the website from scenes in the book, including the cameo role I gave myself. It was my birthday and happened in a Terrigal restaurant called Esserees. The girl is Melissa and although she's only 28, she's a sweetheart and an old friend who was a competitive boogie board rider and is now a personal trainer. I can't remember her daughter's name, but check the look on her sweet little face. She absolutely hated me. Nevertheless, it wasn't a bad night. The food was great and I always enjoy Melissa's company. I also included photos from Star of the Sea, the most exclusive resort in Terrigal where Les stayed and dined at the Y with Marla in the swimming pool.

Plus a photo of the delightful lady who read my tarot at the Bondi Markets. I'd never had my tarot read before, and although a lot of it was uncanny, the pot of gold I'd convinced myself was waiting for me at the end of the rainbow turned out to be a rusty bed pan full of you know what.

The old cave and strange carvings are the real deal. The video I shot was clear as a bell. But unfortunately the photos I took didn't turn out the best. I took some off the TV which still didn't do it justice. So we've put up some photos that appeared in New Dawn magazine. In my book I went along with the conspiracy theory about the carvings and apparently there is no conspiracy, there's still something extremely weird about the location, the strange cave beneath the carvings and these puzzling holes I found in the cliffs leading to the cave.

There's also photos of Azulejos, Gabrielle's and Liza's and other locations I used in this book. If you look into the photos you can picture where I get some of my ideas from -- like the two Harley Davidsons parked outside the coffee shop I used for Azulejos, and the posters on the walls inside and council workers.

The photos of Afghanistan are also the real deal and were sent to me, along with some T-shirts, by a digger, WO2 Brad Stevens, and reinforce what a great job our service people are doing and the rotten circumstances they are doing it under. Check the photos of the armoured vehicles out on patrol. The place looks like Mars. And what about the melons on those Afghani soldiers. How would you like to meet them in dark alley half drunk with your wallet poking out of your pocket?

I've also enclosed some photos of some of the speaking gigs I did for libraries in East Maitland, New South Wales and Cairns, Queensland. You know, when I arrive at an airport on a book tour there's generally a driver waiting for me holding up a sign saying Bob Barrett, Robert Barrett or sometimes even Mr. Barrett. But never some persnickety librarian holding up a sign saying %#@*! Barbara.

Now, even though I’m a literary lion and hugely intelligent, arse-kicking awther, I still don't mind the occasional joke or laugh at my expense. But this Barbara thing is starting to give me the *&%#! shits. It all came about from an interview I did with the Sydney Morning Herald. The journalist asked me if I ever cried when I'm writing. I said my bloody oath I do. I'm an old Emo down to my toenails and secretly I'd like to be a romance writer. In fact, I said, if I put my mind to it, I could be the next Barbara Cartland. That was all the ammunition my rotten avaricious little publicist at HarperCollins, Mel Cain (AKA Ratso, named after the Dustin Hoffman character in Midnight Cowboy) needed. She immediately nicknamed me Barbara. And the rest of the HarperCollins staff, having nothing better to do, it caught like wildfire. Now everybody calls me Barbara. Ha-ha-#@*%!-ha! Oh yeah. It's real good when you're on book tour. You check into a big hotel and when you get your key in the lobby Ratso yells out, 'Don't forget, Barbara. You're in room 1232 on the tenth floor.' 'Yeah, righto,' you reply. 'And remember, Barbara. You've got to be down here at 8.30 for an interview.' 'Yeah, okay.' It's even better when you're in a radio station being interviewed by two hot shot disc jockeys and your publicist looks at her watch and says, 'Righto Barbara. We have to get going. We've got to be at the local newspaper at 2.30.' You automatically nod your head and say 'Righto.' And the disc jockeys go 'Nudge nudge, wink wink. We knew it. Barrett is an old drag queen.' Now bloody librarians as far away as Cairns are getting in on the act. How droll.

Nevertheless, I got square with Cairns Council and their librarian Mrs Lee Finklestein. I left the banana bending bastards with a $210 bar bill; mostly for margaritas. While I was there, I bumped into a girl who writes to me, Cherene Poidevin. Poid's a fellow parrot-head and she got me some Jimmy Buffet T-shirts when she was in Florida. On the last night I was in Cairns, Poido and myself swept through Cairns on a veritable tsunami of margaritas. I had a terrific time in Cairns and Mrs Finklestein was a delightful lady. I did three really good talks. And it wasn't like a book tour with Ratso booting me up the arse and screaming at me to hurry up we got to get to another bookshop and no, you can't have a cup of coffee, and you haven't got time to go to the bloody toilet again either. I could sit back, relax, have a cup of tea and a sandwich and spend some quality time with my readers.

And what a grouse bunch they were up in FNQ. Especially the women. I reckon if I was a bit more presentable and trimmed my toenails I could have done alright for myself with some of those Queensland aunties. But I cracked it for something better than worse when I was up there. At the first talk there was a young red-headed bloke down the front, seated in a wheelchair wearing a Team Norton T-shirt. When I finished talking and got ready to sign books and say hello, a young woman wheeled him over to me first. His name was Matthew and he was carrying a portfolio with him. After I shook his hand and said g'day, the first thing he said to me was, 'Bob, the main reason I'm here is to thank you for saving my life.' I got to tell you, this sat me on my arse. But evidently Matthew had been in a bad accident; the awful photos in his portfolio of him in hospital with tubes and drips hanging out of him were certainly proof of that. He was a big, red-headed Queenslander (like somebody else we know) and before the accident used to play football and was in the prime of his life having a good time. Next thing he knew, he was in hospital on the critical list, almost paralysed and pretty much at death's door ready to step through. Anyway Matthew's lying in bed waiting for the worst and his friends brought him some books to read; including a couple of mine. So he starts reading them, relates to the red-headed Les Norton and despite his dreadful predicament starts laughing again. They got Matthew some more of my books, he got stuck into them and he's starting to feel better. Nowhere near a hundred per cent of what he was, but before long he was in a wheelchair and strutting his stuff. And he said it was my books that did it. They say laughter is the best medicine and I'm not going to argue. But check the smile on Matthew's face of us together. Not bad, eh. Poor bloody Barbara. I swear, I was holding back the tears. Honestly, I'm not telling you this to make a big man of myself or something, but I just thought it was a lovely story. And if you couldn't feel good about yourself after something like that, you'd be a complete bloody lemon. The sad part is, although I gave young Matthew as much attention and time as I could, there was a million people waiting to get books signed and I said goodbye without getting his full name and address. So if anybody reading this knows Matthew could you get in touch with me, PO Box 382, Terrigal NSW 2260. I'd like to send him a few things. Thanks.

While I've been writing this, a late photo and letter landed from Benjamin Chambers in Brisbane who got the Rainbow Serpent flag tattooed on his arm. This is a class act. I reckon it looks that good I might get one. Onya Benjamin Chambers.

Well, that's about it. I hope you enjoy the photos and I hope you enjoy the amazing tale of Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust. And before I forget, a belated apology to any Asian people who might have migrated to Australia and happen to read my books. When Bodene Menjou insulted all the minority groups in the book with the synopsis for his movie. Gone with the Willy Willy -- wogs, Abos, Jews, poofs, lesbians, hunchbacks and whatever, he left out Asians. Particularly Vietnamese. I'm truly sorry about that. But don't worry. I'll make sure you're top of the list to get insulted next time. I promise.

On a more sober note before I go, anybody who reads my books and articles will know how filthy I am on the stinken Japanese whaling industry. What those low, cruel insidious bastards are getting with in our waters is beyond belief. Then to make things worse, they piss in our faces and say it's scientific research. It's a vile bloodbath; and they do the same to dolphins. Those harmless, magnificent creatures belong to the world to enjoy. Not to get pitilessly harpooned and turned into hamburgers and pet food so a bunch of barbaric Jap arseholes can make money. Personally, I'd like to send in a destroyer and sink their whaling fleet then machine gun the lifeboats; same as the Japs did during the Second World War. Unfortunately our politicians are too pussy to do anything more than wave their fingers at the bastards and they're laughing at us.

But there’s a couple of things we can do. Some Jap turd from their whaling industry bobbed up on TV the other night "cordially" inviting people not to send donations to Paul Watson at Sea Shepherd, as he illegally interrupts their whaling. I nearly spewed when I saw the Jap bastard. I'd like to 'cordially' get my hands around his throat and start squeezing. Anyway Paul Watson and Sea Shepherd are the people to send a donation to if you love whales. Paul doesn't stuff around trying to be diplomatic with these turds. He rams their whaling ships; and good on him.

The other thing you can do is follow the advice of Bruce Erwin of Port Macquarie New South Wales, who sent this letter to the Sydney Telegraph advising people to stop buying Japanese products. Good idea. You could start by not eating at sushi bars and if you buy a Jap car, buy a second-hand one. Let the new ones pile up on their wharves. And there's plenty of white goods and TVs etc coming out of China and Korea that are cheaper and just as good as what the Japs produce. Hit the bastards in the pocket. As soon as those avaricious Jap businessmen find their profits falling thanks to their whaling industry, they'll have it stopped in an instant. And not before too long. Work it out. Those dropkicks have been killing over a 1000 minke whales a year for over 20 years, counting the calves and what they've stopped from breeding. You could multiply that by five. Which means there's 100,000 less whales swimming around that we should be sharing the planet with. Now the bastards want to start harpooning sperm whales. They're the ones that swim along our coast with their calves that people, along with bloody Japanese tourists, flock to watch and enjoy. It's just unbelievable. Besides that, the Japs have killed countless thousands of albatrosses with their long-line fishing, they've stuffed our tuna industry by cheating on the quotas and they butcher dolphins and arrest any Westerners who try to stop them. What next from those rotten little dropkicks?

In the meantime, I'm getting in touch with some friends in the media and that to organise these bumper stickers and T-shirts around the theme Save the Whales. Boycott Japanese Products. And believe me, the logos won't feature whales. They'll be more hard-hitting and a lot nastier. Any profits will go to Paul Watson and Sea Shepherd. Anyway, if I'm boring you with all this, I'm sorry. But I'm passionate about putting an end to whaling. It's barbaric, it's disgusting and it has to stop. So keep clicking onto this website to check out the Jap bashing stickers and T-shirts. They'll be on here before long.

But Japs and whaling aside, I'll leave you with a quote I gave in an interview with the Gold Coast Bulletin that appeared on January 28, 2007. I still think it makes a lot of common sense: 'I'm not a full-on greenie, but I do have trepidation about the world. The rape of this planet must stop and the policy of holding economics above the environment has to change.'

Thanks for your time,
Robert G. Barrett (Barbara)