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footpath and spit and yell abuse at the anti-war protesters. The whole city seemed to be closed and empty. Everyone was either marching or yelling abuse at the marchers. It was all high adventure for a young teenager.
    I remember in 1969 going to see a then little-known lady in the city at some shopping centre place. She kissed me on the cheek and got lipstick all over me … it was Edna Everage, now Dame Edna Everage. Silly old drag queen.
    The 60s was a great time for kids to grow up. When Harold Holt died I remember there were big posters all over Melbourne — photos of Holt with the words ‘A Great Australian’ written underneath. A lot of Australian history happened in the 60s. It was a good time.
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    When I was growing up Australia was still influenced by the White Australia policy. We hated all ‘wogs’… yet my girlfriend Margaret, the greatest chick I’ve ever known, is Maltese. We hated all ‘Abos’, yet I’ve been shown great kindness by Aborigines. We hated all Asians yet — and I’ve never told anyone this — my Dad is quarter caste Chinese. Their family name was Shan Han, but later they changed it to Shanhan to give it a more Irish sound.
    Looking at my Dad it is very hard to pick that he is quarter Chinese. He hates the Japs. Everyone I’ve ever met born in this country — regardless of their race of family nationality — is racist towards some other race or nationality or culture.
    Whites in Australia either hate the blacks or the ‘slopes’ — or, if not, they don’t mind a sly giggle at their expense. In years to come the Asians in Australia — talking with Aussie accents and drinking beer in the pubs and going to the footy — will be putting shit on the ‘wogs’ and ‘coons’, as the ‘wogs’ and blacks are already putting shit on the ‘chows’ and ‘slopes’.
    I don’t think it is really blood-hatred racism but more a part of the ‘rough as guts’ Australian sense of humour, part of the Aussie culture and attitude.
    Anyway, I’m racist — and my great granny was a chow, bless her heart.
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    My Mum’s father fought in the First World War in the cavalry, but I don’t know much about him. My Dad’s father, Alfred Read, was nicknamed ‘The Bull’ because of his great physical strength. He could bend a penny in half between his thumb and forefinger. He fought bare knuckles as a heavyweight prize fighter and worked as a shearer, wool presser and horseman. He was once photographed at Dalgety’s wool stores with a bale of wool weighing 900 pounds resting on his shoulders as it was being rolled from platform to truck.
    After the First World War ‘Bull’ Read bought and sold remount horses — travelling with them to India, where he would do the deal. He walked out on my Dad and his young brother and my grandmother when Dad was a small boy. My grandma died in Dad’s arms when he was about 14. Dad worked as a stockman then joined the army at 16 to find that his father ‘Alf the Bull’ had also joined up for the Second World War.
    Dad did a bit of boxing in the army. That’s where he first met his good friend Eddy Miller. Later, I used to call Eddy Miller ‘Uncle Eddy’. He was a great old chap. When my Dad took us to live in Mornington in the 60s for two years Uncle Eddy had a taxi cab business down there. It was down there that Eddy and Dad taught me to box when I was a kid.
    As a teenager I was always interested in joining the army. I did try to enlist once but got knocked back because I failed the psychiatric test … the female captain psychiatrist said I had a personality given to violence.
    Using that as an excuse to stop someone joining the army — well, I thought it was quite amusing. I admit, I also had flat feet, but I didn’t get as far as the medical.
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    In 1977 when I got out of prison, with my Dad’s help and on his advice, I applied to join the Rhodesian Security Forces. I wrote away to the head of the forces — a Major General Kurt something or