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Authors: Robert G. Barrett

And De Fun Don't Done

Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.

 

Also by Robert
G.
Barrett in Pan

YOU WOULDN'T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS
THE REAL THING
THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA
THE GODSON
BETWEEN THE DEVLIN AND THE DEEP BLUE SEAS
DAVO'S LITTLE SOMETHING
WHITE SHOES, WHITE LINES AND BLACKIE
MELE KALIKIMAKA MR WALKER
THE DAY OF THE GECKO
RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT
GUNS 'N' ROSÉ

ROBERT G.
BARRETT
And De Fun Don't Done

 

As usual, the author is donating part of his royalities to Greenpeace.

 

This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author's imagination.

First published 1993 by Pan Macmillan Publishers Australia This edition published 1994 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market Street, Sydney

Reprinted 1993 (twice), 1994 (twice), 1995, 1996, 1997, 1998, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2005, 2006, 2008, 2010

Copyright © Robert G. Barrett 1993

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

Barrett, Robert G.

And de fun don't done.

ISBN 978 0 330 27447 0.

EPUB ISBN: 9781743548967

I. Title

A823.3

Typeset in 10/11 pt Times by Post Pre-press Group Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group

This book is dedicated to a fine young gentleman named Chris Widdows. I don't know about my books, but I think we could all take a leaf out of Steady Eddy's.

A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR

After eight books I feel it's about time I enclosed a note of thanks and appreciation to my readers. Not only for the kind words in the street or wherever and the support that keeps me out of the dole office and away from the clutches of the Arts Council. But for giving me the opportunity to do something I enjoy, which in turn gives other people enjoyment. I don't think anyone can ask for much more than that. I also get the best letters from some of the best people all over Australia. From people like the young bloke doing time in Pentridge who said I had ‘resurrected his sense of humour' and caused the screws to check his cell, wondering why he was laughing so much. To people like the forensic squad detective in Sydney who said my books were ‘dead set addictive' and offered, on behalf of himself and his colleagues, to help me with any research or technical data I might need. From women like the lady academic in Queensland who sent me a narrative analysis on one of my books and is now threatening to do a thesis. Her last three words about the book were however, ‘I loved it.' To the young lady from a country town in Adelaide who said, quote. ‘You're the best wrighter I have ever wred.' This letter is amongst my favourites. This was when I knew I'd truly made it as an awther. I
honestly do my best to reply to every letter. Unfortunately, sometimes a few get lost between the top of the fridge, my dressing table and the pigpen I like to call an office. Subsequently now and again replies can sometimes be a long time in coming. But I do my best and to those people that write, don't think your letters aren't appreciated; they are. This is one of the main things that make it all worthwhile and after reading them it convinces me of one thing. The people that read my books are about ten lengths in front of the poor mugs that ain't. Thanks again.

Robert G. Barrett.

While a little light music eased softly out of the car radio, Warren Edwards kept his eyes on the road as he nosed his red Celica tightly but effortlessly through the lunchtime traffic along Gardeners Road, Mascot, towards Kings-ford Smith Airport. Sitting alongside him Les Norton was drumming his hands on his lap while every now and again he'd glance absently out the window at the monotonous, flat houses and streets of Mascot, which were looking even more monotonous and flat on a bleak July morning. It was miserably cold outside the car, with a bitter sou'wester blowing, and Warren was dressed appropriately — dark green corduroy trousers, brown woollen jumper and desert boots. Norton on the other hand was wearing just a white T-shirt, jeans, joggers and a thin, black, cotton jacket. Where Norton was heading would be much hotter than Sydney in mid-winter. Much hotter indeed.

As they pulled up at a set of traffic lights, Warren temporarily moved his eyes from the other cars and, shaking his head, turned to Norton.

‘I still don't believe it,' he said. ‘I still definitely don't fuckin' believe it.'

Norton shifted his gaze from the surrounding shops and houses. ‘What don't you believe?' he asked, a half-arse smile flickering about his dark brown eyes.

‘You in America.' Warren had to smile now. ‘Those poor bloody yanks. They won't know what's hit them.'

‘What are you talking about, you little prick?' chuckled Les. ‘Them seppos'll love me.'

‘Yeah,' nodded Warren, as the lights began to change. ‘Just like Mom's apple pie.'

‘Exactly,' grinned Les, giving Warren a light slap on the shoulder. ‘Just like Mom's apple pie.'

‘Yeah. After Manuel Noriega, Saddam Hussein and Colonel Gaddafi have all taken turns pissing in it.'

‘Get out, you cunt. They'll be rapt in me.'

The whole thing had come about by accident, or a mixture of the usual Les Norton good luck and bad luck. Things were still travelling along the same at the Kelly Club, or the Sydney Harbour Bridge Club, as George Brennan now liked to call it. Les and Billy took it in turns keeping an eye on things while Price and his cronies played cards, drank piss, plotted and schemed or whatever, generally till around one in the morning. A fair bit of water had flowed under the bridge since Norton's escapade on the Gold Coast. It took about a week to drive back to Taree with DD. A week of non-stop porking, piss and pot. When they arrived at Taree it was a completely different scene, however. DD's mother had tried to kill DD's panel beater father; the whole family had taken sides and were either on bail for assault or trying to get bail, and Les figured DD running around in the middle of all this heat, trying to flog an overnight bag full of dope, was a lay down misère to get busted, and him along with her. So Norton left the girl of his dreams in the small, north-coast town where she came from and headed back to the relative peace and quiet of Sydney. That's showbiz, mused Norton. Or c'est la vie, as they say in France.

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