Home » Archive » The Fisherman » Page 3

The Fisherman

Page 3

“Don’t like Poms either, that’s another mob I don’t like. Always moaning about things, moaning about this, moaning about that. Tell you what; this beer sure is good. Makes a man feel good, sort of tall-like, sort of bigger than himself. Makes me want to stand tall on a street corner and look ‘em all in the eye as they go past. Straight in the eye too, no mucking about, just straight in the eye, like my old mum used to tell me to do. And they could be Poms, they could be birds, or they could be sluts like those up there in the bar looking down on me as if I was some sort of dirt stuff. Looking down on me as if I was just a bit of nothing, just a bit of crap for them to look at, to laugh at, as if I did not amount to anything much.’

‘You should not talk like this,’ said Ted.

‘Now listen, matey, you may be a great fisherman and all that stuff, and you may be crash hot with the tarts as well, but you are not going to start telling me what to say and do. Next thing you will be telling me what to think, so if you think that’s going to happen, well you can bugger off right now, that’s for sure. Women laughing at you, blokes telling you what to do and think, bugger all fish in the creek, happens all the time, people telling me what to do, people bossing me around.’

‘Bill, I’m not bossing you around, just think you should slow down on the grog a bit.’

‘You do, do you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Well, let me tell you something, sport, you know nothing about me, just nothing. Just because we have got into the slops a bit, and you have been using your pretty little city office-type fingers to stick a hook up the back side of some poor bloody worm I reckon you have decided you know all about me. That’s what I reckon, that’s what I reckon you have decided.’

Page 3

This edition