Back in September 2009, at age 38, I spent a few weeks in Sydney trying to find psychiatric sanctuary as part of my round-the-world “I’m-done-with-law” indefinite therapy sabbatical. I had some bucks, no kids, and ideas of exaltation. This was god’s country I was told: the land of Paul Hogan, of endless XXXX beer, of the great outback – a place where I could go put on a pair of ten-inch heels and, just like Priscilla Queen of the Desert, I could keep my cock, put on a frock, and climb a rock in Alice Springs.
Cut to: a balmy Sydney night out with my ex-Saffa Irish Catholic Herzlia High School mates who all swore this was the land of the future. And there I was, getting some fresh air on the pavement outside the nightclub with a triple-vodka-lime survivable poison cocktail in hand after my failed amatory exploit attempt of commanding a troupe of female Aussie birds, me having fluttered my tail feathers for all of them in my very own version of Travolta.
All of a sudden, a New South Wales Police squad car pulled up to the kerb.
“This is gonna get exciting” I thought. Just like my UCT student days in Obs where drug busts resulted in shared profits with the cops and a hell-ride back home in the back a mello yello SAPS enclosed bakkie.
Everything happened so fast but, in a slow-motion flashback, I can still see the pigs swooping on me like they had just caught Jeffrey Dahmer. In a fluid triple-motion ninja type movement of removing my cocktail mid-air, putting me on the ground, and then putting their collective shiny boots against my head against the pavement.
“Yissus my bru’s, are you sure you’ve got the right guy?” I mumbled out of the side of my mouth.
“Yeah, mate, you broke Outdoor Alcohol Restriction Ordinance 1.1.12 of 2005. No drinking is allowed outside on the pavement. Only inside the venue.”
“F*ck me Sheila” is all I could mumble.
I gave my High Court of South Africa rendition of abuse of human rights, of Apartheid Police death squads, of judicial overreach and do they know who I am?”
This was about as effective as pissing against a black South Easter.
What was highly effective though was Novak Djokovic who, when he was held by the Marsupial Federal Govt Aussie border agents for entering the motherland unvaccinated, swept across Melbourne like a hot, dry, and unstoppable Brickfielder wind. I could never attain such status in one hundred lifetimes.
A senior cop at Camps Bay SAPS told me many years ago when I tried to open an anti-Varkel Facebook harassment campaign case: “listen here my bru, you’ll get nowhere in South Africa with the cops, unless you’re a famous sports-star or a politician.” Sadly, I was neither.
Djokovic lawyered up with some of Melbourne’s finest, paid an equivalent of R 1m as a fees deposit; then drive-volleyed, doubled-faulted them, broke their serve, and aced his way in the all-or-nothing one round grand-slam – beating the Marsupial Federal Govt Aussie border agents at their own sinister and sorcerous ways. The Judge made his line-call to quash the decision to revoke Djokovic’s visa.
“I love you Djokovic – you’re my unvaccinated hero – I want your pure, unpoisoned, non-mRNA’ed babies. I will get a Serbian ovary transplant in some back-street Belgrade garage chop-shop surgery where the lead mechanic will prise me open with an anvil, hammer, and filthy tongs.
There was going to be hell to pay if the Marsupial Federal Govt of Aussie just left it at that. Prime Minister Scott Morrison and his apparatchiks declared a double-or-quits rematch and again revoked Djokovic’s visa.
At the time of writing, the Judges in the Federal Court were still gone walkabout, deliberating in Chambers over the case over a case of XXXX beer, totally livid they had been pulled away from their Sunday barbie to work on a case involving a formerly low-grade-now-done-good Yugoslav tennis super-star.
“These Slavs mate, they’re all toads, banana benders, cockies, sandgropers and crow-eaters.”
“Put a sock in it mate, let’s finish up, I wanna go home and throw another shrimp on the barbie.”