Guest Blogger: John Rodney Hardy

It’s a bit of an honour really, this guest blogging stuff, by the way just call me Jack, Jack Hardy. Never did like the extra monicker my mum gave me, now I know they hated me. I’ve been asked to throw in my two bobs worth, not real handy with the words. Most of my life my fists have done the talking, after I’ve given some idiot a bit of a dusting outside the club there’s no back chat. Don’t worry, I’ve had my fair share of biffs to the noggin as well. When I first met Tony, the Maori bouncer at the Whiskey Au  Go Go, he thought I was taking the piss. You know the bloke, when he speaks it sounds like someone gargling gravel. He duffed me in the gut a beauty, I saw the roundhouse right coming in between trying to breathe. He’s a little slow, I ducked and copped a right across the top of my head. The man’s got fists like Christmas hams. We’re mates now, at least he smiles when he sees me coming. Probably because I always have a new sheila hanging off me.

I don’t have tickets on myself, I’m not skiting here but I have more than my fair share of the birds. I leave the Pros alone up here in the Cross, I haven’t paid for it up to now. Some of the strippers like a quickie now and then, there’s nothing like having a fit bird. Giving it to her hard up against an alley wall. Don’t get me going about some of the married sheilas, they love it when I pick them up. Getting it from a bad boy in the back seat of a Monaro turns them on. I’ve had my share of marriage proposals, not for me.

I was supposed to talk about how I make a living, one word, ‘Crime.’ People reckon it doesn’t pay but crikey the hours are good. I’ve always made a living from pickpocketing, that and the horses. We lived that close to Randwick Race course, they reckoned my first words were, ‘They’re racing.’  People say to me, ‘Why haven’t you been arrested?’ Simple, I’m not greedy and I don’t work with dickheads. Sure the rozzers keep an eye on me, they’re all over the Cross. They’re the ones making the money, I’m just an honest crim, well almost.

You’re not going to get deep and meaningful from me, I’m a bloke who likes a drink, a fight and as many sheilas as I can get. I love guns and cars and as my old man says, ‘Jack you’ll come to no good, better men than you end up in the can. There’s a cell waiting for you mate, let me tell you.’ Thanks dad. If you want to find out anything else about me, you’ll have to read the book. Oh yeah, this Smith bloke wants a bit of glamour next time, reckon I’ll introduce him to Fifi, she works the strip clubs and I know she’s got a few stories to tell.

Gotta go, time for a drink and a pizza, it’s Friday night and the Cross is wall to wall punters.


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