Sydney Surfer

Barry Humphries (1964)

Hello there. More and more of the boys are going up the surf this summer. Whatever walk of life you come from - whether you're an engineering student from the Uni or a part-time male model - there's nothing like strapping the surfing sticks to the back of the 'G and thrashing it up the coast to crack a few humpies. Last year was king, man, a real gas. A whole multitude of us - Nipper Dickson, Brent the whipjack, Rocky Shark, Paddles Hacket, Midget Pike and Squeaky Hudson all piled into Squeaky's drinking truck and hammered it up the coast to ride the planks. We had a keg in the boot and a few dozen tubes between us so there was much chundering en route.

The surf was fantastic. You should have seen those greenies. When we weren't zipping, cutting and flicking the boards through tunnels and wipe-outs or riding the odd bombie we were on the beach or in the surf club cracking the tubes or demolishing a twelve.

One fantastic night we thrashed the car down to Whale Beach Road and crashed a turn. In five minutes we'd torn the place apart - you've never seen so much broken glass in all your life. We got away with a bottle of the hard stuff, a few dozen tubes and a couple of pigs from the Prince Alfred. The word got round there was a turn on at the Troc so we burned down to Sydney, climbed through the gents and turned over a few tables. The hoods were there like a flash but we got away in the cars, went to Hyde Park, rolled a few queers, won a few cuff links. I've never chuckled so much in all my life as I did that night last summer - oh it was king, man.

There's no doubt about it, you cannot beat the great Australian outdoor life.

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