Cops, Crocs & Leopard-Skin Jocks

Bob Magor

Description

Wild encounters with crocodiles, mad Territorians, Asian crab poachers, Cyclone Tracy, petty-crooks, the NT police, magistrates, judges and murderers, family members, Fred Brophy and his boxing troupe and all levels of authority.

Meet Roy Wright, an old-style villain and barramundi poacher extraordinaire who, after a lifetime of dodging police, unbelievably goes straight(ish) in a legitimate mud crab business.

Author, Bob Magor, paints a warts-and-all true-life portrait of a bloke with a strong sense of an Aussie fair go, a bit-of-class larrikinism, and a stuff 'em attitude towards authority.

And as for the leopard-skin jocks? A man needs a trademark!

Informations

• Publié par: Bob Magor
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781742981567
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright (c) Bob Magor 2011
ISBN 9780958570244
Other books by Bob Magor:
Bush Poetry Books
Blasted Crows Blood on the Board Snakes Alive Donkey Derby Caravanning Bliss The FMG The Exodus Sumo Mick
Co-publisher of A Thousand Campfires
For orders contact:
Bob Magor
PO Box 28 Myponga SA 5202 Phone [phone] Mobile [phone] [e-mail] Designed and Printed by Openbook Howden www.openbookhowden.com.au A number of people who appear in these pages, I have been advised, are deceased. I have made every effort to contact all others who are mentioned in this book to obtain their permission to be included.

Digital distribution: Ebook Alchemy
ISBN: 9781742981567 (ePub)
Conversion by Winking Billy
In researching and compiling this book I must thank a number of people for their enthusiastic assistance. Some were on a different side of the fence from Roy but were keen to have the story recorded and to have all the facts correct.
Firstly, thank you to Roy Wright himself for his patience through many days of delving into his past and recording. He kept insisting that his memory had faded - I don’t think so! Also for supplying photos.
Allan and Anne Sluggett for their invaluable help and photos.
Dave Lindner for his version of events and for photos.
Phil Mitchell
The NT News for their permission to reproduce extracts from court cases and quotes from their paper.
To Ted Egan for writing the forward and for all his encouragement.
Leo Maine Bruce Johnston for photos. Tommy Teece Kevin (KG) Greig Ronny Ball Michael Derrick Roy Wright Junior Clem Goodman Bob Prosser
And a huge thank-you to Mark Svensen for his advice and enthusiasm during the many weeks of editing.
As I researched the amazing life of Roy Wright I was constantly confronted with outrageous stories, and the further I dug the more bizarre they became. Just when I began to wonder if Roy was tampering with the truth, the incidents would get substantiated by independent sources that were with him at the time. Perhaps, from the different perspective of someone who was chasing Roy, or from an accomplice who was being chased with him. The stories were never contradicted. Even so, it was sometimes hard to convince myself that I was writing fact and not fiction. It’s that sort of life.
In writing the biography of Roy James Wright I have tried to give a ‘warts and all’ account of his remarkable life. In no way do I suggest the reader condone his life-style. I do, however, hope the book provides an insight into a way of life that existed in the Top End during this period.
I have made no apologies for his behaviour because there is no need to. He was only doing what a lot of other men of his ilk were doing in the Top End at that time – only Roy did things on a much grander scale. It must be realized that as far as ‘poaching’ barramundi was concerned, at the time Roy was involved it was considered by most Territorians as their right.
Wow! What can I say? I thought I’d met all the larger-than-life characters of the outback, but I’d never come across Wrightie, the dodger of Cops and Crocs, the wearer of Leopard Skin Jocks, until I was asked by Bob Magor to write the Foreword for this book. My eyes are still popping as I recall the many outrageous exploits Bob records of this famous (infamous?) man, Roy James Wright. He is nowadays verging on the respectable as he still does a bit of crabbing on the Wearyan River. But ten of his seventy-two years have been spent in gaol for a range of offences that would make Ned Kelly look like a poofy choirboy. He’s fathered countless children to a series of mainly Aboriginal women. Those into political correctness will deplore Wrightie’s treatment of some of these women and some of the children, but he treated them no better or worse than he treated all the people he has encountered in his long life. In some instances I found myself cheering him on as he took on the world and its vicissitudes.
Roy Wright always felt that he was victimised by the police, but they all say that, don’t they? It’s hard to respect a man who admits to so many outrageous things with such breezy candour, yet I couldn’t put the book down as I marvelled at his bush skills, his capacity for sheer hard work, his toughness, his refusal to show pain or admit defeat. I really enjoyed the exchange between the former deadly adversaries, Roy Wright and Fisheries Inspector Dave Lindner – surely one of the best duels ever unravelled in a literary work.
I’m not sure if I want to meet Wrightie or not. Bob Magor said to me: ‘Ted, he’s just an old pussy cat at this stage of his life.’ And Bob Magor’s a good judge of outlaws, rogues and eccentrics as his delightful poems have indicated over the years.
This book is not for everybody, but if you want to consider the rawest frontier life imaginable, ponder the enormous problems of isolation and brutality, reel at the knowledge that this is going on in today’s Australia, you will probably be like me and read the book in one sitting. The language of Wrightie and his associates is shocking, totally deplorable (and this is Ted Egan speaking!) but it’s nonetheless colourful, authentic, incomparable in the worst sense of the term. Bob Magor has faithfully recorded it: in fact Bob tells me he’s ‘softened’ the vernacular in just a few instances. Wow again!
This is a very worthwhile book. It’s not about role models, or I hope it’s not about role models. It’s about one of the greatest villains I have ever contemplated, yet Bob Magor has put his overview of Roy James Wright together so skilfully that you can’t not have a tiny, sneaking sense of admiration for this enigmatic man in his leopard skin jocks as he takes on the cops and the crocs. And the world in general.
Ted Egan AO

I sat there about as far out of my comfort zone as I could get. As a sheep and cattle farmer who lives in the picturesque hills below Adelaide, I now found myself on a river in the Gulf of Carpentaria. What a contrast. Things buzzing in the air trying to eat me, things in the water that would love to eat me and two-leged locals who viewed me with indifference – except to make it clear that I should get back to where I belonged and let them get on with whatever legal, or illegal, activity they happened to be involved in at the time.
To be fair, being here wasn’t my idea, it was Allan Sluggett’s. To explain. I have two passions. One is bush poetry. Over a number of years I’ve produced seven best-selling books of my work and enjoy a reputation as an entertainer at bush poetry and country music festivals around Australia. My other passion is fishing. So, when one of my shearers, Allan Sluggett – a fan of my verse – insisted that I catch up with his brother-in-law, a bloke called Roy Wright, in the Northern Territory, my first thought was naturally … barramundI fishing!
Allan’s idea was that I should listen to some of the bizarre incidents of Roy’s colourful life and turn them into bush poems. As I had intended to head up to the Top End during our mongrel southern winter I could tick all the boxes. Put some of this Roy Wright’s life into verse and, as he was a professional mud-crabber and barra fisherman, indulge myself in raping and pillaging the water Territory style at the same time. Beauty!
That’s how I found myself on the bank of the Wearyan River, a hundred corrugated kilometres east of Borroloola where Roy Wright has his camp. I drove in late the afternoon before and met Roy for the first time. As I told him why Allan sent me, his analytical blue eyes looked me over as he muttered in an offhand way, ‘Okay you soft bastard. If you’re here you can bloody work. It’s time to feed the pets.’ Roy invited me into the filleting shed and gave me a bucket filled with barra backbones.
‘There’s two resident groper that live out from the jetty. They were here when I arrived many years ago. It’s a tradition that new chums feed them.’ Roy’s eyes fixed on my face, waiting for a reaction.
‘What do I do?’ I asked, trying to appear casual.
‘They don’t swim on land. Get out in the water, you dickhead!’ he bellowed. So I grabbed the bucket and walked out to my knees in the murky water.
‘Deeper!’ Roy yelled. The bottom dropped away and soon I stood chest deep in the unknown. I couldn’t even see a shadow in the swirling, muddy water. But I swear I could hear the haunting refrain from Jaws wafting across the river. The river must be full of sharks, I thought, if the crocs haven’t eaten them all by now!
‘Slap the barra frames on the water,’ Roy instructed. I hooked the bucket handle over my arm and was standing holding a backbone in each hand when all hell broke loose. The still water parted and this Moby Dick, with a mouth that opened like a roller-door, emerged from two feet away sucking my offering down its cavernous throat. Scared? I was bloody petrified. Even more so when, a second later, his mate attacked from the other side. They were both eight feet long and staring three feet down their throats I knew they could have swallowed me whole if they were really hungry.
The ten yards back to the shore only took one step. I counted my fingers. All present. Toes? All accounted for. I started to breathe again.
‘You’ve lost my bucket, you dickhead!’ came the abuse from high up on the bank. Roy’s body trembled as he tried to hide his mirth. ‘You’ll get