Like I said, Cockeye Bob's me name. I'm meaner than an old man kangaroo and stronger than a bullock-driver's language. I'm as old as The Rock - almost - and I don't give a damn for any bastard.
I was born in the teeth of a ragin' sandstorm way out in the western desert. It was so dry that even the mirages dried up and the trees use'ter follow the dogs 'round. At least they would have if there'da been any trees. I cut me teeth on the Hammersley Ranges and was weaned on greased lightnin'. My mother was Daisy Bates and me father was Breaker Morant - least that's what they reckoned.
I'm the bloke who opened the railway gates for Ned Kelly and led Lasseter to the golden reef. (Then the silly bugger went and lost it again). I built most of the Overland Telegraph single-handed - one weekend. Taught Les Darcy how to box and Nellie Melba to sing. I was the first bloke ashore at Gallipoli and the last to leave. I dug the Snowy Mountain tunnels with my bare hands and sold the Sydney Harbour Bridge - twice.
You mightn't know what a 'cockeye Bob' is. Leastways you won't if you're not from Binangon. It's a small whirlywind. Blows through a town without warnin', takin' off roofs and scattering everythin' everywhere. Not too welcome, the old cockeye Bob. But powerful, like. A very strong wind. Course, it's the powerful bit that they call me after.
Me family kept a cockatoo farm. We were so poor we lived off boiled weeds and goanna. Only thing we owned was an old mare. One cold night we were threatenin' the fire, tryin' to stop from turnin' into ice-blocks when there was a knock on the door. It was the old mare, shiverin' an' shakin'. There was no room for the horse as well, so we decided to put her out of her misery. I took her down the shed and bashed her over the head with me sledge-hammer. Then I skinned her and pegged out the hide to dry.
About an hour later, there's another knock at the door. Would you believe it, it's the skinned mare. Me mother reckoned the mare wasn't meant to die and we'd better do somethin' for her. So I took her back down the shed and wrapped her in some old sheepskins to keep her warm.
Well, do you know, she not only lived another five years, but we got five fleeces off her. And, she won first prize in the crossbred ewe's section of the Binangon agricultural show three years runnin'.
A bit later - when I was about nine or ten - I took up prospectin'. Made a few strikes, too. We had some grand old times on the goldfields. There was so much money about we used to light our fags with fivers. One night they decided to give the barmaid (a good-lookin' sort she was, too) a champagne bath. They bought a new hip bath and twenty bottles of champagne. Poured the champagne into the bath and the barmaid got in and had her bath. When she got out - to everyone's great appreciation, I might say - the publican, a mean bastard, had the champagne poured back into the twenty bottles. But there were twenty-one bottles come out.
The big game was two-up. It was illegal and the police were red hot to put it down. One Sunday, the biggest pub in town ran the biggest game of the year. We posted cockatoos around the place to keep nit for the coppers and the game got underway. It was pretty warm - about 50 in the shade - and the cocky's must have dozed off.
Suddenly, the police were hammerin' on the door. There was no chance for anyone to scarper. But quick as a wink, I said, 'stay where you are boys and hide your money'. I rushed into the back room and came back wearing a black smock and carrying a large black leather book. Just as the coppers muscled their way through the crowd to the centre of the ring, I clear my throat and begin: 'Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of the Lord...'. The police had to take off their hats and join in. No one got arrested.
And that was where I first met 'im - the greatest whinger in the world. He was just comin' out of a little mine. Battered old ‘at on ‘is ‘ead, big boots and daggy trousers. 'How'd you be?', I asks, friendly-like. Well, he gives me a look that'd rot your socks.
'Ow'd I be? 'Ow'd I be? 'Ow'd you bloody well think I'd be? Covered in dirt, drinkin' me own bloody sweat, chokin' on dust every breath, diggin' in a hole even a Chinaman couldn't make pay.
'Ow'd I be? Haven't tasted a beer for weeks and the last one was knocked over by some clumsy bastard before I could finish it. And you want to know 'ow I'd be?
I could tell ‘e wasn’t in the mood for a chinwag so I left him to it – for then.
After that, I made a pile at the diggin’, but I lost the lot at Two-up. There was nuthin' else fer it but to go on the track again.
One day, I'm trampin' quietly along the road, humpin' me swag and mindin' me own business. It's hotter'n hell and dry as a cork leg. One of the local squatters comes roarin' down the road in his brand new car. For some reason, he jams on the anchors and screeches to a stop in a cloud of dust beside me.
'Hey, mate', he says, leaning out the window. 'Can I give yer a lift?'
I brushes the dust out of me whiskers, looks him square in the eye and says: 'No thanks. You can open and shut your own bloody gates'.
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