K.J

Abstract

K.J Geoff Goodfellow (bio) It was often commented on by drinkers that the Finsbury Hotel had the biggest front bar in South Australia. It was the sort of pub in the '70s and '80s where you needed twenty exposed tattoos to get a drink in the front bar. The "No Poofters" sign was a given. The pub sat in the guts of the northwestern suburbs, surrounded by Housing Trust semidetached rentals and light industry. It was 1984, and I was between marriages, studying at uni as a mature age student and bouncing occasionally at the Finsbury to top up my student allowance, helping my old mate Terry Fox have the occasional night off. I managed Terry in the mid-'70s when he kicked off his career as a professional boxer. He went on to become the number-one-rated light-heavyweight in Australia in 1982 after knocking out Rocky St. Clair at the South Sydney Leagues Club. He stopped Rocky in the eighth round, and the referee could have still been counting after the club was emptied that night. The poor bugger was put into an induced coma … and when he finally did regain consciousness, he spent a good deal of time in a wheelchair. To say boxing can be a savage sport is somewhat of an understatement. Terry gave boxing away after that fight—fearing he may kill an opponent. He had a fearsome reputation, and I can't remember ever hearing of anyone at the Finsbury getting away with him. A bloke tried to glass him one night in the Lounge bar. After Terry knocked him onto the carpet, he yelled out to get everyone's attention. "This bloke just tried to glass me … This is what happens to people who do that." He then picked the bloke up by his clothing with his left hand and ripped him in the ribs with his right. He dropped him onto the carpet then, repeating the act but this time holding him with his right hand and ripping him with his left. The room fell silent through both of those punches. It was so quiet you could hear his ribs snapping. Both sides. Occasionally Terry and I would work together. He'd always say, "If a blue starts, I'll knock 'em out. You just watch my back and make sure nobody comes in from behind. And you know what to do if that happens." I'd first worked with Terry at the Salisbury Hotel in the mid-'70s. For the first month at that pub, it wasn't unusual to have four or five fights a night until his big right hand had established order. After a few nights at the Salisbury and another at the Kilburn Footy Club, Terry knew I was a reliable backup man. Jumping forward to 1984, Terry rang and asked if I could work the Saturday night. "I wanna take Diane to me sister's birthday party. You'll be one-out—but it's been quiet lately. I don't reckon you'll strike any trouble." [End Page 374] I got to the pub just before eight and was booked until midnight. I'd no sooner done a lap of the pub—a walk through the front bar, the saloon bar, and into the lounge—when John, the manager, appeared behind the bar, looking worried and flustered. I was chatting to a couple of regulars, explaining Terry's absence. It was then that John raised his pointer finger and beckoned me to the bar. John was a lean, rangy type of bloke, in his late thirties, and looked as though he might have played as a useful forward a few years earlier. He had that Irish-Australian look about him and was starting to get a bit light on for hair. He'd buzz cut it, maybe trying to disguise it, but it hadn't particularly worked in his favor. "Listen," he said, "I'm sorry, mate, but I've got some bad news to give ya. There's a bloke just walked into the front bar. He was here on Thursday morning around eleven. He had a blue with a bloke...