Slattsnews

Australian literature has lost a giant.

THE bestselling Australian novelist Robert G. Barrett died peacefully at his Terrigal home on Thursday at 7.30pm after a long battle with cancer, “the old Bengal Lancer” as he called it.

OK, big Bob may not have soared to philosophical heights, but boy he could entertain and his detestation of wowsers, pseuds and luvvies was cathartic.
My favourite story about Barrett has him turning up at some navel-gazing goatee-strokers literary soiree with a hooker on each arm. It was as if he was saying: ”You’re gunna look down your nose at me anyway, so cop this.”

In a touching tribute, actor and fine journalist Graeme Blundell describes the Barrett home brew:

. . . a concoction of urban myths, shaggy dog stories, the street wit of the socially marginalised and the corrugated irony of traditional Australian humour.

While Barrett had his hero solving the weirdest of problems all over the place, you could always rely on a Les Norton yarn to feature three essentials: a furious fight, a singlet-stretching feed and a window-rattling fuck root.
They broke the mould.
Apology for overlooking link implant earlier.