Sample

PROLOGUE

I left my homeland Australia,
In search of the bright lights of fame;
But I realise now what I miss most of all,
When I hear that 'Waltzing Matilda' again:
I've seen lots of places and cities – Too many to mention by name,
From the U.S. of A – Right across the U.K.
They play, that Waltzing Matilda Again.
[Play Waltzing Matilda Again]

We were all stripped down to our underpants - roadies, musicians and artists alike. The year was 1986 and we were on a concert tour of Western Australia, a test of endurance we had nicknamed the 'Agent's Revenge'. Our conveyance was a charabanc, a clapped out relic upon which one could faintly make out the word 'Pioneer' emblazoned on its faded livery. Its only claim to modernisation was an air-conditioning unit I’m certain was there just for show. It coughed and protested its way through some of the most inhospitable territory of the barren red outback of Australia, whose sterile skies mocked us as we melted away in the incredible heat; a temperature so oppressive that Dante's 'Inferno' would seem like paradise in comparison. Nobody spoke for hours. We just stared motionless, as any unnecessary movement would only create more heat, and we had already depleted the amber nectar needed to replenish the loss of vital body fluids.
Narrowing my eyes against the glare, I caught sight of Bob Howe - my friend, musical arranger, bandleader and guitarist, all rolled into one. Bob, who was squinting back at me, managed a sentence: \"What in the hell are we doing here Frank?\" he gasped.
On a deep intake of hot air, I offered \"I dunno Bob. I was thinking that maybe I’d passed into purgatory where, for my sins, I'm destined to suffer this gruelling tour with you guys for all eternity.\"
\"Yeah, I can identify with that,\" nodded Bob.
Conversation lapsed. Time slid tortuously towards the wide horizon. From beyond the red haze of my consciousness, Bob was speaking again.
\"It's a shame you haven't written your life story.\"
I darted a quizzical look at him. What in blazes was he on about?
\"You know,\" he continued, \"so people could learn the unadorned truth behind the so-called 'glamour' of showbiz.\"
I gave a grunt as we looked around the bus crammed with oozing bodies. Somewhere behind, someone farted, while another was snoring loudly. Yes, Bob was right, there was a distinct lack of glamour here.
\"Come on,\" he badgered, \"how about starting it now?\" It must have been a formidable task for him to drag any stories out of me, but he allowed no surrender, and I suppose it passed the time. Eventually, I'd had enough.
\"Give it a break, Bob,\" I pleaded. \"My brain's on the boil, and I'm far too hot and weary for all this. Anyhow, my eyes are meant for looking forward, not back. To me, the past is an already written chapter.\"
\"If that be the case,\" he declared, \"it shouldn't take long to rewrite it.\"
Point taken Bob, I thought. I’d had some experience in writing the sleeve notes for LP records and, more recently, I had tried my hand as a regular columnist, writing for a show-business magazine. My prowess for one-finger typing was certainly improving, but did that qualify me for the mammoth undertaking of writing the story of my life? Even if I tried, just where would I begin?
I closed my eyes in thought. The monotonous drumming of the wheels droned on and I felt myself drifting away, slipping across the dimensions of time to where the past lay shrouded in a deep and distant dream...

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