Six summers later I snared a job at the bar where the poet had had his violent encounter.
Each day, the old punters would shuffle in and count out coins on to the counter in return for the right to nurse a pint for hours. I was a captive audience for their insights: Don't fish in the harbour. Chicks shouldn't park on Robert St at night. Mind you check the tides before you drive up 90 Mile Beach. It's not 90 miles - it was measured by a bloke on a bloody horse.