Free From the Inside: Chopper 1 by Mark Brandon "Chopper" Read

that’s the end of the story. The reason I’m being coy about it is that for all I know Steve the Greek may have ended up in 1000 Chinese dim sims. None of my business.
    *
    For a short time in 1972 I boxed with Jimmy Sharman’s boxing troupe in the sideshow tent fights. During the 1972 Royal Melbourne Show a right royal brawl broke out between myself and a well known Melbourne street fighter, known to one and all as ‘Stretch’. He beat me quite soundly. I was humbled and ashamed and left Sharman’s and never boxed with gloves on again. ‘Stretch’ was a tall, thickset chap, bigger than myself — or he certainly seemed to be. I didn’t know a lot about him, except that he had a huge reputation as a boxer and street fighter, and had a highly popular following. He was also a bouncer in Prahran.
    He was working at a dance at a ballroom in Greville Street at the time I located him. It was a cold, rainy Saturday night and big Stretch was standing in the doorway. As I walked towards him he nodded and said: ‘How are you, young fella? No hard feelings?’
    I said: ‘Of course not. Even being beaten by you is an honour, Stretch.’ Then we shook hands. As I clasped his right hand with mine I rammed my left forefinger deep into his right eye socket, then head butted him a vicious blow, and kneed him in the balls. He went down groaning.
    I then finished him with a number of fast, heavy, vicious kicks to the head, face and throat. Stretch was down, out and lying on the footpath in the rain. Why? Because my smiling face when I approached him put him at ease. I maintained the big, wide, warm smile throughout. The whole thing took less than 60 seconds.
    When it comes to violence, Chopper wrote the book.
    *
    I will tell the story of Turkish George, who was once a well-known, up and coming, long-haired, three-piece-suit wearing heroin dealer and pimp in Fitzroy Street, St Kilda.
    One day, I had popped in to the Prince of Wales Hotel for a counter lunch and a drink. I had just finished a lovely porterhouse steak, chips, eggs and mushrooms, all washed down with four or five pots of beer. I was standing in front of the pub, picking my teeth and enjoying the sunshine and watching the passing parade.
    I saw a young girl, she looked about 13, wearing a short, white summer frock with white Roman sandals. She had lovely blonde hair and was about five foot. She would have looked very pretty if it wasn’t for the fact she was sobbing, and had tears and a smattering of blood down her face.
    I asked her what was the matter and she told me that Turkish George had bashed her. I asked her why and she told me, this little schoolgirl, that she was using smack and doing dirty deeds at the weekend to pay for it. She still had some personal pride and wouldn’t do some of the dirty deeds that Turkish George wanted her to do. She said she was only a part-time user and didn’t have a habit.
    She pointed out Turkish George, then I asked her whether she knew me. She said she didn’t. I then asked her if she had heard of Chopper Read. She said she had heard the name in the street.
    I said, ‘I am Chopper Read . . . and you are going to run on home and never show your face in St Kilda again.’ She promised me she would clear out, and left.
    I walked up the street a bit and saw Turkish George sitting in the passenger side of a P76 car with the door open, talking to some fat-arsed pro.
    I had with me a pair of pliers. There is an art to using a pair of pliers in a street fight, but I won’t go into that. I punched approximately 30 puncture wounds into the Turk’s face and nearly blinded him — and I did it all in broad daylight while two uniformed police sat 20 feet away in a police car, eating hamburgers.
    When Turkish George was a limp, bleeding mess in the gutter, I said to the cops, ‘Let’s go’. They handcuffed me and I was in the back of the police car when the ambulance arrived to take Turkish George away.
    I was released on bail on my