BORING. SO BOOOORING!

I was walking up the main drag of Freemantle trying to sniff out a vibe. He was lounging like a pirate on his plank hurling furious words and booing at strangers who scurried past afraid of him.

SOOOOO BOOOOOOORING.

People run from a mouth with this sort of velocity but to me it was glorious. Part cyclone, part volano with a halo of red dust kicked up each time he opened it. He had a hat with a feather, missing teeth and a majestic profile that he wouldn't let me video. He carried a golf bag with a pirate flag stuck in the top of it. He had a small tin with a bud in it and a pouch of tobacco and a slim gold pipe that looked brand new. He was totally stylin and his mouth was a machine gun.

IT'S SO BORING this town! IT'S SOOOOOOOOO BORING'

You'd just think he was just an angry drunk if you weren't listening. You'd think he was Sick. Demented. Deranged. But if you listened properly it would make you weep with its eloquence. I hate small talk. He went straight to the heart of the wound. No mucking around.

All he wants to do is go Walkabout but the streets of Perth are a prison. The cops follow him everywhere, moniter his every movement. Pounce if they have a bad mood swing. Go through his golf bag, grab his pipe, confiscate his tin. Put him in the paddy wagon. If they're slow on their Arrest Quota for the week, they might just arrest him for breathing.

DOGS. PIGS. BASTARDS!

He tells me how the female coppers speak to him. Reminds me of that iconic photo of the US female soldier dragging that man around on a leash. I tell him he should write a book. I"ll help him. He's a natural story teller. He could be a You Tube supastar! Maybe you'll win a Deadly? But he's not the slightest bit interested. Nothing can entice him. No bait, no hook, no promise. The black fellas too have betrayed him.

MANIPULATORS!!! LIARS. THIEVES.

He tells me he's got no story. No story that he hasn't told a million times before. He tells me to get his story from the cops. They've taken notes. They've got a file on him as fat as a bible. They've been writing it all down for years. They know everything he does including how many times a day he wipes his bum'. And then he turns back to the street. And screams

ARSEWIPES !

I want to applaud. I want to yell out 'Encore Encore!' His rage is magnificant truth and anyone with half a heart can see it. I scan the streets for half a heart. I count two fat thighs, a bum in shorts too tight, a bald white head. El Sicko's right it's boring.

'BUT IT'S NOT JUST ME. YOU'RE ALL TAGGED NOW'.

Yes. He's right. We're all tagged now Maybe we always were I just never noticed? But there are very few parts of Australia I've gone walkabout where I haven't felt under surveillance. I don't feel protected. Just watched. It is as though my vulnerability somehow makes me dangerous. They keep telling me to settle and then pointing to a hole in the ground. It's not very inviting. But it's all I deserve for not playing the game as they know it. My Walkabout all over the world has turned me into an outcast. This happened long ago but now my condition is chronic. And there's no point settling until I find a hole roomy enough to grow something in. That hole that we call home. That home where the heart is... 'Two fat thighs. A bum in shorts too tight, a pig in a bow tie, a bald white head...'

I sit with El Sicko and we watch the passers by. I know what they're thinking. They think it. He speaks it. El Sicko for PM. If he was in charge we could bring all these citizen ghosts back to life and banish the spooks driving paddy wagons. El Sicko looks around in disgust and yells..

'Asslickers and Shit Kickers end up as Arse wipe'.

and then he looks at me and I yell

'Carbon Tax!'

It's like a relay. I'm having fun. And then he packs a pipe and hands it to me Right there! Under street lights on the main drag of Freemantle in the week leading up to CHOGM. It was Outrageous. The man was a mind reader. And If he wasn't Aboriginal I would have run for my life! But somehow I knew they couldn't touch him. They can arrest and strip search, detain him, take notes and thwart his mobility. But they'll never own his howling soul. He has a protection that none of us have. It comes with the spirit of the land. And on some level they know it. I know it. We know it. Our chains rattle and slide around our feet as we watch the spooks surround a drunk on the other side of the road.

SHEEP BORES IDIOTS!

Then a three year old boy and his mother appear out of nowhere. The boy looks up at El Sicko tranfixed and in love. His mother tries to move him on but the child won't be shifted and can't stop smiling at the magic man with the feather in his hat. The kid is mesmorised. El Sicko smiles back. All his rage has evaporated. Now the scene screams Walt Disney. All we need is a happy ending and some fairy dust...

Hello little fella. What's your name?

El Sicko's voice is warm and gentle. He plucks the Pirate flag from the top of his golf bag and hands it to the awe struck child. Making the moment complete. The ghosts have gone silent now. They've been vanquished by a peace pipe and a pirate flag. We're all in love. The little boy, the mother, El Sicko and me. I go across the bottle shop to buy El Sicko Scotch and coke in a can. Black label. When I say Goodbye El Sicko gives me two small stones for protection.

God bless you Sister.

Stoned and blessed. In Perth that's no small feat.