Many centuries ago, I grew up on a pig farm in Queensland. My old man, who was a bigger drunk than even I would be, decided that it would make sense to feed the pigs on food scraps from supermarkets, stores and even fish shops, to have more money for booze. So, after school, in my school uniform, we would go and collect the waste, tipping the scraps onto the tray of an old FC Holden (remember them?) ute. Kids would viciously humiliate me, identifying me as filth and scrap. My father enjoyed this, sitting in the car, having yet another beer, in anticipation of the big drinking session with his mates after about 5.30 pm, once the 6 o’clock swill ended in the 1960s.
To save money so that the maximum amount of alcohol could be consumed, we ate what scraps we could salvage from the ute. I did grow food when I got older, and searched for wild bush food and shot the odd bunny, so eventually this humiliation was phased out, especially after I refused to help any more, after I stuck up for my mother in conversation against him while we were at a farmer’s supply centre, and he struck me in the head with a large padlock, leading me unconscious to die on the railway track. When I regained consciousness, I ran into the centre, where he was having a beer with some guys, and hit him in the nose with all my might, then ran. That was my first night on the streets, the start of lifetime of homelessness. Life is wonderful, isn’t it?