The privacy was perfect for Tugga with few people venturing up the track to say hello or share his retreat. It left him free to indulge in his favourite pastime: cultivating grass – the smoking kind. He didn’t have a big marijuana operation as police helicopters made regular sweeps of the Otway Ranges looking for plantations. Tugga kept his crops small, hiding them in fern-covered gullies. He grew enough to provide weekend bliss and to sell to regular contacts when he was back in Geelong. Victoria’s drug laws meant Tugga had to keep his weekend activities discreet, so enjoying a toke but flying below the radar was his approach. Under the radar was also how Tugga liked to run much of his weekday business. Customers willing to pay cash were rewarded with generous discounts. Who cared if the tax man never found out about the backyard transactions? None of his Apollo Bay neighbours had cottoned on either. There had been no evidence of pilfering from his crops in quarter of a century. Tugga always assumed they were growing tonnes of their own dope in the Otways. Most of the surfies were permanently stoned whenever he saw them at the pub.
Tugga also appreciated the irony of his patch of heaven. He was surrounded by gum trees, ferns and other native trees that would never bear the mark of his axe or chainsaw. But he spent his weekdays chopping down trees and grinding up the waste. His business was called TSG – Tugga’s Stump Grinding – and he happily charged a hefty price to suburbanites who didn’t want to risk a splinter or two when landscaping their gardens.
Regardless of the month or weather, every Friday afternoon found Tugga on the Great Ocean Road heading for his bach. His internal GPS knew every curve, rise and descent of the road all the way to the seaside town with the golden sand. And being a bachelor of great height and expanding girth – even at 54 Tugga still preferred to describe himself as “six foot six of pure muscle and gristle” – his thirst was well known in all the pubs between Geelong and Apollo Bay. His first drink stop was always at Grovedale, originally named Germantown after Lutheran settlers. These days it was part of the urban sprawl of Geelong.
“Just a wee jug for the road,” was Tugga’s standard request after a hard week turning trees into sawdust. That was his same rule at the Torquay, Anglesea, Aireys Inlet and Lorne pubs. Tugga’s reasoning was that he sweated the alcohol from his system on the drive between the pubs, that sticking to a jug per pub was just right for a big man. Further proof for Tugga’s theory was the fact that he never had an issue on the road in more than two decades of commuting to the bach. How that theory ever survived, and Tugga for that matter, was a mystery as the jug rule was often ignored, usually by the time he reached the official start of the Great Ocean Road at Torquay. The local pub was often buzzing on warm Friday afternoons from spring until late autumn. Bikini-clad girls were a powerful stimulus for Tugga to linger until the babes vacated the beer garden.
It was anyone’s guess how much beer Tugga had already consumed by the time he reached the pub at Aireys Inlet, just past eight o’clock on the last Friday in October. It was obvious that he was too pissed to drive and too pissed to be given more alcohol; the pub could lose its licence. That wasn’t Tugga’s concern as he fumbled through pockets in search of cash, expecting the staff to read his mind. Beer. Now!
At a table near the kitchen, duty manager, Davy Allpress, closed his eyes and sighed as he watched Tugga stumble into the bar. ‘Ah shit. Here’s trouble.’
His companions, 25-year-old twins Roxanna and Sophia from Melbourne, had their backs to the bar.
‘What’s wrong, Davy? You’ve gone pale,’ Roxanna asked.
‘Tugga Tancred’s walked in and he’s had a skinful. I’ve got to get rid of him without getting the pub destroyed.’
The women turned to the bar and gasped. Sophia whispered, ‘Oh my god! He’s a giant, Davy. What are you going to do?’
Allpress stood up. ‘Pray – and hope I think of a plan by the time I reach the bar.’
The duty manager knew Tugga well enough to chat about the weather and other innocuous topics. Allpress would avoid the local religion – Aussies Rules football – as Tugga called it “aerial pingpong”. Beer was a mutual interest and therefore safer ground for conversation. Tugga claimed to be a connoisseur as he had sampled Europe’s best offerings many years before. He wasn’t impressed: real ales were overrated and Dutch and German beers were for pansies. Rugby Union was Tugga’s real passion. Allpress heard the big fella had broken the nose of a Lorne drinker who dared to call the sport bum-sniffing.
A drunk, two-metre tall ex pat with a reputation for violence when slighted wasn’t good for business. Allpress watched his customers shuffle past him towards the beer garden and the rear of the pub. No need to crowd the big fella.
The duty manager believed he had two options to defuse a confrontation: diplomacy or getting physical. Allpress could handle himself in a bar scrap, but giving 20 cm away to Tugga, even when the Kiwi was pissed, wouldn’t be a smart move. The gift of the gab that had charmed the Melbourne twins until Tugga’s arrival might save him.
There were no other drinkers within cooee of the bar by the time Allpress reached Tugga. ‘Jesus, Tugga, are you trying to get us closed down?’ Allpress waited just outside of punching range, or so he hoped, while a befuddled Tugga made sense of that question.
‘I just want a jug, Davy. What’s the problem with that? I’ve only had a couple.’
Apart from a slight slurring, Tugga sounded coherent. It was the upper body sway while his feet did the sideways shuffle that betrayed him. Undeterred, Allpress played his ace.
‘We got word the pub inspectors are doing the coast tonight, you know, looking for under-age drinkers and people who, ah…might have over-indulged.’
Tugga shrugged. Why should that concern him?
‘I just heard from the guys at the Torquay pub. The inspectors have finished there and are heading for us.’ Allpress allowed that to filter through to Tugga. ‘And someone’s dobbed you in, mate. Someone said there’s a big Kiwi who shouldn’t be drinking any more. If they find you in here, even if we don’t serve you, we’re busted mate. We’d be the pub with no beer, possibly for up to 12 months.’
That was the slam dunk. The king hit. No Australian town wants to suffer that indignity. It was bullshit, but Allpress hoped his bluff might get Tugga out the door.
The only noise came from the traffic hurtling past, unaware that the wheels of cogitation were grinding for Tugga.
‘Fucking bastards. They hate us Kiwis. Think we can’t handle this cat-piss Aussie beer.’
Allpress held his breath. Was that acceptance or belligerence? He edged around Tugga to place himself between the big fella and the bar. He took a gamble on acceptance and put a hand on Tugga’s shoulder.
‘Yeah, I know, mate. You guys are renowned for holding your piss and being good sports. I’ll never serve any of the Chappell brothers if they set foot in here, you know that. It’s the bloody bureaucrats, mate. They’re always looking for scalps, you know? They have to ping someone with a huge fine or close down a pub to justify their junkets.’
Allpress steered Tugga towards the door. ‘Look mate, give me your car keys. I’ll shift your ute around the back and out of sight of the inspectors. It’s not going to rain, so you can crash out in the back until morning. You’ll be in Apollo Bay for breakfast, no problems.’
Tugga grunted and left. Five minutes later Allpress returned to find patrons eager for refills, happy that a messy showdown had been averted. God, the crap I deal with to keep the peace.
One of the locals called out to Allpress as he slipped behind the counter to help his staff. ‘Well done, Davy. He’s a big bastard all right but you know we had your back if he got out of hand, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, right,’ Allpress muttered as he poured a pot of beer. He knew the ringside supporter and panicked mob would have trampled him if Tugga had taken the belligerence option.
In the carpark,