By Carol Middleton 1999
I know a remarkable man who blocks out the sun. Everything about him is big: his huge frame, his voracious appetite and his massive ego. The only thing he is short of is teeth. But, even with only 4 of them, he still manages to sweet-talk his way through life. He likes to think of himself as a star, even if his booking agent only calls him these days at Christmas time to stand sweating in a red suit and white beard in Coles supermarkets. But he often reminds us of the time he played the station cook alongside his mate Jack Thompson in that classic Australian movie, "Sunday Too Far Away".
Acting was never his day job, just another way to be the centre of attention. He sings too, in a deep bass voice, breaking into Ol' Man River, his voice rumbling through the building, vibrating in all the nooks and crannies of his media empire, where we lesser beings toil away in his shadow at our machines, putting together the publications that glorify his name, liberally sprinkled with images of the man himself, our Managing Editor, on location: riding a tricycle in Frankston, astride a camel at Broken Hill, wallowing in a hotel spa in Queensland, dressed in singlet and nightcap, a delicate champagne flute balanced between his bobbing breasts. That's his favourite.
My boss is a law unto himself. He refuses to wear his jacket, his glasses or his teeth. He is proud of his wild man image and prowls about the office in a mangy fur coast and a wilting felt hat, a self-made performing bear….
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