The Peter Fitzsimons Chronicles part 1.

Finding Peter. Part 1

The Green Hornet has continuously tried to defend himself from his critics claiming that he relies on the same old jokes. These pundits are rivals who I would normally disregard. The other 'rivals' out there don't even come close to my top 100. My top 3 rivals are Peter Fitzsimons, Reporter and Author. James Gardner, Newcastle Herald Patriarch and Batman.

Rivalry, in my case, is born from jealousy. It is part of my genetic make up to be green, much like it is part of a twenty dollar whores make up to be tacky. It is rare that two great rivals ever get to meet, let alone work together. Peter Fitzsimons is one rival which has afforded me the time to get an insight on his success.

As I found out It wasn’t just a case of calling him though.Trying to get to Peter was a task in itself. His manager John Fordham, a Merewether Carlton old boy, looked like the obvious link. When the Hornet approached Mr. Fordham initially, the receptionist from his office informed me John was, “Out to Lunch with Mr. Laws.” It was 9:15am. The next morning I a little earlier at 8:15am. “Haven’t you seen the daily telegraph?”

Aghast I told the young lady “No, I only read broadsheet.” The Hornet didn’t read tabloids? Keeping this thought to myself, I went out to the local Newsagent. Keeping my sunglasses and hat on, I paid the lady. It was in loose change. I didn’t want to waste my gold ones for a third rate paper that would make even battered fish taste bad. “Ricky Stewart spits dummy at passing child. Fordham cleans up mess.” This Mr. Fordham was a tricky man to catch. The Merewether Carlton old boys’ network was not working. I would have to try another old boys club.

Walking into Knox Grammar was a little daunting. I was dressed, disguised actually, as Hugh Jackman. Hugh was a former old boy of the school. My time as a yardman at Oxford had trained me well for the pomp and circumstance which was to be expected at such an exclusive school. The old man at the front desk of the old boys club merely nodded at me. He was well tailored. He then blinked five times at me in an exaggerated fashion. This was obviously the secret blink. I obligingly blinked back in the code that held the Knox boys together as one. Dressed as Hugh, I was just another old boy. Better looking than most of the old boys, but an old boy all the same. He took me down to meet John Cotti.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries and did the secret handshake, which was similar to that of the freemasons. “John, I need some help.”

“Of course, anything for you Hugh.” He stared straight at me.

“I have a new play coming up, and I’d like to use Peter Fitzsimons in it.” Bewilderment crossed his face. I had never seen a man look as confused as this since Godwin Grech had been told he had to be committed. “I need his contact details.”

“Are you sure?” I couldn’t understand what was wrong with my request. “From all reports he was a fine speaker but his drama teachers have written that he had absolutely no talent at all for acting. Once again Mr Jackman - Are you quite sure?”

“Sure, of course I’m sure. Apparently he was no good at English either. Look at him now.” There it was. No sooner had I spoken these words, the number was written down on a Knox letterhead, with a Knox pen, by a Knox old boy. Yes, I stole the pen on my way out.

Introducing myself to Peter Fitzsimons was my next challenge. It seemed he had become a little deaf after all those years packing scrums. With the repetitions of “Who? Who are you? Who is this?” Being spoken to me down the other end of the line it was obvious Peter couldn’t hear who I was. My next action was to email Peter.

Within hours of electronically sending my introductory letter, Peter replied. It was a little confusing for me to understand his short hand. It was the line “We’ll meet at Sydney, Grammar is hopeless, needs fixing, work on It.” That had me stumped. Did Fitzsimons think I needed work and he was getting me a job at Sydney Grammar? I sent back an email querying his motives to meet me. He confirmed in no uncertain terms that I was a bloody idiot. I told him that he was the one that was putting commas in the wrong place and his teachers at Knox were indeed right. We agreed that in fact he was correct and that I was in fact privileged to be interviewing him.

So here we are. Or here I am sitting in a swanky cafe in Sydney. Peter is running late. I guess that goes with being a stay at home dad. As he pulls up he looks rather bullish, he pulls the chair out like he was pulling a guy off in a ruck. He lays down the law for the interview. “Right, no Bullshit. Straight questions, and publish it in question and answer format. Oh and I’m allowed one plug at the end of the interview. Begin.” I guess this signalled the start of the Green Hornets interview with my rival Peter Fitzsimons.