KINGS CROSS WAS once one of my favourite places on Earth. On a hot summer night, with the fire of youth in my belly and a stroked Shovel that sounded like an artillery barrage when I cracked the throttle, there was no finer place to ride to than Cross.
It had everything.
Smacked-out whores, blowsy strippers, buck’s night bogans, hen’s night molls, ethnic gangsters, one percenters, wannabe one percenters, corrupt cops, homeless lunatics, and on-leave servicemen from a dozen countries.
And of course, venues the like of which will never be seen again.
No other so-called “entertainment” district in Australia could ever, or would ever, approach the Cross. It was truly Australia’s epicentre of shit, sin and shenanigans.
It’s very hard to explain what the place was like in the…
