R&r Without Fear Of The Rbt
Sydney Morning Herald
Wednesday January 21, 1987
IT IS midnight outside the Ulladulla Ex-Servicemen's Club, and Len Hume is climbing into the back seat of his '76 Mazda van.
"If the coppers pulled me over right now, I'd blow the bum out of their Breathalyzer bag," he says, giggling. "As it is I'm rotten and it doesn't matter."
Hume's wife, Ivy, is slumped in the front seat, singing. She's not worried either. Because behind the wheel is their hired driver, a very large, very sober man named Chris Dwyer. In a few minutes, he'll deposit the Humes safely at their doorstep, park their car in the driveway, and collect his pay for the night.
The Humes aren't your usual chauffeur clients; Len's on a pension and Ivy does part-time kitchen work. But then, Chris Dwyer isn't your usual chauffeur. He's co-owner of a company called .05 Chauffeur-Drive, which will drive you and your car home when you've had a few too many. The cost is a little more than a taxi fare.
When the service began in Ulladulla four years ago, it was the first of its kind in Australia. Now the idea is catching on, and a group in Sydney recently began a similar company called the Chauffettes. For the passenger, the advantage over a taxi is that the car comes home as well. For the driver, there's the advantage of doing the work in someone else's vehicle.
"If they get sick on the way home it's in their car not yours," says Dwyer, who is a teetotaler. "Much worse is if they pass out, particularly when it happens before they've given you directions home."
Ulladulla residents don't appear to drink more than people in other NSW towns. But Ulladulla is one of those odd coastal spots that is a quiet fishing village in winter and a bloated queen bee of tourism in summer. The visitors are there to relax, and relaxing often means drinking too much. So on any given night, there's likely to be a legion of drunks struggling out of the parking lot at the town's 30 or so licensed clubs and restaurants.
The police don't miss the opportunity. There are frequent RBT blitzes and an average of seven bookings for drink-driving each week. Rather than risk the fine and licence suspension, many drinkers now call .05 Chauffeur-Drive. An ad for the company - "You Drink. We Drive" - is posted by dart boards and telephones at most local watering holes.
Occasionally, a pub employee will do the dialing.
"We don't make a point of telling people 'you've had too much' because that's what we're here for," says Ken Hatwell, assistant manager at the local golf club. "But if someone's staggering towards their car, I might suggest they hire a driver instead."
That's where Chris Dwyer comes in. He and co-manager Bob Brooks are on 24-hour call for their primary business, a security firm. The company is run out of Brooks's home, which is equipped with radios and maps to monitor burglar alarms, and to direct a small fleet of security patrols. "Everything is guilty until proven innocent in this business," Brooks says, going to check a high-pitched signal coming from the next room. Somewhere in Ulladulla, someone has set off a burglar alarm by mistake.
In between beeps and sirens, the calls for Chauffeur-Drive start coming in. Brooks will drop Dwyer off, then drive the "chase" car so he can pick his partner up when the job is completed. Brooks's wife, Gerrie, answers calls and co-ordinates their movements from "base".
The first call comes from two shopkeepers who have just finished a wine-drenched dinner. They are "regulars" and Dwyer chats with them on a first-name basis.
"My wife has a drinking problem," explains the back-seat passenger.
"Me?" she exclaims, leaning over the seat.
"We both have a drinking problem," he adds, and they start laughing. A moment later their car passes an RBT patrol parked beside the road. "Come and get us!" they yell, rolling down the windows. But the policewoman is booking someone and, anyway, the patrols usually recognise Chris Dwyer and wave him past.
Call number two takes Dwyer to a battered ute parked behind the Marlin Hotel. "I'm pissed," says the young fisherman, handing Dwyer his keys. Dwyer struggles with the gearbox and drives the man and his girlfriend to a motel a few kilometres away. It takes the passengers about five minutes to find and count out their $6 fare.
"They're both paralytic," Dwyer says, returning back to "base" with Brooks. "So is their car." In the course of an evening, Dwyer might drive everything from a custom Mercedes to a truck with no second or third gear.
Call number three takes Dwyer and Brooks to the golf club, which has held a monster meat market raffle followed by a dancing band. A Sydney builder and his family are waiting in the foyer, looking wobbly. "Feels strange being in the passenger seat," the builder says, before closing his eyes and dozing through the 10-minute drive to the family's rented cottage.
The last call of the night is from the Humes, who have been playing keno at the Ex-Servicemen's Club since seven o'clock. "Before Chauffeur-Drive, one of us would have to drink lemon squash," says Ivy Hume. "Now we can both have a good time." The Humes use Dwyer so frequently that he lets them ride on credit.
After midnight, the phone goes quiet. Brooks and Dwyer have made about $50 for their two hours' work. On "bumper nights," like New Year's Eve, they might earn a few hundred dollars (though their chase car was smashed up by "someone who should have been using our service but wasn't", Brooks says).
"As a commercial proposition, Chauffeur-Drive's just a sideline," Brooks explains, handing over his business card. Under the heading "Premier Coast Security" are listed the following services: alarm installation, commercial-industrial security, home patrol service, payroll and cash escort service and crowd control (ie, keeping out gatecrashers at big parties).
Brooks and Dwyer provide one other service as well; they're repo men. It is an unappealing job by any standard, knocking on someone's door and telling them you've come to repossess a car or tractor. Often, people simply deny they're the person listed on the repossession notice. Occasionally, they slam the door in Brooks's or Dwyer's face.
But Brooks and Dwyer are the kind of men it's hard to say no to. They are burly, in dull brown uniforms, with the no-nonsense demeanor that one would expect of professional security guards, crowd controllers and repo men. Usually, the cars are repossessed without argument and an average job will earn the pair about $150.
"I'm a helluva nice guy," Brooks says, with a forced smile, "except when you meet me on business."
"Unless its the chauffeur business," adds Dwyer. "That's the one time we're usually dealing with happy people."
© 1987 Sydney Morning Herald