THERE WERE MIXED feelings in the City of Churches when The Punter decided to move interstate.
For instance, there were some at the golf club – a few committee members – who were pleased to see his back. They didn’t exactly wave him goodbye but it was obvious from their jubilant reaction – an exceedingly early start on the bubbly at the Sprig Bar – that they thought a lot of their headaches and extraordinary general meetings were heading north with him.
Perhaps they had their reasons.
There had been a few ‘incidents’ over the years on the days and nights when the demon alcohol took a hold of The Punter. This tended to lead him into temptation, or, as he so aptly put it, ‘Mate, I was walking with rocking-horse shoes.’
Like the night he decided he hadn’t been doing the right thing by his long-suffering bride, Goldie. Being the thoughtful type – mainly when he figured he was in the state best described by the rhyming-slang reference to one of his favourite jockeys, Edgar Britt – The Punter invited Goldie to the golf-club film night. This event was held once a month on a Friday. It was shortly after he issued the invitation that The Punter’s luck started to desert him.
Seeing as how his Friday afternoons involved some serious beer drinking with the boss, whereby they finished up surrounded by work mates and a veritable flotilla of empty glasses, this was a poor choice of evening to invite Goldie for dinner.
Being the kind who would’ve made a good cricket captain, The Punter was thinking ahead. Working on the same premise as the schoolboy who, when he thinks he might find himself in trouble, makes sure he’s got someone with him to share the blame, he invited a team-mate to join him for dinner and a film at the golf club. I was the chosen team-mate.
He was also adamant I should bring along ‘The Bride’, as he affectionately called my wife. While there was no direct mention that this would allow the ladies to catch up on some important women’s business, freeing up the lads to engage in some convivial chat over a few schooners, with a guy like The Punter these things were just assumed.
The dinner was a big success. The cantankerous Dutch chef excelled himself with his meatball specialty, followed by a generous helping of King George whiting and chips. Goldie was at pains to compliment The Punter on his choice of red wine, a good bottle of Pike’s Shiraz from the Clare Valley, and everything appeared to be moving in the direction of some much-needed Brownie points.
The film was of that year’s Masters at Augusta, probably won by Jack Nicklaus. At that time the ‘Golden Bear’ was busy mauling everyone in his path on the way to a record eighteen major titles. The Masters was a good choice of sports movie for the ladies, because even if they weren’t interested in golf – and ‘The Bride’ was actually quite a capable handler of the Mashie Niblick – they could marvel at the scenery. This consisted mostly of a colourful conglomeration of magnolias, dogwoods and the like, which made for a pretty spectacle and held the interest of even the most anti-sports-minded ladies.
All in all, this was shaping up as one of The Punter’s greatest triumphs and, believe me, he was in need of one – worse than a big win on the gee-gees. That is to say, it was a triumph until he took the decision to participate in the after-film drinks at the honesty bar.
The honesty bar was a much-loved tradition at the Glenelg Golf Club, on account of most of the drinkers hadn’t heard of Bernie Madoff at that point in their career. Some, like ‘The Laughing Lawyer’, could be forgetful about where he parked his car but he could be relied upon to recall exactly how many Scotches he’d downed.
The Laughing Lawyer’s major memory lapse in regard to parking on a Friday night at the club had resulted in a hurried phone call to the cops to report a stolen vehicle. He did eventually remember where he’d parked his car, but only after receiving a follow-up call the next morning from the police. They had found his Holden Caprice – it was in the spot specially allocated for the captain, and not in the club car park from where he’d reported it stolen.
Without a hint of embarrassment but with the obligatory chuckle, The Laughing Lawyer explained to the cops that this memory lapse was due to him only recently being appointed club captain.
All drama aside, the honesty bar was a valuable addition to the social activities, not to mention an enormous boost to the club’s fiscal fortunes. Anyway, it was at the honesty bar, in the vicinity of the fireplace in the Member’s Lounge, where The Punter’s night started to go awry.
It began innocently enough with the first butcher of beer after the movie. Never let it be said The Punter was an irresponsible husband; in the interests of family harmony he’d cut back from ten-ounce schooners to a seven-ounce beer. It was when he downed the butcher in one gulp that I noticed a change come over my normally happy-go-lucky mate.
There were probably some others who also noticed a subtle change, perhaps even a few committee members. After downing the first of these butchers, he peered with a glazed look into the flickering flames, yelled out, ‘Up the Black Watch!’ and hurled his glass into the fire.
The shattering of the butcher glass was a dead-set giveaway. Suddenly all attention was on The Punter and his missus, with the bulk of this vigilance centred round Goldie. ‘Punter,’ she said firmly, ‘that’ll be enough.’
‘Sorry, Goldie,’ The Punter said. Suddenly apologetic, he’d lowered his eyes like a forlorn cocker spaniel. ‘I got a bit carried away.’
This feeling of remorse didn’t last long because about ten seconds later The Punter whispered, out of earshot of the ladies, ‘Chappelli, get a couple more in.’ As The Punter was the senior partner in this liaison, I immediately obeyed and was back with two butchers in the time it takes to tap in a six-inch putt.
We probably would’ve got away with this slick manoeuvre if it hadn’t been for The Punter’s natural exuberance. Revived at the sight of another frothy butcher, he again downed the seven ounces of amber fluid in one gulp. This resulted in another far-off gaze into the fireplace and then, mustering all the arm strength of a wicket-keeper, he hurled the glass into the fire after having shouted the by now obligatory, ‘Up the Black Watch!’
I’m not sure from where this sudden interest in the Black Watch had emanated. The Punter had, up to that point, not displayed any military inclinations and he was born in India, a long boat ride from the Scottish Highlands.
Whatever brought it on, it had the effect of bringing to an abrupt conclusion The Punter’s drinking for the night. Following another curt rebuke, he was last seen leaving the establishment guided by Goldie’s rather firm grip on his left ear.
It’s never been confirmed but this could have been one of the reasons why certain members of the committee were sighted drinking champagne at the sprig bar following the announcement of The Punter’s imminent departure for greener pastures.
This was not the case with his mates, who were sure they’d miss The Punter’s regular entertaining adventures. This especially applied to his mates at the Glenelg cricket club, where he was a handy playing member and a great acquisition on the finance committee.
The Punter’s rise to prominence on the cricket club finance committee didn’t please everybody; notably those among the city’s more shady characters. Many of those characters turned out for the cricket club’s annual gambling night. There was ‘The Flawed Footballer’ and his offsider, ‘Lik-Lak’, and many other of their cronies, who turned up to do battle with The Punter, who had been assigned the responsibility of being in charge of the Crown and Anchor game.
In deference to the seriousness of his duties, The Punter had brought along a bookmaker’s bag of which he was very proud. On the side was painted in large white letters ‘The Master’. This was the nickname they’d bestowed on his father when he was a successful jockey before becoming a profitable bookmaker.
The bag certainly brought The Punter good luck because he was rakin’ it in – literally – handfuls at a time. While this was pleasing to the cricket club treasurer, it didn’t sit so well with The Flawed Footballer.
At about the time The Punter was due to rake in another handful of notes and coins of all denominations, the lights in the clubhouse were suddenly extinguished. This is where The Punter’s wicket-keeping experience came to the fore. With lightning-fast hands he quickly had all the spondulix in his bag, while the mitts of The Flawed Footballer and his cronies were grabbing at fresh air.
When the lights came on a few moments later, it was clear that The Flawed Footballer – who it was rumoured had brought to an abrupt end the careers of a few other unsavoury characters from the City of Churches – was not at peace with the world.
His mood became more obvious when he spoke. ‘Later tonight,’ he hissed at The Punter, ‘I’m comin’ round to your cat and mouse an’ I’m gunna throw a pineapple through your front window.’
A few minutes later The Punter relayed to me this conversation, emphasising the part where The Flawed Footballer was going to drive by his house and throw a hand grenade through the front window. Not surprisingly he was slightly unnerved, so I asked, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m certainly not going home,’ replied The Punter, with a hint of anger in his voice.
‘But what about Goldie and the kids?’ I asked.
‘I’ll call her and she’ll have to get out while the goin’s good,’ replied The Punter.
So maybe Goldie, along with a few of the golf-club committeemen, was pleased The Punter was departing for warmer and safer climes. The cricket club treasurer, on the other hand, certainly didn’t share those sentiments.