OF late I have been gripped with a fear that my old Dad will die while I am in jail, hence the sentimental memories. It is very hard for me to recall any past adventures with my old Dad that are not an out and out comedy.
When I was a little kid growing up we always kept chooks in the backyard, like every second household in the street in Thomastown did. Chooks and homing pigeons were the big go, then. Thomastown back in the 1960s was a working class suburb which still had a bit of a rural feel to it.
Every now and again my mother would decide to have roast chook for Sunday dinner – or her version of it, anyway – and my dad would instruct me to catch one of the chooks. This entailed a race around the backyard for 20 minutes with me running for my life after a squawking flapping fowl, with my dad sitting on the back steps yelling encouragement to me.
‘Go on son, you’ve got him cornered. Take a running dive for him, boy.’ It was like the Coyote and Road Runner whenever I got near the chook … ‘beep beep’ and off it went.
Naturally, my dad thought this was the height of good humor. In the end I would catch the panic-stricken poultry and carry it over to Dad. He would take it and over we would got to the woodpile, where the chopping block was, and Dad would grab the tomahawk.
I would squeal with delight. ‘Can I kill him, Dad? Please? Go on, can I kill him please?’
‘Okay son. I’ll hold him and you chop his head off.’ And Dad would hold the chook down on the chopping block and I would heft up the tomahawk and Dad would say, ‘Across the neck, son, a good clean swing. Go on, and don’t hit me with the axe.’
I would swing down hard and ‘whop’, off came the chook’s head and Dad would hold the flapping, headless fowl upright and put him on the ground for the final show, the best part of all.
The chook would take off at a flat rate and run around the yard with blood spurting out of its neck. This was sheer magic to me. A headless chook with blood spurting out of its neck running flat out was one of the highlights of my childhood years. It would hit the fence and fall over and somehow get to its feet and take off again. This could go on for a full minute or two, and I was always disappointed to see the chook at last fall over and give up the ghost.
But I can tell you something, those chooks had more dash than a few drug dealers I know. Most of them would keel over as soon as you showed them the axe. Ha ha.
Watching a chook with no head doing the four minute mile was one thing, but after the show came the hard work. Dad would get a bucket of boiling water and toss the headless chook into the bucket and we would both sit and talk of magic things, like the time Dad reckoned he killed a Japanese soldier by making him eat a plate of my mother’s roast chicken.
I would look at him and say, ‘Are you telling me the truth, Dad?’
‘No son, but shut up and listen when ya old man’s talking.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
Dad would delight me with such nonsense until the chook in the bucket of boiling water was ready, then the very worst job came. I had to sit on the back steps with the chook in the bucket between my legs and pluck the feathers out.
It was a horrible job, but I would pluck away with my dad watching my every move. After it was plucked Mum would take it and cook it. ‘We should have killed a few more,’ I would always say. I thought one would never be enough. That is, until I tasted it. The magnificent roast chicken with all the trimmings that I imagined always ended up being boiled and turned into a chook stew.
After lunch while Mum and my sister, Debbie, washed the dishes Dad would take me up the shop for an icecream and say to me, ‘A bit of icecream will get the taste of that poor bloody chook out of our mouths, son. There is no doubt about your mother; she works magic with the pots and pans.’
I knew the answer to that one. ‘Yeah,’ I’d say, ‘black magic, hey Dad?’ And Dad would clip me over the head and tell me not to speak ill of my mother’s efforts at cooking. But he didn’t clip me very hard.
I never liked eating the chooks, but killing the buggers was wonderful fun and one of the great joys of my childhood days. Ah, my old Dad. I love him.
Kids today are bloody spoilt in my opinion. I’ve been watching a TV documentary on the kids of today and how tough it is for them at school. As far as book learning is concerned I fully agree, but in my day corporal punishment was in vogue and they were tough days, believe me. Half the teachers we had then would be certified if they were still about. I think I started school in 1959 or 1960, and on the first day I got six across the backs of my legs as a little welcome aboard message.
The little kids and all the girls got the cuts across the backs of their legs. The older boys got it across the hands. All the boys loved to watch the girls get the strap across the backs of their legs.
I realise now that some teachers were sadists, and strapping the girls was a great favorite of one teacher. I remember at least once a day he would pull the school fat girl, Bung Hole Judy, out for eating something in class and flog her soundly with a long wooden ruler across the back of her chubby legs.
She wasn’t a bad chick, the old Bung Hole. Once, she copped the cuts across the backs of the legs for three days running in front of the whole school at morning assembly, all because she would not tell who broke the headmaster’s window. And you don’t have to be told, it was me and another kid called Scrapper Scully who broke the window in a rock tossing contest.
Bung Hole Judy had the bad luck to be standing there working her way through a bag of chips and watching us toss yonnies at the headmaster’s window. Both our stones hit the window at the same time and me and Scrapper ran like hell, leaving Bung Hole Judy standing, still chewing. The headmaster looked out the window and there was poor Judy looking guilty. ‘Did you see who did that?’ he yelled.
‘Yes,’ said Judy.
‘Who was it?’ asked the headmaster.
‘I can’t tell,’ said Judy. She stuck rock solid for three days until I owned up and stepped out in assembly on the fourth day. I got six of the best on each hand every day for a week in front of the whole school and won the fair heart of every fat girl in the district for my heroic conduct.
Old Bung Hole had more courage and dash than most crims I know. She would not give me up, which is more than can be said for most so-called gangsters who start to cry and blubber whenever they get near a police station.
I wonder whatever happened to Judy. She’s probably a stunner now. Mornington State School, a great place. If you’re out there, Judy, let me know.
At Thomastown State School in grade two I was given six of the best on each hand and made to stand under the school flagpole for an hour in the rain because I did not know the name of Smokey Dawson’s horse.
On another occasion at a school in Preston, standing up in front of the class in a spelling contest, I was unable to spell the name of Chips Rafferty and was made to stand under the school bell for the remainder of the day in the middle of winter and given the strap on each hand before let-out, so as to warm my hands, according to the teacher. How thoughtful of him.
These days it is all rap dancing and basketball. Shit, the only people to play basketball in the ’60s were poofs and schoolgirls. Boys played footy and cricket. Cricket, the game that made the British Empire great and helped to civilise half the bloody world. Speaking of which, I was flogged silly at Lalor High School for telling a sports master that he could jam his Don Bradman special edition, personally signed cricket bat straight up his clacker. Personally, I think he may have done such things in the privacy of his own bedroom anyway, so I don’t know why he was so outraged by my suggestion. But he was. My hands were blue from the bruising of the six of the best on each hand for a week over that lot.
We had to wear full uniforms and do the old ‘yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir’ routine or we paid for it with our blood, so to speak. These days it’s all Reebok runners, back to front baseball caps, and rap dancing at lunchtime.
The only sport played now is basketball and spot-the-Aussie. At least we were carefree in my day with the classic Aussie couldn’t give a shit attitude. It may have been physically harder but I think it was a bit more relaxed. Today’s kids are all yuppie computerised nervous wrecks with drug habits, and a poor sad lot they are too.
WELL, I’ve just finished spit polishing my Blundstone lace-up boots to a truly mirror shine. I used to spit-polish my old Dad’s army boots when I was a little boy. I’d melt the black Nugget by holding a match under the tin with a small amount of Nugget in it, then dip my polishing rag into the melted Nugget and apply it liberally to the boot. Then I’d polish away. When the boots shone I’d then spit on them and go over them with a dry towel.
As I’ve mentioned, my old Dad was a very violent man towards me as a kid but I loved him, and as I grew older I decided to remember only the good in him and try to forget about the violence as much as possible. He was very loving and kind towards me a lot of the time, and I guess he was no more violent towards me than other fathers of that day and age. I remember once after I didn’t polish his boots properly he gave me a terrible flogging and I went out onto the back steps and pissed in both his army boots with tears steaming down my face. My little sister, Debbie, saw me and ran and told on me: ‘Mummy, Mark is widdling in daddy’s army boots.’ I never was liked by my little ‘give up’ of a sister. Dad came out and gave me a second hiding.
When I’d done something really bad as a kid my mum or dad would say, ‘Mark, did you do that?’ and I’d say, ‘No, Errey did it.’
‘Who’s Errey?’ my mum or dad would ask, and I’d say, ‘He’s the bloke who comes over to our place and does all the bad stuff.’
‘Yes,’ said my dad, ‘well, when Errey comes back give him this from me,’ and smash, crash, bash, I’d cop it.
Dr Spock my old man wasn’t.
Of course Errey was my little boy imaginary mate and whenever I got caught doing the things all young boys did as part of growing up, such as punching holes in the next-door neighbor’s car roof with a hammer and a screwdriver, or setting fire to the chook shed, or lighting fires in general, setting my little sister’s dolls on fire, putting fire crackers down the open petrol tanks of parked cars and pissing in my dad’s boots, it was always Errey’s fault.
Errey did it. No-one ever believed me but as a little boy it sounded like a bloody good story to me. Maybe I should have blamed Errey when I was in many and varied police stations not answering questions over a number of different crimes.
‘Who set fire to the chook shed?’
‘Errey did it.’
‘Who’s Errey?’ Silly question. He’s the bloke who comes over here and does all that sort of stuff. No-one ever believed me.
Once when I got caught trying to burn down St Barnabas’ Church my dad nearly killed me after putting out the fire, then when I protested that ‘Errey did it’ he said, ‘Well, how come the matches were in your pocket?’ and I said, ‘Errey gave them to me for me to mind,’ and Dad laughed and said, ‘You’re a nut case, son, but at least you stick to your story.’ And boy did I stick to it. It got to the point that when I was caught setting fire to the rubbish bins at school and the teachers would scream, ‘Who did that?’ the other kids would yell, ‘Errey did it.’
‘Who’s Errey?’ they would ask. ‘He’s Chopper’s mate,’ and I’d get six of the best on each hand for my refusal to inform on Errey and give his last name and address. Ha ha.
Then when my mum and dad got called in and asked if they knew of my friend Errey, my dad would cover for me claiming that yes, he knew of Errey but didn’t know his parents or last name. Then kick me all the way home. Ha ha. Ahhh childhood, what fun it all was.