by Nick Cummins
I RAN TO THE BARTENDER AND SAID, ‘MATE, SEND UP EVERY GOOD SORT IN THE LINE OUTSIDE FOR THE BACKS. AND THE REST FOR THE FORWARDS.’
This is a classic nightclub quandary. Guys wanna go where the girls are. But the girls wanna go where they can be left alone. It was a good ol’-fashioned sausage fest and I wasn’t having none of it.
So up the stairs the girls came, surging their way into Australian rugby folklore without even knowing it. Hell, we didn’t know it at the time.
Big, small, winners and grinners; the unattached men of the Australian rugby team made a beeline for the girls with tales of leather-bound books and mahogany dressing rooms. And the girls loved it. They genuinely love rugby in Ireland and even the forwards get a look in.
But there was one particular bloke who stood out more than most. The leader of the pack. The rascal. The ring leader. The bad influence . . . My old man, Mark. And he’d be in anything.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He sat there and just absorbed the occasion, thinking to himself: ‘How long has this been going on and why haven’t I been a part of it?’ Simple answer, Dad: you’re rubbish at footy. But he did make the team of the century.
One of the lads, who will remain nameless but wears a number higher than 10 and less than 15, asked Dad if he wanted to meet a woman. Apparently a few of the girls’ grandmothers were at a local knitting circle around the corner. But, like the gentleman and/or creep he is – you decide – he declined and said he was happy just to watch.
APPARENTLY A FEW OF THE GIRLS’ GRANDMOTHERS WERE AT A LOCAL KNITTING CIRCLE AROUND THE CORNER.
Next thing we know, a sort walks straight to the old boy and introduces herself. She was keen. Touching and flirting. There were only two possibilities – she’d spiked her own drink or one of the lads had put her up to it.
Nope. Wrong. Just as Dad was hitting his stride and the attention of the team had turned to this no-name shagger who seemingly has a silver tongue, we heard the seven best words to ever come from a bird’s mouth – or the seven most demoralising if you’re my old man. She says: ‘You look different on TV, Mr McKenzie’. Second thought, the old man’s noggin looks as if it’s been put together like a ransom note, so Ewen has the right to be the most pissed.
THE OLD MAN’S NOGGIN LOOKS AS IF IT’S BEEN PUT TOGETHER LIKE A RANSOM NOTE
Before the team had even had a chance to crack up in laughter, Dad gave me that ‘you big bastard’ look, knowing I’d set him up, but continued with the charade until he was ready to hit the road.
Truth is, he was more red than a tradie’s porn collection and bailed down the stairs, only for one of the boys to grab him in a headlock, load him up with a couple of shots and suitcase him into a cab before he’d even had a chance to ponder what had just happened.
The rest of us followed suit a few minutes later and returned home undamaged and ready to get back into training after blowing off some steam.
SEVEN OF US HAD BEEN SUSPENDED FOR ONE MATCH FOR GOING OUT AND HAVING A FEW HARMLESS DRINKS.
However, we woke up to be welcomed by ARU hierarchy and the news that seven of us had been suspended for one match for going out and having a few harmless drinks. No one had gotten into any trouble the night before or done anything untoward. Not a single complaint. Except from the broad who thought she’d met Ewen McKenzie only to realise it was just a landscaper from Brisbane.
Or maybe it wasn’t Dad and it was in fact Ewen? At least that would explain how we ended up in trouble . . .
Regardless, it was a top night and one I’ll remember – and be reminded of – for years to come.
“YOU GET ONE OPPORTUNITY. YOU BALLS IT UP AND YOU ARE IN STRIFE.”
TRANSLATION: ‘I stole that one from the girl I lost my virginity to. Basically, don’t f*&k it up or I’ll make sure you suffer either physical or mental consequences.’
SHARK BAIT
If the dingoes and centipedes don’t get ya up Rainbow/Fraser way, then the sharks are sure as shit willing to pick up the slack. Queensland beaches are deadlier than a rhino on a dance floor but that never stopped Dad from putting us in harm’s way. Or our willingness to test ourselves against the most dangerous elements nature had to offer. Hell, as a young boy, it’s a rite of passage to dice with death and laugh in the face of a friend or sibling who was stupid enough to suffer the fate you evaded.
QUEENSLAND BEACHES ARE DEADLIER THAN A RHINO ON A DANCE FLOOR
Anyhow, we were fishing along the beach as we often did and scouring the great white sands for a good fishing spot – you know, a deep channel inside a sandbank. Take note amateurs, that’s Good Fishing 101.
Problem is, like most forward packs, them sharks aren’t as dumb as they look. And as we pulled up to our secret gutter we discovered the tiger sharks had beaten us to it. The good news was, they were chasing the bait fish onto the shore. You beauty! The better news was, I had just been given the opportunity to fulfil my life-long dream of catching a shark. You ripper! So I grabbed the rods from the truck and took the buggers on. Armed with me river rod, 130 lb line and an egg beater – sans trace – what could possibly go wrong? Right? And just quietly, it wasn’t the first time an Ugly Stik was passed around our camp . . .
So I threw down the challenge to the old man, baited up the flathead hook with some fresh bait fish hand-caught by yours truly and cast in the line ready to taste victory. I could already see my photo in the Sunshine Coast Daily, a little feature on Brownie’s Coastwatch; perhaps I’d even take a call from Rex Hunt and the crew. Prob’ly even get some sort of sponsorship offer and no doubt, as toast of the town, some of its best women.
A few minutes in and all was going to plan. I’d hooked one and the old boy had been snapped off – it was my beach now, codger. Being in command of a light rod has become second nature nowadays – wink wink – but back then, I’d never experienced such power between my legs. And for me, gutter language meant one thing – fishing. Get it?
Anyhow, the tiger shark was mine. Craig, I named him – a Christian name that exemplifies a cunning bastard hiding in plain sight. He might look bland, but throw a hook at him – right, left, fish or otherwise – and he’ll sure as shit put up a fight. And that ol’ Craig did. I battled him from the beach, by twig arm and egg-beater doing my choice of attire – singlet – proud. I was king of the ocean. The local kids came running. Started chanting names like ‘Merlin’ and ‘Neptune’.
THE LOCAL KIDS CAME RUNNING. STARTED CHANTING NAMES LIKE ‘MERLIN’ AND ‘NEPTUNE’.
And like that little annoying c-word (crustacean) I fought until the bitter end when ol’ Craig had had his fill – I reckon he must have had at least 27 mouthfuls of other bait fish while he was on the line – and said ‘See ya, wanker’, snapped my line and took off like the cunning bastard I always knew he was.
We only knew each other a short time. A moment, if you will. But every time a wave breaks on the shore, it whispers ‘Craiiiggg’.
ON BEING CALLED THE HONEY BUDGER IN A JAPANESE MAGAZINE:
“THE JOURNO WAS CONFUSED AS A GOLDFISH WITH DEMENTIA.”
TRANSLATION: ‘Goldfish are renowned for having short memories that last no longer than three seconds. Which is why you can’t believe that movie Finding Nemo – it was founded on lies. Dementia is a mental disease that corrodes the brain and results in sufferers losing many physical and mental abilities – namely, their memories. Therefore, a goldfish with dementia would be massively confused.’
RODEO MOON
Having schoolteachers as parents afforded our family the ability to enjoy 10 weeks holiday a year – to spend every school holidays together. And if you haven’t gathered already – firstly, please see a doctor – we spent most of that time at Rainbow Beach.
And there were few more exciting occasions in town than the annual rodeo. With no shortage of sand, they’d gather up 50-odd tonne of the stuff and dump it in the pub car park. It worked on every level. Right by the beer for the adults, plenty of pink lemonade
for the kids and close enough to the bar that even the town’s shadiest life forms would be willing to partake.
Anyhow, this one year, the clowns were doing their stuff – getting shit-hammered at the bar and heckling tourists. The rodeo clowns were in fine form, too, cracking up the crowd with their half-time show. To us kids, it was classic. One clown dropped his dacks and mooned the crowd. That’s straight out of How to Entertain a Teenage Boy 101. Better yet, he had a fake arse – a dead-set plastic bum. So just when the more excitable in the crowd had realised he’d in fact been having us on, he dropped the plastic one and let the crowd have it with the Real McCoy. And what a sight. He’d tattooed a ‘W’ on each cheek and named his arse the ‘WoW factor’. Genius stuff. Women shrieked. Children screamed. Dad laughed and I scheduled an appointment in my head to get the very same tattoo done the day I realised my dream of playing for the Wallabies. And I never break a promise or back out of a deal . . . No pun intended.
BETTER YET, HE HAD A FAKE ARSE – A DEAD-SET PLASTIC BUM.
BOATING BALLS-UP
If you’ve ever been deep-water fishing and had to launch your dinghy from the shore, then I’m certain you can sympathise with this next yarn. If you can’t, you’re a rotten bastard and a liar.
The old man wasn’t renowned for his patience. Yeah, I’ll be darned, a schoolteacher with a quick temper . . . Anyhow, he sure as shit wasn’t gonna wait for some bludger tourists at the boat ramp to back their trailers in all day so he came up with another play – beach launch. Now, for the uninitiated, a beach launch is difficult enough with two blokes, let alone a family of 10.
It basically requires pushing the boat through the waves and everyone trying to climb in without tipping the boat or before a wave smashes over ya head – the fishing equivalent of patting your head and rubbing your stomach.
Us kids used to hold the boat for the old man while he’d battle the waves to jump in, start her up and give the signal for us to join him. At the appropriate time, Dad would call ‘all in’ and we’d proceed to scramble, claw, pull and punch to make it aboard. The old boy would get sea sick at our attempt just to enter, at which point he’d call ‘all out’. It was basically a to and fro of ‘all in’ and ‘all out’ until one of us would near dislocate a hip in an attempt to synchronise our entrance. It required us all channelling our inner Go Go Gadget and Rubber Man.
As usual, the crowd gathered on the beach to see the poor man’s Brady Bunch risk life and death all in the name of a few flathead. Worse yet, most were so embarrassed on our behalf that they never even submitted the footage to Funniest Home Videos.
But on this particular day, we averted disaster and made it safely out to sea. I dominated with the hook and sinker and from what I’m about to tell I think it’s safe to surmise that the old man dominated the esky – and XXXX Bitter inside. That’s Bitter not
Gold. As Dad always said, ‘You don’t make friends with Gold’. It’s here I’d like to take a quick timeout to suggest you always drink responsibly and in moderation. Because you make fewer friends as a drunk arsehole.
FROM WHAT I’M ABOUT TO TELL I THINK IT’S SAFE TO SURMISE THAT THE OLD MAN DOMINATED THE ESKY
Anyhow, after a successful day at sea we returned to where the waves were breaking for what we expected to be a relatively easy landing by comparison to our entrance. As we moved towards shore, we all braced for action. We’d come in behind a wave and Dad would jump out, steady the ship and take us safely to shore. Well, this is where that Bitter comes in. Because the bloke was seriously disoriented he jumped directly into a deep hole and disappeared from view with only his tracksuit top and terry towelling hat floating to the surface.
We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry but, to be quite honest, we didn’t have either option, because another wave was about to crash on us and we were a rudderless ship without our captain heading directly for shore.
Luckily, the beach was now full of Japanese tourists – who are never short of a good chat or a camera – and were clicking away with their cameras. We felt like mongs, Dad looked like a clown and the puzzled Japanese tourists were confused to say the least at what they determined to be standard Australian boating practice. It was a humbling experience. And only fitting that the tourists got the last laugh. I’ve been sympathetic of tourists and a respectful traveller ever since.
“MATE UH, THE LOCKS, YOU UH YOU UH EVER HEARD OF THAT BIBLE STORY OF UM SAMSON AND DELILAH? – (‘YEAH YEAH YEAH NO’) – WELL, IT’S GOT NOTHING TO DO WITH WHAT I’M DOING, SO . . .”
TRANSLATION: ‘I’d prefer to be left alone right now.’
HIGH SEAS BATTLE
We’d just bought the new family boat – a quick one – and it was time for its first mission. Like any fisherman will tell you, it’s imperative to get up before dawn and beat the wind. But more importantly, beat the other bastards who wanna lay claim to the good fishing spots before you do.
So sure enough, the old man had us up before we’d barely gotten some shut-eye. I could have sworn the 11 pm News was on. And did I mention it was a school night?
Anyhow, there were more important things at hand – like testing out the new boat. We hit the Gold Coast Broadwater at dark, erased any trace of our being there – which isn’t as shady as it seems – and disappeared into the night. Okay, that did sound pretty dodgy. And if you count my sleeping brother in the hull, then we were carrying a body, too. And the current was running . . . Time-out! This is getting creepy, even for me.
So, after a delightful cruise we anchored just off Wave Break Island and looked for a good place to drop the body. Sorry, anchor . . .
We pulled up next to a red buoy and began preparing for action. Worms? Check. Prawns? Check. White bait? Check. Lures? Check? Squidgies? Just what the F*&k are these new things?
Anyways, you get the picture. And quite frankly, it was all for nothing. Because an hour later, and the sun even now barely up, we’d caught nothing. Zero. Zip. We’d come up like a bloke after his divorce hearing – empty-handed.
Making matters worse, this other bastard about 20 metres up the shore was pulling in so many fish he may as well have been a trawler. It was demoralising. And it was hard as hell to get my homework done while Dad was cursing him. It was almost like the other bloke was taunting us. And you’d think that too if you saw him move his lamp to shine a blazing light on his haul. He wouldn’t give us a clue either. The kind of bloke who if he owned the ocean wouldn’t give you a wave. And you sure as shit wouldn’t get your hands on his first Rolo, let alone his last.
By now, patient old Dad had had enough. And decided to cast where old mate was. Even in the dark his aim was spot on, Dad’s sinker clocked old mate’s lamp dead on, smashing the light to smithereens. To suggest the other fisherman was unhappy is an understatement of Benn Robinson proportions.
The bloke must have been a taxidermist because he suggested some pretty intricate forms of retribution before cutting the old man’s line and giving a solid ‘up yours’ to a boat full of schoolkids.
With the wisdom of Solomon and the fortitude of his infant daughter, Dad said ‘Let’s go!’ and ripped at the anchor like his life depended on it. Which all things considered, it kind of did. But there was a problem. Remember that red buoy we’d anchored next to? Well, yeah, the anchor had become twisted around it. Shit!
We circled the bloody thing like we were racing it for a good 10 minutes before the now highly anxious old man gave the order – ‘Cut the bastard!’ And we sawed off our brand new anchor on our brand new boat and burned off into the rising sun leaving many a fish, our anchor and our dignity. Average day.
“WHEN THE START OF THE SEASON TURNS UP, THE BOYS WILL BE UH, GOIN’ OFF LIKE A BULL IN A CHINA SHOP.”
TRANSLATION: ‘Bulls are big, aggressive animals that don’t take kindly to being to being held in tight spaces. China is a delicate form of porcelain that’s easily broken. The two don’t mix well together and were a bull to be led into a china shop, one can only assu
me he’d kick anything and everything to get out. A show of strength and power.’
BUCCANEER SPIRIT
When I was up in Bundy I remember a game I played with the Buccaneers. Safe to say we won it because I only have enough gigabytes to store the winning games.
Anyhow, it was classic country footy. The field had line markings that were barely visible, like they’d let the local pre-schoolers at it with some hand-me-down chalk and it was situated between a cow paddock and a small crop plantation. And in all honesty, that was one of the best pitches we played on. Though it was that rough it was akin to running the 100 metres on loose gravel in bare feet.
But I digress. I’d found myself coming off the bench – a travesty given me own bloody brother Luke was captain – and I was playing out wide next to a short stocky bloke who looked like a cannonball with fingers and toes. If I wasn’t already feeling hard done by having to come off the bench, it was no shot in the arm when I noticed the nugget seemed to have wobbly legs and was struggling to stand let alone chat. I’m inquisitive at the best of times and was determined to get this bloke’s story – who was he, where was he from and what the hell did his training and nutrition program consist of?
I WAS PLAYING OUT WIDE NEXT TO A SHORT STOCKY BLOKE WHO LOOKED LIKE A CANNONBALL WITH FINGERS AND TOES.
So during the game I was talking to him, calling the plays and getting ready to launch an attack. But still, something didn’t seem quite right . . .
It was only a matter of time before I went on the burst and sure enough a few minutes later Luke – playing flyhalf – gave me a good seed and the Buccaneers were on the attack!
