My old high school is having a reunion this weekend.
Not everyone – just the kids who attended in my year – from 1979-84. That makes it about thirty years since we left, which also means some of us are closing in on 50 years old.
For various reasons I can’t make it – work and the fact that it’s being held 900kms away from Jacobs Well – which is where I currently reside.
It’s a pretty bizarre ride nonetheless.
I haven’t really kept in contact with anyone from those days, though I occasionally ran into a few of my old mates at long-favoured watering holes such as the Stop and Rest Hotel at Mt Pritchard.
Brett Symons, Wayne ‘Longy’ Long and a few others whose names presently escape me.
Funnily enough, I am still in contact with a handful of other guys who attended Busby High – blokes who started out friends, or friends of friends, and various hangers-on of my younger sister. I didn’t really know them at school but we have since become very firm and lifelong friends!
This is a unique time in history I believe and it is this that adds to the surreal nature of the impending reunion.
I first attended Busby High in 1979 – I guess because my brother went there – I have no idea why he went there. Ninety percent of the students who attended Mt Pritchard Public School, as we did, went on to Bonnyrigg High, which was much closer.
So when I arrived – and I still recall the first ‘assembly’, with a mob of kids milling about in the quadrangle, I found very few familiar faces.
I was shuffling around in my new desert boots, eyeing off my fellow prisoners and potential weaknesses in the perimeter, like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape.
I was chatting to my old mate Barry Davis and we recognised the hulking form of Rob Foster (who had been 6 foot plus for as long as I could remember), then the pretty features of Pam Clarke – who’d been my first friend in Kindergarten. There was also Neil Saddler (we’d both been caned together once, for instigating a trend of ‘Horsey-Bite’ slaps to the unsuspecting cold hamstring of fellow students). Outside of that, I recall Peter Cowell, David Small and not too many others.
So they were assigning us all to our new barracks – sorry Rollcall Classes.
From memory, the classes were numbered 7R1 – 7R5? That was five classes of about thirty students in each.
I went to 7R1 – I still don’t know what they based this on but Bazza went to about 7R3 and Smally to 5, I think.
All the other kids – a hundred and thirty or so, seemed to all know everyone – having gone to Busby Primary, Busby West Primary or Heckenberg Primary together.
When we ended up in Rollcall, I think I was with Rob Foster and Pam – outside of that, they were all strangers to me.
There were some odd-looking people, some funny names, big fellas, little guys and WHOA!!! Who’s she?!
‘Petina Beattie?’ ……’Here’
Wow. She’s cute – nice name too. I wonder where she lives?
(My recollection thirty years later, would be of a beautifully kind face, with a Farrah Fawcett, Charlie’s Angels hairdo – only better looking!).
After several months, everyone seemed to have buddied up with mates of similar interest.
I recall one day in a ‘Commercialism’ class (where you learned how to fill out a cheque, studied the origins of currency and discussed conflict), a precursor to ‘Commerce’ – we had a teacher called Killeen . I thought he was a prick. He hated me for some reason – and he once made an out-of-line and derogatory comment about my mate Mark Luckwell, to which I took offense.
I think one of the reasons he didn’t like me was because by that time, Bob Roberts had become my best mate – and he was left handed. When we sat together, our elbows would occasionally bump as we were writing – causing, initially a slight stutter in someone’s writing. These things more often than not escalated quickly – ending with stabbing and scribbling all over each other’s work – which we would then need to hand in to said teacher for assessment.
I’d get low marks for my bookwork, which I felt was unjustified – the mess was Bob’s after all! But then I’d study and blitz it in the exam – which I don’t think he liked either.
I thought I had the last laugh on him when we went on an excursion to the Snowy Mountains several years later.
He was on a toboggan and pissing down the hill at a rate of knots, leaning forward with his ears pinned back, sunnies on and teeth sparkling below his bristling moustache – then KAPOW!!!
He was smashed square in the face with a well formed and hardened snowball!
Now he was rolling in the snow. His sunnies gone, beanie disappeared and toboggan bouncing away on its listless descent – as I slinked back into the throng, my work there done.
However, years later still, I ran into him again at the Busby High Deputy Principal’s (Mr Bob Stock) farewell, which I’d serendipitously stumbled upon at Mounties one night. Killeen had run out of money and I somehow got shamed into shouting him a beer – which he never paid back. So I guess we can call it square after all.
The day I earlier referred to, Killeen had taken a sickie and the kids were all doing what kids do with no proper teacher in control. Myself, Lucky Luckwell and Bobby Roberts took it upon ourselves to have a vote on who was the best looking chick in the class. It came down to three – though Petina got my number one vote, hands down.
After the votes were tallied and preferences given, I believe Petina came in second – the other two spots went to….well two other worthy contenders who shall remain nameless.
Upon conclusion of our very personal little discussion on the individual virtues of our girly classmates, we went our separate ways.
THEN – I was sitting there, relaxing (people didn’t yet chill-out), and minding my own business when I noticed a silhouette approaching from twelve o’clock.
I looked up and stared directly into the baby-blues of Petina Beattie!
She says sweetly “Thankyou Steve – Mark just told me you voted me second prettiest girl in the class”
I blazed a hundred shades of red, my mouth hung open like a stunned mullet as my brain searched for something witty to say – but all I could think of, was – “WHY THE FK DID MARK GO AND TELL YOU THAT, FFS?”
I didn’t say anything – though I think I did manage to force a half grin of acknowledgement. It felt like we’d locked eyes for about twenty minutes. Following that mortifying exchange, I believe I went red every time she looked at me for the next two years.
I’d like to think that these days, being more mature and self confident – if Petina approached for a chat, that I’d be able to charm her with witty banter and a suave persona. I fear however, that I’d immediately revert to the stuttering, red mullet and just stare blankly into her exquisite baby-blues and just blaze away in silence until she once again left me!
The reason I mention my personal history, in regard to the upcoming reunion is that it explains in part why I don’t remember some of the names on the guest list.
I had very little to do with some of the kids who were not in my classes. And though I’m sure I knew their names and faces at the time, after thirty years my mind draws a complete blank in some instances.
In addition, some of these kids left school earlier than others.
By the time year eleven and twelve rolled round, our entire year was down to about 28 kids.
We all became close then – and school changed.
The teachers suddenly showed more individual respect to the students and vice versa. I think everyone realised that we were now there only because we wanted to be (or our parents wanted us to be!) – not because the government declared it so.
Maybe if the kids that left earlier had have experienced this respect, some others may have hung around too?
Regardless, the school environment was far more conducive to both study and fun in the final two years, despite the pressure of the ‘all important HSC’ looming ominously above us all.
I declared this a unique time in history as it encompasses the globally sweeping evolution of technology between 1984 and now.
For instance – I lived about 2.6kms from Busby High, so I’d ride my bike, without a helmet – to Bob’s place, which was about 500m from the school and we’d walk the rest.
We had no mobile phones, no internet, no air-conditioning, no computers. The video games available were Pong through some adapter kit on your TV – or later, Space Invaders at the local Milk Bar (which was invariably owned by Greeks).
Most of us still had a Black & White TV – colour had been in Australia less than 5 years (1975).
There were no video recorders, camera’s used film – which you had to use sparingly and send away for a week to be processed. CD’s had not been invented – we just sat around an AM radio for hours waiting to tape your favourite song on a mix tape (which some blowhard DJ would always insist on speaking over till halfway through!).
DJ’s played records – Disk Jockeys. They were not standalone musicians – and they still aren’t!
Fixing a single headphone to one’s ear with two fingers and bobbing your head to other-people’s music, does not make you a headline act. Sit down, shut up and play the records the punters request of you!
Trains were known as Red Rattlers and had huge wide doors and windows that actually opened and let in the foetid air of the city’s unfiltered industrial pollution to replace the billowing cigarette smoke from the passengers.
Planes all had ashtrays in the armrests – not that many could afford to actually fly in one back then.
People coated themselves in beautifully smelling coconut oil and sat on the beach all day – with the aim of increasing the sun’s burn and depth of tan.
For the health conscious – you would dab a smear of white zinc cream on your nose and lips – then duck off all day in a pair of boardies, reassured that the sun could do you no harm on this particular day!
Retractable lap-sash seatbelts were still a novelty in cars.
Takeaway food was a rarity and often consisted of forty cents worth of hot chips from a milk bar (and would be enough to satisfy three hungry kids).
There were a few Kentucky Fried Chicken shops around – advertised by a family of cartoon fat kids chomping down in the back seat of a car.
Macca’s were around – but didn’t have playgrounds and certainly didn’t sell coffee.
There were no coffee shops with furniture scattered in the gutter of a main thoroughfare for the discerning punter’s convenience – no one in Australia had ever heard of a cafe latte or cappuccino. And you certainly wouldn’t leave home on a special excursion whose sole purpose was to buy a cup of coffee! You’d make the bastard yourself, in your own kitchen, in about 45 seconds and for a cost of 2 cents.
A viscous, plummy potion called ‘Blackberry Nip’ was the choice alcoholic beverage for the ladies.
A special family treat involved a trip to the Bistro of the local club, we you dined on such exotic dishes as ‘Chicken in a Basket’ and ‘Chicken Maryland’ – and the Oldman usually had ‘Roast of the Day’.
When I left Busby, the school had recently acquired 2 Apple Macintosh computers – which I never laid eyes on, let alone played with.
The first couple of Asian students had arrived at Busby as well – Vietnamese refugees – apparently their names were Tom and Fred!
No boys ever used any type of ‘product’ in their hair.
Certainly no boys dyed their hair a different colour! I remember one sandy haired fella who turned up with black hair one day – he was ridiculed and laughed out of the school!
These days, it seems every kid has some kind of highlight or fashion product sculpting their follicles – and they openly discuss it!
Underpants were just that. They didn’t ever stick out above your daks for public display – you’d be forever declared a wanker! (Actually – this is one facet of Eighties culture that I maintain should stand the test of time!)
In a school of 1200 kids – no one was gay.
I speak to kids now and it seems a third of their friends are gay – and they are allowed to be so and are in fact supported in this by their classmates and schools!
I said – don’t the other kids take the piss or bash them? It was explained to me that it was in fact quite the opposite – if someone tried to, it is they who would incur the wrath of the multitudes for being such an intolerant dick!
Same these days goes for orthodontic braces – when I went to school, people were called ‘Metal Mouth’, ‘Railway Tracks’, ‘Shark Attack’ and many other derogatory names, which must have been very hurtful for the poor kids trying to improve their look.
These days braces are apparently a fashion statement – they come in all colours and styles! While they no doubt remain physically painful and aesthetically challenging, the stigma and personal insults have gone.
Similarly with spectacles – it was ‘Four Eyes’, ‘Coke Bottles’, ‘Blind Man’ and countless other heckles at kids who were already struggling with their sight and didn’t need the extra stress from cold-hearted colleagues.
Once again – specs are now cool and a fashion statement.
For the life of me, I don’t know how some of these attitudes were changed on such a broad front in such a short time? I think it is in kids’ nature to seize upon anything different about their mates – and to a large extent, that continues into adulthood, with good natured jibes.
Maybe some of today’s teachers, who were victims themselves of such unwarranted targeting, decided to straighten out their charges before they too repeated this abhorrent bullying?
I don’t know the cause but I remain most impressed with the result.
As I said – Bob was my best mate – but that doesn’t mean we always got along.
He was an hilarious bloke Bob – had the guts to do just about anything (some of which would probably be frowned upon in today’s politically correct world). But he had me legless with laughter many times.
At school every group had their own little hangout during breaks in class – lunches, recesses etc. Ours was under the steps and balcony that led to the English Staff Room. I remember one time Bob passionately cut loose with the filthiest tirade of swear words you’ve ever heard – I recall it commenced with “F’N BULLSH1T C@#T……”
I was sitting down leaning against the wall like a Mexican, sipping on my drink bottle – next thing you know, Mr Norris, the English master whirls around the staircase!
‘Would you mind repeating what you just said please Mr Roberts?’
Bob says “Bullo!”
I almost blew orange cordial out of my nostrils as I struggled to stop my back from shaking as I laughed so hard internally that it almost hurt!
A brilliant summation there Bob.
Norris was cool – had a shot at me for laughing and advised Bob not to speak so passionately or some such thing, then turned and left us to roll around the ground in hysterics.
Another time, I think I mistakenly stumbled over Bob’s bag. They were the old Adidas, fake leather looking sports bag things – in the days before people used backpacks.
So Bob sees me kick his bag and retaliates by kicking mine twice as far, so then I reef his as hard as I can, and he does the same to mine. But I feel he got the better of me – so I grab his bag by the handles and throw it with all my might upwards against the underside of the concrete balcony. Then Bob rips the handles clean off my bag so I’ve gotta carry it under my arm like a football.
So during our next class – which is a double period of Art – we have to leave our bags out the front (in case someone has an idea to steal used art-supplies).
Slowly simmering about my damaged bag, I set to work – I pulled apart a pencil sharpener and took the blade outside and slice the bottom out of Bob’s bag along three sides, so all his sh1t would fall out.
As I said earlier – things sometimes escalated quickly.
I think we both got in strife from our respective Mum’s re the bag issue and I remember another time sitting through half a day of classes with only one sleave – I copped it at home for that one too (though I can’t recall what I did to justify him ripping it off me).
After we left school in 1984, a bunch of the guys stayed in touch through drinking at the same venues on weekends and a few trips away, 21st birthday celebrations and even a wedding and a kid.
Some of the old watering holes include Mounties, The Stoppa, Sweethearts, Alexanders, The Sound Factory, Cabra Diggers, Livo RSL, Fairfield RSL, Parramatta Leagues, Stallions at Parra, Suttos (for the extreme Desperados), Cabra Leagues and various other establishments around town.
Every now and then I’d catch the train to Parramatta on a Friday arvo and meet Bob and his work mates at the Collector Tavern (he worked in Parra at the Electricity Mob). From there we’d adjourn to Parra Leagues for dollar drinks – and then, after we were well and truly rocking, we’d go to Stallions nightclub (in Church Street, I think).
One time though – Bob brought one of his work mates to Mounties on a Friday night – to see The Beatnix (an excellent Beatles cover band). His mate Jim actually lived out that way – up around Prairiewood or Greenfield Park or something.
Jim’s full name was actually Jim Hymen – they called him ‘Buster’.
Anyway, we were having a few schooners and a few rounds of snooker – Buster Hymen was doing his best to keep up. By this time, we used to give it a nudge – and so we did that night.
We caught the 9:30 session of the Beatnix and continued drinking jugs of beer in the auditorium – it was great fun!
That was until Buster lost control – he spewed his guts up and p1ssed his pants.
We went to take him home and he fell over in the car park and ripped his trousers at the knees.
I think Bob was driving his old ’68 Monaro and there was Myself, Buster, Brett Symons, Al Waters and maybe Pete Hodge.
We drove up round Buster’s neighbourhood so he could point out his house – he was beyond recalling his actual address by this time.
He pointed to one place and a couple of us got out, carrying Buster upright – an arm over each shoulder, like the front row of a scrum.
I knocked loudly on the screen door and after a while, the front timber door opened. The screen door was one of those types where you can see out but can’t see in – so I said “G’day – we’ve brought your son home”
This was met with a barrage of excited and animated rantings in a dialect I guessed to be Cantonese – Yep, it was the wrong house – turns out that they didn’t have a son called Buster.
In addition – Buster Hymen’s parents weren’t even Asian! Which kind of made sense, because neither was he.
The second house that our legless colleague claimed he lived in was opened by a large bear of a man – he had stooped shoulders, an open dressing-gown and a head like Boris Yeltsin! He too made it quite clear that our man Jim would not be staying the night at his place.
We gave him one more shot to find his house and after strike three, someone said ‘Well f*ck ya Buster, you can come with us till you sober up – but no more p1ssin’ ya pants!’
We continued on to someone’s house in Fairfield West, or Smithfield – I think it may have been Al Waters’ joint. Buster spewed one more time and the bulk of the vomitus dribbled down between the outer skin of the Monaro and the inner door trim, making it a bitch to clean up the next day.
Sprawled on the floor, unconsciously confined to the torturous sleep of the alcoholically condemned was the last vision I ever had of Jim ‘Buster’ Hymen. I guess someone drove him home the next day – when he could once again recall his address – but I bet the flashbacks of wet pants and skinned knees still haunt him to this day.
Unfortunately, as such things do – the boys eventually all drifted apart and moved on.
Enter computers, mobile phones, the internet, digital cameras, Google Earth, Facebook, cheap domestic flights.
I took to Facebook begrudgingly, as I had set up a MySpace page whose format I much preferred – but found, like the Beta tape and Vinyl LP album – no bastard was using it anymore.
I found Mark ‘Lucky’ Luckwell on FB and followed his impressive pursuits in the dart realm for a while.
It stood out to me that Mark was still the genuine, fair minded gentleman he’d been as a young fella.
I became ‘friends’ with a few other old mates, commented on posts and checked their photos.
We are the first generation that has been able to do this. I reckon most people would occasionally wonder how old friends, or even enemies, are getting on in life.
The generation older than us largely ignore FB and such and so have missed this opportunity – our generation is at an age where we are still young enough to embrace the available technology and yet old enough to make spying interesting!
To his credit, I believe inspired by his experience organising ‘Friendly’ International darts competitions, Lucky Luckwell proposed we organise a school reunion this year. The suggestion had credit and thus the organisational wheels were set in motion.
It’s been very interesting as more and more ex-students have been ratted out of their respective burrows and have jumped on board.
Special mention goes to Helen Heckenberg – who was the Hermione Granger of our year and has done a fantastic job investigating and chasing down several illusive fugitives whom no one else could find!
Helen was always a sensible girl, very clever, respected by everyone – and if you ever had a doubt about the right thing to do, you could ask Helen and she’d set you straight. She had an indefectible moral compass – and like Hermione, she grew more attractive every year.
With a hundred and fifty kids all up – there are some I would swear I’ve never seen or heard of before and I’m sure didn’t go to school with me. But others are convinced they were there.
There are hot girls who remain hot women to this very day. There are some girls whose looks have improved since high school. Some people look much older – some not so much. There is one bloke from a few years below me who now looks like my grandfather!
There are some chicks who you secretly hope had failed marriages and might be once again on the market.
You inspect some photos and wonder how the hell they ended up with them?!
However – the thing that I found most astounding is that people’s personalities have changed very little from when we went to school!
In my mind these people remain 17 years old – I’m chatting to someone within spitting distance of 50 years old, and my mind somehow refuses to recognise them beyond the summer of ’84!
It’s freaking me out.
The plan is to have the Reunion at Mounties – an old stomping ground of mine.
I fear that if I were to attend, force of habit would find me next morning in my old bedroom, spread eagle on the single bed with half a kebab and a schooner of cold water on the floor beside – having walked drunkenly home on auto-pilot, like so many times before.
Unfortunately my old house was sold to a Vietnamese family about three years ago and I imagine they would become frightened as my inebriated snoring reached a crescendo and woke themselves (and possibly a few ancestors) from their silent slumber in the next bedroom.
Karen, who has assisted Mark in the organisation of this whole affair, is working furiously on putting together a video/slideshow of the people in our year – including those who are unable to attend.
She asked me to record a few words of greeting to the folk who will be there on Saturday night. So feeling a little tired and emotional after a night at the pub, I opened a rather robust Cabernet Sauvignon, sat down with my Iphone and commenced an eight minute monologue.
Having watched it back the next day, I realised it sounded like a Tony Abbott media address – with too many um’s & arr’s as my foggy mind struggled to plan what to say next.
That too was an unusual experience – sitting in an empty room addressing a phone, as though it were forty of my fifty-seventeen year old friends.
It appears there is little left to do now – except look forward to the photos and reports of the night.
The physical party aside, I think it has been a worthy achievement to simply get all the players back in contact – some will no doubt choose to fade back into the ether, but I’m sure others will once again keep in contact when the whole show is over.
The teenage years have a huge influence on the rest of your life and the strong bonds formed back then are definitely hard to break.