Our Antipodean Raconteur

I am writing this on my last night in Trywn before heading back to Australia from my mum’s place which some of you may remember as the new year’s party central 1977-80.
It’s been a great visit to the old stamping ground with an opportunity to catch up with some Trywn identities including of course the Freddy Mercurial , Bob Longmuir at the Trywn tales corporate HQ in Elderslie. Bob has been kind enough to invite me onto TT (possibly on the strength of my White Deer of Arran report for the T&P in 1976), as special foreign correspondent offering unreliable memories to an audience that actually gives a Castlemaine xxxx, about the goings on in deepest, darkest Barassie Street all those years ago.
I can still see that gaunt gothic figure of Auld NickyPants stalking his prey like so many knock kneed gazelles at a waterhole, as we larked around in the boys lines after lunch break and playtime. Yes there he is Auld Nic exercising his time honoured ‘sneak up and slap on the back of the bare leg’, technique on the greatest larkee of all- Bobby McBean. Our Bob was oblivious to the approaching danger, whilst executing his favourite party trick –The Lizards Tongue. For those of you have forgotton the LT or are unfamiliar with the technique the recipe is as follows-
1)Bung about 10 -15 pink Trebor chews into mouth;2) Chew until saliva is sticky and thick;3) Bend over until nose is approximately 3 feet off the ground; 4)Ease gooey, pink saliva downwards until the tongue nearly hits the ground;5)Suck and retract tongue. 6) Repeat until saliva hits the ground or knees are taken away by hefty blow from Headmaster or henchperson. A great crowd pleaser back when kids didn’t need Playstations, i Pads and the like.
Another classic was when Bobby, sitting on benches outside Nic’s office, (possibly ahead of another disciplinary hearing), decides to liberate a goldfish (let’s call him Willy) from the School tank for a bit of freestyle in a puddle in the playground. I still remember seeing him hunched over, prodding Willy with a stick as the shadow of Auld Nick, eclipsed his wee moment of reverie in the watery Spring sun. Look out Bobby he’s behind you!
I was saddened to hear about the passing off that true TP champion Marion Bennie. I seem to recall her deft execution of the breaststroke at swimming lessons run by her dad in the glacial waters of the old Troon pool between April-June each year. Marion may well have lifted medal or two at the School swimming galas back in the days of wet towel flicks, salty nutritionally deficient soup in plastic cups, goose bumps and chittery bites. Mabye so, maybe no, but nobody could dispute her form in the Burns recitation and decent human being departments.


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