‘Never mind all that, champ. If they knew about that stuff they wouldn’t just be asking me in for a chat; they’d be ready to prosecute. If you ask me, they’re just fishing for info because they don’t have enough evidence to make a case. Provided I don’t give them anything, we should be fine.’
This was followed by a full day of a game called, ‘surely they wouldn’t’. The rules of the game are simple. You start by saying ‘surely they wouldn’t’, then insert a thing that they surely wouldn’t do and finish with a rationalisation as to why they surely wouldn’t do it. This rationalisation is often best followed by a grand statement like ‘no reasonable man would convict me of that’.
‘Surely they wouldn’t press criminal charges. We were just trying to have a bit of fun. No reasonable man would convict me of that.’
‘Surely they wouldn’t make me pay the repair costs. They have insurance for things like that. Nobody in their right mind would go after one man for the money.’
‘Surely they wouldn’t take things that seriously. I was just playing a trick on a mate and made a simple mistake. No court in the land would convict me of that. It would just be Un-Australian.’
Ah, the old ‘Un-Australian’ defence. The last refuge of the damned.
On day three, anger came swiftly to my father. By his logic, there’s no way they could have known that he was responsible for the gas leak unless someone had blabbed.
‘Bloody Roger. That rat. I told him not to tell Richard. That doesn’t mean he can tell bloody Gas & Fuel. That fink.’
‘Let’s not leap to conclusions, Dad. We don’t know it was him.’
‘Well, who else could it be? The only other witness was . . . Where have you been going during the day?’
‘To school, Dad.’
‘And you have witnesses?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then it had to be Roger. And if he thinks I’m going to take the rap for this without taking him down with me, he is an idiot. Something tells me his wife would appreciate a phone call.’
Thankfully the personal destruction of Roger became a lower priority to my dad than bargaining his way out of trouble, which he started considering on day six.
‘I could do time for this.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic, Ron. I’m sure you’ll be able to sort it all out.’
‘No, Pammy. We can’t be that naïve. Maybe if I plead guilty, they’ll go easy on me.’
‘Why don’t you just go in and see what they have to say about it?’
‘Maybe if I pay the repair bill they will drop all the charges.’
‘You don’t even know if there are charges.’
‘Maybe community service. I could go around to schools telling them that gas is no laughing matter.’
‘I don’t know how successful that would be.’
‘What? Are you saying the youth of today couldn’t learn from my tragic tale of gas?’
‘I’m sure they could. I just doubt it could be anything other than a laughing matter.’
Come day eight, in the depression stage, the minutiae of life took on great significance. Each act, moment or event was commented on, as though being recorded for some great archive that would be open to the public upon my dad’s release from prison.
‘Take a good look at this salmon patty. This could be the last salmon patty I eat for a while. Yep. Won’t be getting any salmon patties in the clink, that’s for sure. When people on the inside ask me what freedom tastes like, I’ll tell them it tastes like salmon patties with tartare sauce.’
As the big day drew nearer, Dad moved on to acceptance, trying to find the silver lining for this ridiculous cloud.
‘Learn from me, son. Don’t make the same mistakes I’ve made. Practical jokes are more dangerous than you think. Sure, they seem like fun. But before you know it you’re going to jail. Don’t do it, son. Become a lawyer, keep your head down and leave jokes to the professionals. You don’t want to end up a jailbird like your old man.’
Thursday morning rolled around and Dad left home for what he believed could be the last time. He had worked himself into such a state that he reasonably expected the legal offices of the Gas & Fuel Corporation would have an on-site court for the immediate criminal trial of wretches such as himself. This would of course be directly adjacent to a holding cell and penal processing office. His deluded fantasy barely stopped short of being dispatched on a convict vessel, bound for exile in a new colony. It certainly didn’t include even the slight realisation that the constitution of Australia in no way endowed a quasi-governmental utility service provider with any legal standing to hear criminal cases or administer punishment. At best it could impose a late payment fee or immediately dispatch a man in a blue jumper to re-read your meter. Other than that it was an almost purely administrative authority. This was a legal detail lost on my father as he made his melancholy journey to St Kilda.
Dad parked his car at the bottom of The Esplanade and reluctantly made his way to the corner of Acland Street, counting the numbers as he went. As he did so he took big lungfuls of sea air, hoping the smell of salt would linger in his nostrils on his first night in the big house.
He came to number eighteen. He looked at it. He checked the address written on the piece of paper then returned his gaze to number eighteen Acland Street. Looking back at him was the big, laughing, neon face of Luna Park.
Dad dropped to his knees with sheer relief, intoxicated with the heady waft of freedom. He thought about kissing the ground but out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a hobo urinating on a dumpster and thought better of it. He stood up, looked at the piece of paper and back at Luna Park. All he could say was, ‘Bloody. Brilliant.’
He immediately rang the number of the Gas & Fuel legal department to offer congratulations.
‘Gas & Fuel legal department, can you hold please?’
‘Of course.’
The Beethoven kicked in again and Dad began to giggle.
‘Gas & Fuel legal department. How may I direct your call?’
‘I’d like to speak to Richard bloody Opie.’
The receptionist on the other end of the line burst out laughing. This laughter was joined by the laughter of others and then a smattering of applause. Finally a familiar voice came on the line.
‘This is Richard Opie speaking.’
After some prodding Richard revealed the true magnitude of his operation. At his office he had arranged for a second phone line to be installed. This was connected to a red telephone and his receptionist was given a very specific script to follow whenever the red phone rang. The red phone was also connected to a tape recorder loaded with a Beethoven cassette and a second red phone which sat on the desk of Richard’s assistant Carol A.K.A. Carolyn Winters. All of this took place directly in front of Richard’s office where he sat laughing like a drain. All in all it was a masterpiece.
For six months after Dad’s brush with the law, nothing happened. After a significant wake-up call, Dad and I resumed trying to learn whatever lesson we were meant to learn from it. Possibly the lesson was that we should learn to grow up and stop pulling pranks, but to be honest that just seemed too simple. We figured there was a greater selection of lessons on offer from this debacle, and with time and rumination we could learn a more valuable lesson which was far more in tune with our lifestyle. We just had to be patient.
The only problem was that for six months we had a bright red parking meter, welded to the top of an eight foot steel pole, sitting in our shed. Mocking us. A constant reminder of the failure of Operation Lovely Rita. We couldn’t go to the shed to get a hammer without feeling the sting of defeat. Some days it was as if Richard’s head were atop that pole, laughing at us.
One day, after fetching dad a beer from the fridge in the shed, it all became too much to ignore.
‘Hey, Dad. I was just thinking about Operation Lovely Rita.’
‘What were you thinking, champ?’
‘I was just wondering what lesson we�
�re meant to learn from it.’
‘I don’t know. There are a lot of lessons you could learn. Like that a man’s got to know his limitations. Or dial before you dig. The list is almost endless.’
‘Well, I was thinking it might be something else, Dad.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, perhaps the lesson to learn here is that a job worth starting is a job worth finishing.’
‘You know, champ, that is a very important lesson to learn.’
‘I know.’
‘I know.’
‘I know.’
There was a brief pause as we realised we were slightly out of conversational sync and not entirely sure of what it was we knew we knew. This pause gave Dad just enough time to attempt some rational, grown-up thought.
‘But it’s too dangerous, son. We almost blew up an entire block. Maybe it’s best just to play it safe for a while.’
‘But that’s the thing, Dad. Sure we may have nearly blown up a suburb when we ruptured a gas main, but now we know exactly where that gas main is. This has pretty much become the safest prank we could ever pull.’
‘Well, that is another good point.’
‘I know.’
‘I know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘I know what I know, son.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I know that we’re not done with Operation Lovely Rita.’
‘Are we going to finish the job?’
‘Too bloody right we’re going to finish the job!’
‘When are we going to do it?’
‘Tonight!’
‘But he’ll be at home.’
‘Exactly, my boy! We’ll attack him when he least suspects it.’
Once again we waited for the cover of darkness and for the community of greater Shasta Avenue to turn in for the night. We loaded up the car with our agrarian grab bag of tools and headed for Richard’s. We cased the neighbourhood and everything seemed clear. There was no sign of Roger or his nightly fag. Perhaps he’d been doing some lesson learning of his own.
We carefully cut out a small patch of turf and dug a four foot hole a metre to the left of our previous attempt. Holding the pole in place, we filled the hole with concrete, leaving just enough room for two inches of soil at the top. We then relayed the turf and patted it down, leaving no indication of the extensive subterranean foundations. All up it took us about fifteen minutes. It’s amazing how quickly things can go when you don’t have to call in an emergency crew to avert disaster.
The next morning, at first light, Dad and I went around to Richard’s to check out our handiwork. It was a thing of beauty. As dawn broke over Shasta Avenue, shards of light sliced through the treetops and ricocheted off the bright red parking meter.
We didn’t say a word to each other. We just stood there, looking at it in all of its ridiculous perfection. Before we left we put a fake parking ticket on Richard’s windshield, took a photo and hugged. It had been over a year and a half since I’d read about the parking meter auction in the local rag and to say that we felt an enormous sense of achievement would be a drastic understatement. At that moment I think the two of us had some idea of how all those bespectacled blokes in the NASA control room felt the day Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon. It was, put simply, bloody magical.
Richard thought it was funny too. When he walked out to his car to go to work that morning he took one look at the parking meter and burst out laughing. He ran inside to share his excitement.
‘Cheryl! Come outside and see what Ronnie’s done.’
Cheryl came out and got the giggles as well.
‘So this is why we didn’t have any gas for a week.’
‘I know, Cheryl. It’s brilliant. It’s bloody brilliant.’
They took photos of it as well. And Richard stood for a good ten minutes admiring what he considered to be a hilarious, good spirited piece of harmless fun.
Or at least he did until he tried to get it out. No matter how hard he tried, the parking meter wouldn’t budge. He presumed the thing had just been rammed into the earth. He had no idea that four feet of steel and concrete lay beneath the surface. They tried pulling and pushing and tilting and shaking but it simply refused to move an inch. Finally, really putting his back into it, he gave it one last heave. His hand slipped off the pole and he went flying backwards, crashing ungracefully in the middle of Shasta Avenue.
Richard lay on his back in the middle of the road.
‘I think I’ve broken my bum.’
Cheryl ignored his plea and started laughing again.
‘Bastard, Pickering. Bastard.’
Richard then got the giggles too and laughed so long he was late for work.
This was the last prank my dad and I ever pulled together. The following year I went to university and things like cars, beer and losing my virginity seemed far more important than hanging out with my dad. I was in a rush to discover myself, be my own person and a whole bunch of other tedious clichéd euphemisms for being selfish and young. We grew apart, grew more different and, over time, grew to frustrate each other. I would never have admitted it at the time but when you exist in a world almost devoid of responsibility it is very easy to be flippant about the few genuine parts of your life.
Some years later, my dad and I have a lot more in common. These include things like family, responsibilities and the constant inconvenience of having to be a grown-up. The guy that taught me to kick a football, ride a bike and hammer a nail has become the guy that taught me how to buy a house. The truly remarkable thing is that it is completely the same guy. The guy that gave me what I most needed to make it in the world—a pathological desire to make people laugh.
Epilogue
After telling this story on stage one night, I was asked by a member of the audience if Richard and Dad still do it? Are they still at war? The short answer is: no.
This is for a couple of reasons. Firstly, they are starting to get a little long in the tooth and the idea of fleeing a potential gas explosion on foot is beginning to sound both unappealing and unfeasible. Secondly, and most importantly, Cheryl made Richard sell their house to move into some kind of maximum-security apartment and, frankly, we just can’t get at them. We have tried to get fake security passes and convincing disguises, but in these times of heightened security people really do seem to have lost their sense of humour.
That said, Dad hasn’t changed at all. I was reminded of this a couple of years ago, around the time of the 2006 Victorian state election. I was living in London and rang home to chat with Mum as she cleaned up after a Sunday night family dinner.
‘How was dinner?’
‘It was good. Your dad is hilarious.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘No, seriously. He’s hilarious.’
And then she told me about dinner.
All had been going well, with good wine, conversation and laughter in abundance, but my dad seemed to be out of sorts. He wasn’t really participating in the dinner conversation. The longer the night went on, the more detached he became. By the time the main course was served, my mum couldn’t let it go any longer.
‘Ron, are you ok?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Really? Because you look a little . . . depressed.’
’Well, it’s just that . . . No. It’s not important.’
‘No really, Ron. You should tell us.’
‘Well, you see, tonight, when I was driving home from work I got stuck at the lights and noticed something. I noticed that a house on one corner of the intersection had a Liberal Party election sign in their front yard. And the house opposite had a Labor Party sign in their front yard. And the more I sit here thinking about it . . . geez I wish I’d swapped those signs.’
Everyone laughed.
‘Seriously. It was there for the bloody taking and I let it go.’
The dinner continued from there, Dad cheering up and everyone thinking they’d heard the end of it. The
n, just as dessert was being cleared and coffee served, apropos of nothing, Dad stood up from the table.
‘Bugger it. I’m going to change the signs.’
With that he walked out the door.
And that is why I love my dad.
Acknowledgements
I have dedicated this book to my family, but significant thanks must go to Richard Opie and the entire Opie family for not only giving me such wonderful memories, but for letting me share those memories with the world. A truly great sense of humour means not only making jokes but being the good-humoured subject of them as well.
This book would not have happened if it weren’t for a wonderful woman named Jo Paul who came and saw Impractical Jokes in a little theatre in Sydney and signed me up to Allen & Unwin. She gave me great advice along the way and her colleagues Sue Hines and Lauren Finger very gracefully cracked the whip and got me to my deadline with seconds to spare.
Also, this book would simply not have been possible without the help, support, guidance, work and love of Claire Hammond, WG ‘Snuffy’ Waldon, Kennedy, Kevin Whyte, Erin Zamagni, Veronica Barton, Kathleen McCarthy, Georgie Ogilvie, Dioni Meliss, Zoe Pyke, Georgia Chadwick, Lana Matafanov, Nick Pullen, Shaun Micallef, Tony Martin, Terri Psiakis, Justin Hamilton, Danny McGinlay and Sarah Krasnostein.
Table of Contents
COVER PAGE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
DEDICATION
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
1. THE GENERALS: PART 1: RONALD LEONARD PICKERING
2. THE GENERALS: PART 2: RICHARD OPIE
3. A SHOT HEARD AROUND THE RESTAURANT
4. BEHIND ENEMY LINES
5. CODENAME: POODLE
6. FLINDERS
7. MISINFORMATION, DISINFORMATION AND GODDAMNED LIES
8. TROUBLE IN THE PACIFIC THEATRE
9. A TALE OF TWO TOILETS
10. THE WINTER CAMPAIGN OF 1991
11. MUST HAVE GOOD SENSE OF HUMOUR
12. A FULL-SIZED GAVIN WANGANEEN
13. OPERATION LOVELY RITA—PART 1
Impractical Jokes Page 14