Three bad guys

Let me introduce you to a couple of scary friends of mine. Richard Green is in the red shirt and next to him is Pete Rodger. Both went to primary school with me and both remember things that I would rather they had forgotten. Indeed much that they remember I have managed to blank entirely from my memory. Richard is a professional opera singer, and the picture was taken during the week that he was performing the role of the Gardener in The Marriage of Figaro, here in Wellington. Pete is an economist, an adviser to NZ Prime Ministers and presently a consultant to several governments in the Pacific. Not seen are the lovely wives Jeanette and Annabelle, who joined Miang and me for a "Steamboat" chinese meal at our home.

Let me give you a sense of the badness of these men. Richard has written a set of memoirs, of which I am prepared here to reveal just a little. The memoirs begin

"I dedicate this foreword to all mothers of young boys, by way of assurance that the most bizarre behaviour is actually, in the human male, normal. Your lad might turn out quite well. He may become a physics professor, or an opera singer. Do not despair."

He then goes on

"Through my childhood I lived several hundred yards from Paul, and needed only to dial 39-474 if bored. Our parents were all stalwarts of the little St Alban’s Methodist Church in Wanganui East, we went to the same kindergarten, primary school, Sunday school and Bibleclass, and shared the same interest in girls’ bodies, melting lead, explosives, cars, brewing/distilling and music. Paul was an exciting but dangerous playmate, in as much as his boundaries of safety and common sense were set wider than anyone else’s. He pushed things that little bit further than could be considered best practice. That we both survived childhood and the teen years unscathed is very much a matter of good luck. Fire might well have taken us, an explosion or flying glass, a motor accident, electrocution, poison or a misfired medical experiment, but decades later we live to look back fondly on those years."

Enough.

And let me now recount one of Richard's memories of Pete.

"The violent streak in us was dissipated at play and lunchtime when we hurried out to the big lawn for keeney-seeney, otherwise known as bullrush. It was a mad helter-skelter where little kids risked being stampeded and the bullyboys triumphed. A new arrival at school, Peter Rodger, had the luck to get “in” on his first lunchtime, and called forth the only name he’d learned – Trevor Benson. The tackle he delivered appeared to break Trevor’s back, and keeney-seeney came under scrutiny. Then someone had the idea of getting the girls involved in this sport, and we soon found we could get our hands on interesting areas as we tackled them. Mrs Schnack was on duty, and intersex keeney-seeney ceased."

I have to say that Richard has a rather extraordinary memory. When he walked into my garage and saw an old painting of ballerinas from my childhood home, he identified it immediately, even recalling the aroma of the lounge, with its residue of coal smoke and my father's cigarettes. Of course, when his memories recall matters of an embarrassing nature, I am quite sure that he is mistaken.

I share these revelations with you, because some of you have questioned the existence of bad Paul. Bad Paul did exist, and unfortunately he had bad Richard and bad Pete as friends. Delightfully, we remain the best of buddies. Pity the poor wives when we three get together.