It Was 30 Years Ago Today
My old private Catholic boys school in Perth flew me over to give a speech thirty years after I had given a similar one at a dinner for our year when we finished school. Here’s a couple of the ‘’member when’ bits.
I went to an all-boys private school, so naturally I don’t remember anyone’s first name. If I do remember someone’s first name, it’s because they had a weird one, like Carmello or Hugh. I definitely remember the full name of Matt Cuomo, son of my Grade Four teacher, Mrs Cuomo. Everybody was trying to be his friend, because of the rumour that went around that when there was a sleepover, Mrs Cuomo kissed you goodnight... topless. Obviously, this rumour was false, but that didn’t stop me knocking the top off to it for years.
There was a kid called Tinley, who’d sharpen his pencil to a fine point, then stab you with it when you’d least expect it. He’s probably a nurse in a blood donor clinic now. Another, called Beasley, always tried to be helpful, but got it wrong. He tried to prove to Mrs Cuomo that the cleaners used turpentine to clean the carpets, by setting it alight with a box of matches. Last anyone heard of him he was said to be dumping bikes in the Swan River. Still misunderstood, he was actually just washing the bikes.
There was Mrs O’Connor, who taught us science and would chuck your homework out the window if you hadn’t ruled the margins correctly. She died suddenly one day; not really a shock, as we thought she was an 800-year-old crone. We had a list of subjects on the board and, when she died, someone stood up (when the teacher wasn’t there), rubbed out the word ‘science’ and said, ‘One down, only five more subjects to go.’ The whole school lined the drive behind the cathedral as her funeral procession left the school. In the last car was her nephew, who his aunty treated harshly so not to show favouritism, smiling broadly and waving merrily to us as the motorcade passed. We thought this was a tad unusual as a way to express his grief.
Mr Maloney – or ‘the whispering Ghost’, which was how we knew him – was the Grade Six teacher next-door to our classroom, who would keep an eye on us when Mrs Cuomo had to leave the class. Naturally, as soon as the teacher left, mayhem ensued. With all the noise and playing-up going on, we never noticed Mr Maloney – a skeleton, although one covered with paper-thin skin – appear at the door. Mr Maloney would then point to the kids in trouble (‘Master Quartermaine...’), and hand out the punishment to the troublemakers, or as I know them now, the kids who ended up becoming cops. Mr Maloney had a lucky dip box to decide our punishment: one-hour or two-hour detention; clean up the quadrangle; six of the best; or, and this was the bit that excited us all, a get out of gaol free card. Mr Maloney taught us about life, letting us know that all things, including punishment, have an element of luck. It wasn’t until years later that I bet there wasn’t even a ‘get out of gaol free’ card in the box. An even better life lesson.
In Grade Six, I had Brother Babyface, which is as much as I want to remember about him. As we stood in line outside our class, John Driscoll, who was standing next to me, said we should sing the song ‘Baby Face’ to him. So, as we passed him, I belted out ‘Baby face, you got the cutest little...’... Solo! I belted out that song and got belted.
In Grade Seven, I had Brother Fitzgerald or ‘Fitzy’ (‘Fitzy’s coming!’); a strict teacher, who tried to teach us all too much. We were terrified of him, when, as our junior school headmaster, he’d run his pencil down the hair at the back of your neck and tell you to get it cut if it was too long. I believe we all now have severe neck problems because we spent the whole of junior school craning our necks forward so that our hair didn’t look too long. The scariest thing about Br Fitz was the way he used to hide his strap up his sleeve and drop it silently, like he was a Bond assassin, and give us six of the best.
When I was challenged to my only fight in Grade Seven, by a kid called Hughes, he said, ‘Meet you behind the rowing shed after school.’ I said OK, and then never turned up. I thought his missing the bus home was a victory for me, with me not getting hurt a bonus.
‘Toothpasting’ became a school-camp fad. This dubious peer torture involved about twenty blokes holding down a single student, while one of them applied a handful of toothpaste to the victim’s genitals. The group would then stand around and, without a trace of irony, call the victim ‘gay’ .
A pool was built at the school in my early years there. After class one day, I saw a line of boys coming from the toilets. Naturally, I stood in line to see what was up. To the beat of a continually flushing toilet, I saw that the queue led to one of the cubicles. Finally, I reached the toilet, to see a giant workman’s poo protruding from the bowl like a brown monolith. I took my turn to flush, which made no discernable difference to the brown monolith. ‘Next,’ I cried as I moved off to catch the bus, happy that my horizons had been broadened.
Matt Quartermaine is a Melbourne-based writer and comedian. He can be seen taking part in ‘The Chat’ (See four grown men in comfortable chairs spill their guts!) every Friday night from 8:30 at the Maori Chief Hotel, corner of Moray and York streets, South Melbourne. Entry is free. Click here to read Matt's article about ‘The Chat’ podcast (available at iTunes) in ‘The Age’.
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