Reputation Surpasses Ability

I met Geoffrey whilst living in Coral Gables, Florida, sometime in the early 80’s. An educated Londoner, he was always ready with a witty retort to any slight or insult I might throw at him.

On one occasion when I mentioned that he appeared to be getting a trifle large around the backside, he looked down his nose at me and sniffed, “Lawson, you don’t drive a railway spike with a jeweller’s hammer.”

It emerged that Geoffrey had once worked at the legendary Scotland Yard police headquarters in London.

During one of our many sessions at our local bar, I asked him if there were any ‘bent’ coppers working out of the Yard. He mulled the question over carefully before replying, “As far as I know, only two: My boss and myself.”

Normally, I have nothing but contempt for criminals who hide behind a badge, but from what Geoffrey told me of the exploits of him and his boss, they seemed more like a pair of Robin Hoods rather than real criminals.

Apparently, a few of the lads from the Yard drank at the same pub as some of the villains.

“One night,” Geoffrey told me, “I was downing a couple of pints when someone I knew as Sid—a gentleman of dubious character—took me aside and thrust an envelope into my pocket. ‘See what you can do for Blackie,’ he said.

“Well, Blackie was an old lag who’d managed to skate by the law for most of his life. But this time he’d been well and truly stitched up. This time he was going away for a few years and there was absolutely nothing I could do to help him.

“I palmed the envelope back to Sid and told him, ‘Blackie’s had it this time. There’s nothing I can do.’ But Sid wasn’t to be deterred. ‘I know you can help,’ he says, shoving the envelope back into my pocket and slipping away.

“Well, by some miracle—and it truly was a miracle—Blackie managed to get off.

“The next time I’m at the pub, Sid sidles up to me and thrusts another envelope into my pocket. ‘Thanks Geoff,’ he says with a wink. I hadn’t done a bloody thing!”

Edited by Davina

My Father the Handyman

My father was an enthusiastic but somewhat unfortunate handyman. Leaving a hammer on top of a step-ladder and getting clunked on the head with it when he moved the ladder was not an infrequent occurrence.

Dad and his Helper

I normally played the part of his assistant, but on this memorable occasion, I’d gone to the beach leaving Dad to do some painting around the house.

I returned from the beach and was chatting to Mum in the kitchen when, from the side of the house came an almighty rattling crash.

When I raced outside, the extension ladder was lying on the ground alongside a great blotch of spilled paint. I looked up and there was Dad dangling from the peak of the roof, legs thrashing around as if trying to gain purchase from the air.

I couldn’t help myself—I doubled over with laughter. “Get the bloody ladder up here you little bastard,” Dad yelled at me. (In times of stress he regularly questioned my legitimacy). I managed to compose myself long enough to resurrect the ladder.

For many years after, the paint splotch on the side path served as a reminder of this little incident.

Another time was equally memorable: A previous owner of our house had erected a fibrous cement extension on the back of it. At this time, cheap houses in Australia were sometimes constructed entirely from this material—it was not pleasing to the eye.

So Dad decided to parge the extension in order to render it more in keeping with the rest of the place.

While I mixed buckets of cement to the Pater’s consistency instructions, he carefully trowelled it on to the wall. After a full day’s toil, we finished around five in the evening and Dad stood back to admire his work.

He then poked his head through the back door to call Mum outside to feast her eyes upon the masterpiece.

Upon exiting the house, Mother closed the door a trifle too hard. Dad and I watched in fascination as, in slow motion, the cement slid from the wall…every last bit of it, coming to rest in a tidy heap on the ground.

Edited by Davina

Anyone for Tennis?

What with Andy Murray’s spectacular win at Wimbledon I thought I’d post a couple of highlights from my own tennis career.

Both of these occurred at the property of friends in Miami, Florida—Rod and Carol Mandelstam. Rod was quite well known in tennis circles, having been on a winning doubles team at Wimbledon at some stage in his career:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCMPy4O4EUw

The Mandelstams had a large property in South Miami with two tennis courts and a bunch of exotic birds roaming around the place. (I was reading in the garden one day when the wretched ostrich snuck up behind me, pecked my head and grabbed a bunch of my hair—and one of the stupid peacocks crippled itself when it saw its reflection in the chrome hub-cap of a car and kicked furiously at its perceived rival).

I haven’t seen Rod for years, but he was kind of conservative in nature when I knew him. But his friend Patrick—another tennis player—was, like me, rather partial to a glass or two of beer.

One afternoon, Patrick and I were quaffing a few ales when the subject of tennis came up. At the time I believe Patrick was ranked around 100^th in the world, but he claimed to have a serve faster than that of Bjorn Borg (who belted his serves over the net at around 120 MPH).

Patrick—aware of my limited prowess on the court— avowed that I couldn’t even touch one of his serves. Of course, after a few beers, I was not about to allow such a claim to go uncontested. And never mind the simply touching bit—idiot here bet him fifty dollars that out of twenty serves, I’d return two.

Well, I didn’t even see eighteen of them—they flew past me like bullets. I did however manage to make contact with the final two, but they almost knocked the racquet out of my hand.

Bye-bye fifty dollars!

The other memorable incident occurred with, instead of a racquet, a pistol in my hand. But it sort of had to do with tennis. It came about during a New Year’s Eve celebration at the Mandelstam's. There were only seven of us: Rod and Carol, Arthur Ashe and his wife Jeanne, Patrick, Yours Truly and wife Judy.

The evening went without a hitch until midnight, when Patrick pulled out a pistol and began firing into the air (a not uncommon practice down there on New Year's Eve). This seemed like wonderful sport to me. I knew where Rod kept his pistol so I borrowed it and joined Patrick. But rather than firing into the air, I threw a couple of beer cans into the swimming pool and the two of us began blasting away at them.

I noticed Arthur hiding behind a tree at one point and during a lull in the firing, he darted into the house to join Rod and the ladies.

Next morning when I phoned to thank Rod for the evening, he made a point of mentioning that he’d spent the last hour diving to remove spent bullets from the pool.

Edited by Davina