Killer's Killer Spaghetti

I arrived in Toronto in early 1967. About a year later, a friend from Sydney—Terry Kilderry—joined me. My apartment wasn’t big enough for the two of us so we looked for other accommodation. We found the ideal spot on Eglinton Avenue, just east of Mt. Pleasant. A couple of Englishmen had the house and were renting out rooms.

Killer & Lightning*

During our search, while driving around in Terry’s car, for some reason the two of us began clowning around belting each other on the arm. “Careful,” Terry warned me. “They don’t call me ‘Killer’ Kilderry for nothing.”

“It’s you who should watch out,” I replied. “I’m known as ‘Lightning’ Lawson’.”

Whether Terry made up his name on the spur of the moment I don’t know. I did with mine and to this day I’m still known as ‘Lightning’ to some people.

When ‘Killer’ and I moved into the house on Eglinton, the only other tenant was ‘Big Dave’ Small—another Englishman—making for a total of five residents. ‘Big Dave’ was a strange bird. While the four of us spent the majority of our evenings out bar-hopping or partying in pursuit of females, Dave appeared content to remain at home. I think he disliked the idea of spending money on anything that would eventually find its way into a toilet.

We’d leave him perched upon a beer-barrel in a corner of the kitchen drinking a cup of tea. I’ve no idea what he did during the time we were out but he was usually there on his barrel when we arrived home—a fact which often presented a problem whenever one of us returned with a young lady in tow with seduction in mind.

Dave’s barrel afforded him a perfect view of the front door. He was like a spider lurking on the fringes of its web waiting for a fly. “I’ve just brewed a fresh pot of tea,” he’d announce. “Surely the lady would like a cup.” He was sneaky that way, addressing his offer to the girl, who invariably found it difficult to refuse.

So, rather than getting on with the intended business of the evening, Dave’s victims would be forced to endure polite idle chatter for half an hour or so whilst forcing weak tea down their gullets.

Six months or so later, ‘Big Dave’ bought himself a used Ford Falcon. But not having enough money to insure it, the thing sat out in the back garden while he accumulated his pennies. Every evening after supper, he’d take his cup of tea out to the prized vehicle, start the engine and sit there with the radio playing.

One night, ‘Killer’ threw a dinner party for about ten of us. The meal was to be his famous (according to him) spaghetti. As it bubbled away on the stove we sat around the table guzzling beer and telling tall tales. Dave was out back sitting in his car with his tea.

‘Killer’ was in the middle of a lengthy anecdote when Dave burst into the dining room in an agitated state. ‘Killer’ ploughed on with his story despite our house-mate’s obvious distress. Only when the punch line had been delivered did the ever-polite Dave interrupt the proceedings. “Excuse me,” he said. “But my car’s on fire.”

One of the guys grabbed a fire extinguisher as we all raced outside. Sure enough, smoke was issuing from the vehicle’s engine compartment. While the one with the extinguisher stood poised ready for action, someone else lifted the hood.

With the added oxygen, the previously smouldering fire burst into life. The trigger of the extinguisher was depressed and a gob of foam plopped to the ground. Unchecked, the flames leaped into the night sky.

It was then that ‘Killer’ sprang into action—he went darting back into the house, returned with his huge pot of spaghetti and heaved the contents onto the car’s engine. The flames were no match for ‘Killer’s’ ‘famous’ concoction.

But the vehicle was beyond repair. Dave had owned the thing for perhaps two months and had yet to actually drive it. Next day, poor old Dave could only watch forlornly as his pride and joy was towed from the back garden on its way to the wreckers.

*We were congratulating ourselves after converting a canoe into a square-rigger with the aid of bed-sheets. She wasn't bad downwind.

Edited by Davina

Clam Comes into the Chips

Memory blurs—I can’t recall exactly what took me down to Nassau, Bahamas on this particular occasion. Some sort of monkey-business I imagine. I’d planned on flying in and out the same day.

Last time I’d been there—some six months previous—my old diving buddy, Alex 'Captain' Clam had been camping out aboard his nineteen-foot Seacraft runabout at the Nassau Harbour Club. I had a few hours to kill before my flight back to Miami so I took a cab to the Harbour Club and asked after Alex at the bar.

Captain Clam

Any other time I’d had cause to make inquiries after my friend Clam, I’d always noticed a degree of disdain accompanying the reply—a wrinkling of the nose as if at an unpleasant odour. But on this particular occasion the bartender was strangely deferential. “Mister Clam? Yes SIR! Pier One, berth A.”

Tied up at Pier One, berth A was this monster of a power boat. She was around eighty feet long and rather handsome for a stink-pot. Ahh, thinks I—Clam’s got himself a captain’s job. But I was proven to be wrong.

I took myself aboard, banged on a door and a few minutes later Clam emerged in a silk, monogrammed dressing gown. “Lawson,” he exclaimed upon seeing me. “Welcome aboard my new vessel. We’ll take her for a spin around the island.” Clam had always held the vague belief that he was the re-incarnation of W.C.Fields. In his everyday speech, he affected the deceased actor’s unique drawl.

Well, in the six months since we’d last seen each other, this seemed like an extraordinary step up the financial ladder for him; from sleeping under a tarpaulin aboard a nineteen-foot runabout to this?. “Your fortunes appear to have improved considerably since I last saw you,” I remarked when we got under way.

“Ah, yes,” he replied with a wide grin. “Let me tell you how I got this little baby…”

I jumped in quickly to cut him off. “I’d rather not know, Alex.” I knew it must have been something shady and, as one never knows when one might be summoned to give evidence in a court of law, I've always considered it better to remain ignorant of certain matters.

Clam's New  Vessel

By the end of our voyage we were getting close to the end of a bottle of rum and Clam invited me to stay on. I had nothing pressing happening at the time, so I did—for two weeks.

But there’s no such thing as smooth sailing where Captain Clam is concerned—a week into my vacation, the vessel was seized by the Bahamian authorities and a watchman put aboard to make sure it didn’t leave the dock.  We were, however, permitted to remain on board until matters were sorted out.

Clam gave me a rather colourful version of the circumstances behind the seizure, painting himself as the wronged party. But then the Captain was prone to telling an occasional fib—even to his friends. I later discovered that he’d put a down payment on the boat and sailed off to the Bahamas, neglecting to complete the transaction.

As it turned out, the night-watchman—an amiable chap who went by the name of Lincoln—was a bit of a lush. No, I lie. He was an out-and-out lush. (and coming from me, this is quite a compliment). Clam and I conducted experiments and discovered that Lincoln would imbibe anything put in front of him.

So, Clam and yours truly plotted to exploit this weakness: We would re-take the vessel on Lincoln's watch. Our plan was to feed him alcohol until he passed out then sneak away around one in the morning. We’d drop him off at one of the out islands then head for the open sea. We even bought a mosquito-proof tent so Lincoln wouldn’t be drained of blood while he awaited rescue.

The morning before the planned recapture of the vessel, I happened to emerge from the breakfast-room at the Harbour Club to find Clam on the public phone. I caught a snatch of his conversation, “…a drunk. Lawson and I are taking the boat tonight...” Clam was incapable of talking softly—half of Nassau could have heard him. I gave him my darkest scowl of disapproval.

When I moved away, I spied Lonnie Pinder lurking in a doorway. Lonnie was a local who kept his boat at the Club and harboured a deep hatred for Clam for some reason. He was grinning wickedly—he'd obviously heard Clam’s every word.

That evening, at the change of the watchman shift, there was no sign of Lincoln. A new, rather serious-looking fellow had taken his place. When Clam offered this new man a drink, he declined. “No thank you Captain,” he said with a smirk that told us everything, “I’m not partial to strong drink.”

Needless to say, Clam lost the vessel.

Edited by Davina 

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

Metamorphosing Yacht and Rob gets Hammered

A couple of weeks ago I told the tale of Harold’s metamorphosing suit—which went from a size 44 to 40 during a rainstorm.

Well, not to be outdone, let me tell you about my metamorphosing sailing vessel—the ‘Bevan’. According to her certificate of registry she had an overall length of fifty-six feet. But this length proved in fact, to be rather elastic.

The Elastic 'Bevan'

Allow me to explain: When it came to dealing with a boatyard for haulage or slippage (they charge by the foot and most don’t look at papers), the ‘Bevan’ would shrink to around fifty feet. But for a girl in a bar the vessel would miraculously extend to around sixty feet. An exceptionally pretty girl might get it up to sixty-five!

However this week’s blog is not about my metamorphosing yacht, it involves my two great pals Rob and Willie when we were living in Gibraltar.

Rob was always the steadying influence. While Willie and I tended to become somewhat ‘rollicky’ at whatever bar we happened to be slurping at, Rob would exhibit extraordinary restraint.

But on this one particular occasion he threw caution to the wind.

We were at the Black Swan. And for whatever reason—somebody’s birthday perhaps—John Holland, our landlord and friend, did an after-hours thing for us regulars. The end result was that Rob managed to get hammered.

He had recently purchased a motor-scooter. It was kind of beaten up but for some reason, he was extremely proud of it. He wouldn’t even allow me to ride the damn thing because I was considered ‘too irresponsible’.

Fair enough.

When we left the trough at around three in the morning, ‘Rob the Righteous’ heaved responsibility out the door. The three of us piled onto the scooter—Rob, Willie sandwiched in the middle, and me at the rear (with the family jewels perilously close to the spinning back wheel).

I don’t recall the exact circumstance as to why I had taken a bugle to the bar, but I had—and as we roared down the main street at three in the morning, I blew on it with gusto.

Surprise, surprise! The police were roused from their slumber by my brilliant rendition of ‘Abdul The Wanker’ and a roadblock was hastily assembled on the main street. This our fearless commander Rob deftly avoided by ducking up a cobbled lane.

In those days, the police communicated with each other by blowing on whistles. From all around us now came the shrill piping of these instruments.

But they didn’t really need them to telegraph our position because between our uproarious laughter and my strangling of the bugle there could be no doubt as to our location.

Me, Rob, Willie

Gibraltar is a maze of tangled alleyways and passages and Rob swooped through these without a care in the world. At one point we went flying down a set of shallow steps and somehow managed to remain upright.

Eventually though, we were cornered and our romp was curtailed.

At the police station, the sergeant asked us, “What on earth did you think you were doing?” I don’t believe it was a rhetorical question, I think our actions were simply beyond the scope of his understanding. He probably had a very orderly mind.

The three of us were a trifle bewildered by the question. Do you have to have a reason for doing something stupid? After a long moment‘s silence Rob summed it up with, “I’m not sure.”

“Just get out of here!” said the sergeant. Cops in those days were neat guys.

Edited by Davina

To Pee or not to Pee, that is the question…

My other half has insisted that this particular story be told. Needless to say it is at my expense. I didn’t find it particularly humorous, but Davina did, so I hand the keyboard over to her:

At the time of this incident we were living in Kitchener, Ontario. Peter’s pal Rob had invited us over to his place to watch an important football game. Although Peter has little interest in football, the event provided a wonderful opportunity for the boys to consume vast amounts of beer.

Playing the role of dutiful ‘wife’ I endured the afternoon whilst the two members of the opposite sex cheered, groaned and guffawed depending upon what was occurring on the screen.

Davina--my saviour

When it came time to leave, I paid a visit to the washroom. I’d had two beers myself. Peter must have sloshed down around ten or twelve, but when I suggested he might care to visit the can, would he listen? Of course not. He’s a bloke. And an Australian to boot. Why would he heed the advice of a mere Sheila? He’d be fine until we got home—about a twenty minute walk.

Well, off we go. Ten minutes into the walk, our hero begins anxiously looking around for somewhere to sneak behind to relieve himself. But there’s nowhere. We’re on a main street with nothing but stores. “Why didn’t you go back at Rob’s?” I inquire.

“I didn’t need to then,” he says.

Duh! Why anyone who’d just knocked back almost a gallon of beer wouldn’t realize it would have to come out—quite soon—is beyond me. I can only assume that the alcohol had dulled his reasoning—or, more likely, removed it entirely.

Anyway, my lord then informs me that we might have to pick up our pace a little. So now a pleasant afternoon stroll turns into something just short of an Olympic event.

But after a couple of minutes Peter makes another proclamation. Looking a trifle desperate now and not a little green around the gills, he announces. “I’ll have to run”.

So off he goes…..full tilt up the street and around the distant corner.

A few minutes later I round the corner – no sign of our desperado. I’m walking past a park that’s fringed with bushes when I hear a hissed, “Dee”. I look around. I see nothing but shrubbery. Then again, more urgently, “Dee!”

Finally I spot a rather sheepish-looking face all but invisible within the foliage. A hand issues forth holding the house key. “I’ve had a bit of an accident,” he announces. “Can you bring me back some pants?”

At this point I catch a glimpse of his two-tone Levis and double up with laughter.

“Dee, this is not funny,” he rebukes me sternly.

Au contraire, I think. Anyway, off I go—grinning from ear to ear. I return shortly to our stricken hero with trousers, a towel and a plastic bag.

I no longer have to remind him of the incident—a knowing look is all it takes to prompt an après beer drinking visit to the washroom.