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Sex, Mayhem and a Good Laugh
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggereLunghezza: 315 pagine3 ore
- Editore:
- Chris Manktelow
- Pubblicato:
- Sep 14, 2020
- ISBN:
- 9781005771737
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
SEX, MAYHEM AND A GOOD LAUGH, now that I have your attention my work is autobiographical and contains three segments but not necessarily in equal proportion. As a fully paid up member of the Baby Boomer generation SEX was a learn as you go effort, mainly through on the job experience, MAYHEM abounded in many life experiences and a GOOD LAUGH happened; generally, at my expense.
As a combat Infantry soldier in the Vietnam War the MAYHEM was hard throttled at a more graphic and less pleasant level. I have included a confronting photo of wounded enemy soldier. SEX was in abundance and massively accessible in the flesh spots of Saigon and as a young. virile and desperate Soldier along with many others wanted to get my fill before combat events overtook this ambition. I would add that against a background of life and death events there were some circumstances which lent themselves to a GOOD LAUGH.
On discharge from the Army (1970) I joined Queensland’s finest and became a sworn member of the Queensland Police Service. Policing in that era was thoroughly steeped in graft and corrupt practices. Unfortunately, SEX didn’t feature prominently, but huge amounts of MAYHEM were and generated by the Police themselves and some funny things happened which gave rises to a GOOD LAUGH. As a newly minted Constable of Police corrupt practices were constantly in your face, readily available, no questions asked. Most took advantage of the situation but that stopped dead in its tracks by a thorough and comprehensive inquiry which managed to turn the moral compass in the proper direction.
Informazioni sul libro
Sex, Mayhem and a Good Laugh
Lunghezza: 315 pagine3 ore
Descrizione
SEX, MAYHEM AND A GOOD LAUGH, now that I have your attention my work is autobiographical and contains three segments but not necessarily in equal proportion. As a fully paid up member of the Baby Boomer generation SEX was a learn as you go effort, mainly through on the job experience, MAYHEM abounded in many life experiences and a GOOD LAUGH happened; generally, at my expense.
As a combat Infantry soldier in the Vietnam War the MAYHEM was hard throttled at a more graphic and less pleasant level. I have included a confronting photo of wounded enemy soldier. SEX was in abundance and massively accessible in the flesh spots of Saigon and as a young. virile and desperate Soldier along with many others wanted to get my fill before combat events overtook this ambition. I would add that against a background of life and death events there were some circumstances which lent themselves to a GOOD LAUGH.
On discharge from the Army (1970) I joined Queensland’s finest and became a sworn member of the Queensland Police Service. Policing in that era was thoroughly steeped in graft and corrupt practices. Unfortunately, SEX didn’t feature prominently, but huge amounts of MAYHEM were and generated by the Police themselves and some funny things happened which gave rises to a GOOD LAUGH. As a newly minted Constable of Police corrupt practices were constantly in your face, readily available, no questions asked. Most took advantage of the situation but that stopped dead in its tracks by a thorough and comprehensive inquiry which managed to turn the moral compass in the proper direction.
- Editore:
- Chris Manktelow
- Pubblicato:
- Sep 14, 2020
- ISBN:
- 9781005771737
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Chris Manktelow was born into the ranks of the Baby Boomer generation and grew up in Sydney Australia. His childhood experiences differed greatly from recent generations and was interesting active and fun, most of the time.He joined the Australian Army and served as an Infantry Soldier in the Vietnam War. Active service was deadly and dangerous, but lived to tell the tale. He was wounded along with many other Australian Soldiers who experienced soldiering in the Vietnam conflict. Strong bonds were forged with many men he served with both within a peace and war setting. Even though the circumstances were dangerous and difficult there were bursts of humour within the chaos.On discharge from the Army he joined the Queensland Police Force which was steeped in graft and corrupt practises. Again, humorous events prevailed, even in this unpalatable environment.He attended Uni and credentialed as a Psychologist managing a Counselling support service for Vietnam Veterans. He has worked privately and in Government Agencies particularly in the area of acute mental healthRetired and enjoying life in Romsey Victoria, with his wife Lis of 35 years and adores and dotes on his Son and Grandson.He is physically and mentally active and is addicted to golf which he plays badly. His wife is a better golfer than him and believes this could be good grounds for divorce. Needless to say, Lis is unconcerned about this Hollow threat.
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Anteprima del libro
Sex, Mayhem and a Good Laugh - Chris Manktelow
Sex, Mayhem and a Good Laugh
Published by Chris Manktelow at Smashwords
Copyright 2020 Chris Manktelow
Cover Design © 2020 - Mayhem Cover Creations.
ISBN 9781005771737
Smashwords Edition, License
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This work will not meet Politically Correct standards but is reflective of the conduct and language of the time.
Contents
1.Baby Boomers, what’s the problem?
2. The Fleaweight Champion of Kent Street and other misadventures
3.Sleuthing, Snipping and Fire
4.Criminal enterprises, School, Commies and complications
5.Life took a U turn
6.Banana Bending and other initiations
7.Paradise found
8.Will we leave him there?
9.Return to civilization, what a bummer
10.Raging hormones and the hard facts
11.As it was
12.The bugle calls
13.Becoming an Infantry Soldier
14.The Battalion and its parts
15.Military slang and other Terms, troops for the use of
16.Military routine, a Dog and a Pony
17.Preparation for war
18.Pre-embarkation exercise Sky High 2
19.Local and Pre-embarkation leave
20.Departing Oz / arriving in Country
21.Bien Hoa…Preparing Defenses and Acclimatization
22.Incidental Events
23.Thuan, who needs enemies?
24.Blowflies and Dunnies
25.Unleash the Beast…Leave in Saigon
26.Back to Camp
27.Oops!!! Facing off against Rubber Tree stumps
28.Getting our rocks off at the Rubbish Dump and Beads
29.Revenge of the Pogoes and Home Movies
30.Shot in the fruit salad and other Misadventures
31.Agent Orange
32.Choppers
33.Day/Night Routine
34.The Jungle--Friend and Foe
35.Patrolling
36. Mines booby traps and the Horseshoe
37.The Enemy and a Photo
38.Fatalities and Friendly Fire
39.Platoon Attack
40.A good man down
41.Hill 82
42.Switched on
43.Franks’ Death
44.Wounded
45.Your Son has been wounded
46.Dear John
47.The Battalion returns
48.Recovery
49.The Jungle Training Centre
50.Army Parachuting
51.The Bitter End
52.TV War
53.The Moratorium Movement
54.Welcome Home Parade
55.Frank’s Homecoming
56.On becoming a civilian
57.Firmness with Courtesy
1.Baby Boomers, what’s the problem?
Neither grand, tree lined nor possessed of commanding views, but a pinch of bitumen bordered by cement footpaths. Houses and flats crowd in on each other making the street smaller. It belonged to us, we owned it and all who lived and walked in it, or so we thought.
The year 1950, the location Kent Street, Clovelly, Sydney.
One degree of separation set us apart from the human species lobbing us firmly in the feral category. A motley bunch of kids, noisy, opinionated, argumentative and always active. Savage beasts in the wild behaved better than us.
Treachery, betrayal, fights, plotting, intrigue, weeping and gnashing of teeth, it all happened and we counted that as a good day. Pack herd and flock animals didn’t cut it, ours regularly erupted into full blown industrial strength drama. The missing piece was public copulation as practised in the animal kingdom but we, or at least I, practiced a reasonable facsimile privately (more later.)
We are dammed proud Baby Boomers.
Fathered by men returning from the deprivations and privations of WW2 who spread their seed as hard and fast as they could, and did, and would you blame them. Years of pent-up sexual energy created the gene pool from which the Baby Boomer Generation arose Frankenstein in nature and habits and our greed and selfishness will destroy civilization, according to some punters. My argument is, as we teeter about in overcrowded nursing homes, with nobody to change our incontinence nappies, and unaware of who we are or where we are, don’t blame me, blame my Mum and Dad.
Apart from Kent Street we also owned Varna Park because it of its close proximity to our tribal stamping ground. We didn’t mark it as ours unless taking a leak behind a tree counts. Some younger kids accidently went the full Monty hurrying home for running repairs and replacements leaving a spoor trail behind. This served as a useful reminder to other kids; watch your step and enter at your peril.
Ownership of the Park meant we made the rules and treated those not of our tribe with deep suspicion and a gimlet eye kept on their behavior. Abuse of privileges meant banishment, sometimes permanent.
I flung myself on the monkey bars performing my best imitation of Tarzan. The gyrations more reflective of his companion ape Cheetah, than the hero himself. Some bloody kids using the monkey bars as a goal kicked a Soccer ball which belted me in the head.
The flock descended on the villains screeching and whooping and the outsiders fled in terror leaving their Soccer ball. We claimed it as legal booty, gotten fairly and squarely, because they never returned to claim ownership.
When outsiders threatened, the troop closed ranks repelling invaders. At other times every man, woman and child fended for themselves and only the strongest, fittest and most cunning survived.
We feasted regularly on a large mulberry bush bordering the park. After gorging and staggering out to the light of day our red rimmed mouths frightened the locals and other kids weren’t the only ones we scared.
Billy and Jimmy (Yabba) lived on one end of the street and Brian the other. Brian was sickly and we believed had one lung never taking part in our antics. His parents invited me to his place to play with him, the token feral, bringing joy and light to an otherwise drab and lonely existence. Kevin lived on the other side of the street and Bobby and his sisters our immediate neighbors.
Lyn lived up the other end, and we played doctors and nurses or, if you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.
Caught with our pants down, literally, the Oldies told me in in fulsome language that I was a filthy little feral and never do it again. Warnings blissfully ignored.
Patrick, Dad’s best mate lived behind us. A wild Irishman with a great sense of humor and a beautiful singing voice, together they debated, planned and conspired to make the best home brew beer ever. The potion popped and bubbled beneath a muslin cover and approached with the same caution and reverence as a religious shrine. Respectful discussions happened about the amount of sugar to use and when to bottle. Very important issues as they determined its taste and alcoholic potency. Anything less than rocket fuel, blow your head off strength would never be accepted.
What do ya reckon Paul (Dad), chuck anerther hund full o’ sugar in,
Patrick earnestly queried.
I reckon mate, we’ll do that, and it should be ready for bottling in about a week, it’ll be right then.
In time reverential removal of the muslin completed the ritual and glasses filled and held to the light for inspection. It needed a good head and not much sediment on the bottom before pronouncing it a good drop. The production process lacked rigorous quality control of any sort.
Luks bloody orlright ta me, hus mud in ya oy, Paul.
Cheers, cobber.
Sinking the contents in one thirst quenching slurp the glasses didn’t remain empty for long. Considered unAustralian for empties to stay that way as toasts to good health and anything else had to be drunk.
Whun Oyrish oys are shinning,
Patrick in full voice broadcast to all that he intended to enjoy himself. Dad told everyone how much he loved them and after several failed attempts held my brother Peter upside down declaring his Fatherly love to his second son’s crutch.
Patrick’s daughter accompanied him when serious drinking happened. Invariably he got as full as a Catholic School’s hat rack. Drinking the toxic brew beyond safe levels he felt he and his shinning Irish eyes
should go home. His daughter earnt her keep attempting to steer her well pickled Father homeward-bound.
A challenging meter high fence separated our houses, and this obstacle presented a constant bother to an inebriated Patrick guaranteeing he fell ace over base many times. The assembled masses waited eagerly, anticipating the spectacle and he didn’t disappoint.
Paul, ya gunna haff ta do something about this bloody fence, it keeps attacking me,
complained a spread-eagled Patrick for the umpteenth time. Dad mumbled and fell into a grog fueled sleep ending the usual Saturday night’s entertainment.
The boy/ girl divide split evenly, but chauvinistic forces made the girls less important than their brothers, nor their names remembered. My older sister Patricia fell outside this divide and took it as her life’s mission to put me in my place at every opportunity. Sibling rivalry too tame a description for our relationship it included full on, no holds barred guerilla warfare, hit and run the preferred tactic. A slight no matter how trivial could not be ignored, no push or shove could remain unchallenged. I would have happily put her on the endangered species list but her cunning made that option near impossible. As if that wasn’t enough, she was the head
feral in the street pecking order and why they took orders from her to this day remains a mystery.
Bell ringing evangelists, intent on saving our heathen souls from their fire and brimstone hell interrupted Sunday play in Varna Park. Their strategy, capture us in the open and drag us to their sermons. They and we knew they would never trap and seat us in a Church and open-air capture netted greater numbers of sinners. They captured but could not hold us. Their redemptive message never found fertile ground in our Godless souls and restless stirrings soon had us out and about engaged in more satisfying and fun-filled activities.
Mum and Dad held uncharitable opinions about one set of neighbors. If they disturbed Dad’s grand plan, he got grumpy and let his feelings known to the head of their household. Dad rarely, if ever, avoided a confrontation, no matter the odds.
I stood beside Mum deep in conversation with the next-door missus, the unpopular one. All of 5 years old and enthralled by the civil exchange given both parents privately expressed a dislike for them. I felt it right to add my two bobs worth, blurting out, Mum and Dad think you’re a bloody nuisance,
or words to that effect. That went well, satisfaction oozed from every pore in my youthful frame my first foray into adult conversation and the sky hadn’t fallen in apart from the neighbor stumping off in high dudgeon. I looked adoringly at Mum expecting she recognize the genius and charisma her second born child possessed except she looked decidedly pissed off and gob smacked all at the same time. I marveled that she could combine two opposing emotions simultaneously but she succeeded. She extinguished my inner and outer glow by clipping me in the earhole and lecturing that family conversations should not be broadcast to the wider community and particularly those the subject of such conversations. I understood immediately.
As an aside and in relation to Dad’s combative nature, my older sister Patricia was ardently pursued by a bloke who rode a motor bike. The full bloom of womanhood developed her into a very attractive girl and the love struck hoon rode his motor bike up and down our street hoping to catch the attention of the one he loved and desired.
Dad wouldn’t have a bar of it. Waiting in ambush for the love-struck suitor and armed with the garden hose set the trap. The roar of the motor bike activated the ambush and drawing level copped the full blast of the hose. For good measure he followed the saturated rider with the command, piss off ya drongo.
He hoped the cold water dampen his ardor.
Bikies felt invincible but proved to be made of the same flesh and bones as mere mortals. They rode machines such as Triumph, Areils and Nortons, Jap Crap hadn’t hit the Australian market and to test their invincibility rode without helmets, shoes and shirts. They came second in the contest between them and bitumen. This bloke could have banged his head one too many times as a regular drenching had little effect.
We enjoyed minimal parental supervision, unlike the cloistered and concerned parents of today. Sitting indoors annoying Mum didn’t happen, we played outside freely ranging the landscape.
We occasionally walked to my Grandmother’s place; a couple of kilometers distant. Her house overlooked Bronte Beach and when staying with her, tracked to the beach minus parental supervision or protection. Nana saw us from her kitchen window, that being the only supervision considered necessary.
The day burned gloriously sunny; Mum and her mates decided they should spend the day at the beach. My youthful innocence persuaded them I stay while they changed and I watched with keen and fixed interest. Upon disrobing, pubic hair popped out in staggering and unkempt proportions; the growth prolific. No Brazilians or shaping and trimming for these hardy souls, it remained untouched and unregulated by human hand or anything else.
I puzzled at the bushy mayhem. My eyes locked on but my thoughts powered. Maybe their dicks dropped off, if so, where had they gone, would they ever grow back? How could they take a leak, these important but unanswerable questions flitted through my tiny mind?
2.The Fleaweight Champion of Kent Street and other misadventures
Dad served in the Fire Brigade and loved his job, particularly the camaraderie amongst his colleagues. Reliance on each other in difficult and dangerous circumstances developed fraternal bonds as I later discovered in my military career.
Roy, an ex-welterweight boxing champion served under Dad. A gentleman’s gentleman; and neither brash nor pretentious given his illustrious career. Dad felt his eldest son and heir, to prepare for life’s challenges, be taught boxing. His motivation unknown but I surmised to do with his stint at boarding school describing a Master as a sadist forcing kids into cold showers in the middle of winter if they hesitated, he wielded a cane on naked bodies. Institutionalized bullying was the accepted standard of behaviour, and he may have felt if I could defend myself, I would not experience the same sadistic bastardry he did.
My younger brother and I sat either side of Dad’s comforting presence. The nearly empty tram jolted and rattled its way into the city, and the Conductor bracing against the trams motion collected our fare. Swaying he clipped our tickets, making us legal passengers on the city’s transport network. We travelled to Dad’s Fire Station for weekly boxing lessons and a brewery resided next to Dad’s station and the distinctive smell of brewer’s hops wafted through the air. The smell signaled our stop and we traipsed noisily into Dad’s workplace.
The station reflected order and preparedness to the nth degree. Metal helmets polished to a golden sheen, which by today’s standards more ornamental than protective hung neatly on racks. Beneath them hung blue uniforms with red collar tabs and knee-high boots exactly positioned ready for rapid donning. A short-handled axe hung next to each uniform secured in a black leather pouch and honed to razor sharpness. It accessed threatened buildings and a necessary item in the firefighting arsenal.
The Fire Truck inspired awe and beautiful to see, its powerful engine and perfectly coiled hoses stood ready for the alarm to sound. The polished exterior glowed crimson red much as the flames it extinguished. Maintained and cleaned after every outing in immaculate condition, both mechanically and externally it faced the exit instantly ready to save lives and buildings from fiery destruction.
The upstairs area had been set aside as a gym complete with boxing apparatus, weights and sit up benches. The service wanted fit and active men in order to carry out the dangerous and strenuous firefighting tasks.
The ever-friendly Roy greeted us, Gidday Boss, how are your boys?
Good, thanks Roy are you ready to go?
Dad replied
Great, I’ve got a good program for Chris and the other Officers will look after your other boy,
Roy replied
Firemen whisked my brother away and fed him as much tea and biscuits as he could comfortably and safely ingest.
I learnt to throw straight lefts, right crosses and uppercuts, how to duck weave and bob. Both Dad and Roy felt I made good progress and Dad surprised me with a brand spanking new set of boxing gloves. The Fleaweight Champion of Kent Street bayed for release on the resident tribe, and anyone else wanting to chance their skill and luck.
My sister insisted on trying out the boxing gloves to see how they worked, no doubt hoping to beat me into submission. As mentioned, the intense sibling rivalry roiled beneath a tissue thin surface, and thought the perfect opportunity had been gifted to fulfill her destiny and all with parental approval. I planted a beautiful straight left right on her nose, maybe the Gods had taken a shine to me after all. The white flag of surrender shot to the air and no future challenges came from that corner.
Bobby, my mate next-door, lined up for a shot at my title. Pudgy and a soft target, he caved in after the first bout. The other kids in the street treated me with respect and awe and no further challengers raised their heads or their hands in my direction. Roy instilled not only the craft of boxing but the discipline and humility accompanying it, but humility didn’t sit easily with me particularly when the kids in the street put me on the top notch of the pedestal and treated me with a greater deference and respect than ever. I loved it.
We owned an immense backyard featuring a loquat tree which grew delicious fruit in season. We decided it’s second purpose was a climbing apparatus and we happily and nimbly scampered amongst its branches. My sister, for whatever reason toiled mightily dragging a solid object up the tree. My unsuspecting younger brother walked into the bombing range just when the bomb aimer released her payload, which bounced off his head with a very unhealthy thud and a cry of agony from him. The unhappy and cranky oldies weren’t happy rushing him to hospital to stitch his head, nor was he.
Play centered on a cement set of stairs running down the side of the house. Yabba drew himself to the towering height his 10-year-old frame allowed and in a commanding voice said, Chris get on my shoulders and I will carry you down the steps.
Yabba’s words carried conviction and solid assurance and I agreed, a nearly fully-grown Yabba would ensure no harm would happen. Hoisting me onto his shoulders, he gamely galloped down the steps.
The wind whistled through my hair the scenery flew by, this had to be life at its best and most exhilarating. Yabba then tripped and fell. Not wanting to hurt himself, he used me as a soft-landing zone. I scored two very large black eyes and knocked out two of my bottom teeth. Mum scooped me up along with my dislodged teeth, and again made a mercy dash, this time to the dentist. His solution, push the loose teeth into my gums without the help of anesthetic. He had poor aim because he put them in at an odd angle which hasn’t detracted from my rugged good looks.
Cracker nights were a huge event on the social calendar. Giant bonfires, their flames cracking and popping, lit the evening sky while dozing adults circled them, snug in comfortable chairs nursing a home-brewed beer. Ounce for ounce, the grog carried more wallop than the biggest bunger or skyrocket. The ladies drank a modest shandy, but all wore wobbly boots by night’s end.
We took great delight in chucking crackers under the Oldies’ chairs and wait for the expected yell. If you kids do that again there’ll be bloody trouble.
The amount of beer spilt correlated with the volume of the
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