Another Vintage Chucky Report

An amazing ten years later, I thought I would re-post my 21st Birthday Report just to show how little I have to report on these days and just how blessedly quiet and antisocial my 31st Birthday was.
Introduction by Monty as ever.
Chucky’s 21st Birthday
TAP TAP! IS THIS THING ON? ONE TCHOO! Welcome to this special addition of the Chucky Report. On Saturday 22 May 1999, Charles Hindle celebrated 21 years in The Business. It was a glittering night of nights and featured industry luminaries such as Shambles, Dirty, and Mr B. Mr B was damned toey for it by the way. He wanted a leg over and he wasn’t taking lack of interest for a non-answer. I was very interested to read that on Friday, Mr B….oops this is supposed to be an introduction not a preview. Shut up Montgomery you are rambling. To the point, it was great that The Reclining Red Haired Budha Who Sleeps Until Noon found time in his schedule to make an appearance and generously stayed to the Bitter End. Staff at Club must have been thrilled to have the old Deity back on his perch in the Members Bar… ahh The Eighties… Damn it Montgomery Get A grip! Wobbly also showed up which was a treat (Everyone reckons his Lady Friend looks like someone from the Corrs – she is lucky Mr B didn’t start dry humping her leg. Did I mention he was On Heat?) Let me hand over (at last) to The Expert…..wait hold on Chucky your turn is coming – as a special treat we have an interview with Chucky’s dad at the end of this report – do not forget to click there…. Ok please stand at your monitors for the The Man a big round of applause …..heeeeeeerrrrrreees ….CHUCKY…..
Evening all. For various reasons my report will lack its usual exquisite details today – if you are reading this for insight concerning what you might have missed by leaving early, or not coming at all, you’re looking in the wrong direction. I don’t know how pantsed you all thought I was, but I can assure you, I was pantseder. I will deliver awards as I see fit, and run you through what I remember, and that’ll be about it.
Firstly, there are three ‘Best on Grounds’ to be handed out, and that is about the extent of the awards. Each one is in a different capacity though. Friday night, the night before the actual party, belongs to Mr.B. According to reliable sources, B got lucky. Nice work – I’m only disappointed I wasn’t there with my camera. (Well he must have enjoyed it because he was dangerous. He had a wild desperate look in his eye. Ed) The second award goes to Reclining, for as far as I know he was the Longest Stayer on Saturday night (That was always on the cards – The Club is his home ground. Tries were going to be scored. Ed). And he also gets a special award for following instructions laid out in the invitation, concerning milky umbrella drinks. But let’s not go there just yet. The third and most important of the B.O.G. awards goes to a non-bandsman, one Micky Plops. He came all the way from Sydney to get drunk with me, so dammit, he gets a medal. That was some sensational work. Honourable mentions to Plops and Lucky B for managing to keep the whole thing secret for three months too. Unbelievable.
Well, the night started at five, when I arrived with the food and commenced with jugs. Dirty and Scout arrived, and the Don popped by. Craig was meant to come, but I assume he had a very good reason for not being in attendance. Dirty presented me with my gift from the Band – a shiny red Slappers Unit, complete with shooter glasses, poopstick and Pirate magazine. I shed a tear or two over that, and began adding my own personal touches immediately – for starters, a big bastard padlock. Because at about that stage the relatives began arriving, and they are on the whole an untidy lot (untidy, ha ha ha ha). I toasted Slappers and the rellies with more of those jugs, you know those ones they give you that evaporate really really fast? Yeah, them. Um…
“I won’t say much,” I said, and reached for my glass, which seemed untended and lonesome. My left hand was sticky. I tried to remember what that meant in the ‘symptom/response’ model, but wasn’t sure. As a stopgap solution I propped myself up against the bar. Timbo stood in front of me, refusing to put himself into focus in a very thoughtless manner. He asked me what my brother-in-law was drinking, if it was really iced coffee, and I assured him I’d find out, and that everything was under control. Um, Kahlua and milk, I think.
Somebody (Timbo again I think) gave me a jug and started saying “Skull skull skull” in a very confronting way, and Mal and Monty were standing in front of me with a patch of Glad Wrap spread out to shield themselves from something, I don’t know, vomit I guess. I must be a big jessie, though, because I don’t recall skulling anything. I did drink the jug though. Just slowly. Oh, I just noticed Stuart was there. Hi Stuart. He was talking to the militant feminist who wants to kick Reclining’s acorns. My left hand was still sticky. My brother’s over at the other end of the bar, and as far as I recall he was singing. We got $500 worth of beer tickets, and I had a flipping great wodge of them, um, and my sister had the rest, and everybody was pestering us for them. For about half an hour.
No more beer tickets.  There were a couple of gatecrashers at this stage, I know it. Pretty cool. I remember pointing at them and saying, “Who the **** are you?” The guy came up and said, “Are you Andrew?” I wasn’t sure. I said yes and he asked me how old I was and I looked at my “I AM 21” badge on my jacket and said, “30.” He said, “Oh happy birthday,” then my sister came and made them go away. I think I was talking to Michelle at some point around here – she seemed to have had a good night – if she was still there at ten or eleven, then wow. Ha ha ha. Then I caught up with some more age-old friends, God, it was bizarre. They were talking with my brother and sister and their pissy mates, and I intruded. Sticky hand. Then the bouncer said, “Please slowly make your way downstairs,” so my sister and I did two-steps-forward-one-step-back routine across the room until the bouncer was obliged to rephrase his request to, “Leave now.” We went to Club Bay View, I forget how exactly. I didn’t touch any of the bins, hmm, and there was a fight outside the club, and we got in with our passes, but they weren’t very happy about it, um, yeah. About here…
(We interupt this Chucky Report with a brief message from Reclining. Ed)
The funniest thing of the whole night was at the party when Shambles told Michelle he was off to club. Michelle asked "How late will you be?" "A while." Came the reply. "Are any responsible adults going to Club with you to make sure you get home OK?" "Well………..Johno’s going……" came Shambles desperate attempt.
The response from Michelle was a chilling stare the likes of which you wouldn’t believe. Probably the fact that Shambles and I were killing ourselves laughing didn’t help.
(Back to Chucky who takes up the story. Ed)
I had a poopstick – not the quality one from Slappers, just an over-the-counter one. I blew smoke on my relatives. Not as good as blowing chunks the way Dirty did, but hmm, not too bad. My brother was buying drinks for underage girls.
The D.J. looked pretty scared when I popped my head up through the trapdoor to the music room up in the ceiling on the top of a ten-foot ladder, and said, “Hi. Can you play something by Faithless?” I think he said yes out of shock.
I hadn’t seen Leigh Cockerill since the Old Boys BBQ. He was at the Club, he’s coming to Band for the election of playing officers. Apparently. He didn’t look anywhere near as busy as he was supposed to be. Mickey bought me a shaker of banana liqueur stuff I think it was called a hardon. I remember I got the giggles every time I ordered one, and wore my sunglasses when I was drinking it. Both my hands were all sticky. I can’t believe how many bourbons you can get for $150.
Shambles was halfway down the stairs out of the place. “Shambles…” “I’m leaving.” “Shambles…” “I’m leaving.” “Shambles…” “I’m leaving.” “Shambles…” “I’m leaving.” “Shambles…” “I’m leaving.” “Shambles…” “I’m leaving.” “Shambles…” “I’m leaving.” Hey guys, Shambles is leaving. Hey, he made it to about 3. So did my Kahlua-guzzling brother-in-law and my sister, and my brother was there for the long haul. Scout was sitting on a chair, kinda passed out.
“Hi. Can you play something by Faithless?” It was a different D.J., but the scared expression and the hasty agreement was the same. I climbed back down the ladder and stepped on somebody.
Me and Reclining were up at the top bar, and we had giant chocolate mudslides in front of us. No umbrellas, but it was nice of him to obey the letter of my invitation. Everyone had gone home, I think. Those mudslides are an absolute treat. Except I didn’t souvenir a glass. Then the Club closed and the lights went up. The introductory notes of Faithless’ “Insomniac” thumped out of the speakers, then the music stopped and the doors opened and we were booted out. I legged it home, insisting on wearing my sunglasses, even though it was still dark. Five thirty-ish is much brighter in summer, isn’t it? I got home and ate all the leftovers in the fridge, washed the sticky shit off my hands, and went to bed.
Gah, the end. Thank you all for making it so … um, memorable isn’t the word I’m after…
Pissy, that’s it.
I will be busy customising Slappers, ready for Southern Cross. What a delight that shiny red toolbox is!
Kindest Regards, Charles.
Here, as a special treat, are the details of a conversation Malcolm and Reclining had with Chucky’s Dad….
Reported by Malcolm
He started relating a story about the first time he ever saw Chucky pissed. It was after some bus trip with that pesky pipe band he plays with. Anzac Day, he remembers.
He got some garbled indecipherable phone call from his son on the bus back and assumed that meant "come and pick me up".
He was horrified to see a kilted 17-year-old Gummy Bear on spat-coloured rollerskates resembling his Dear Boy, Andrew.
After administering assistance in removing complicated buttons and straps he put Chucky to bed with  the hall light on so he could see the bucket, repeating "spew in the bucket, not on the carpet" like some slogan for M&M chocolates.
Reclining and I listened in horror as he kept stressing, "God, he wasn’t even 18, he wasn’t even 18".
Yeah! Damn pesky pipe band.

About Hatboy

I’m not often driven to introspection or reflection, but the question does come up sometimes. The big question. So big, there’s just no containing it within the puny boundaries of a single set of punctuationary bookends. Who are these mysterious and unsung heroes of obscurity and shadow? What is their origin story? Do they have a prequel trilogy? What are their secret identities? What are their public identities, for that matter? What are their powers? Their abilities? Their haunted pasts and troubled futures? Their modus operandi? Where do they live anyway, and when? What do they do for a living? Do they really have these fantastical adventures, or is it a dazzlingly intellectual and overwrought metaphor? Or is it perhaps a smug and post-modern sort of metaphor? Is it a plain stupid metaphor, hedged around with thick wads of plausible deniability, a soap bubble of illusory plot dependent upon readers who don’t dare question it for fear of looking foolish? A flight of fancy, having dozed off in front of the television during an episode of something suitably spaceship-oriented? Do they have a quest, a handler, a mission statement, a department-level development objective in five stages? I am Hatboy.
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2 Responses to Another Vintage Chucky Report

  1. Pingback: Interlude 2: Kwubby | Hatboy's Hatstand

  2. Pingback: What I Did On My Holidays, 2017-2018, Day 21 | Hatboy's Hatstand

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