The Summer of ’82 Page 12

  ‘You’re not going, are you?’

  ‘Um, it’s four in the morning and I’ve got to be back here at six tonight.’

  ‘Well, how are you going to get home?’

  Oh yeah – good point. ‘I’ll ring my dad,’ I said hesitantly.

  ‘As if,’ Cindy said. ‘Come out clubbing with me. I’m meeting some people.’

  ‘But I don’t have any money … and I’m not dressed for clubbing.’

  Actually I had never been clubbing before, but the idea of it brought to mind Duran Duran film clips, where the band went to discos and stood in roped-off areas and danced with models.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ she laughed. ‘You just need to do one thing.’ She moved towards me and fastened the top button of my flannelette shirt.

  Ah, the good old flanno! They were the mainstay of the suburban youth. And they were a little bit cool; the guys from The Oils wore them in their film clips.

  ‘You see,’ Cindy said. ‘You look like Lloyd Cole now.’

  Wow, that was a compliment! I dreamt of looking like Lloyd Cole, a Brit whose band was called The Commotions. They had hits like ‘Lost Weekend’ and ‘Rattlesnakes’.

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve still got no money.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Cindy. ‘But Dudley Do-Right does.’ And with that she grabbed a wad of cash from the register. ‘Let’s go.’

  Okay, so my options were (a) wake Dad up and make him angry, or (b) go clubbing with Cindy. I was in. Why not? I’d been to a few discos in my time but mainly they were lunch-time discos, Scouts discos or the infamous Blue Light discos. These were run by the police, in salubrious locations such as the underground Safeway car park in Ringwood. The police set them up to give the misspent youth something to do on a Saturday afternoon, but often they involved a lot of underage drinking, fights and the occasional appearance of a Young Talent Time star, which would start a riot.

  I never saw someone more scared than Karen Knowles when she came to our Blue Light disco in 1981 to give away a few copies of her new single, ‘Why Won’t You Explain’, which ended up being a big hit. The DJ with the curly mullet and tank top announced, ‘Guys, that was a bit of The Angels with ‘No Secrets’, but right now we’ve got a special guest, Karen Knowles from Young Talent Time.’ Karen stood up in the DJ’s booth holding a handful of her new single and waving to the crowd. It was too much for the starstruck teenagers, who started screaming and rushing forward. The police in charge of the event were having a cigarette outside, but they heard the ruckus and came running in. They had to escort a terrified Knowles back to her limo – well, her dad’s Commodore – and she was whisked away.

  Cindy, being the ‘manager’ of Electro Hot Dogs, had got to know every door bitch and bouncer in Toorak. They often wandered into the hot dog shop before or after a shift, and Cindy would ply them with free hot dogs on the promise of free entry to such wholesome establishments as Macy’s, Three Faces and Chasers.

  And Chasers, which was on Chapel Street, was our first club. It was a medium-sized venue that would occasionally have bands. It had themed nights through the week: hard rock on a Wednesday, Euro disco on a Thursday, indie rock on a Sunday. It was one of the cool places to hang out, and very hard to get into on a Saturday night, unless of course you had a medallion.

  Getting a medallion to any club was like the holy grail. It didn’t matter if it was for Chevron, Inflation or – God forbid – The Grainstore, it still guaranteed free entry. I quickly saw a pattern in the demographic of those who were given medallions: ninety per cent were attractive young women. The other ten per cent were drug dealers, members of Pseudo Echo or sales reps who sold the clubs liquor and cigarettes. I don’t think the attractive young women drank that much, but they drew a lot of young men to the club, and they would certainly drink a lot, especially when rejected by the attractive young women.

  I never really saw the appeal of nightclubs. I preferred watching bands, because they had a clear start point and end point. And you were watching people actually doing something – making music. Nightclubs were like a time trap. Don’t get me wrong, I loved a boogie like anyone else, but you could get stuck there for hours. And as one of my friends repeatedly said, at a nightclub everyone always seemed to be having a better time than you.

  Once inside Chasers, I met some of Cindy’s friends. No wonder she dressed like Boy George – among her people were dead ringers for Marilyn, Phil from The Human League and a very good Cyndi Lauper. I don’t think they meant to dress exactly like these pop stars; they just liked their style. These people were a million miles from Noddy, Zonk, Wookey and the rest of my mates. With some I couldn’t even tell if they were a boy or a girl; I had to follow them to a toilet to see which door they chose. Man, I was not in Mitcham anymore. Sure, I’d been to the Seaview Ballroom, but this was taking it up a notch.

  Chasers was a bit crowded but still we had a dance to some Depeche Mode – who can resist ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’? From there, we all moved up the road to the Tok H. That was short for the Toorak Hotel, which was in the same complex as Silvers, a nightclub hosting a dreaded Over-28s night. How we laughed at the sad old people (most of them were over thirty!) traipsing down the stairs to Silvers, where they would grope each other. Thank God we were going to the Tok H, which was so much better.

  After that we moved on to Three Faces, which was a gay nightclub on Commercial Road. I’d certainly never been to one of those before. I knew what gay people were – there were some at my high school, and I always got on well with Peter, Jim and Felicity. Well, I was a big Bronski Beat fan. I did get in an argument with Peter once about Wham! being a gay band; I was sure that songs like ‘Wham Rap! (Enjoy What You Do)’ and ‘Young Guns’ were about getting chicks. George or Andrew gay? Get out of here! Next you’re going to tell me Morrissey is gay.

  So Three Faces was a bit of an eye-opener. It was a massive venue, with men in G-strings and white mesh singlets dancing on podiums. It was like a Soft Cell film clip. And when they played the Village People, the dance floor was packed with people doing the YMCA, and all in unison, not like the shabby spectacle you saw at the Blue Light.

  By this time I was really exhausted; there’s only so much dancing and so many fluffy ducks you can handle. We left Three Faces as the sun was coming up. ‘Let’s get the first train home,’ Cindy said.

  The 6.50 a.m. to Lilydale was a much more docile affair than the last train. Half the passengers were late-night revellers like us, and the other half were people going to their jobs or early appointments. We got off at Mitcham, where John the stationmaster had to make a comment. ‘I’m going to tell your dad you were out all night, Cindy.’ She just gave him the finger.

  Cindy went one way and I went the other, and the last words she yelled at me were, ‘See you at six tonight!’

  I went home and climbed into bed. It was about seven-thirty by this stage. Glenn and Liz were just starting to stir. ‘What was the hot dog shop like?’ Glenn asked as I put my head on the pillow.

  ‘It was hard work but I got free hot dogs,’ I mumbled. ‘There’s a girl that works there called Cindy … she dresses like Boy George and Haysi Fantayzee, and she comes from Mitcham … we went out clubbing and danced to the Village People …’ The words were coming out but I was falling asleep.

  I slept till three o’clock, when I had to get up and do it all over again.

  TWO LESS LONELY PEOPLE IN THE WORLD

  I was a big fan of The Brady Bunch – who wasn’t? – and now I now had my very own Cindy to spend time with. We would work together on Friday and Saturday nights, and we started hanging out on other days too. I didn’t know whether I was in love, infatuated or just happy to spend time with a girl, as opposed to my brother and the same five guys.

  Cindy was crazy and spontaneous, and nothing like any of the girls I had met at high school. She didn’t really give a stuff what people thought of her. Her family was like the Catholic version of my family, but on the other side of the ra
ilway line. While mine was full of boys, hers was dominated by girls; she had three sisters.

  I loved going over to her house, where her mum always seemed to be stationed behind the ironing board with a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Like my mum, she dealt out homespun wisdom and advice to her four daughters. But she was a woman who had once made the front of the Ballarat newspaper for wearing a miniskirt to the Ballarat Cup. Good luck telling your daughters what to wear when you were Ballarat’s very own Jean Shrimpton. ‘Cindy was always a wild child,’ she used to sigh.

  My mum and dad had no idea how to take Cindy. For a start, they weren’t used to girls, and certainly not ones who had dyed hair and dressed like Robert Smith from The Cure (another one of her outfits). Dad, of course, was set against Catholics in any case. We never really knew why, but he always said, ‘You can go out with as many Catholic girls as you want, but never marry one.’ I think it went back to the fact that the local C of E church in Mitcham was overshadowed by the massive St John’s Catholic church across the road. They got so big they even bought a neon cross that used to shine day and night. Dad loved the graffiti that ‘someone’ (Mark) had done on a nearby wall: ‘A neon cross can’t buy you God’.

  Still, I was pretty sure Cindy wasn’t a practising Catholic. She was very much like me: she had been made to go to church for a long time, and then when she hit her teens said, ‘No, thanks.’ It was just another example of how she and I had lived parallel lives: we’d grown up in the same suburb, liking the same music and even knowing the same people, but we’d never met.

  My birthday was drawing closer, and while I didn’t have any party plans, my brother and I were debating whether we should go to Denny’s or The Keg, the latest two American-inspired chain restaurants that had opened up in our neighbourhood. Going out for dinner was such a rare treat that I can remember nearly every time we did it as kids. It was normally on Dad’s birthday, where he would announce that we were going to The Swagman.

  This was a ‘theatre restaurant’ nestled at the bottom of the Dandenong Ranges, an all-you-can-eat affair that pre-dated Smorgy’s and Sizzler and all the other chains that appeared a bit later. The Swagman had a very famous jingle on its TV ads that went: ‘It’s a lively place with a nightly show, and a smorgasbord that we’re famous for …’ The floor show mostly consisted of dancing girls; occasionally, touring artists like The Village People, Dr Hook and Debbie Reynolds performed there. It’s fair to say that if you were playing The Swagman, your career was in its twilight phase.

  The best thing for us kids was the smorgasbord, which had a very big sweets selection. My brothers and I would starve ourselves all day, and then, the moment we walked in the door, we’d sprint to the table with the doughnuts and chocolate mousse and stack our plates as high as possible.

  The other great thing about The Swagman was that if you were having a birthday, the host of the floor show would read out your name and wish you happy birthday. So every time we went, Mark would put in a request. ‘Please wish our little brother Trevor happy birthday,’ he’d say. ‘He’s four years old today.’ And a bit later on, Mr Cheesey in his bad suit would say, ‘Okay, time for the birthdays, and little Trevor O’Neil is four years old today! Stand up and give us a wave, Trevor.’ We’d all piss ourselves.

  One night Johnny Young from Young Talent Time was there, and he got up and sang a song with Kylie AND Dannii Minogue. It was like having Hollywood just south of Bayswater.

  Sadly, The Swagman went into decline, what with video rentals, Sizzler and people realising it just wasn’t that good. On 27 May 1991 someone set fire to it and the restaurant burnt to the ground. But before the fire occurred, all the valuables were removed from the restaurant – things like the sound system and the tables and chairs. It wasn’t long before rumours started that maybe someone knew this fire was about to happen. After that, the site was used for a new nightclub, Stylus, and now it’s an Aldi supermarket. So you can still get doughnuts, but now you have to pay for them.

  Glenn was angling for The Keg in Nunawading, for two reasons. Firstly, it was right next to Channel 10, where they filmed not only Young Talent Time but also Prisoner. So you could be sitting at The Keg with your bowl of wedges, and don’t look now, but isn’t that Doreen from Prisoner having a drink with Jamie Redfern from YTT? Oh my God! Go and get their autograph.

  As with Karen Knowles at the Blue Light disco, famous people were very much out of our world. You only ever saw them on TV or in the newspaper, and you had no way of contacting them directly. Sure, you could write a fan letter, and if you were lucky you would get back a signed photograph. (If you got back a signed photo of Sally Boyden from YTT, without doubt you would show everyone and stick it on your bedroom wall.) Not like these days, when you can send celebrities a message on Twitter or pay money to have a ‘meet and greet’ with your favourite pop star. It seems everyone is for sale, from The Rolling Stones to Justin Bieber.

  There was only one way you could meet overseas pop stars in 1982, and that was if you found out what hotel they were staying in and then stood out the front yelling their name. We did it once for Bryan Ferry. I loved Roxy Music; well, they used an oboe occasionally, so they were legends. And they had great style and pop songs like ‘Price of Love’, ‘More Than This’ and ‘Let’s Stick Together’. Okay, so technically that last one was a Bryan Ferry solo song, but it sounded like Roxy Music to us.

  We heard from some girls lining up for tickets at the Bass outlet that Roxy Music were staying at the Hilton. So a group of us caught the train in, with a loose arrangement to meet these girls outside the hotel. We were dressed in the finest New Romantic gear we could muster, which was a challenge when you had to get the train in from Mitcham. The girls weren’t there, so we just stood on the footpath yelling out, ‘Bryan! Bryan!’ and holding up vinyl copies of their latest albums, Avalon and Flesh and Blood. It’s hard to believe, but someone must have told Bryan, who came out onto his balcony and waved at us.

  We went crazy. ‘Bryan! Hey, Bryan! Can we have your autograph?’

  He disappeared and then a few minutes later walked through the glass doors of the Hilton. Well, walked is not really correct; he practically glided across the concourse. He was the coolest guy we’d ever seen. He was wearing a white suit with his top shirt button undone, and a plain black tie. He stopped when he was about four feet away from us, dropped his sunglasses ever so slightly and said, ‘Oh … I thought you were girls.’ And with that he turned around and went back into the hotel.

  The second reason Glenn was lobbying for The Keg was because he thought that after dinner we could go across the road to Wobbies World – you know, for a laugh. Wobbies World was the most pathetic attempt at an amusement park you had ever seen. Some Dutch guy had bought a tract of land on Springvale Road and decided he would establish his own answer to Disneyland. So he got an old tram and sat it there, and then he built a helicopter that would go along a monorail. And that was about it. Okay, there was also a miniature railway, and the ‘fire engine ride’. The place became the punchline of all our jokes. All of us at some stage had gone there on a Scout excursion or for some kid’s birthday party.

  The 1980s was a boom time for pathetic attractions. There was Leisureland Fair near Frankston, Gumbuya Park near Moe, and my absolute favourite, Caribbean Gardens. This last one was a cracker – the pièce de résistance was a concrete submarine that was moored in a swamp. You’d sit in the submarine and they would say, ‘We’re going to submerge now …’ And water would be sprayed on the windows with a garden hose. Seriously, even at six years old I thought it was a bit crap.

  The best thing about turning eighteen was that I could now get my licence. But like any future hoon of the ’burbs, I wanted to buy my car before I got the paperwork that said I could legally drive it. This was a very common thing at the time; you would see guys washing their Ford Falcons in their driveways, getting them ready for when, in six months’ time, they could actually take it out on the roads. />
  I had saved up the huge amount of $800 and was looking for a bargain, and Dad had spotted an orange Torana in a car yard in Blackburn, complete with roadworthy certificate, for the price of $799. I gave it a thorough look-over – okay, I glanced at it over the fence one Sunday; it was kept out the back of the car yard with the other trade-ins – and gave Dad the go-ahead. So there I was, the owner of a beautiful orange Torana GTR-XU1, a two-door vehicle to which we quickly gave the nickname ‘The Orange Rocket’.

  The day of my birthday came, and I headed off to the Country Roads Board (as VicRoads was called in those days) to get my licence. Mike Walsh – the driving instructor, not the TV star – had taught me well and I got the much-sought-after licence. He dropped me home and straight away I jumped in my Torana and took it for a spin down Mitcham Road, then up Canterbury Road and onto Springvale Road. I was really getting the hang of this driving thing, fanging it like I was approaching Skyline at Bathurst.

  ‘Peter Brock from the Marlboro Holden Dealer Team is in the lead, then Moffat, but what’s this? O’Neil is coming down Conrod Straight, giving it the berries! But what’s that? Blue lights flashing in the rear-vision mirror!’

  This was back in the days when, if you were pulled over by the cops, you got out of your car and walked over to them. No one stayed in their car. My dad always hoped that the policeman would be a former Scout of his. If not, he would stand over the police officer, arguing that he was only driving fast because they were right behind him.

  I met the policeman halfway and he looked a little bit taken aback. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Ah, eighteen,’ I replied.

  ‘Right. How long have you had your licence?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  He looked shocked, and began to get angry. ‘What? Well, it didn’t take you long. Where are your P-plates?’