Free Impractical Jokes by Charlie Pickering Page B

from him eating most of the pigs in blankets, they couldn’t see why. They also concluded that this would be the last ever ‘Get To Know Your Street Barbecue’ and it would be best for everyone to henceforth keep a low profile and try not to start any feuds.
    So, feuds aside, our street was about as far from a gossip factory as you could imagine. Some of our neighbours had passing conversations with our other neighbours, but on the whole most people kept to themselves. A reality lost on my mother in this time of shock, as her fantasy continued.
    â€˜So they lost everything?’
    â€˜Yes, everything. One night the children had to eat dog food.’
    â€˜Well, I blame the mother.’
    â€˜Of course you do. It’s the only logical conclusion. The mother is definitely to blame.’
    â€˜I’d go so far as to say she is the worst mother in the world.’
    â€˜Without a doubt. Pamela Pickering is the worst mother in the entire world. And that includes those ones who sell their daughters into sex slavery in South-East Asia.’ ‘They’re saints compared to Pamela Pickering.’
    But while Mum came to terms with a P.R. disaster that didn’t exist, my dad’s reaction was very different.
    â€˜Brilliant! This is bloody brilliant!’
    â€˜It’s not brilliant, Ronnie. It’s embarrassing.’
    â€˜No, Pammy. This is brilliant.’
    â€˜Why is it so bloody brilliant, Ronnie?’
    â€˜The rules of engagement have changed, Pammy. It’s about signs now!’

    On a Saturday morning in September my dad woke me around five o’clock. He’d spent a sleepless night mulling over ideas and had finally come up with a plan.
    â€˜Come with me, son. We’re going to have some fun.’
    This was a very important moment. It was the first time my father had included me in one of his schemes and I was giddy with excitement. I had always been a keen and admiring observer of my father’s shenanigans, building a checklist for the things that one does when one becomes a man. First on the list was ‘hilarious retribution’. Dad’s war with Richard, in particular, would become the yardstick against which all of my future comedic ventures would be measured. To be included, nay conscripted, into Dad’s retributive plans meant something else altogether. Clearly now I had come of age and was ready for active deployment. I was the general’s new lieutenant. He was taking me under his wing and was going to teach me what it meant to be an adult.
    So to speak.
    But there was another reason why his call-up was such a big deal and that was closeness. My father and I had always been very close, but in a way that we never vocalised. He taught me how to kick a footy, ride a bike, hammer a nail, swear after hitting your thumb with a hammer and all of the other important things that a boy needs to know. But we never spoke about what we, as men, had in common. This really is the Australian version of menschkeit —it is that which exists between men, but dare not speak its name. Sure you might have a few too many schooners at the pub and tell a mate that you love him enough to give him your golf clubs, but it’s never taken seriously, and if you ever said something like that sober things would get very uncomfortable.
    I could only recall one prior moment, when I was about six, that Dad and I truly related to each other on a man-level. It was a Sunday afternoon in summer and, as was our Sunday afternoon habit, we were watching Solid Gold . If memory serves, Billy Ocean was really letting rip with a power lip sync of ‘Caribbean Queen’. As if the audio feast wasn’t enough, the Solid Gold Dancers were doing what they do best. Dancing. Dancing in tiny costumes. Spandex had only just been invented and the world was beginning to see why. Even at the age of six there was something about the scene that caught my eye, and I felt that I had