#214: Theme From Dr Kildare

God, Lard Arse was everywhere in Adelaide back in the ‘60s wasn’t he? I’m sure that there’s going to be people who’ll think that this blog is rapidly becoming the Fat Francis Fan Club page, but seriously, no, it’s not. It’s just that it’s almost impossible to pick up any kind of local publication from the early rock and roll era of Adelaide that DOESN’T feature Honest Bob. Such was his influence and such was the impact of his many chubby fingers in many, many pies.

I’m not sure that Bob wrote the Platter Chatter section of Young Modern; if only because of the lack of swear words, abuse and general insults. Where’s the love, Bob? And there’s Bob, resplendent in his sixe XXXL off the rack suit, nursing a bottle of Coke. Just imagine, forty years later he’d graduate from one small bottle of Coke per radio session to a bottle, and change, of red wine as he soundly tells those lovely ladies who once danced to his swinging discs and snappy chatter to piss of you stupid old bitch and tells those guys who once looked up to him to get stuffed you bloody wankers. If Bob is this angry now, imagine what Fat Cat would say if he could speak.


Which reminds me of a funny story – I’ve heard Fat Cat speak. In 1066 Fat Cat came to The Downs Primary School along with a few other idiots, for a fun day. People positioned themselves on classroom roofs and proceeded to begin to shoot ole Fat with slingshots. My brother had a lethal slingshot, one that any Downs Boy would remember with fondness – an industrial piece of rubber stretched as tight as possible over the usual slingshot metal. It shot horseshoe nails out at a speed that bordered on lethal – indeed I can recall shooting many a spoggie down dead as the nails would penetrate the skulls with such force that, on one memorable occasion, a head ended up nailed to a tree. Lice infested flying mice that they were, or so we were told. Anyway, ole Fat Cat was up on stage when my brother strategically positioned himself directly next to Fat Cats leg and began to shoot horseshoe nails up his shorts. It happened. The third shot made Fat Cat move and we heard an audible, “Jesus! Fucking Jesus!” Then, after the fifth shot hit it’s mark, Fat Cat leant down and hissed, “Look, you little cunt, if you don’t knock that off I’m gonna smash your fucking head in! Now piss off!”

With squeals of glee and delight we ran off complaining to our mum that Fat Cat had threatened us. My mum gave her usual response, the standard Elizabethan response, “Well, what did you do then?” I still chuckle at the thought of Ole Fat Cat limping out that day. Wasn’t much fun for him, but it was a bloody blast for us. Mind you we were a suburb that stole Skippy when he appeared at the Elizabeth Town Centre back in 1569. Yep, as well as hubcaps, sprinklers, hoses and bikes, someone saw a chance and knocked off the Bush Kangaroo. He hopped about the streets for a while before some plod shot him in the arse and brought him down in the standard Elizabeth police ‘Shoot first, bash the head with a phone book and perhaps ask a question later after the confession has been lodged with the courts’ policy. Skippy was duly charged with vagrancy and had sixteen break and enter charges assigned to him before he was finally locked up.

Fun days, very fun days. We never had Fatty Francis attend any school events; the closest we got was Steve Curtis, whose head I nearly took off with a finely flung 7” of Alan O’Day’s Skinny Girls during one of his 5AA Mobile Disco events back in 1680 at Craigmore. “You’re in the Northern suburbs now, pretty boy,” he was told by a teacher nearby. It was his fault; he was throwing them into the crowd, so I decided to let him know what I thought of Alan’s efforts by taking aim and hurling one back. Steve barely made it out of the way and I’m sure I gave him a haircut. Mind you once I turfed mine back Steve nearly vanished beneath an avalanche of shitty vinyl singles. We wanted the latest Kiss single, Steve, not Alan O’Fucking Day. But then Steve thought that all 13/14 year old kids back then also loved the Pina Colada song and anything by Air Supply. In hindsight I should have aimed lower. And where is Alan O’Day these days? Dead? Driving a cab somewhere? Doing the chitlin circuit singing his ode to non-plus size females, the sexist prick? Just like Roger Vourdouris and his claims that we’d all better get used to it, because he’d be around. No, Roger, you won’t be around. Try as much as he did, cardigans and wind machines never really caught on, and it didn’t help that Roger was only three foot two in height. His ambition far exceeded his vertical prowess and sadly his boasting was just empty air. Little bloody singers, I tell you. Remember Moving Pictures? That whining little turd prattling on. “What about me?” he sang. “What about you?” we all shouted in response. “You’re only two foot six! And your song is shit.” Shit as it was it was a far sight better than the remakes that came since, and the fact that it’s now in a commercial means someone is shitting in high clover. Bono? One foot nothing. Eddie Vedder, Mick Jagger and Bruce Spingsteen would need step ladders to hit the five foot mark on a police line-up. Angry Anderson? I’ve seen dog crap bigger than him. The list goes on. Napoleons in high heels obviously make for better lead singers than anyone over the five foot three mark. Little men with big ideas. Remember the video for Sun City? That great chorus shot? You could have taken a scythe and waved it at the height of five foot and only lopped off the head of one person – Peter Garret. Not a bad idea really…

Now, where was I? That’s right, Young Modern. They just don’t make magazines like this anymore. Not a tit or a skanky girl in sight. You can argue all you want about how the world has changed, and frankly, artefacts like this just prove the point. How many people remember when the weeks highlight was going trampolining on a Friday night? Or heading down to the roller skating rink for some roller disco? If you’re under the age of 40 and remember those things then you’re a frigging liar. People over the age of 40, the new generation of Old Farts, do recall these things, and more. Doing suey’s off the top tower. Riding bikes on bike tracks carved into the sides of hills. Visiting haunted places (I can remember seeing Uley Chapel before it was demolished) and just, well, doing stuff that didn’t involve a computer, a PlayStation or the equivalent. I like technology, but sometimes I’d like to go back to an era when I could just get on my bike and ride all day and nobody could contact me. Bowling. Jesus, remember going bowling? Now that was fun.

All dead, all dead. All dead and gone. But Fatty Francis remains, a throwback to another time, another place. No wonder he’s so bloody angry and tries to run people over in his gopher and soundly abuses them on the radio. Imagine how lethal Arch Tambakis would be now, if he were still alive. Good ole Arch, the first person who I ever heard drop the f-bomb on live radio. Long may he rest. Bash your ‘radio personalities’ up your collective arses, people like Arch could have torn new holes into the likes of that lispy mouthed fat bastard Sandilands in under two seconds.


And that’s how it should have been. At least if Arch threatened you then he was prepared to follow it up with a physical encounter. Today’s wanker hides behind a microphone and thinks that he’s just too good. They’re all puth.


And there endeth today’s lesson. Now get off my lawn!