Stories: Bastards I Have Met
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Take the b-word how you like - at face value or in a loving Barry Crump way, but tell us about the crazies, critters and memorable types in general who've crossed your path. Because we all know there are good bastards and bad bastards …
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Rainton Haistie.
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merc,
The Prez.
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Bad bastards - almost every boss I've ever worked for and one notable client whose management technique consisted of personal abuse on a daily basis.
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IO and Merc, this is the stories section, not the lists section, ow!
So tell a tale, don't just grunt out a name.
Strangely enough, the first bastard that springs to mind is my old boss who I chronicled in last month's work stories discussion.
So I shall rack my brain and come up with either a different bastard, or another bastardly tale of the old bastard.
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merc,
I'm hopeless with stories, but those 2 words tell a story to those who know to whom I refer. He was kind of a mix between pure instinct and pure reason, like a silver back. Very tender with his children and well simply...primitive with others.
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How about....
a flat-mate, who, whilst generally a completely non-bastard..... would purposely fill up his two young kids with Fanta before the ex-wife collected them?
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Rainton might be dead, but his friends aren't.
The first rule of Fight Club is ...
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Strangely enough, the first bastard that springs to mind is my old boss who I chronicled in last month's work stories discussion.
Ditto.
However, upon racking, Dan Pedersen came to mind.
Previous to moving to Chch, my partners had all been sort of Van, Tyson and Pascal types. My first year at uni, I met Dan. Dan's dad had just given his mum a fashion boutique in Fendalton as a birthday present. Dan would do things like pick me up in a Mercedes and take me to dinner at an actual restaurant. Give me a single long-stemmed red rose, and when I got home, the other eleven would be waiting for me. He was romantic and sweet and kind and doinking his ex-girlfriend the entire time we were going out.
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Phil Warren...one of the greats, and a true bastard at times. I went to see him when I was 15 for advice, ended up in a joint venture with him when I was 29 for a year or two. We agreed to part ways after that, but remained true friends....I picked up the phone to him dozens of times for advice, and we used to talk weekly.....his stories were incredible. I miss him terribly....
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Seemingly half the student body at a very prestigious private school in ChCh I attended in the mid 1990s (not of my choosing). More like a creche for snob yobs, rural and urban alike.
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The Ascot apartments were a pretty strange place in the mid-1980s, when my mate Paul and I took up residence there. Big trucks graunched up Newton Road through the night, a youth worker who lived there was hauled out one day on child sex charges, and we fancied that at least one female resident was paying the rent in kind.
And then there was Gummy. Gummy always announced himself as the caretaker, but he actually wasn't. Nonetheless, he succeeded in exercising some authority over the place simply by asserting it. He had a weirdly persuasive nature: he got people to do things they didn't really want to do. I once loaned him my car so he could tow his one from out by the Bombay Hills where it had broken down. He cracked an indicator light and patched it up with spray paint and insulation tape and stuck a fraudulently obtained WOF on the windscreen.
We thought that he was also the Phantom Sweeper. On Sunday nights, during the Sunday horrors after Radio With Pictures, we would often hear someone downstairs scratching away furiously with a broom. No one ever felt like going down to suss it out.
One night, I came back from a trip to Wellington, Paul wasn't there and I was locked out. Gummy spied me and insisted that I come over and sleep on the couch at the flat opposite, where his lived with his wife, Lorraine. We'd heard that the pair of them had been under-Grafton-Bridge-type alcoholics, but the flat was tidy enough. I'm pretty sure I ate with them. I didn't hang around long in the morning.
Eventually, the darkness and the road noise took its toll on my friendship with Paul. I moved out (whereupon we resumed our status as the best of mates), and the next time I saw Gummy was more than 10 years later, on the national news.
It took a little while before I could really be sure about it, but when I saw Lorraine on TV, that settled it.
He was Stewart Murray Wilson, aka 'The Beast of Blenheim', the bullying brute who drugged and raped a Danish hitchhiker, terrorised his family, intimidated welfare staff and was eventually sentenced to 21 years in prison after being convicted of sexual offences against 16 women.
Our weird neighbour, Gummy, was weirder and scarier that we could have dreamed. And one night, I slept on his fucking couch.
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Good Bastard
At the funeral on Friday we remembered Roger Fraser.
Described as being to the Right of Genghis Khan politically.
I always knew him as the Fat Controller (from Thomas the Tank Engine), he was my BSM for most the time I knew him. Then he became the Army Legal Officer a Cpt.
When questiioned about his fitness to be in the Army he famously said "you want me for my mind not my body". The strains on the faces of the pallbearers said it all, then the changeof the casket to shoulders high I held my breath, and the above heads move to place him on the funeral gun had cameras at the ready.
For all his gruff exterior he did good work with no hope of payment for some of the most victimised people in our community, he certainly helped a few my TF mates out on occation.
Finally standin half way down the bank at St Andrews College Chapel as it was full and the outside seating too. A sparrow flew overhead and exacted Rogers revenge on my shining cranium - exactly for what I don't know but take it the debts now been paid. -
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Mid 1980s (conceivably shortly before the 1984 election - because the "Continuance Club" was active at the time & met to commemorate that MP Keith Someone who fell over on his way home to Thorndon one night, and we were the anti-temperance lobby.)
I digress.
The bastard was a soccermate of one of my flatmates. His team mates called him "Reptile". You may or may not be astonished to discover he was a lawyer...
Meanwhile, another flatmate, a very short & slight guy we affectionately called "Rambo", scored at a party with a woman whose name I cannot recall, but my memory uncharitably categorises as a "double bagger". Anyway...
Some weeks after that Reptile made it known to one and all that he too, has scored the lady in question. The things you never wanted to know that people tell you eh?
Some weeks after that yet another flatmate of mine played a grand joke on several of her friends, including flatmates, with letters on stolen letterhead. Including from "the clinic".
Rambo went silent on receipt of bogus advice from "the clinic" that he had contracted an STD. Because it transpired he had received similar, official advice. Foolishly he told someone.
One night (Wednesday) at a Continuance Club meeting at the Brunswick Arms at which Reptile, Rambo, I & all my flatmates were present, including the young lady who made free with her favours...
Reptile announced to the entire bar that Rambo had the clap.
Rambo, outraged, shouted over the head of the woman "Well... so do YOU!"
To which Reptile boomed out "I wore a condom".
Oddly, the woman didn't bat an eyelid, maybe she didn't realise they were talking about her.
No doubt Reptile is prospering somewhere these days.
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my mate Paul
Russell, is this Paul Rose? If so, what's he doing these days? I crossed paths with him when he lived in Dunedin and he always had great music-biz anecdotes.
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Russell, is this Paul Rose? If so, what's he doing these days? I crossed paths with him when he lived in Dunedin and he always had great music-biz anecdotes.
He still does. He's selling ads for gaynz.com, driving limos and creating his customary mayhem. It was Paul who introduced me to Family. I know you can bowl in there straight as all get-out and no one will bother you, but I prefer to accompany Paul. Is there a word for the opposite of a beard?
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I guess you could be considered his handbag, in the "actress needs a fake date to the Oscars" way.
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I've blogged about my favourite bastard here. The guy has since been killed - drink driving. A bit grim, although the story about him is funny in a slightly creepy way.
Favourite good bastard: a mate of mine, a fellow journo from my early days on provincial newspapers. He was a fairly enthusiastic party animal, but would - usually - be in at work at 7.55am regardless. If he wasn't, we'd know he was running behind and we'd phone him up.
he'd answer the phone with the words "yeah, I know. Can someone come and pick me up?"
He came in once after a particulaly intense party and had to go and interview a bloke who had had his house trashed by vandals. He's sitting in this guy's wrecked lounge, looking and feeling completely wrecked himself, and the guy is ranting about how anyone could do this, and how they were just animals, when he stops in mid-rant, looks very concerned at my mate, and says "your eyes - what have you been doing?"
My mate now teaches journalism. A credit to the profession.
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Bastard - complete and utter.
This goes to a foreman I had back in the days I worked in the Kiwifruit as a seasonal job to earn some cash to get me through varsity (or blow on booze).
Dave had the worst qualities you can ever find in someone whose task is to manage people. He was bloody-minded, dictatorial, impatient, intolerant, and had no sense of humour whatsoever. Talking on the job (thinning kiwifruit) was a no-no, and so too was listening to music ("it distracts from the task at hand"), even swearing was right out of the question. Our days were to be spent in silence trudging up and down rows of kiwifruit vines getting rid of the fruit that wasn't going to make the grade come harvest time. A monotonous job had become purgatorial.
To make matters complicated Dave's background didn't help matters. He was ex-navy (hence the authoritarianism), but also born again Christian.
Take it from me this is not a pleasant combination.
Matters came to a head after a week. Faced with dark mutterings, veiled hints of sabotage, random strains of death metal popping up in random corners of the orchard, and finally outright rebellion the boss had no option but to find a place for Dave away from the rest of us.
Good thing he did too - as a devious plan involving several large unripe kiwifruit and a speculum had been nearing fruition (if you'll excuse the pun)
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I could tell you about the bloke who left the remains of my wrecked bike in a pile outside the hospital door after running me over. Or the bus driver who kicked me off the bus because I didn’t pay the right fare – even though I was injured with ruined bike after a 70kph downhill crash. Out of kindness he dropped me off next to a phone box even though he had taken all the change that I had……But this I always remember.
Hard Bastard vs, Heartless BastardOnce upon a time young academics like myself were recruited for pastoral support of new students, this is how I met Kev. Having lived and worked in a back street pub I’ve met and known a few bastards in my time; Kev qualified on the very hard list. I watched him throw someone out of the student union one night and subdue the irate customer with a slap. When Kev first sat in my office I thought that if he stared too hard at me I might get a nosebleed, he looked that hard. As it was, I grew to know him over the next two years and something that amounted to mutual trust emerged. Nothing prepared me for what arose when he sat in my office for a chat two days before his final honours exams.
Kev - “me stepfather rang to say that my mums died and all my stoof’s on the lawn outside the ‘owse”
Me – “F**k”
His stepfather had cremated his mother, spread the ashes and implemented a will that had excluded Kev from even the simplest of inheritance. The bloke didn’t even get to see his mother off. He cried a little and I nearly did too. Kev, his girlfriend and I spent the day driving a hired van to an estate outside Birmingham to pick up what remained of his childhood. Kev finished with a 2i honours. Given the circumstances I remain amazed that there was no violence. I was more amazed to receive an e-mail two years ago from Kev telling me that he was married with kids and working for a bank in Hong Kong “earning shitloads”. I’m looking forwards to a visit. Hard bastard vs, Heartless bastard - hard bastard wins.
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Okay, here's the Rainton Haistie story (one of many possible) ....
I had occassion to find myself working for him in the mid 80s. It was the same time that a certain animal sex video was doing the rounds of NZ, that apparently half of PA readers had seen at that time also. But back then I thought I was the only one with access to this video and saw an opportunity to make some money off the 'Grand-Daddy of NZ's Sex Industry'.
I had already decided by then that Rainton was an ammoral bastard totally undeserving of the fawning press given to him, notably by the fledgling Auckland Sun, which sought to cast Rainton as our on version of Hugh Hefner. As far as I know Hef didn't keep loaded 'shooters' (my first experience of such) in his office nor did he smuggle Thai prostitutes into NZ (a Rainton innovation) to work for sex slave wages.
Anyway, despite knowing about the weaponry and that Rainton was not a man to be crossed, I decided I could still get one over on him. So I took the animal sex video to the Akl Uni AV dept, boooked an edit suite and chopped the 60 minute tape into 3 x 20 minute videos. The coup de grace was that I added 'titles' to the video indicating that they were Police exhibits, seized from [The Accused] at Auckland airport on [date]. They really did look quite professional, aside from the fact that the tape had been copied so many times my one was now almost black and white.
So I told Rainton I had a mate at Customs who could get me these seized copies for a $100 each if he was interested. Rainton said he was and forked over the cash immediately. I had already given Rainton my notice, so I delivered the tapes the night before I left, thinking I would be long gone before he discovered what shit copies they really were.
Of course Rainton watched them straight away and was back in 15 minutes to tell me they were pretty shit copies. I thought my goose was cooked and wondered what was going to happen next. Rainton just shrugged: "Tell your mate at Customs to keep the money .... and to keep an eye out for any kiddie porn. If he can get me any of that I've got a market for it. We can make some big money - the [name of ethnic group] are crazy for it."
I left as planned, and never went back.
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Ew. Ew, ew, ew. I used to think he added colour to the cityscape. After that story, I just think "ew".
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I have met many bastards - good, rich, poor, hairy, smelly, boring, stupid, cunning, evil and charming - but the one that comes to mind is the cowardly bastard.
In the early years, CB was entertaining. In a group, over a few drinks, he'd propose ridiculous schemes on which he'd never follow through. Like the time we were hungry and CB hatched a plan to get some food from the bread factory next to X's flat. CB insisted somebody go with him, so X reluctantly agreed. The two had got halfway up the chain link fence when CB "fell" back to the ground. X kept going but once he reached the top, was picked out by a security searchlight and had to abandon the mission. Occasionally the implications of such scenarios were more serious. With a group in town after a gig, CB's friend Y lit up a joint and passed it around. A zealous constable spotted the group and headed toward them. Previously hogging the joint, CB made a frightened hospital pass to Y, who took the rap (and a trip to court).
When accused of cowardice, CB would remind people of his long list of one-night conquests and the relative bravery that implied. In fact, we learned his successful conquests could be put down to a combination of alcohol and one extremely successful pickup line to do with etchings.
A few years passed while I was out of town. On returning, I was surprised to learn CB had found himself a steady girlfriend. She had a young child from a previous relationship. One day he suddenly dropped out of her life, not even returning calls. She was surprised and distressed. I found him at a cafe in town and asked him what was up. He said he really liked her but didn't want to be a dad, and that the relationship had hit a point where she was going to expect him to be. He said in such situations it was best to avoid the arguments, cut all ties immediately, say nothing and move on.
Later, he told me how much of a failure he felt and how he was going to turn his life around. Within 12 months he'd let me down too - on a financial deal he'd persuaded me to back him on and then freaked out about, leaving me to carry everything.
CB is still out there, preying on young women by night and periodically living on an allowance from his mother. A friend has helped him into a seasonal part-time job. Occasionally I see CB walking along the street. If he sees me first, he scuttles down the nearest side alley, google-eyed with fear.
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Ben's mention of no Poles in London flats reminded me of an old flatmate.
I'm not sure whether she qualifies as a bastard. The only corresponding term for women I can think of isn't one I like to use.
Let's just call her Evil Witch.I lived in London a few years ago. I found a cheap flat in Streatham, sharing with a couple made up of a Colombian guy and a Polish woman (EW).
There was also a Czech guy in the flat. So I was the only one with English as a first language, but nevertheless that's what we spoke to each other.
In the interview, they said, even though it's a double room, we only expect you to be in it. I said, while I'm single now, hopefully I'll meet a woman and bring her over now and then. Moving someone in permanently would be quite different though, I won't do that. That seemed fine with them.So I moved in, and got on fine with both the guys. EW was always frosty. It soon became apparent that she ran the place. Everyone was to clean the flat every day, regardless of whether anything was dirty. When I said that I was quite busy with work, and suggested we all change to every second day, she said no.
Later, I got some scales for the bathroom, and a nice painting which I put up in the lounge. I got back to find them resting against my bedroom door.
Apparently decorations in the flat, even something as practical as a set of scales, were only to be done by the couple. Everything in the shared areas was to be only what they wanted, and no contributions from anyone else were required.Later I met a new girlfriend. I mentioned she might be staying over, and she did, and that was OK. Well, she only met the Colombian guy, not EW. Mostly I tended to stay at the GF's place.
GF came over another night. She got up in the night to go to the loo, and passed EW in the hall.
A few minutes later the couple were battering at my door, demanding to be let in the room.
I wasn't having a bar of it. 'Is the house on fire? No? Then you can wait till morning'
After a few minutes of continual inquisition through the door, my girlfriend let them in.We got a big lecture about nothing, and I insisted that GF stayed til the next morning.
The next day, after she had left, we had a meeting.
'So you don't want her to stay. Why?' I asked.
EW wouldn't tell me. They were notoriously tight with cash, so I tried something along those lines.
'If you're not happy with her having a shower, remember that I'm at GF's place more often than she's here. So overall you're saving money compared to me being single.'
No dice. How about:
'Well, if we can figure out exactly what you don't like about her staying, then maybe we can compromise. At the moment you seem hypocritical, cos you're denying me a sex life that you get to enjoy.'
Still no dice. I got annoyed.
'Well if you can't compromise or share then why are you flatting? You should get a place just to yourselves.'
Things were particularly frosty after that.Czech guy also got a lecture when he had a friend to stay. He was a student though, and couldn't afford to move.
After this my girlfriend didn't want to come to stay anymore, so I guess EW had solved what she saw as a problem.
A few weeks later an eviction notice arrived in the mail, strangely only addressed to me. The couple denied all knowledge of it. There wasn't any point arguing, it was best to move on...
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In light of the numerous conversations about stripping going on, I thought I'd put up a story about a decent bastard, my middle brother Khan.
A few years back he was engaged to a girl from Queensland, and attention-seeking little bitch, who unceremoniously dumped him on the day of his stag do. The guys, overjoyed at the prospect of not losing their mate to a complete nutter, resolved to keep the stag do going anyway. A better cause for celebration none of us could think of.
I turned up to the party venue, and it was shed in a mate's backyard, in the middle of Arataki, Mount Maungaui. A seedy place. You walked into the shed and there's a big home-made table in the middle of the room. There's a couple of tapped kegs at the back, and a huge pile of grass on a chopping board on the big table. A few of the boys were already well into that.
After a few hours of half-arsed speeches, rousing rounds of back-slapping, and numerous jokes at the Queensland girl's expense, my youngest brother noted that this "stag do" had thus far not had the obligatory stripper. Khan attempted to put the kybosh on that idea, but it had legs of its own, and pretty soon a whip-around was organised. A portable phone and yellow-pages were produced as if by magic, and the necessary calls were being made.
Now, the Mount is a small place. A very small place. This was evidenced by one call to "a place that will send you strippers" where the guy making the call goes, "sorry, what's that girl's name? Cherry? You mean Cherry [XXXX]? Ba-hahahaha! Matt! You're ex is stripping bro!"
Matt: "Shut the fuck up man..."
Finally a girl who wasn't related to, formerly a partner of, or currently a partner of, one of the guys was located, and we were assured they would be at the shed, in a dark backyard, in a seedy part of town, in no time...
The table is moved, and all the chairs moved against one wall, stadium style. And we wait in anticipation.
The call goes up that a car has arrived, and we're all baited breath when in walks.... the most pregnant stripper you've ever seen. She must have been 8 months if she was a day. She strides in, and starts pointing to and naming guys she recognises. She's fully dressed. And she's seriously loud. This is not sensual. The guys are all a little freaked out. And then walks in the next stripper. A bloke about 6 ft high and 3 ft wide. He's also very fully dressed. The boys are relieved. But also a little worried.
The chat from the pregnant woman continues for awhile. The big guy just stands by the wall watching everyone. Khan is looking increasingly uncomfortable. He didn't want this in the first place, and now it's looking like the big guy is about the start a stereo he's produced from christ-only-knows-where (remember the table, the big pile of grass, and the two kegs? These are seriously gone by now), and the pregnant girl is going to get her gear off.
No-one is excited. No-one thinks he's going to get his money's worth.
Then striding in comes this woman who must have legs fifteen feet long. She's in heels and a little outfit, the usual stuff. The music has kicked in, and it's you know, a strip show.
Now, what you need to know about Khan is that he's just a good bloke. He's always genuinely liked women, the company of women, and having respect for them. So right now he looks like he wants to crawl under a rock. He's already having a bad day, and now someone is trying to get his gear off in front of all his mates, for their amusement. She's getting her kit off, and he's mostly squirming. The boys are cheering half-heartedly, and the whole thing is just a bit ugly.
When it happens. The stripper has decided to do her climatic part of the act. She's down to her birthday suit, and is going to do this complicated forward cartwheel thing, and land in Khan's lap for a dance. He's sitting on a stool, and the boys are waiting with baited breath.
The shed is small. There's a dozen guys in there, a pregnant woman, the Terminator, a stereo whacking out the worst songs of the 70s, and an incredible acrobatic act is about to kick off. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife.
She takes two steps and vaults forward.
And stuffs it up.
She catches Khan square in the the chest with her crotch, and knocks him back off the stool. They both fall to the ground, Khan flat on his back, her on her knees with her crotch in his face. She looks mortified but just keeps on dancing there, Khan just can't believe what he's seeing.
The boys have collapsed laughing in heaps.
And the whole time, Khan never tried to lay a single finger on her.
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