Impractical Jokes (3 page)

This took longer than you would think. You see, the sample jars themselves were quite small and to dissolve a whole Berocca resulted in a sample so yellow it would be reasonable to assume that a large, radioactive asparagus addict with a kidney problem had decided to ignore her many health concerns and try for children. As such, Dad spent half an hour trying different Berocca to water ratios, searching for the perfect yellow. This was made more complicated by the effervescent nature of the solution, which made many of the early attempts foam out of the jar, leaving an altogether too fizzy sample. In the end, after much trial and error, a third of a tablet was dissolved in one quarter of a sample jar of water, and allowed to stand for five minutes before being diluted with water. Was the result convincing? It was, quite literally, a piece of piss.

Five minutes after achieving the perfect formula, Dad greeted Peter with a casual ‘morning', not even looking up from his newspaper.

‘You're in early.'

‘Yeah. I got a good run of traffic.'

‘Half your luck.'

At the end of the day, Dad volunteered to process the pregnancy tests. While Peter was filing scripts and settling up the till, Dad went through the jars one by one, checking the paperwork and placing them in the courier carton. When Dad got to his jar, and he was sure Peter was watching, he opened the lid and drank it. Then, after an almost imperceptible smack of the lips, he put the lid back on, put the jar back in the box, and continued sorting the samples. Peter's jaw hit the floor. He barely knew my dad; no doubt he was wondering who the hell he had gone into business with.

Now, obviously there was quite a lot of risk involved in this prank. First, it was imperative that Dad get the right sample. Sure he had picked the name and labelled the jar himself, but it could all have gone wrong. There was always the chance that someone with the same name had put in a sample while Dad was out on his lunchbreak. Dad had given this some serious consideration, but figured the chances of a Mrs Picknelli coming in at that particular time on that particular day were very slim. But the other big risk was that Peter would overreact and dissolve the partnership like so many practice Beroccas.

Thankfully neither of these things happened. The sample tasted as tropical as it should and Peter somehow managed to keep his genuine, deep-seated concerns to himself. The only perceptible change in Peter's behaviour was that he insisted that Dad go home early. The reason he cited was that Dad had been in so early, but deep down it was because he was terrified at the thought of what Dad might get up to if left in the store unattended.

Considering that Peter was doubtless having grave concerns for the partnership, you might like to think my dad would have let him off the hook and broken the tension with a punch line. Perhaps after sipping the sample, he could have licked his lips and given a little burp and said, ‘Yep, definitely pregnant.' But that would have been too easy. My dad is funnier than that. He said nothing. He let it linger. The true genius of the prank, what makes him an artist and sets him apart from any other prankster: he didn't tell Peter that it was a joke for two weeks.

That's my dad.

2

THE GENERALS

Part 2: Richard Opie

R
ichard Opie has always been my favourite of Dad's friends. There are a lot of reasons for this. Most of them have to do with the way he speaks. He has a refined English accent which has withstood the ocker erosion of a lifetime living in Australia. This accent is delivered in a velvet baritone and with an ever-present smile in its timbre that means whatever he is saying is a joy to listen to.

When I was younger, my favourite thing about the way he spoke was that he spoke
with
me. Not at me. Not to me. But with me. He made me feel like one of the men. It could be about sport, politics, religion or dogs—any of the big topics—and he would listen as though I had something to say. He would ask questions that indicated he'd not only listened, but was curious to know more. And this made me feel great. Sometimes all a kid wants is to be spoken to like a grown-up.

But he didn't just play to the younger demographic. He was my grandma's favourite too. He would incessantly flirt with her and make her giggle in a way I imagine she giggled as a young girl before the war when a local boy complimented her hair. Richard made Grandma feel young again, and that is one of his gifts—to transport people through time using only conversation. With the right question or quip he could make people feel whatever age made them happiest.

Richard first discovered his practical-joking flair as a regimental sergeant major of the Australian Army Reserve at Puckapunyal army base. For those with no military background, the rank of Regimental Sergeant Major is that most often portrayed in English cinema as the moustachioed nut-bag squawking orders at soldiers as they attempt to line up, march, salute, turn in circles, stop on a thruppence and other nonsense that is of no practical use in a wartime situation. In American cinema this is called a Drill Sergeant but serves much the same purpose.
¹
The main differences between the two are that a regimental sergeant major usually has a stick stuffed under his armpit and greatly resembles a rooster, while a drill sergeant resembles someone hoping to kill at least one person from their own army as soon as possible and that he gets his soldiers to stop on a dime instead of a thruppence. Other than that they serve an identical purpose in cinematic plots, that being to first destroy, then to rebuild, the self-esteem of the protagonist.

Being a member of the Commonwealth, Australia had largely adopted the English model, but to Richard's credit, he seldom resembled a deranged rooster of any kind. Nor did he set about to take the life of anyone under his command. He simply tried to maintain an ordered and disciplined parade ground while discharging his two core responsibilities.

The first of these responsibilities was instructing all drill. Basically, if you were on the parade ground you had to do whatever he said. If he said ‘jump', you said ‘how high?' If he said ‘stop', you asked what unit of currency to do it on. This gave Richard an immense amount of power over a small area of land.

His second responsibility was to administer fire-drill training. It was his charge, and his alone, to ring the fire bell at random junctures and time how long it took for everyone to form up, by platoon, on the parade ground. And fire drills were one of the great levellers on the base. It didn't matter what rank you were or what important activity you were in the middle of, the moment you heard the bell, you had to drop everything and form up. This meant that invariably an entire platoon would be formed up in their pyjamas, or, worse still, miss the last five minutes of the weekly movie.

For the most part, Richard was content in his job as Regimental Sergeant Major. Fire drills had provided enough opportunity for random entertainment and petty revenge. But by the time most of his scores were settled and he had seen most of his fellow soldiers in their pyjamas, Richard decided the job lacked new challenges, and decided to take on a third responsibility: entertaining the troops.

Citing logistical necessities and a clash of scheduling, he made a small amendment to the timetable at the base, swapping the drill times of the signals group and the Women's Auxiliary Army. This had no real consequences for anyone on the base, other than that for a five-minute period each week the Women's Auxiliary Army would be marching on the parade ground at the exact same time that all of the base's superior officers were having their showers in the shower block immediately adjacent to the parade ground.

Richard let the new timetable bed in for a few weeks, allowing everyone on the base to get used to it. One day the alarm bell sounded and the base sprung into action. Table tennis games were abandoned, meals were left half-finished and pornographic magazines were hastily stowed under mattresses to be enjoyed at a later time. Seeing as they were already on the parade ground and had received no orders to the contrary, the Women's Auxiliary Army just kept marching. They were in perfect formation, coming up the right flank of the square parade ground.

‘Women's Auxiliary Army . . . left wheel!'

Upon Richard's orders they began making a carefully choreographed and rehearsed left-hand turn and headed for the centre of the parade ground. Reservists were now pouring into the area by the dozen and forming up in their designated areas. Signals, medics, Q-store; each taking their place as they would normally on parade. The area at the front of the parade ground was of course reserved for the superior officers, who had now come running out of the shower block. They were wet and covered in soap, and though some had managed to grab a towel to hastily preserve their modesty, most of them were still nude.

As they formed up in a line, facing the entire unit, the women reached the dead centre of things and Richard played his trump card.

‘Women's Auxiliary Army . . . eyes right!'

In perfect unison and without breaking stride, they turned their heads ninety degrees to the right and ostensibly saluted the genitals of the base's superior officers.

‘Women's Auxiliary Army . . . eyes front!'

The women's heads snapped back to a forward facing position and they continued marching. To their credit they never lost time, deviated from their path or took their minds off the job.

‘Women's Auxiliary Army . . . halt!'

They came to a perfect stop, on a thruppence as it were, receiving a round of applause from the gathered troops. As three cheers were called, Richard beamed with pride. Not just for the success of the prank, but also for the excellent precision marching of the Women's Auxiliary Army.

Richard's main gig for as long as I've known him has been as a purveyor of fine silk ties and quality menswear worthy of captains of industry or, in my father's case, pharmacists whose wives would like them to dress a little more snappily than Dennis Franz in his portrayal of Andy Sipowicz in
NYPD Blue
. Ties and shirts have been the Opie family business for generations, with a proud history of local manufacturing. Over the years, it turned out that China was the cheapest place to make quality French silk ties, and most of that line of work headed offshore. But Richard's steadfast commitment to keeping his operation in Australia long after it was profitable, was as noble as it was fiscally impossible. I mention all of this for two reasons: First, to introduce what Richard does for a living. Second, to put what he did on the record. When politicians, economists and CEOs talk about the global marketplace and net economic benefits to national economies, often the human detail of honest, hardworking employers and their staff goes missing in the big picture. I'm not saying that progress is wrong or that global isn't the way to go, I just think that when someone really does their best to do the right thing by their workers at great personal disadvantage, the least I can do is give them a paragraph.

For a long time, though, his tie business was booming. Richard got to tour the world, establishing a network of like-minded rag traders. With an impeccable taste for clothes and good company, he revelled in his work. Through the ups and downs of the eighties and beyond he knew that as long as men had any interest in looking good, he was in business.

In 1990, Richard's office phone rang. The familiar voice of Geoff, the managing director of one of Australia's largest department stores, hollered from the receiver.

‘Opie! You have to get me the Triple Crown tie!'

Rugby's Triple Crown is a very specific honour contested annually by England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales as part of what is now the Six Nations Championship. When one of these teams manages to win all their games against the other three, they win the Triple Crown. And in 1990, England had prevailed against her old dominions to take the trophy. Geoff, a mad rugby fan, desperately wanted to get his hands on the limited edition tie released to commemorate the achievement.

‘Well, Geoff, I'll see what I can do, but don't hold your breath. There were only a thousand released and I know they all got snapped up pretty quickly.'

‘Come on, Opie. I know you can do it. Get on the blower to your mates in the UK and snap one up.'

‘Ok, Geoff. But like I said, it's not too likely.'

Richard hung up the phone and paused. This was a great opportunity to do a considerable favour for one of his biggest clients. At the same time he knew the chances of finding one of these ties was about as slim as the Triple Crown Title being won by Spain.