Hello my first follower ! Welcome to my missives . Now , I have this lovely garden path , let me lead the way .
It's been established that I was born . I was born on the land , to the land and I am that which the land is comprised of . I am the sum total , or the holistic construction of the nutrients which I consumed from my birth place ... Gore , Southland , New Zealand .
Gore was , in the late 1960's , a rich and comfortable place to live so I believed . It's a town built along the Mataura river and typically of a town founded by Presbyterians , the town planners turned their backs to that beautiful stream by allowing the construction of the towns industrial infrastructure to flourish along it's banks thus obscuring any beauty or romance that might be gleaned from it's rippling , twinkling , fish laden waters . It also afforded those industries the opportunity to be able to dump their toxic waste and rubbish in to it .
Gores main street became a mating ground , sports field and race track for the local kids with little else to do but drive aimlessly about , fighting , 'rooting ' and generally creating mayhem . One of which was me .
' In those days ' , kids had cars that would , at best , run long enough to get one to a dance , or a party . Fords , Holdens and Zephyrs were popular and above all else , cool . Snarling along of an evening , you could hear the dulcet tones of a Mk3 Ford Zodiac rattling polite tea cups , in cupboards , in musty houses from miles away and that was the objective . To jangle the nerves of the conservative , church goer types who must have prayed for engine failure as they checked that their daughters were safely tucked up in bed .
Thus began my life long love affair , more an infatuation or obsession , with girls and cars .
Cars were freedom , status , a place to hang out , a bar , a drug den , a boudoir , a brothel , ones lounge and place to tell tall stories and where friends made new friends and sometimes though rarely, new enemies .
Also and often , those , now old cars produced a surge of fright . The French have a word for it . A frisson ! Try hurtling along a winding country road at 90 mph in a Mark 4 Zephyr , more a four door coffin with the areo dynamics of a house brick and your drunk mate driving thinks that sticking his leg out the door and putting his foot on the road in a defiant act of lunacy is a great idea ! It wasn't ! He discovered that by doing so , that within a nano second , he'd ground the heel off his late 1960's platform soled boot to an acute 45 d angle and until he could afford a new pair , he hobbled around like a polio victim . Myself and the other seven kids in the car thought it hilarious at the time and to this day , I still think it was a great idea ! Well done Byron ( Not his real name ) . Byron went on into life, as one does and became a grandfather by the age of thirty , a drug importer and user , a brawler and once causing a riot at an Agricultural and Pastoral Society show by cutting down the tents belong to the carnies for ripping him off then getting his mates to back him up as he waged war on a biblical level amid a crowd of farmers and their wives , children and animals . That 'minor incident' saw him do his first lag in prison . However , Byron was , despite his best efforts and intentions , a good person .
When I was fifteen , my dad bought me my first car ! He didn't tell me what model it was but it was A CAR ... ! Oh My GHOD ! I was so excited ! We lived on our 650 acre farm about 12 miles from Gore , or Gomorra if you prefer , and I now I was about to have the freedom to roam like a lone wolf . I imagined a Ford v8 , perhaps a Holden Special or a Vauxhall Cresta 2.6 and it that Model had fins ! But most of all , I wanted the most amazing car I'd ever seen . It was for sale at a car yard and wreckers on the outskirts of southern Gore and operated by a man called Mr Foot . ( Years later , I was with my father in Christchurch . I was there and then , when my dad introduced Mr Foot to another man , an engineer and factory owner , a Mr Heel . ) Mr Foot was known also as the man who said that great word , 'Fuck ! ' a lot . I truly mean he said ' fuck ' sandwiched between every other word he used no matter how out of place it might have been . ' Great fuckin' day ? Fuckin' might fuckin' rain fuckin' later fuckin' though . What fuckin' do ' fuckin' you fuckin' think ? I learned , if you answered ' Fuck knows ' he'd slink off looking hurt and offended . He was a lovely man and was kind and generous with plenty of time for broke , spotty , teenagers with car madness coursing through their veins .
That car was a 1959 Dodge Kingsway ! Ohhh ... I remember it well ! It was white with red blazes along it's glorious flanks , it had chrome trim and twin headlights but best of all , it had massive fins ! Huge , incongruous fins ! It had a clear resin steering wheel with flecks of different coloured alloy metal that glittered in the sun . It had an instrument pod like something George Jetson would have been envious of and it had a massive , wide and plush, back seat . Perfect for hugging , kissing , fondling and if I were lucky , for fucking on ! It was quintessentially magnificent and I was well and truly in love with it .
But to convince my father to spend the money , that was the tricky bit . I thought of being devious , tricky , sneaky , lying , stealing , even murdering . I imagined a quick and decisive bank job . I sought help , guidance and advice from my most deviant and criminally minded friends who all withered at the thought or getting caught out trying to pull the wool over my fathers eyes .
Finally , I decided to just front up and ask . Which I did . And do you know what ? Dad said yes ! He'd consider it , take it under advisement and if I could convince Mr Foot to drop the price from $700.00 to $500.00 , all the better which I did during a particularly fruity exchange of foul language , just to put Mr Foot at ease .
I informed my father who seemed happy and ready to make the purchase and I was already speeding and shagging and parking up , my elbow nonchalantly drooping from the door window .
Finally , after days that seemed like years , my father and I headed off in his Mark Ten Jaguar to pick up MY CAR ! . We drove down through a pine plantation and through lush green farm land to where the road flattened out to a straight stretch know locally as Suicide Straight for it's down hill run then abrupt T intersection with State Highway One . There was many a horror story of lucky , near misses and some not so lucky . ( To this day ,that intersection sprouts little white crosses in remembrance to those less fortunate , a disturbing and unsettling trend that I particularly loath but more of that later . )
We slowed down . We stopped . We turned right ! ? We needed to turn left. ! I nervously asked ' Pop ! Pop ? Don't we need to go to Gore to pick up my Dodge ? ' He said ' What Dodge ? ' I said ' Ah... the one you promised me ... You said if I could broker a deal with Mr 'Fuck' Foot , which I did , you'd buy me that Dodge ! ' All my father said was ' Ahhh haaa ... I see ... ' and kept driving south . As I watched the road fold under the long , aristocratic snout of the Jaguar , I felt dread and wondered what it was that my father had bought instead ... The fact that my father was eccentric was never lost on me and I suspected the worst ...
( My feet are cold . My old dog's snoring . I must go and pee . Until next time . Peace and love y'all . )
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