Ravings for Remedies

In 1992, I joined the Ken Tickell Rover Crew, after completing my time in Venturers together with some of my comrades.  Being a borderline introvert, I was unsure of how to approach the crew except with trepidation and because I was so quiet, it made mingling difficult.  During the Barak / Ken Tickell Banquet, where the Squires of Ken Tickell had to serve dinner for the members of Barak, I clumsily spilled soup onto one of the Barak Rovers.  Embarrassed, I retreated outside.  An old Rover from my crew approached and asked me why I wasn’t inside.  “I made a dick of myself!” I said, then later in a defeated tone “I don’t feel like I belong.” We sat in silence for a while, then he said “I used to be just like you, afraid to take a chance. Then I realised, I was never going to meet anyone by isolating myself. It’s hard to face a crowd you don’t know, but believe me, if you put yourself out there, you will be noticed! Your time in Rovers will be over before you know it, don’t waste it!” I sat there alone a while longer and thought about what he said.  I had no idea really what Rovers was all about and was scared more than anything, but decided to make an effort.  When I walked back inside the hall, I made it clear to all I was ready to help.  My sponsor became Rusty.

A month later, my mate Dave Miller joined the crew after he finished with Venturers.  Our first inter-crew experience was during the Bill Rutherford Raft Race; this may have been our first experience with beer.  Some of the other crews went to enormous lengths to create original concepts for rafts.  I specifically remember seeing one crew’s raft made with four rome-like columns, four rowers strategically sitting at each corner and a hedonistic figure sitting on a throne at the center; all wearing togas.  We didn’t bother with a raft that year, we brought the crew canoes and drifted quietly down the river.  The set up was as follows: Rusty and I were in lets say Canoe One, Dave, Matt and Glen were in Canoe Two.  Most of the time we were side by side, flicking water at each other or just admiring the view, this of course was interrupted by panic at the rapids.  Bump! Scrape! I still can’t believe those canoes lasted as long as they had.  I was loving the experience, it was so peaceful.  We came to a really tight corner (by this time Canoe Two was manned only by Dave (the squire), as both Glen and Matt were asleep).  Dave yells out “Shit! Matt!!!!”  Matt stirred into action, but they needed Glen at the back to steer away from the weeping willow they were fast approaching and he couldn’t be roused.  Rusty and I were further downstream, we took the corner easily.  Canoe Two however, without a rudder, slammed into the entanglements.  Glen went under to an extremely rude awakening, while Dave leapt for a vine and hung like a monkey; Matt was also tangled in the vines.  Rusty and I paddled upstream in rescue to grab the canoe and tied it to a snag.  We managed to pull Glen to safety while Matt and Dave climbed ashore.  We decided to have our soggy lunch (from Canoe Two) at the beach just beyond that bend.  At this point Rusty pointed out the number of toilet breaks I’d taken along the river at that point.  We all laughed, it really was funny what water does to your body.  Rusty and I went in the drink a few times also.  We ended up at Narbethong soaked through.  Dave and I had two cans of beer each that night and I remember lying on the oval staring up at the stars, only to be bitten by a mother of a bullant.  Good Times!!!

In the winter of ‘92 I missed the final Mudbash at Big River before it was relocated to Mafeking Rover Park (along the Ghin Ghin Road, 20km outside of Yea).  Not long after Mudbash of ‘92, Mullumbimba Rovers were hosting a cocktail party.  Dave and I were excited, not least because of the chicks.  Much of the evening was spent kissing some goths and socialising.  Soon after that, it was time for M.A.R.B. – ‘A night of the arts’ with ‘Sickem’ Rex’ (they got their band name from an old Bonds ad on TV). The crew-theme was ‘The Thunderbirds’ and everybody dressed as either Virgil or Brains etc, I dressed in a suit. The night was a bit of a blur for me, so all I can really remember was smoking a cigarette (first ever and last!), raging to the band, admiring the women and climbing under the table. When we were about to leave, a tanked Matt yelled out, “Hey, Dad & Dave, where are you going?” Dave turned, but I kept walking, obviously having no idea he was talking to me. It took about three calls, before I turned around. By then, everybody in the crew stopped dancing and looked at me, “Dad? Is that your new nickname?” The following week, everybody in the crew called me Dad. I hated the nickname at first, it sounded like I was old and boring: the last thing I wanted to convey. But eventually, it grew on me.

Dave and myself attended every Rover function up until 1996.  My first Mudbash, in 1993, was the first REAL feeling of being a Rover, the two of us displayed an image of acceptance, spreading the name of Ken Tickell. We remained surprisingly upright throughout the entire weekend after copious amounts of alcoholic beverages. The following year, at the same event, Tracey introduced me to her jester hat, something which made me feel at the center of attention, as it was ‘a hat for the individual’.  I wore it around Mudbash as a dare.

Basically, my passing time as a Rover has been the most excellent time I’ve ever had.  I’ve experienced everything, in such rare detail; however names, I still have problems with.  In one instance, toward the time of my Boot at the Surfmoot of 2001, a bloke I recognised by sight comes over and says ‘Dad, how are ya?’  I replied ‘Not bad mate, you?’  Obviously pissed that I referred to him as ‘mate’, he said ‘What’s my name?’ I took a wild guess ‘Steve?’ He looked angry, ‘You’re fucking hopeless!’ he said and walked away.  With good reason too: we’d known each other since ‘94.  As I later learned in psychology, it was evidence of a state-dependant-cue, when you will usually only remember something when in that state again.  In this case I had to be drunk to recall his name and it was true that at every event we’d catch up and talk crap, but really who was he, I couldn’t say.  To this day I still don’t know his name.

Years of being the crew-scribe / jester and at times, the ‘Oogie’ chanter, has led to my complete understanding of those words of wisdom intoned by the insightful Rover on my first night.  To be a Rover is to make the most of your time, in the best way you can.  For some, badges and ascension appeals, for me however I enjoyed being a socialite and practising theatricality and in return I received friendship, fun and great memories.  What more could one want?