Years ago, sixty dads and our Junior Rugby-playing sons attended a Northern Beaches bonding weekend. It was canoeing, archery, orienteering, climbing, swimming and rugby with our sons all day and then at night the Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby to Chatswood) dads sat around with beers, while the kids ran wild.

It was an old tradition. We’d been doing it for years.

But this year we were addressed by a new Camp Supervisor from Germany, a big, serious, blonde Aerian looking guy.

Standing all the dads and kids – “I AM CAMP SUPERVISOR BART BACHLER. FATHERS ARE NO ALLOWED TO DRINK ZHE ALCOHOL OUTSIDE OF ZHIS DINING HALL, WHICH WILL CLOSE AT NINE O’CLOCK.”

I was way up the back, the kids (and plenty of the dads after hearing the ridiculous, shocking rule) were yelling loudly.

Me (raising my hand) – “SORRY SUPERVISOR, I CAN’T HEAR YOU VERY WELL. DID YOU SAY YOUR NAME WAS, BUTT BUTLER?”

That’s what I thought he’d said. The place erupted into laughter.

Bart Bachler – “BART BACHLER!” He shot me a look of German Camp-Supervisor wrath.

Me – “THIS NON-DRINKING THING, I ASSUME THAT’S MORE OF A… GUIDELINE THAN A RULE?”

Turns out it wasn’t a mere guideline so us dads all went clandestine with our drinking.

Anyway, on the second day one dad (who I didn’t know) whose son Tyrone was a big chunky kid who played in the front row in another age group, approached me.

Dad I didn’t know – “Can you keep a rough eye on little Tyrone for me tonight? I need to go home for a work emergency.”

Me – “It’ll be a very rough eye indeed (I waved my beer). Isn’t there somebody more responsible you could ask? It’s a classic how you call him little Tyrone by the way!”

Dad I didn’t know – “What do you mean?” He looked at me quizzically.

Me – “Nothing…”

We swapped mobile numbers.

Us dads had eskys strategically hidden around the camp and if anybody saw big the Butt Butler coming, the call of JEEVES would go out and we would all hide our beers.

At about midnight I was still sitting around having contraband beer and all the kids and the Butt Butler had gone to bed.

I got a text from “Dad I didn’t know” – I’m confident you’ll still be awake Jase, ha ha. Just checking on little Tyrone.

OH SHIT. LITTLE TYRONE!

I text back – Oh.

I hadn’t thought of Little Tyrone since “Dad I didn’t know” left that afternoon, about eight hours prior.

I rushed to our room.

Little Tyrone’s bed… IS EMPTY.

FAAAARK.

Me – “WHERE’S LITTLE TYRONE.”

My son (half asleep) – “Oh Dad I haven’t seen Ty for ages. He hit his head on a bit of metal and ran off into the bush crying. We were going to find him, but Charles whacked me with a wet tennis ball. And then I forgot.”

FAAAARK.

My mind flashed back to when the Butt Butler came to our room after dinner to do a head count.

The Butt Butler (checking his list earlier) – “You must do zhe ‘ead count.”

Me (still angry over this year’s grog-ban) – “We got no Ed’s here Supervisor… but we have two Johnny’s!” The Butt Butler didn’t smile.

I yelled “YOU ALL HERE KIDS?”

The kids – “YES!”

Me – “They’re all here supervisor.”

So now little Tyrone was somewhere out in the pitch-black bush and has probably bled out. I told my son to go and check every room.

I went to wake up the Butt Butler.

He was not enthused to see me.

The Butt Butler – “VHAT ZHE ‘ELL? Is zhat a beer in your hand?”

He crossed his arms angrily. He looked like he was ready to annex Austria.

I rushed to the bin a few metres away to throw the bottle out, went to swallow the last sip and in my agitated state, underestimated the amount I had left. I tossed the beer into my mouth and a lot more flooded in than I was expecting. I coughed and the beer went up my nose and sprayed out like a fountain. I erupted into a terrible gagging fit.

Spluttering as my nose and eyes ran, I got a text from my son – All good. He’s asleep in Harry’s room.

THANK GOD.

The Butt Butler was REALLY pissed off, but I no longer had to inform him that I had potentially, irresponsibly, drunkenly killed one of the kids.

The Butt Butler (in that loveable German accent) – “VHAT YOU VANT???”

I was inebriated and had just been on a roller coaster of adrenalin-laden emotion, so I struggled to think of any explanation.

Me – “Sorry… for calling you the Butt Butler.” He slammed his door.

Then I get a text from “Dad I didn’t know” – Jason I’m concerned.

Me – Found him!

Dad I didn’t know – You’d lost him?

I wondered why these things always seemed to happen to me.

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Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to be able to claim when meeting a new person at a Hornswood party, that I am in fact… a writer (whereby my wife generally jumps in and proclaims “he’s actually NOT a writer”). If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I write stuff for a few small companies, but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I have set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

Two of our Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby to Chatswood) friends put on a dinner party, with the express intention of getting our buddy Stu (whose wife had left him a year or so earlier) to meet their friend Kelly, who had split with her hubby years before. So there was my lovely wife and I, Stu, two other couples, the hosts, Kelly (who we’d never met) and her sister-in-law Lana.

Stu, being pretty nervous about being set up with his first post-separation lady, got a bit… pissed.

Now Stu, is a truly lovely guy, a great mate, polite, concerned with other people’s feelings, never swears in front of women, is just a really nice bloke. Two things happened that night, which he wished… didn’t.

We were all sitting around the table having a great time. Stu stands up and in his courteous way, asks if anybody would like a drink.

Me – “Water!” I had a large, orange, plastic tumbler in my hand and threw it to him.

Stu – “I don’t get water for blokes. Alcohol only Cool Hand! (most of my mates call me by this self-ascribed poker call-sign)” He threw the tumbler back.

Me – “We’re not sixteen here Stu. You know I never need encouragement to drink beer, I just want a water too.” I threw the tumbler back.

Feeling a bit loose and crazy, with a loud Seinfeld Soup-Nazi voice, Stu yells “NO WATER FOR YOU” and theatrically swiped the tumbler out of the air.

It turns out, that some expensive glassware, can actually look and feel like plastic.

The tumbler slammed into a painting on the wall and shattered! Shards of glass went through the living room carpet, all over “John Howard” the Cavoodle, into the couch and covered the floor.

Stu was mortified.

He appeared to Kelly and Lana to be a man who had just smashed a glass into the wall, because he didn’t want his friend drinking any water.

Anyway, after about half an hour of vacuuming the floor, the couch and John Howard we all settled back down to the table once more. We all laughed, but Stu felt terrible and kept apologising to the lady of the house.

Meanwhile, I kept mentioning to Kelly that I knew her face from somewhere and we finally worked out that she was the sister of a good friend of mine Roger Angler from school and they looked incredibly similar.

Me – “Oh Jesus Kelly, if my memory is correct, that means Stu over there who they are trying to set you up with (Stu was in the kitchen apologising again to the hosts) took your sister to our Year 12 Formal!”

Kelly – “Oh wow! And my sister is now Lana here’s sister-in-law. Small world.”

Thank God, something they could talk about to drag the attention from Stu smoting glasses. I knew he really liked Kelly’s sister and they were still knew each other, so they could all sit around saying how lovely she is. What a great conversation piece.

Stu walked back to the table.

Me – “Hey Stu! You remember our mate Roger Angler from school? You took his sister to the formal.”

Keep in mind that Stu was quite inebriated and was still recovering from the emotional roller coaster of having glassed the living-room.

Stu – “I do indeed Cool Hand (he said with a smile and a cocky head wobble). He was a dick! Now I don’t wish to talk out of school, you may want to block your ears ladies, but his sister and I lost our virginity together behind Curzon Hall at the formal, with an old Fijian kitchen-hand looking on. She was wild and loved the fact that he was watching. She was an aaaaanimal and I thought I was the only one for her. Turns out, I wasn’t even the only one for her… that night!” He laughed loudly.

I was not expecting that.

Kelly – “My little sister ?” Kelly looked shocked.

Stu – “Huh?” He looked to me and I mouthed the word sorry.

Lana – “The one who married my brother?” I wasn’t expecting that either.

Stu just stared blankly. Wordless. Unmoving.

It’s funny, Stu and Kelly never ended up going on a date. There must have been no spark.

PLEASE USE THE BUTTONS BELOW TO SHARE FAR AND WIDE.

Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to be able to claim when meeting a new person at a Hornswood party, that I am in fact… a writer (whereby my wife generally jumps in and proclaims “he’s actually NOT a writer”). If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I write stuff for a few small companies, but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I have set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers