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result, as described in Conway’s Way , his self-serving memoir (is there any other kind?) was as follows: ‘Suitably steeped in the history of 17th Century France, I wrote four huge acts, with nearly 40 speaking parts … the sheer scope of the play supports the conviction I’ve shared with the composer Vaughan Williams: “I have always preferred the imperfections of epics to the perfection of miniatures.’’ ’
    Though there wasn’t a single joke in The Courtier of God , it remains one of the funniest productions I’ve ever seen. Conway had dragooned some of his colleagues into performing. The sight of Desmond O’Grady trembling with terror as the French statesman Colbert, and other untidy Campion Society members in pantaloons and plumes mumbling their lines before a flouncing Louis XIV (played, inevitably, by the author) sent Bill Hannan and myself, safe in the back stalls, into convulsions.
    There was a chorus, featuring the Women of France (‘Lo! The fields of France lie golden in the sun, ripe for the harvest’) but the high point came just before a keenly awaited interval. The curtain suddenly dropped, leaving de la Salle, who was seated on a chair having an attack of melancholia, marooned at the front of the stage. Though supposed to be near to tears, when he looked up and realised his predicament, he burst out laughing and propelled himself backwards though the drapes. In the front row, the heads of the distinguished hierarchy invited for the occasion bobbed up and down in something close to hysteria.
    In the hope of saving me from what he saw as an impending crisis, Ron paid me a visit, and in our lounge room, with my brother giggling behind the door, formally offered me his friendship, and laid out a manifesto that was to govern it: mutual respect; a refusal to criticise the other behind their back; and a readiness to accompany the other on outings of a cultural nature. It sounded like an emotional contract, and produced in me a desire to flee. He was jilted, and our relationship cooled.
    By the time the Campion Society had honed their distinctions, Vladimir Petrov had defected, the Industrial Groups had split the Labor Party, Menzies had won the 1954 election, and I had become a Bachelor of Arts (Pass).
    The West St Kilda CYMS branch ignored the warnings of a Communist apocalypse and continued with their customary activities of drinking and sport. I now opened the batting for their cricket team. Our home ground was the mysteriously named Peanut Farm, behind Luna Park. A large crowd inexplicably attended our opening match, only to turn their backs in a reverse Mexican wave at regular intervals. The Farm was the headquarters of the local SP betting industry, and cricket gave them the perfect between-race pretext.

    Practising for the West St Kilda Catholic Young Men’s Society football team.
    Cricketing standards were low, but there was a nine-gallon keg set up on the back of a utility as an incentive to dispose of the opposition quickly. When all else failed, as it often did, the captain would call on Maurie to send down his medium pacers. Maurie, a crimson-hued alcoholic, had a whirring windmill action that could shoot the ball at the close-in fieldsmen, the batsman, and occasionally at the wicket. Once he whirled the ball so hard he bowled himself in the foot and had to be carried off.

Horrie, king of the chimps
    Secondary studentships provided only a small living allowance, compelling me to show a range of incompetencies in part-time jobs: stuffing kapok into pillows (lasting one week), builders’ labourer (four days, after falling down a manhole) and scrubbing thousands of ball marks off the walls of three squash courts at my father’s club (‘the exercise will do you good’).
    There was also the Titles Office, where there was casual work as a filing clerk. This involved climbing metal companionways to retrieve or return bulky folios of