Here’s a tale from my 1970s childhood that always stuck in my mind. I knew these three brothers, Joey, Johnny and Dee Dee Mitchell. Yeah okay I changed the names. Yeah I also turned them into the Ramones. I liked the Ramones. They lived around the block from me in a ramshackle house. I also lived in a ramshackle house. We all lived in ramshackle houses in Kwinana back then. There was no shame in that.

Kwinana in the seventies was a rough place. It still is. It was a migrant town built around the steelworks that employed loads of Italians, Slavs and ten pound poms, like my parents. When they were looking to locate the steelworks, they must have asked the Poms where to put it, cos only the English would build a polluting monstrosity on the beach, thus ruining it forever. Hence the advertising slogan – Come float with the fish at Kwinana Beach. Okay, I made that up, but it’s a good one. ‘Dad, can we go to Kwinana Beach for our holidays – said no kid EVER!’

So the Mitchell brothers had a dad, who oddly enough was called Mr Mitchell. There was a Mrs Mitchell, but she was always in the kitchen in the background. She’s only a vague memory to me. But not Mr Mitchell. He was larger than life, a real character. Always had a sarcastic grin on his face, and a real sharp tongue. Took the piss out of me something chronic.

Nobody knew exactly what Mr Mitchell did for a crust. He always seemed to be at home when we were at the house. He was short and scrawny, but also managed to sport a big gut. So maybe he drank. Always in shorts, with these skinny little legs. Had an interesting head. Receding black hair in the form of an isolated tuft on the top of his head. It sat there like an island just off shore of the mainland strip around the back and sides.

There was a rumour around the town that Mr Mitchell had been in prison. Actually, it wasn’t a rumour, it was true. We asked him about it. Apparently he stole some food out of a warehouse or something. Must have been a lot of food. He reasoned that nobody was really using the food so he was within his rights to take it and feed his family. We were never big on detail as kids so we left it at that.

So, the Mitchell brothers and I were all into soccer, played for the local club. Unfortunately, like most of Straya in the seventies, this was the era of soccer players being considered sheilas, wogs and poofters. Nowhere was this more strongly enforced than in the personage of my primary school nemesis, Brett Borass. Yeah I’ve changed this name as well, but he’s still a c*nt. He’s probably in prison now, or maybe he found himself and came out of the closet.

So, it was the summer holiday between us finishing primary school and starting our high school career at… shudder, Kwinana High School. Twelve going on thirteen. All those hormones and all that uncertainty; pimples and erections. Kwinana High has been knocked down now and a new one built on its grave called Gilmore College, but the aura of darkness still lingers. Kwinana High, where if the kids didn’t get you, the teachers would. It was not unlike Roger Waters’ recollections of his own miserable schooldays in ‘The Wall’ – Yew! Stand still, laddie!

So trio Mitchell and I were playing soccer on a local footy oval. We’re using jumpers for goalposts. There’s an irony here in that I often drove past that oval visiting my parents in recent years, and the footy goals are gone and it’s a soccer ground now. So, we’re deeply involved in our game, and we don’t see Borass and a gang of his mates approaching until they are upon us. Borass is bouncing a footy.

‘Carn boys,’ he growls. ‘We’re gonna play a game of sockah!!’

So the footy bogans proceed to play kick to kick with their footy in the middle of our space. Despite the fact the oval is huge and there’s plenty of room for everyone. But of course, we all knew their objective was to get in our faces.

Borass hated me. All through primary school he had been after me. I think he knew that I knew he was a total moron and I was a mouthy prick and probably let slip that I knew it. Plus I might have told him and everyone else that footy was a shit game once or twice. I remember one day, a couple of mates and I were walking through the bush near the primary school, and they let slip they were going to meet someone. Imagine my horror when we moved into a clearing and there was Borass sitting on a fallen log. He glared at me with pure malice and the following exchange took place.

B: What’s HE doin’ ‘ere’

He’s okay. He’s with us.

B: (Shaking his big stupid shaggy head angrily) Well he’s not getting’ any of me smokes.

Me: (Bravely) Don’t want none.

So anyway, needless to say, on the footy oval, the tension is mounting. I can see Borass closing in on me, looking to take a swing. I duck away from him but one of his mates, a big bastard, takes me down with a solid tackle.

Then it’s on. The guy starts laying into me and the others run in to stick the boot in. The Mitchells, seeing us outnumbered seven to four, bravely run away.

So I’m alone, getting the shit beaten out of me, cursing the Mitchells, when not five minutes later, there’s a screech of brakes, and a battered old sedan roars onto the oval.

It’s the cavalry!

It’s Superman!

It’s the Mitchells… and they’ve brought their dad!

Mr Mitchell (I never did learn his first name) storms out of the car. He’s still wearing his shorts and his button up shirt with the gut sticking out. He looks angry. The bogans pause.

God love him, Mr Mitchell marches straight up to the biggest, oldest bogan there, who was probably about fifteen, and gets in his face.

‘So you like picking on smaller kids, do ya mate?’

This elicits the expected response from the stunned bogans.

‘Fuck off mate!’

‘What’s your beef, mate?’

But the bogans are uncertain. Their body language shows a hint of fear. They’re not used to being stood up to, especially in a pack.

‘Why don’t you try me on for size?’ Mr Mitchell shouts, and he’s not backing down. He’s coming on with a head of steam.

And then, dammit in retrospect this is one of the greatest memories of my childhood, Mr Mitchell runs at the big bogan and launches himself, kung fu style, into the most ridiculous looking martial arts assault I’ve ever seen. Like Eric Cantona going that Crystal Palace fan in 1995.

He somehow executes the kick and still lands on his feet. The bogan, more stunned than hurt, takes the kick fair in the guts and recoils.

‘Fuck off, mate!’ He yells.

‘Come on, big man, take me on!’ Mr Mitchell is in the zone now. He’s not yelling, he’s not screaming. He’s calm and he’s still got that sly grin on his face. He’s bouncing around on his haunches, he’s shaping up like a short, balding, beer-bellied boxer. He’s Homer Simpson before Homer Simpson was invented. This man does not give a fuck, and it shows. That makes it even more unnerving.

And it works! The bogans don’t know how to respond to this bizarre assailant. They start to back away. They’re still pointing and threatening though, trying to save face.

‘You’re fucken dead, mate!’

‘We’ll fucken get you, mate!’

They bravely yell as they scurry away.

The Mitchell brothers look on. I look on and all I can think is, ‘I am fucking dead when I get to high school.’

Mr Mitchell puts his arm around me and leads me back to the car. I am shaken but not stirred. I came out of it with swollen cheeks and bruised ribs, but I healed up quick.

Borass never bothered me after that. I only had to endure nine months of high school in Kwinana, which was horrible and violent. Then we moved to the Belmont area and I never saw the prick again. Belmont was still working class but upper working class. People had a bit more money. I still remember my first day at the old Kewdale High when three weedy kids tried to bully me with sarcasm. Yes, sarcasm, words. I literally laughed at them and said, ‘That’s it? That’s all ya got? Cos I’ll take all the sarcasm in the world. Beats a punch in the face or a dead leg any day.’ Those kids were alright after that.

I wonder what happened to Mr Mitchell. I never really got to say thanks, buddy. He taught us a valuable lesson in standing up to bullies. Always go for the biggest one first.