Merry Christmas - Article from William - Sydney Morning Herald

I'll bet Mr Arsey didn't know how to fix a gate

By William McInnes

December 23, 2005

IT was because the hammer fell on my head. That was why I unleashed the maelstrom of bonnets and lace and low brows and bad accents. The bloody hammer.

I was visiting my mother and I foolishly asked if there was anything she'd like done. I love that expression. Would you "like anything done"?

"Well," she said almost licking her lips. "You could take me to see the new Pride and Prejudice or you might like to fix the gate."

And she smiled. I shuddered. There was no way I was going to see Pride and Prejudice, whether it was new or not.

"Right then, the gate it is."

The problem was it wouldn't shut properly. My mother handily supplied some tools. A 30-year-old sander that gave you an electric shock when you turned it on, a hammer that I think once belonged to Thor the Thunder God, and some oily bits and pieces in a jam jar.

I sanded and swore and banged and had serious words with the sander and stood on the dog. Then the hammer fell on my head. I must have had concussion because I gave up on the gate after nearly shaving my arm to the bone with the sander and told Mum we were going to the movies.

Why you need a new Pride and Prejudice is open to debate, but I guess people keep on making Commodores, so why can't they keep on making Pride and Prejudices?

"Maybe they should make a car and call it Pride and Prejudice," I said.

"Are you trying to be funny?" my mother said. "Because if you are, I don't want to sit with you."
I promised I'd behave. And so we sat and watched the new Pride and Prejudice. And we sat and sat. It was OK as far as Pride and Prejudices go, I guess. Keira Knightley did some odd things with her jaw at times, but, you know, whatever gets you through. The old man behind us, who used to make the most beautiful pies in his bakery, said she "looked like a bloody piranha, the way she goes on with her gob". But my mum couldn't care less about Keira, or Lizzy as she was called in the new Pride and Prejudice. She was interested in Mr Darcy.

Mr Darcy. I rubbed my head. What did I think, she asked, about Mr Darcy?

What is it about Mr Darcy and women?

I said he was all right. "Although I think he had a wig."

"Mr Darcy wasn't bald," she said.

"Yes," I said, "but I think that fella's hair was a bit thin. But he was pretty good."

My mother was silent for a while. "Yes," she said, "I liked him, I liked that Mr Darcy."


"Didn't there used to be a trotter called Mr Darcy?" I asked.

"No," Mum corrected, "a greyhound that belonged to Eddie Lippiatt."

Right. I felt light-headed; the hammer had done its work.

"Let's get some beer and prawns and watch some other Mr Darcys and compare," Mum suggested

"I'd rather fix the gate," I said.

"Well, it's going to rain," Mum said. "So make yourself comfortable."

The beer and prawns almost made the next two days bearable. Almost. First we watched Laurence Olivier and his Brylcream at work. "He was short but very funny," was Mum's verdict.

Next was some old hazy video job from the BBC in the '70s with a thin-lipped fellow with permed hair. "Walks like he's done his knees," she said.

"He's all right," I said. "He's just a bloke who's trying to earn a living."

"And you'd know?"

I sat through Lizzy Bennetts and Mr Bingleys and balls and weddings and bonnets, more balls and more Bingleys.

The beer almost got me through Colin Firth's turn. Nearly, but not quite.

We got to the bit where Col jumped in the water. "Is that it?" I asked.

"Well what more do you want," said my mother as she scratched the dog's stomach. "He's bit podgy and well fed but he fills out those breeches nicely."

"Well, good on chubby Col," I said as I sipped a beer.

"Well, you can talk," Mum said as she squashed a flea between her fingers. True. I had played Mr Darcy on stage once and managed to behave myself in Melbourne. But when I got to Sydney, I gave up the ghost somewhat. A few hotdogs and dim sims here and there and Mr Darcy turned into Mr Arsey.

Mum helpfully reminded me of this fact. "When you wore those boots and that coat you were the size of a block of housing commission flats."

We laughed; we were, I think, both delirious.

"Right," I said and went back to the gate. I dubbed the sander Mr Bingley because he became my best friend. And the bloody thing never worked. Somehow I managed to fix the gate. In between rainstorms it turned out OK.

I proudly displayed my handiwork to Mum. She was impressed. "Well done," she said as she gave me a pat. "I like happy endings."

"Yes, I know," I said.

"Just like Pride and Prejudice," she laughed.

I groaned and went for another beer.