October
AugustMore memories of Jack
It has been gratifying for me to receive much pleasant feedback for an obit piece I penned some months ago to mark the life and lamented passing of the much loved larrikin and eccentric Jacky Dooley.
But the foibles and shenanigans of his life could not be fitted in a book of War and Peace proportions, and Jacky was worthy of a weekly wake for a year.
He had many ladyfriends over the years but always avoided the limiting bonds of matrimony, either by good luck on his part or good judgment on the part of the ladies. He thus escaped the guillotine of the altar, a fearsome device that has made headless chooks of many punters.
Jacky lived with his mum, a most gracious and gorgeous lady who lived a long life herself and in the midst of a strongly Catholic Irish family staunchly maintained her Scottish heritage and Prebyterian independence.
Her only departure from things Scotch came in the form of a taste for Italian Riccadonna Asti Spumante.
When Jacky felt a pressing urge for an away game, he would go to a comfy motel in a quiet setting and register in the name of my brother-in-law, who came from Wangaratta.
Jacky’s memory was honed to horses rather than humans, so he signed in as Leon Flanders, 1 Wangaratta Street, Wagga (where he went each year for the cup meeting), just to keep it simple.
As is not uncommon with single blokes who live with their mum, Jack was spoilt rotten and had plenty of time on his hands.
He developed a condition which has but one, final, cure.
Chronic hypochondria is an affliction with a limitless multitude of symptoms and over time Jack had them all. He would appear at the races and batten on to any who would listen to his latest array of ailments which, although thought life-threatening at the time, would dissipate and disappear after about a month.
One day at the Valley Jacky saw another well known wag of similar ilk, in the person of Tommy Delmenico, and sought to assail him with his updated set of symptoms.
Tommy sought to escape Jacky’s clutches, saying he had to avoid him. Jacky countered that his latest problem was an advanced form of organ failure that would surely be fatal within days but that was not at all contagious and therefore no concern of Tommy’s.
"Bugger being contagious," Tommy replied. "I just can’t be seen with you. I’ve already got spotters’ fees on you from five different funeral directors, and Nelson Brothers are turning very plain if I don’t get a result for them very soon."
The source of Jacky’s symptoms was eventually recognised by a chap who read a lot. It was the Reader’s Digest. jacky’s hypochondria drew sustenance from that publication’s disease of the month.
One month, after a few very trying says for jack, the inner workings of hysterectomies were revealed to Jack, relieving him at once of some very disturbing symptoms. But this only caused him to revert to a life-threatening condition he had already milked for a month and had to be persisted with until the next Digest.
Tommy Delmenico exercised his sharp with once more at Jacky’s expense, but I should add that Jacky’s mirth was at least the equal of all others’.
When Martha Gardner had a segment on household hints near scratching time on the old 3UZ, Tommy got through on the phone and managed to ask her, on air, if she knew of a way to get a spot off Jacky Dooley.
They were good times.
Rutherglen (Vic)