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what he thought of the two adjudicators, the second being a Mr Mansley Greer. He pointedly observed, not without wit for a man of no education, ‘I can only say that one judge was “Mansley” enough to mark me better than average, but I’ll bet London to a brick Mr “Fuckoffski” has a well-greased palm out to ensure some bloody sponsor’s little darling gets the nod.’ For this honest, if entirely specious appraisal, he received a lifetime ban from the championships and any future performances under the aegis of the Australian Harmonica Association. Alf’s ‘disgrace ban’, as Gloria ever after termed it, ended the McKenzie family’s brief flirtation with fame and we were back where we belonged, bumping our heads against the bottom rung of the ladder.
    We all played the grand little instrument – Dad, Mum and the four kids, a sextet that could make a fair bit of ear-pleasing, foot-tapping noise when we put our minds to it. Alf’s disgrace ban meant we were restricted to playing on the island, which didn’t concern us overly much as we couldn’t have afforded the money for the whole family to travel to the big island, let alone the mainland.
    We’d scrub up pretty well, though. Mum with her curlers out, Sue wearing a green ribbon in her blazing copper-coloured hair. Alf and we boys, short back and sides with the parting arrow-straight to the left and the quiff in front held rigid by means of ‘A little dab’ll do ya’, part of the jingle for Brylcreem, a universally popular hair grease where on the back of the jar it said it restored the life and shine that shampoos take out. I recall wondering what shampoo might do and why people would be stupid enough to use something on their hair that took away its life and shine. The label went on to say that it contained mineral oil and beeswax, which I assumed was what was meant to put life and shine back in. As we only used soap to wash our hair we obviously had no need for its shine-producing properties and used it only as a means to paste our hair down and to look snazzy.
    Brylcreem, a little dab’ll do ya,
Use more, only if you dare.
Brylcreem, the gals’ll all pursue ya,
Simply rub a little on your hair.
    I also noticed that not a single girl ever chased me when I was wearing it.
    From the neck down, even if I say so myself, we were a bit of a sensation. We wore blindingly white starched shirts, pressed black pants with the centre crease sharp as a favourite kitchen knife and, to set everything off, Irish green bow ties, all made by my mum on her table-top Singer sewing machine. On the pocket of our shirts and blouses Mum and Sue had embroidered in green running writing the name of our family group, which, predictably enough, was The Cobbers. We wore black socks and our boots, only to be worn on special occasions, were so polished you could see your face in them. This sartorial elegance usually got applause from the audience even before we’d commenced to play, which pleased Gloria, my mum, no end, but really got up Alf’s nose. My dad took himself seriously as a musician. With the audience applauding in anticipation you’d hear him mumble out of the corner of his mouth, ‘The bludgers should judge us on our musicality, not our poncy clobber.’
    We’d perform at most of the island events but were considered to be the star music turn at the Fish Co-op picnic and at the annual Masonic dance where, before the dance band came on (a bunch of badly rehearsed and not very talented island musicians assembled for the occasion), we’d play all the old favourites and some of the new hit tunes from the wireless.
    I recall how one year at the Fish Co-op picnic, to Alf’s total chagrin, Gloria decided we’d blacken our faces and hands and perform what we’d bill as ‘A Tribute to Al Jolson’.
    We didn’t know about greasepaint so we used Kiwi boot polish,