Joe Kerr—And All That

Press, Volume LXXXIX, Issue 27191, 7 November 1953, Page 9

Joe Kerr—And All That

ISpecially written for “The Press”) [By BRUCE STRONACH) My acquaintance with Joe Kerr has been somewhat spasmodic. He was born early enough to take part in the Boer War. He was very young then — too young. “Hovever, he lived to fight in World War I and I met him mustering in 1926. We saw World War II through quietly and since then have been about a bit together. He had had a full* and adventurous life. Now that he is married and settled down he puffs away on his cigar and looks back on many events. But it’s no good trying to get him to talk about his early days. I try, often, and this is what I get. • “Tell us some of your childhood memories,. Joe.” “Ah! Nov I wilL I was born very young. My mother was one of the Gallstones of Galway and my father was a tin of sardines. My family have always been the great ones- for reincarnation. One of my brothers was the front wheel of Phil O’Shea’s bike when he won the Timaru to Wellington road race.” “Timaru to Christchurch,” I said.. “You’re thinking of the air race, •aid Joe. “Timaru to Wellington, I •aid.” * “How did he cross Cook Strait?” “He went round the other way,” replied Joe, “as any sensible bike wheel would.” So you see it’s not easy to get the strength of his activities. His wife helps me a bit. She reckons that when Joe kissed the Blarney stone, a chip came off and he swallowed it “How else,” she says, “could you account for the formidable and awful activities'of his mind. When he tells the truth, which is seldom, his stories are stranger than fiction. I wish he’d write them down, but he is too keen on his fishing for butterfish, making his parsnip wine and smoking his cigars. Silly old —!” “Where did you hear that word? “From himself,” she said. “It’s the one he uses when he is in trouble. Why, don’t you like it?” “Yes, I do,” I said, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t try to popularise it too « much. Keep it for times of stress.” “Here he comes,” she said. “He’s I got some fish.” “This is the life,” said Joe. He Was wearing blue square-dancing pants and

a blazer with h shamrock on the pocket. “A nice blazer,” I observed. “The Weedkillers’ Union, I take it. Tell us all about your beach-combing.” “Ah!” he said. “Beach-combing. Lying under the palms being fanned by a lovely pale brown girl in a grass skirt and no shirt. Fanned with an empty gin bottle. Beacfc-comber second class—that’s me!” “What is first class?” I asked. “Fanned with a full gin bottle,” he replied. “More expensive. As you drink the gin you sink to second-class. Then you see the octopuses coming up the beach and the land crabs driving about in jeeps, and the sea snakes knitting each other into fishing nets and the humming birds flying about with petrol drums in their beaks, and crocodiles swimming past with* lighted portholes and the tinned pineapple trees and the Rum Lake—fancy a lake of rum!” “Fancy,” I said. “Where was that?” “Ashburton,” said Joe, “I think.” “I though you were beach-combing in the South Seas.” “Oh! I get around,” he said. “Did you know I was the first man to shear faster than sound? I mean I can do as many sheep in a day as sound travels in an hour. I mean I once did seven hundred sheep in a day. Boy! Did I sweat!” ‘Td believe anything but that,” I said. “But what about Godfrey Bowen? Can you beat him?” “Not at shearing,” Joe admitted, “but Til give him a go at talking.” “But you can do seven hundred in a day—he can’t do five hundred—you must beat him.” “All depends on the day,” said Joe. “My seven hundred was done inside the arctic circle, where the day is six months long/ Have some parsnip wine?” -