Friday, October 30, 2009

Ah, the cubs ...

When I was a kid, I was a cub. That seems an odd conflation of animalia doesn't it? Like some sort of Goat-Lion like you see in those split flip books where you can make up combinations of animals etc.

No, I mean that when I was younger - a child - I was a cub scout.

It seems an odd move for someone who loves leisure so much and whose idea of embracing a beautiful day is to possibly have the window open as I watch a DVD or play Warlords II.

But pre-puberty, before I swelled up like a someone with an acute allergy to bee-stings with puffy during and post puberty weight, I was a moderately active kid. Oh sure, I didn't like sport that much, but I still ran around, climbed trees, jumped puddles etc. And, I was a cub scout.


Cub scouting was, to put it mildly, a weird thing. There were some surreal moments. Standing around in a circle and chanting rhythmically before doing a squat and doing some more chanting is a little odd. Then there's the shorts, the hat, the woggle and so forth.

So here now are some brief cub memories from Harrangueman.


The kid who was in the circle where we did the "dib dib dib, dob dob dob" recitation who didn't want to let the side down and nick off for a wee, and during the ceremony proceed to wet himself, his shorts, his leg, his cub sock and the wooden boards of the cub hall.

Me lying about some made up person who had to be surgically removed from their dirty socks as part of my one minute speech about hygiene which was needed to get some sort of cleanliness related activity badge.


Me preferring being a seconder (2nd in charge of a gang, I forget the official name, in a cub group) to being a sixer (the boss) because I could order younger kids around but, ultimately, someone above me had to be responsible for actual results.

Having a sheep dung fight under shearing sheds where we were camping and copping a piece of shit to the face.


On the same camp, not using the Hessian sack screened tin an makeshift toilet for four days for number twos and badly turtle-necking during the mini-bus ride back home and barely making the safety of the proper lav when I got to my house before it all came out.


Washing up breakfast dishes on a camp and seeing dead bloated rice-bubbles swimming around the fetid wash-up water, then gagging when a bubble touched my precious smooth skin.


And, finally ... for some reason we all thought this was a good idea. During a period of free time we were walking along the banks of a wooded creek - cubs on each side of the creek. As a joke, someone threw a rock across the water near the other group. We then proceeded to have an all out rock throwing war - not aiming at each other but rather arcing the rocks high in the air so they came down like ballistic missiles - and we'd make various explosion noises and slow mo diving "nooooooo" sound effects etc as they were landing or in-bound. This giddy geology themed fun then ended abruptly when the inevitable rock hit the inevitable head and the wounded cub had to be driven to hospital for emergency stitches.

I'd like to see the badge for that!

I loved being a cub. But, I grew up. I aged. No more was cubs allowed for me. Instead I was upgraded, almost against my will, into the Scouts. A year later, as I recall, I got asked to leave because I was too disruptive. I think that was during the three years of "no sugar for Mikey", my parents putting me on Fructose instead - which, as irony would have it, is some kind of super sugar - so that's a fail for the 80's medical profession.

I like to tell people the reason I got asked to leave the scouts was ... that I wasn't prepared enough.

Dib Dib Dib, Dob, Dob, Dob indeed.

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