Sydney's suburbia was a very different place in the early sixties. There were not many cars, there was very little street crime, and most people walked from place to place. Traffic lights were a rare sight, and street lighting in general was reserved for the main roads. The shops all closed at six o'clock. Saturday was half-day trading and just about the only things open on a Sunday morning were the fruit shop and the paper shop. Evenings were peaceful and quiet; and after dinner, most families would gather around the black and white TV set to watch one of four channels offering American sitcoms or English dramas.
But much like America and England, there was also the undercurrent of restless youth, gathering here and there in small groups, looking for "excitement". That excitement was usually channeled into legitimate outlets like organized sports at the local Police Boys Club (a community facility) or into the thrill of anything deemed "illegal" or "dangerous," like nicking a pack of cigarettes while the shopkeeper's back was turned.
Innocent times, but with a code of honor, if you will. Unfortunately there was also the unsavory type who would turn up uninvited, brag about some petty crime he'd committed, and generally want to hang out with your group. One such cretin had been annoying a couple of local lads, and they hatched a plan to get the message across that he was not welcome. The idea was to lure the creep to a dark place, like a cellar, and give him a short, sharp shock that would not injure him but would guarantee that he didn't come back.
The device was an ordinary house brick with a bunger (M80 firecracker) laid in the hollow part and a large turd laid over the top. The turd was troweled, sort of like icing on a cake, leaving only the wick exposed. The device was secreted into a hiding spot in the far corner of the empty-keg cellar at the local pub. Nice and dark, and only one exit. Hee, hee.
Sure enough, the bonehead turns up later that night, talking crap and generally being obnoxious. The local lads are careful not to let on what's in store for him as they casually mention that they have been thinking up some mischief, but they need a third man for the "operation". They tell him that they need to sneak into the empty-keg cellar at the local, after closing time, and that they'll explain the rest of the plan there.
Everything goes to plan, with the idiot thinking that they're going to knock off a keg of beer or something along those lines. The three of them slip silently into the darkness of the cellar. Once inside, their eyes adjust to the tiny amount of moonlight coming through the ventilation bricks. Whispering in the shadows, the local lads build up the tension and tell him that their plan is daring and dangerous, but it can't work without him, etc., etc. By now the drongo is quivering in anticipation and can't wait to do whatever it is that they've got planned.
So as they all have a preparatory ciggie, one goes to the cellar door and the other pulls out The Device. They tell the dickhead to "hang on to this." And what with the musty dankness of the stale beer and the cigarette smoke (and the crust that's formed on the top), he has no idea what this heavy brick-thing that he's holding in front of him is. All it takes is a "Shit! What was that?" to distract him while the fuse is lit, and the locals are gone.
The moment after the explosion, they open the door to see how it went, and the stench is incredible. By the light of a couple of matches they can see the moron still standing there in shock, brick in his outstretched hands, his chest and face spattered with a million shit-bits. Behind him, the wall has a silhouette of his head, a bit like an Aboriginal cave painting where they put their hand on the wall and spit paint on it. Except this is with shit.
Mission accomplished. He got the message.
