politician, always a politician; you never know where life could take you. The stickybeaks were quick to point out that this was his third consecutive visit to the Hero and the scuttlebutt was that the Doc was sweet on Brenda. If he was, then it was a very public affair; his driver would park directly outside the pub for all to see in a big black Buick and he and Brenda were never seen together on the same side of the bar. Hardly the stuff scandals are made of.
As Danny grew towards manhood, it became clear that he really did seem to have just about everything going for him. He was genuinely popular, had an easygoing nature, was modest, self-effacing and loyal to his mates, and when it came to the birds, he had a smile that could turn a nun into a harlot. In fact, he was astoundingly good-looking. In the terminology of the day, Danny Dunn was sex on a pogo stick.
His looks were commonly referred to as black Irish. Popular history, while wildly inaccurate, goes like this. Way back in 1588 when Sir Francis Drake fought the Spanish Armada, a whole heap of Spanish galleons were wrecked in a storm and washed up on the Irish coast. Legend has it that, as fellow Catholics, the shipwrecked sailors were immediately welcomed ashore by the Irish, who even then regarded the English as the enemy. The Spaniards took an instant liking to the fair-skinned local sheilas and the feeling, it seems, was reciprocated. One thing led inevitably to another and the dark Latin blood proved to mix well with that of the titian-haired Celtic colleens to make a generally interesting combination. However, as a passing note, the Irish, regardless of their shared faith, brutally slaughtered the shipwrecked sailors almost to a man.
Occasionally an almost pure âCatalanâ throwback occurred, known as black Irish, a look and colouring in a male or female that usually turned out to be spectacular. Danny was one such âthrowbackâ. His skin was polished amber in winter, a shade darker in summer. A mop of jet-black hair extended in soft curls down his neck in defiance of the traditional short back and sides inflicted at the time by the barberâs brutally efficient clippers on every kid and his dad. Despite her sonâs constant, often tearful, pleading as a small boy, Brenda had never allowed this fierce instrument anywhere near his dark curls. Instead, to his absolute mortification, she would cut his hair with a comb and scissors on the back verandah of the pub during the afternoon peas-and-spuds soiree, a terrible humiliation perpetrated before the entire neighbourhood, or so it had seemed to Danny, who endured countless taunts and bloody battles in the school playground as a result. But, in the process, it toughened him up and earned him the respect of his mates, until eventually his almost flowing locks became his trademark and were no longer ridiculed. Dannyâs dark curls marked him out on the football field and it would have seemed odd and entirely inappropriate to fans and spectators had he ever decided to shear them off in conformity with the rest of the Tigers.
At almost six foot four inches, Danny Dunn at sixteen could easily have passed for a man of twenty-one, with his lazy assurance and apparent confidence. However, the truly spectacular element in his dark good looks was a brilliant dash of pure Irish: the addition of a pair of dark-lashed, deep-blue eyes that set the breasts of young girls heaving and their tongues flickering lasciviously and entirely unconsciously over their lips. Young, strong and innocent, he was the exact opposite of what most married women had to endure.
A typical husband, usually after a skinful at the pub or the football of a Saturday arvo, would proceed to get motherless on the half a dozen bottles of pilsener heâd brought home. Later, stumbling to the front bedroom, often on her arm, he undertook and she underwent the obligatory once-a-week leg-over, performing the dreaded deed from thrill
As Danny grew towards manhood, it became clear that he really did seem to have just about everything going for him. He was genuinely popular, had an easygoing nature, was modest, self-effacing and loyal to his mates, and when it came to the birds, he had a smile that could turn a nun into a harlot. In fact, he was astoundingly good-looking. In the terminology of the day, Danny Dunn was sex on a pogo stick.
His looks were commonly referred to as black Irish. Popular history, while wildly inaccurate, goes like this. Way back in 1588 when Sir Francis Drake fought the Spanish Armada, a whole heap of Spanish galleons were wrecked in a storm and washed up on the Irish coast. Legend has it that, as fellow Catholics, the shipwrecked sailors were immediately welcomed ashore by the Irish, who even then regarded the English as the enemy. The Spaniards took an instant liking to the fair-skinned local sheilas and the feeling, it seems, was reciprocated. One thing led inevitably to another and the dark Latin blood proved to mix well with that of the titian-haired Celtic colleens to make a generally interesting combination. However, as a passing note, the Irish, regardless of their shared faith, brutally slaughtered the shipwrecked sailors almost to a man.
Occasionally an almost pure âCatalanâ throwback occurred, known as black Irish, a look and colouring in a male or female that usually turned out to be spectacular. Danny was one such âthrowbackâ. His skin was polished amber in winter, a shade darker in summer. A mop of jet-black hair extended in soft curls down his neck in defiance of the traditional short back and sides inflicted at the time by the barberâs brutally efficient clippers on every kid and his dad. Despite her sonâs constant, often tearful, pleading as a small boy, Brenda had never allowed this fierce instrument anywhere near his dark curls. Instead, to his absolute mortification, she would cut his hair with a comb and scissors on the back verandah of the pub during the afternoon peas-and-spuds soiree, a terrible humiliation perpetrated before the entire neighbourhood, or so it had seemed to Danny, who endured countless taunts and bloody battles in the school playground as a result. But, in the process, it toughened him up and earned him the respect of his mates, until eventually his almost flowing locks became his trademark and were no longer ridiculed. Dannyâs dark curls marked him out on the football field and it would have seemed odd and entirely inappropriate to fans and spectators had he ever decided to shear them off in conformity with the rest of the Tigers.
At almost six foot four inches, Danny Dunn at sixteen could easily have passed for a man of twenty-one, with his lazy assurance and apparent confidence. However, the truly spectacular element in his dark good looks was a brilliant dash of pure Irish: the addition of a pair of dark-lashed, deep-blue eyes that set the breasts of young girls heaving and their tongues flickering lasciviously and entirely unconsciously over their lips. Young, strong and innocent, he was the exact opposite of what most married women had to endure.
A typical husband, usually after a skinful at the pub or the football of a Saturday arvo, would proceed to get motherless on the half a dozen bottles of pilsener heâd brought home. Later, stumbling to the front bedroom, often on her arm, he undertook and she underwent the obligatory once-a-week leg-over, performing the dreaded deed from thrill
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