Tales of the Honey Badger Read online

  BY THE TIME SCHOOL FINISHED I WAS NO STAND-OUT. I NEVER ENVISAGED TURNING RUGBY INTO A CAREER

  THE TURNING POINT

  That money from the Nigerian royal family still hadn’t come through. So, as I waited for the cheque to clear, I headed up north to Bundaberg to visit my eldest brother, Luke, who was captain of the East Coast Buccaneers.

  At least, that’s what I told him. My sole intention was to make a beeline for the Bundy Rum distillery, but in an effort to afford the goods, I offered to play a few games for the Buccaneers to help out.

  It was country rugby at its best – boat races, peculiar dressing room behaviour and many strange events (which you might hear about later). God, it was good. I was in my element. And I must have gone all right because no sooner had I pulled on my best singlet and thongs to head to the distillery than a bloke tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to come with him to Sydney.

  Now, even for the Bundy dressing rooms, this was an unusual proposition. But when he explained he had links to Randwick Rugby Club, I thought to myself, ‘Why the bloody hell not? Dad can go Michael Luck his shovel. I’m in!’

  NOW, EVEN FOR THE BUNDY DRESSING ROOMS, THIS WAS AN UNUSUAL PROPOSITION.

  I got a start in the Colts team and it wasn’t long before half the first-grade side pissed off to the Waratahs for the Super Rugby season and I got my first crack at first-grade Sydney rugby. And I loved it.

  SEVENS SELECTION

  Well, my enthusiasm must have shown. And all that manual labour with the old man had me in half-decent shape – even if I do say so myself. And with Rugby Sevens on the cusp of becoming an Olympic sport, the Sevens game was on the up – and Glen Ella needed players.

  I would have simply been happy with his autograph (which he gave to me begrudgingly to shut me up) but to have a Wallabies legend like him pick me to represent my country, I was like a fireplace on a romantic winter’s night – stoked!

  A matter of months after a chance encounter in Bundy, I was on a plane with the Australian Sevens and some Wallabies legends headed for Wellington, New Zealand. It was shock and awe stuff. I was in awe of everyone around me and the opportunity that I’d been presented with. And in shock because New Zealand wasn’t considered an international flight and therefore booze was an out-of-pocket expense. Not that any rugby team ever drinks during transit . . . In fact, I wanna take this opportunity to give a quick shout-out to Bill Pulver and Michael Cheika – Billy, Check, if you’re reading this, I’ve never consumed a single drop of alcohol while on tour. Swear. But if you give me a buzz, I can tell you three wingers in the current Wallabies squad who have.

  I WAS LIKE A FIREPLACE ON A ROMANTIC WINTER’S NIGHT – STOKED!

  Jokes aside, my old man was in no laughing mood when I told him the good news. Largely because I didn’t call him until the plane had already taken off. And even then, it was only to get his credit card details so I could afford a drink – of juice. Like when I lost my virginity, my memories of the game are hazy at best. I was so caught up in the whole experience that everything just flew by. But I’m told I was outstanding. Went all right on the field, too . . .

  SOMETHING STINKS

  What I remember most vividly from that trip is the whole tour experience and the good times I had rooming with Blair Connor. One of us had some serious wind issues and let’s just say, the hotel maid didn’t take it too kindly. We were two little shit teenagers from Brisbane with no parental supervision and poo and fart jokes were our bread and butter – as they should be for any teenager. Or adult . . .

  If we weren’t chicken leg fighting or attempting to lure each other into invisible clouds of our personal scents, we were trying to prank each other. And unfortunately, there were civilian casualties – that poor maid.

  She’d arrived one morning eager to clean our room – or burn it – and get the hell out of there. Come to think of it, there was enough natural gas in that place that a naked flame could well have spelled the end for all of us.

  Well, having just enjoyed his morning bowl of fibre, Blair had taken up seat at the throne to stick to true to his painfully strict ritual. So of course, I requested the maid ‘start with the bathroom first’. And in she went – poor bastard.

  I REQUESTED THE MAID ‘START WITH THE BATHROOM FIRST’. AND IN SHE WENT – POOR BASTARD.

  The screams were simultaneous. Blair was plain shocked. Whereas the maid was shocked by the smell. In fact, given she immediately began dry-retching, it’s safe to say she was disgusted. I can’t be sure but I swear only one word came out of her mouth before her breakfast quickly followed – ‘Ungodly’. I’ve been on the do-not-room-with list ever since.

  UNITED ARAB MANKINI

  If New Zealand was good, then Dubai was great. I’m a big fan of terry towelling and that stuff was everywhere. But seriously, to experience such a vastly different culture from what I’d grown up with was something I’ll always remember. And what I’ll never forget is that heat – and what it inspired me to do.

  The UAE is pretty strict on dress codes for men and women. But especially the fairer sex. And I’ll be damned if a woman doesn’t have a right to wear a bikini wherever the hell she wants to.

  You’ll never hear me mutter the words ‘cover up’. unless my makeup artist asks my preferred brand of eye liner.

  I’LL BE DAMNED IF A WOMAN DOESN’T HAVE ARIGHT TO WEAR A BIKINI WHEREVER THE HELL SHE WANTS TO.

  Anyhow, Dubai ain’t got no laws on men wearing bikinis at the beach. So with Sacha Baron-Cohen’s Borat still fresh in my mind – as is the fury at The Academy for robbing him of the Best Actor award – I took a stand. Like Clark Kent to Superman, I disappeared to a dark dark corner – a cocoon, if you will – dropped the team suit and re-emerged a beautiful butterfly. Complete with fluoro mankini.

  My luscious mane was at ultimate volume. My body devoid of all hair. And it must have been the bright green combined with the heat, but even the baby badger looked respectable. Suffice to say, confidence was at an all-time high.

  As such, I took to the sand like a teenage girl to Instagram and performed a flamboyant, erotic sprint and swan dive into the water.

  It felt a little weird having the eyes of the world on me but what the hell? They do it in Sydney at the Mardi Gras and no one gives a rats. If anything, I’m more disappointed no one’s extended an offer to join a float.

  A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH PART: 1

  With the Sevens box ticked and giving it my all at Randwick, the possibility of turning this rugby thing into a career was starting to creep onto my radar. I never had the hype of a young hotshot nor was I some widely-acclaimed prodigy. I was a toiler and I bloody enjoyed the team atmosphere and doing whatever I could, whenever I could, to get us across the line.

  THE POSSIBILITY OF TURNING THIS RUGBY THING INTO A CAREER WAS STARTING TO CREEP ONTO MY RADAR.

  I never expected ‘the call’ but sure enough, one fateful Matraville day, after the third of seven police cars had visited my building for one reason or the other, the phone rang. My first thought? ‘F*&k me. Who paid the phone bill?’ My second thought: ‘For the love of God, please don’t be Telstra’.

  I’d received offers from both the NSW Waratahs and Western Force. They wanted to give me a go. ‘Look out. The Badge is about to go prime time.’

  I was ecstatic. Happier than a mosquito in a blood bank. The Force told me to hit the frog and toad and bring the old man along to see what the West was all about.

  I WAS ECSTATIC. HAPPIER THAN A MOSQUITO IN A BLOOD BANK.

  And compared to Sydney, Perth was lawless. There was open space, hipsters were at a minimum and the entire city and surrounding suburbs were easier to navigate than a single block in Sydney. Let’s be honest, Sydney roads are like a maze on the back of a Happy Meal completed by a three-year-old. It’s a mess.

  So there was a lot to like and when it came down to negotiations, the old man had just what it took to make a deal – absolutely no idea and blind confidence. It’s the
winner’s way; a method that’s made generations of Australians millions. Matter of fact, there could be a TED Talk in that . . .

  Anyhow, later that arvo – and with NSW still an option – the old man grabbed a six-pack of Crownies and we sat together on the deck to watch the sun set over the water. The romanticism was lost on me, but by the time the old boy knocked off five of the beers he was in love. The deal was done. I was staying in Perth and making my Super Rugby debut for the Western Force.

  ORIGIN OF THE HONEY BADGER

  Not a day goes past where some shagger won’t ask me where my nickname hails from. And those who haven’t witnessed the almighty strength, speed, might, cunning and power of the African Honey Badger typically assume it’s because I must look like one. Wrong, lads.

  While my golden locks may be ‘honey’ in colour according to the Revlon colour palette, the honey badger is anything but. It’s predominantly black with a white top – think Cadbury Top Deck – and about the size of one of those yappy dogs – only tough.

  The little blokes have guts, razor-sharp teeth and claws, and will take on anything with the kind of confidence usually reserved for a bloke with a gut-full of tinnies at the town dance.

  THE LITTLE BLOKES HAVE GUTS, RAZOR-SHARP TEETH AND CLAWS

  Bees? Stuff ’em. All the bee stings in the world won’t stop a honey badger from getting to the honey pot. Cobra snakes? Please. Honey badgers get bitten by cobra snakes just to prove that aggression is the best medicine. Then kill the bastards and eat ’em just to remind ’em who’s boss.

  And lions? The supposed ‘king of beasts’? Nothing but big pussies when faced with a honey badger.

  It was a doco I caught a few years back that first brought my attention to the honey badger. A lion was about to feast on what I considered to be a poor little animal.

  For all money, the badge was done for – right before that little bastard turned around, let out a rebel yell and went straight at the big prick’s nutsack and ripped his knackers clean off.

  The lion hobbled off and kicked the bucket. The badge just trotted off – job done. But there was no Elton John ballad for this fearless bastard. He wouldn’t want one. He’s not after the limelight. It was right there and then I found myself a new favourite animal. A hero. A god if you will. That never-say-die attitude. That aggression. That ability to shake a beating off and get right back up and go again.

  THERE WAS NO ELTON JOHN BALLAD FOR THIS FEARLESS BASTARD.

  And I swore to myself that I would employ all the attributes of the honey badger in my approach to footy – sans the ball-hacking. Don’t reckon the refs would take too kindly to that . . .

  As for my chat and quick tongue? Thank the old man for that one. He’s been talkin’ in riddles as long as I can remember and it just rubbed off.

  Guess you could say I’m a colloquial poet but didn’t even realise it . . . Ha. Got ya!

  FORCE VS CHIEFS:

  “I WAS BUSIER THAN A ONE-ARMED BRICKLAYER IN BAGHDAD.”

  TRANSLATION: ‘Laying bricks is a hard enough living with two arms, let alone having just one and being expected to do the work of a two-armed man. Baghdad is a particularly ripe terrain for bricklayers, having undergone many aesthetic and structural redesigns in the past three decades.’

  THE ROAD TO RAINBOW BEACH

  Every school holidays for as long as I can remember, the family made the three-and-a-half-hour journey north to Rainbow Beach – or ‘the gateway to Fraser Island’ as the more pretentious folk like to call it.

  Rainbow’s a small coastal town inland of Gympie and north of Noosa that’s great for fishing and surfing. It was safe and you could get away with murder there. Which I think is why Mum and Dad took us there. You know, just in case . . .

  And one summer – pun not intended but an exceptional coincidence – he very nearly put me and my sister Bernadette out of our misery when he threatened to turn the car into a tree on account of a Daryl Braithwaite overload.

  IT WAS SAFE AND YOU COULD GET AWAY WITH MURDER THERE. WHICH I THINK IS WHY MUM AND DAD TOOK US THERE.

  We loved that Braithwaite tape and Bernadette made sure it played over and over for the near four-hour journey. She actually prayed for traffic so she could hear ‘Horses’ all over again.

  But as if having eight screaming kids in a minivan wasn’t enough, there was no way the old man was putting up with some ‘sell-out Sherbet drop-out’ for the best part of half a day.

  He feigned a hard right just to put the scare into us and insisted that if we survived he’d assassinate Daryl Braithwaite. Sorry, Daz.

  Speaking of flogging a dead horse, it was the same trip when Mum spotted one by the road. She was already off Dad for threatening to murder-suicide her entire family and it didn’t help Dad’s cause when he explained to us kids that the reason the horse died was because his parachute mustn’t have opened.

  That pricked my little ears up. ‘Dad, does that happen often?’ Mum was more embarrassed than aghast. Looked like her son was going to be a rugby league player . . .

  LOLLY THIEF

  Death threats and dead horses aside, I loved that place. The freedom, the smell, the serenity. Just driving into the place gave me a grin like a dead sheep. Hell, I’m starting to detect a theme here . . . Anyone have a number for a good children’s psychiatrist?

  Anyway, like any kid, I loved lollies. And back in those days, public hygiene was a matter for the courts – not the local convenience store. You’d grab an empty paper bag, stick your grubby hands into the lolly jars and jam that bag full with all sorts of coloured frogs, race cars, snakes and jubes.

  And at the local cafe, the haunt for us 12-year-olds, they worked on the honour system. Fill your bag and tell the cashier how many you had in there. Sounds great in theory, but it’s a recipe for disaster when you combine honour, kids and lollies. ‘Nick, you genius,’ I thought to myself as I crammed that bag full with enough to feed half the Wallabies scrum.

  JUST DRIVING INTO THE PLACE GAVE ME A GRIN LIKE A DEAD SHEEP.

  But when the sheila behind the counter scoped my bulging bag and I said all cool-like, ‘50 cents’, she smelt a rat. She then began counting every lolly, one by one, and tallied it up to $7. That’s about $300 by today’s standards. Needless to say, I was filthy. I told her I was already full anyhow and didn’t want them.

  Bugger it, my life of crime was over before it ever started. And that was when Diabetes 2 was merely an album title consideration for AC/DC.

  CAN’T TELL ME NOTHIN’

  With enough kids to fill out an entire basketball roster, keeping an eye on us all was a task new-age parents today couldn’t even fathom. No helicopter, single engine plane or hovercraft parenting here. Just some good ol’-fashioned rules. And two loving parents who struck fear inside all of us.

  The beach presented the most dangers. We learned about rips, knew how to swim and weren’t scared of the water. But even then, Dad had a hard and fast rule – no surfing out the back unless you were old enough and good enough.

  Up until I was 12, I was resigned to frolicking around the shore with my little sisters and brother. But come this holiday, I was ready. I couldn’t stand being in the shallows and Dad and my older brothers were out the back, carving it up. So I broke protocol.

  I didn’t care about the consequences – the belt, the jug cord, the ruler or whatever else my parents could conjure up. I needed to be out the back and it was time to prove myself.

  So I grabbed a board and paddled straight out, knowing full well Dad wouldn’t have a bar of it. Like you react to a salesman at a Chinese market trying to sell you ‘good deal’ for double the product’s value, Dad just laughed, shook his head and pointed to the shore. But I was determined. I screamed out to him, ‘I can do this’. And he just grinned. Challenge accepted.

  I DIDN’T CARE ABOUT THE CONSEQUENCES – THE BELT, THE JUG CORD, THE RULER OR WHATEVER ELSE MY PARENTS COULD CONJURE UP.

  If memory serves correct, I punished the wave li
ke Christian Grey would a sex slave and cemented myself as a ‘big kid’ there and then. Looking back, I should never have crossed that threshold. Because what came along with being a big kid was housework, babysitting and having to help Dad with the landscaping. If only I weren’t such a talented surfer . . .

  ROCKING UP TO RANDWICK

  The old man accompanied me when I relocated to Sydney to play for Randwick. He wanted to see first-hand what I was getting myself into and had heard good things about the pubs.

  We were picked up from the airport by Keith Holmes – a great bloke who worked hard for the club and isn’t given enough credit – and taken to the accomm to drop my bags.

  Walking along Anzac Parade for the first time we were mesmerised. The endless wonder and possibilities of Kingsford . . . Then we saw coming toward us a large human wearing a short black skirt with tight boob tube, dangling earrings, a bald head and the biggest Adam’s apple I’d ever seen. By Greenbank RSL terms, she was a real looker.

  WALKING ALONG ANZAC PARADE FOR THE FIRST TIME WE WERE MESMERISED.

  So Dad says with a stupid grin: ‘Struth! Look, Nick. Your new neighbour.’ Of course, I put him in his place and informed Dad that it’s perfectly acceptable that some people are born one specific gender but identify with another. Some say Bruce Jenner got the confidence required to make the transition that very day . . .

  Of course, that was only a taste of the sights and sounds of wonderful Kingsford. We were about to enter the four-level block of old units I’d been assigned to live in when suddenly a large Pacific Islander – Maraki Toa – leaned over the third-level balcony and said: ‘Hey, bru. You in here, too?’ One look at his surroundings and Dad couldn’t help himself: ‘When do ya get out?’, insinuating the building was a prison. And it was a fair call, because it wasn’t far off one.