AUSSIE STAR, two words, five and eight letters. Pop spun first. Sixty dollars. ‘I’d like a U please.’

Ernt! Not a good start. It passed to the teacher who spun $240, asked for C and scored the first letter. Then the homemaker, who scored three hundred before she was stopped.

On it went, as Chips Rafferty was revealed. It wasn’t hard: obvious stuff a three-year-old could guess. I suppose this had the effect of making the average viewer feel at least partly intelligent. But that wasn’t saying much, as they’d all been tested (they’d sent Pop a questionnaire in the mail) and selected because they were between 70—90 on Terman’s Classification (Borderline deficiency and Dullness).

Round one drew to a close. Burgo threw to an ad then told the stage manager he needed a piss. Ten minutes later we started again. SLANG. Three words. Seven, two and four letters. Burgo asked the teacher, ‘Is it true that people are getting smarter?’

‘Not from what I see.’

Laughter, and the stage manager encouraged us.

Blue. The teacher drew second blood. $370. P, please. I could see he knew, but was determined to wait. Then, the homemaker, as Pop waited, his head following the wheel. ‘Give it a spin, Doug.’

He did, and as he leaned forward he nearly overbalanced. The teacher went to grab him, but didn’t need to, and Burgo said, ‘I like a man who knows how to spin the wheel.’

But it didn’t help. Sixty dollars, leaving him with the lowest score. ‘He’s not havin’ much luck,’ I whispered to Mum.

‘That’s not what we come for.’

Although it would’ve been nice. The previous evening Pop had said to me, ‘If I get anything, half for Lasseter, half for you and Jen.’ I’d had visions of a new Toyota, driving to school in luxury, or at least a trip to Surfers, or enough for the brick cladding Mum had always wanted for the house.

Blue: $270. L.

Red: $90. A. ‘I’ll solve that one, please, Burgo. Plates of meat?’

APPLAUSE.

Off again. Burgo didn’t seem interested in the contestants. A girl checked his hair, he loosened his jacket, and Adriana sipped juice.

Pop waved to us. Mum called, ‘You’re doin’ well.’

‘He looks lost,’ I said to her.

‘He’ll be talking about this for months.’

I didn’t think he’d even remember it. We risked going home with a more despondent Pop. What would happen then? A descent into the lounge room chair, the recliner, the bed? Would Burgo smooth his way to senility?

Burgo asked the homemaker about Hervey Bay and she told him Pialba, with its grassy streets and salty-smelling breeze, was just about the best place on earth. Burgo told her his sister had bought a unit on the beach. Pop said, ‘They got that in the Post.’

Burgo said, ‘Indeed they do, Doug.’

‘And them bloody meter maids, eh? They’re half decent.’

‘Down on the Gold Coast,’ Burgo suggested, as all eyes settled, uncomfortably, on Pop.