Not to be put off, he’d decided the transmission of culture would solve everything. He’d spoken to the principal, who’d loaned him a room for six months, and the school council, who’d given him a few thousand dollars. Next, a whole-school egg carton drive to insulate the walls. Carpet, desks, chairs, microphones and reel-to-reel wired into the school’s PA. Then, in March, he’d brought us culture. Mr Thorpe making a little speech on the first day of transmission. ‘Welcome, students, to Radio Gleneagles. Thanks to the hard work of Mr de Weerd we have a suitable medium to provide entertainment during breaks.’ Then he’d said how it was only a trial, and how they’d need the room back when the typing class moved. A cultural disclaimer, like this music and poetry stuff was all well and good, but don’t get too used to it. Remember who you are, children of the proletariat. Deep down (I guess) he didn’t think we’d appreciate it. Someone would cut some wires, or steal some equipment, or piss on the carpet. He’d said, ‘To get us started, Mrs Masharin will read from Prowst.’

But, with the help of Dwayne, and the suffering of our own audiophonic-Gogh, Radio Bogan was still on the air. Mrs Masharin was there every week, reading student work to the masses. Some of the ball-kickers had complained to Thorpey (Why d’we gotta listen to that shit all day?) but he’d kept on keeping on.

The vespers faded and Dwayne indicated to Comrade Masharin. She said, ‘And now we have an excerpt from new novel of Clem Vhelarn …’

I could hear the distant jeers.

‘Clem, what is your novel to be called?’

‘This Excellent Machine.’

‘And to what does that refer?’

‘It’s a bit hard to explain but, you know, like life’s a machine, and we go in one end and come out the other, changed.’

‘So without further ado, This Excellent Machine, by talented Year Twelve student, Clem Weeland.’

Dwayne gave me the thumbs-up. He shared the delusion that this place could be improved. The food scattered over the ground after lunch, the crows picking at old salami; the girls tattooing their legs with stolen markers so the grunters would look at them. Mr Hunt, on yard duty, studying the form for the Harold Park trots as he scratched his arse and shouted, Youse kids piss off outa there. Dwayne was wandering Datsunland in search of a new Volvo, but there’d never been a Volvo, and anyway, he couldn’t afford one.

I thought it best to get it over with. ‘Barry Ruge looked at his grandson, Arnold, and said, I remember you. Arnold was surprised. Barry said, You used to deliver the milk, didn’t yer? Arnold said, No, Pop, I never delivered milk.’