Lessons That Last: The longest four words of my school life
There are some moments from your school days that quietly disappear over time, then there are the ones that refuse to leave you.
Mine happened one night in the mid-1980s at St Joseph’s College in Echuca.
Forty years later, one of my best mates, Grego, and I still laugh about it.
At that stage of life we were in that awkward in-between age — not really boys any more, but certainly not men. We were trying our hardest to look cool while quietly hoping nothing embarrassing happened.
Then came the annual school concert.
For reasons I’ve never fully understood, Grego and I were cast as bunyips: not princes, nor footballers. Bunyips.
The sketch was based on that famous KitKat television commercial everyone knew. Looking back, it was actually a pretty clever idea.
The good news was I only had one line.
The bad news?
I only had one line.
Grego had the easy bit: “Let’s have a break…”
My job was the punchline: “Let’s have a KitKat.”
That was it.
Four words.
I reckon I repeated them a hundred times while we waited behind the curtain, sweating inside those ridiculous homemade costumes.
“Let’s have a break… let’s have a KitKat.”
Easy.
I remember thinking, Don’t overthink it.
Naturally, that’s exactly what I did.
By the time someone whispered, “You’re on,” I’d repeated the words so many times they didn’t even sound real anymore.
Out we walked.
The school hall was packed.
Parents, grandparents, teachers, brothers and sisters. It felt like half of Echuca had squeezed onto those hard folding chairs.
The stage lights hit us and, just like that, the audience disappeared into a blur.
Somewhere out there were Mum and Dad.
Somewhere out there were our mates waiting to see whether we’d pull this off.
I took a breath.
This was my big moment.
“Let’s have a…”
Perfect.
“…Kat-Kat.”
Not KitKat.
Kat-Kat!
There was the briefest silence.
I looked across at Grego. I’ll never forget the split-second frozen look on his face. It was utter disbelief. His eyes were wide as if he was thinking, Did you really just say that?
That was it.
He lost it.
I lost it.
The audience lost it.
We both doubled over laughing, tears streaming down our faces, and somehow shuffled off stage looking less like mythical Australian creatures and more like two teenagers who’d completely lost the plot.
I’m not even sure we made it backstage before we collapsed again.
One thing is certain, I can’t remember another act from that concert.
I couldn’t tell you who sang.
I couldn’t tell you who remembered every line perfectly.
I couldn’t even tell you how the rest of the KitKat sketch ended.
What I do remember is Mum and Dad laughing all the way home, with the merciless words of my father ringing in my ears, “Mate, you’re a first-class dick-head, that’s for sure!”
I remember my classmates replaying it at school the next week.
And I remember Grego and me laughing every time the story came up over the next four decades.
Funny thing is, at the time I thought I’d completely blown my one chance to shine creatively.
Instead, it became the moment everyone remembered.
School concerts were never really about perfection anyway.
They were about ordinary kids finding enough courage to walk onto a stage in front of hundreds of people, knowing full well something could go wrong.
Sometimes it did.
Every time I see a KitKat now, I can’t help but smile. Because for one unforgettable night in a packed school hall in Echuca, two teenage bunyips accidentally invented the Kat-Kat.
This article is part of ‘Lessons That Last’, a new Starts At 60 series exploring the memories, traditions and school experiences that shape Australians across generations, presented in partnership with Schoolblazer Limited, a specialist school uniform company that works with hundreds of schools internationally. Through Lessons That Last, Starts At 60 is exploring the memories and experiences of school life across generations of Australians.
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Now that I've stopped laughing...that's totally hysterical!! I can actually hear it and picture it. My moment of 'fame' was a school play as a 17yr old female in the role of playing a male professor. Just as well I was standing in front of a podium so I could actually read my lines! Acting was definitely not going to be one of my strong suits or passions...my nerves would be totally shot. Fifty three years later, I can still see the ocean of anticipation on the parents' faces.
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