Where’s The Wabbit?
When I was growing up, our house was always full of men whom I naturally thought were my ‘Uncles’. One of these was a super friendly guy my mum and nan called ‘Legover Jack’. Now, being a small boy, I was obviously curious as to how Legover had got his name. One night, in the old Iron Juke public house that used to stand at the junction of Bellevue Road and the Plains of Waterloo, I asked the landlord – Johnny Giles – why the man had such a strange nickname.
Giles winked at me and said: ‘He likes a drink. The rhyme goes: Legover Jack, Legover Jack, takes three steps forward and four steps back.’
Naturally, I believed this, although it later became obvious that Legover was a ladies' man with so many notches on his bedpost that it was a small miracle he could still sleep on the bed without it collapsing.
In any case, I was maybe five or six years old at the time, and Legover Jack always did the same thing when he saw me in The Iron Duke. He would come up to me, bend down, whisper ‘What’s going on behind here, then…’ and suddenly pull a pound coin from my ear.
It was incredible, and I loved it...and not just because I was always a quid richer whenever I saw him.
It was MAGIC. Real magic.
Legover Jack did something even more incredible when he saw me in the town. I would be walking along with mum or nan, he would spot me across the street and he would shout ‘Where’s the WABBIT?’ Then he would unceremoniously get down on his haunches, poke two fingers over his head like a rabbit and squat-jump for about four or ve feet along the pavement.
When I was six, this was just BRILLIANT. I used to look forward to seeing him...but the problem was that it carried on. By the time I was thirteen, I actually dreaded going out just on the o chance that I’d run into him.
Then it happened.
I must have been sixteen or seventeen and I remember walking down the town with a small group of friends that happened to include a girl I really fancied. When I heard the cry of Legover Jack, it literally came from nowhere, and I practically shit myself.
‘WHERE’S THE WABBIT?’
All of my friends immediately shot glances across the road as Jack – now well into his sixties – crouched low to the ground and squat-jumped across the street with a maniacal grin on his lips and a glazed, half-pissed expression on the rest of his face. Two of the gang actually ran off, but the girl I liked stood her ground and simply grabbed my arm as Jack sprang up, snatched hold of my neck, whispered in my ear and produced the pound coin between his fingers as if he was still dealing with a five-year-old.
I was speechless, and I remember just standing there with the pound in my hand, shaking like a leaf.
As Jack bounded off in the direction of the nearest pub, I looked down at the coin and couldn’t quite believe the event was still happening. My friend was saying something to me, but I couldn’t hear her over the raging embarrassment of the situation. The most incredible thing, though, was the fact that when Jack whispered in my ear, this time, he didn’t say ‘what’s going on behind here, then?’
Instead, he said: ‘Have you shagged her yet?’
Rest in Peace, Legover. Wherever you are, I hope you’re winning.
