Red back security

As deadly as these suckers are, I find them to be great pets.

There is literally zero maintenance, they take out pretty much all the other bugs, they are well hidden from visitors and they freak people out if you need them to. The only down side is, they can potentially kill you if you get complacent with them.

We used to find these and many other 8 legged beasts out in the paddocks near where I grew up, nested up in rusted out old engines or random pieces of tin roofing. For some reason, we thought it would be fun to put them in the meter box for the meter man to find. I am assuming we had a natural instict of not wanting to pay bills.

We would also set up dangy old bits of tin in the back yard and wait for them to sign a lease and settle in.

I remember my mates grabbing me one day, exstatic as all fuck as there were two in the nest and maybe we could breed them.

After a while, a white ball apeared and we knew we were on. 5, 10, 20 red backs, you beauty we chirped on about. We might have enough for the whole streets meter boxes.

The meter man must of hated doing his job on Guilford rd, can’t blame him either looking back now.

My old mates and I were always out and about when we were allowed, making friends with the native floura and fauna.

Finding plover nests and checking them to make sure the eggs hatched. Catching blue tongue lizards and plucking the Ticks out. Doing our little part to help out the wild life.

We all used to hunt with our fathers, but we would always do our best to help out any creature down on his luck.

Im not to sure about red backs needing to be in the meter box for survival purposes, but we were commited.

Traping birds that would poach our fruit was common place in the hydro valley, we would even relocate possums for pinching kiwi fruit, but mostly everything was welcome.

I was taught to hunt as a kid, but importantly I was taught the very distinct difference between hunting something and killing something.

When I was first taught to shoot a riffle at about the age of 12, I felt that power people talk about when you carry a weapon. You genuinly feel and walk taller. You know if shit hits the fan, safety off and your gonna slow anything down coming at you in an aggressive way. Not to much in reality really though with my dad’s 22, as they are weak as piss compared to most guns, but they generally make you feel bigger, as I guess all guns do.

All I wanted to do was go out and shoot shit once I was shown how. The old man always questioned and disregarded my intentions to just go out and randomly shoot shit. I couldn’t understand why at first.

Why would you show me how to shoot a gun, then refuse to let me shoot anything? ‘What for’ he would usualy say, ‘to feed the ferrets, what do you think eh?’ were my thoughts at the time.

He wasnt having a bar of his son just wanting to just go out kill things. We were hunting, not killing

One night we were out near some dust plains called the Scamander golf course. I had an itchy bite the size of a cricket ball on my left index finger, he had put down a good sized Forrester kangaroo, enough to feed the carnivorous pet side of the family for a week.

I bolted over to pick this thing up and it was still moving. I looked in a bit closer and soon realised she had a joey tucked away in her pouch.

What the hell are we gonna do now I thought.

I brought this thing back over and asked l what are we gonna do? I was not gonna take care of this, I’ll let Dad handle it.

‘We are gonna take it home, feed it up and let it go’ was the old man’s response!

I instantly thought this was the most stupid thing I had ever heard and that my father was losing the plot.

First he teaches me how to shoot, then he wont let me shoot anything, then were gonna take home our nights hunt to fatten up and let go.

‘Were hunting food for our pets, were not out here to just kill things boy, wake up’. This right here was one of the great lessons in life I have ever learned.

I dont specifically remember when, but when I had proven myself to have compassion for life, all life, my father started to let me have a few shoots at something moving.

We hardly ever wasted anything. All the meat was feed to the ferrets and any good hides were taned in the old bathtub to be turned into leather. You had to throw the guts out as far as possible when we gutted and cleanedthem, as it wouldn’t take long before you would be fighting the Devils for your nights bounty. As this way back before they had facial tumers and they were plentiful!

My compasion ended up growing to the point were I started to hate going out shooting.

It was mainly the look these creatures gave me when you would occasionally hit them with a bad shoot and they were still coherent when you got over to them. I had started to think I don’t want anything to do with the hunt anymore.

The last time I went shooting we had shoot this good sized walaby and we proceeded to wander over to it. He was just standing there like a stunned mullet, staring at me. I was sad as fuck for this animal. As I was staring at it, my father had pointed his rifle close to his head and suddenly pulled the trigger. Game over for him, a few days food for our pets.

Ill do pretty much anything to protect myself, family and close friends, but Ill leave the hunting to the professionals.

My fathers lesson in compassion and differentiation between hunting and killing had without doubt been obsorbed, but he lost a hunting partner that night as a result of his teachings.

His upbringing and necessity to be fully self sufficient is much differant than our current economic climate that he was very good at. I love gardening, but not much else in that regard,

I can buy pretty much anything I want in a supermarket, shop or online. I dont need to shoot my protien and grow my own tomatos for sauces if I don’t want to. I have the skill set, but no need nor the want to hunt anything.

When I first got to Melbourne as a 17 year old whipper snapper I had a chef called Greg who took me under his wing and tought me heaps about chef life. He used to let me portion cakes for him, whilst he went on extended smokos, mostly to eat roasted duck leftovers, when the boss wasn’t around

For the first time in my life I had found something I wanted to be. As long as you put in the effort, you got respect. It didn’t matter who you were or where you were from, much different from life growing up in Launceston.

I still remember being told if you wanted to be a celebrity, then you’ve come to the wrong place, you can fuck off. Proof is in the pudding, you can talk all the shit you want, but all the proof is on the plate.

I never had a massive passion for cooking, it was the comaradery these elite chefs had that inspired me to make a good life for myself as a chef.

All I had was good work ethic, the rest took care of itself. And maybe a bit of blood, sweat and tears along the way.

Its always saddened me the joys people had taken from my underprivileged up bringing, or anyone else’s for that matter.

Its somewhat humorous now to see some of these compasionless people still stuck in their ‘look what I’ve got that you dont’ mindset that was shoved in my face growing up.

If only they knew something about compassion, or maybe been taught something similar about it like I was!

Kitchen’s and probably all corners of society have always belittled the little guys, and the underprivileged. At least kitchen’s give you half a chance though. You can talk shit all day, but taste buds don’t lie, I don’t need to say anything. My best work’s done when I shut the fuck up and cook, all I need to say is on the plate!

Turn’s out being a good chef can upset a few people. No worries here though, I honestly enjoy proving people wrong.

I just recently had a redback spider trying to claim squatters rights in my shed that I moved out into a rusty old abanded car near my house. Most people would’ve just killed the creature, but not this hunter.

I’ve always liked having a few Daddy long legs in the corner of my rooms where ever I have lived over the years. They take out most of the other bugs, and theres no real point in killing something that’s just hanging out in the corner of room.

Maybe it’s the fact most of my birth family was dead by the time I was 20, but I think I’ve seen enough death in my life so far, there’s no need for anymore if there doesn’t have to be. All creature’s are welcome in the house of Nicol.