At all costs Vicki's mother wanted to hold onto the myth of a man with sober habits with one wife and obedient children. ....
It seemed pointless to direct her attention to what was going on under her very nose. Dad hid copious quantities of cheap wine in containers scattered throughout garden sheds, under car seats, in long grass behind the out door dunny or anywhere that presented itself. Even if mum found any of it he played the guileless injured party until she came around to believing his suggestion that it must have been left over from visitors to the house or even the previous owners.
In the meantime he would swallow handfulls of analgesics 'for a stinking headache' until he was white and covered in a cold sweat. He'd be sure to wash his mouth a lot and chew packets of antacid tablets and mints which helped mask the odour.
Another trick Dad used was to travel a distance to a country pub in another town. Occationally his brother or a friend would be passing through some out of the way place a hundred miles from home and find him propped up against the bar slowly drinking himself into another 'attack of the prawns.'
My uncle on Dads side had also developed a fondness for a 'drop or two'. Once when I was quite young, dad and my uncle got together and hung a bunch of bananas, wrapped in old mosquito netting over a bowl. The liquid that dripped from the bananas as they fermented filtered into the bowl. Several weeks later the brew was ready for tasting.
Pouring only small quantities into glasses they found it quite delicious. Half way into their third glass (not forgetting of course that 3 glasses was their aloted quota) they discovered the room had a disconcerting habit of dipping at an alarming angle. My uncle stood to see if he could rectify the situation and instantly fell over. Dad thought it best to assist his younger brother but seemed incapable of moving. This is how mum found the two of them late in the afternoon. Wisely she left them as she found them. Both had massive headaches the next day and mum never forgave her brother-in-law for the misdemeanor of leading her husband astray and he became known as 'that fat, drunken brother of yours' from then on.
To a large degree it was an apt title. My uncle grew into a mammoth fellow, over ninteen stone with an enormous capacity for alcohol. His rubbish bin seemed forever swollen with empty wine flagons and beer bottles.
With these two Elders as the core of the local congregation, a number of their mates were soon moving into the area, appointed almost directly as ministers. The oldest pub in town had a back room, hidden away from view for those in the know, christened 'The Elders Bar'. Every Friday afternoon and many mid-week meetings this became the watering hole for a noisy group of blokes with many 'in' jokes. ... ('rehearsing' assembly talks whilst staggering drunk seemed to be a particular favorite)
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The above is from the book "Sex In The Sect" by Vicky J. ISBN 0-949873-53-5
I highly recomend this book to anyone interested in the power of rigid religious sects over the minds of their members and one persons struggle to free herself and speak out in the face of overwhelming pressure to remain silent. This a true, first hand account of a young girl raped by her prominent Elder father in Queensland. She tells her story with the balance and humour maturity brings. First published in 1995, her story made me laugh and made me weep and made me angry long before I discovered the internet. (parts of her story involve graphic accounts of child molestation and are deeply disturbing - this book is not for the faint hearted but rings perfectly true of JW life in Australia, 20 or so years ago)
unclebruce