Stories That May Not Be True - Volume 1

The Place? Burwood, Victoria.

The Time? The Seventies.

The setting for our story is the hub of local culture and activity in Burwood - McDonald's.

There's a certain, palpable something in the air, other than the smell of over-cooked grease. It's a feeling, a strange vibe, a sense that today is the day when it might all change. Day 1 of the Brave New World.

Big Ronnie is coming to town...

Yea and yea verily, deck the halls with boughs of french fries, for the Great Day hath come. Patron saint of McDonalds, the man who gave of his own name that the organisation might flourish and spread - Ronald McDonald is appearing this day, in person, at McDonalds Burwood.

Approacheth the appointed time, and all the cracks have gathered unto the fray - mums, dads, kids, McDonalds crew members - and a group of local "sharpies". All are gathered within, united by one common purpose: to bask within the refected warmth of He From Whom All Good Things Flow, Ronnie McChuck.

Hark! Oh, frabjous joy! The Ronnie-mobile is pulling up on the opposite side of the road! All are beside themselves with anticipation as the yellow-and-red Bedford van lurches to a halt. The door opens, and yes, by God, the Great Man is here!

Youthful faces are alight with joy and glee, as Ronald disembarks the Bedford, ventures out into the roadway with cheesy grin and cheesier wave - and directly into the path of a speeding Holden, travelling north-bound along Burwood Highway...

The score - Holden: 1, World Famous Magical Clown: Nil

As Ronald slides from the bonnet of the now-motionless vehicle some fifty metres away, there are screams of terror from the shattered little children, murmurs of shock from the stunned parents - and hysterical howls of mirth from the "sharpies".

(The car driver was inconsolable - it was one step removed from having killed Santa, or infected the Easter Bunny with myxomatosis.The psychological ramifications for the man proved dire - he became phobic about the prefix "Mc", and was duly institutionalised after having been found cringing in terror beneath a ten-foot sign advertising McIlwraith's Plumbing Supplies. He fled the "retirement home" one rainy winter night, never to be seen again, fleeing into the night from his newly-appointed Occupational Therapist; the unfortunately named Dr. Michael McDonald...).

The McDonalds crew valiantly attempt to draw attention from the Dead Clown In The Middle Of The Road, Stinkin' To High Heaven by distributing free samples of raw cholesterol cunningly disguised as food, as parents hustle traumitised tots from the battle-ground, directing sharp and disillusioned glares at the still-convulsed "sharpies'.

The police arrive rapidly, aided to no small extent by the fortunate coincidence of Burwood police station being next door to Maccas. An ambulance arrives, measurements are taken, and the paramedics perform the famous "Parrot Sketch" from "Monty Python", pausing only to substitute the word "clown" for "Parrot", viz: "It is an ex-Clown, it has Ceased To Be!".

Yet there is one final task which must be performed, one last sop to the gods. And thus the Blanket Of Death is ceremoniously draped over the newly-created World-Famous Magical Road Statistic, as is customary upon the sudden and public extinction of Being. However, as if by decree from the God Of Comedy - from underneath the shroud protrude the huge Size 17 red-with-yellow-lace McBoots... one twitching ever-so-slightly, the final nail in the laugh-induced hernias now being sufferred by the sobbing, please-God-I'm-going-to-pee-my-pants-and-look-like-a-dick "sharpies".

This story may have happened - but I remember seeing Ronald some years after this. Could the paramedics have somehow erred? Is Ronald immortal?

Next time you see him, ask...