Visited 26 November, 2011
Frankston used to have a reputation as bogan territory.
Frankston used to have a reputation as bogan territory.
Having said that, I realized that I have no direct knowledge of Frankston’s demographics, past or present, and no right to make the assumption or to pass it on. Moreover, I’m not sure what precisely the word bogan means. To me it is someone uneducated, rough, uncultured, boorish, and dressed outlandishly – and all of this thrust boldly in the face of non-bogans with an “up you” attitude. Furthermore, my mind’s eye sees all bogans as teenagers or twenty-somethings; a middle-aged bogan is an incongruity - although my description can still fit.
So I looked up a dictionary of Australian slang, and read the following definition: “A person who takes little pride in his appearance, spends his days slacking and drinking beer”. Certainly no age limit is suggested there; and, indeed, it is clearly possible to become more bogan-like as one ages. There is also a useful Wikipedia entry, which includes a note on the “bogan concept”: “Certain types of clothing are stereotypically associated with bogans, including flannelette shirts, monkey hoodies, Stubbies shorts, ugg boots, jeans and black leggings.” There’s even a website, www.bogan.com that pokes fun at itself, while at the same time providing a detailed description of bogan characteristics and bogan behavior.
What’s now clear to me is that to describe the Frankston of 30 years ago as bogan central is to do an injustice to bogans. Underpinning the slur on Frankston was the perception of a higher than average crime rate. It may also have had a higher than average bogan concentration – but bogans are not criminal by definition, or even “bad” people, they are merely duh people.
Frankston 60 years ago was quite different – different from its later years of decline, and different from today…………………can you believe the profundity of that statement? But you get the drift. In the early 1950s Frankston was principally known for its peerless white beach, the last on the line of the eastern Bayside beaches reachable by the electrified railway system. There was the steam train connection to Stony Point on Western Port, but Stony Point wasn’t usually a beach destination, rather the connection to the French Island ferry. And to get to the Port Phillip beaches beyond Frankston required motor transport, not then the province of all citizens as it is today.
Fairy story: Once upon a time the Andrews family spent a Christmas vacation at Frankston, staying in an apartment at the rear of a ladies’ hairdresser in Wells Street. This is not my Andrews family, but my parents’ Andrews family – at that time comprising my parents, plus me, plus sister Margaret. It was 1951/1952 I think, but it may have been earlier. The premises were actually a small cottage, with the hairdresser in the font rooms, and the holiday let in the rear rooms with access through a side gate. Wells Street remains, but the hairdresser’s shop and the rental accommodation are long gone. The whole area between that spot and the railway line and station to the east has been devoured by a huge shopping area – not a discrete shopping centre, but lumps and clumps of retail development, one of the most higgledy-piggledy imaginable.
Back in 1951 it was a dreamy summer on the beach – although with some inconvenience. No summer of my childhood ever passed without me being severely sunburnt. Here I have to admit that the populace has become smarter, because today you never hear of a child being badly burnt – the “slip, slop, slap” campaign has been successful. But back then, while we didn’t set out to get sunburnt (as distinct from getting a suntan), we were not ultra violet wise. My fate was always to be burnt, while Margaret with her olive skin always “just went brown”. My vivid memory of Frankston includes the early-on sunburnt back, some days of pain and itch and lotions, then the peeling of the outer layers of skin - in long strips off my back, with Margaret being the chief peeler.
Today’s jaunt along Nepean Highway brought this to mind as we crossed the Wells Street corner. The strip itself, not surprisingly given the mega-retailing nearby, is no longer the “main street” location it once was, and has little to recommend it. Perhaps a residue of boganvillia was to be seen at one corner, where there was a McDonald’s, a Subway, and a Jenny Craig, with a Weight Watchers next door to the Subway! And there were three pawnbrokers nearby.
We had breakfast at Vada Café, number 465 Nepean Highway. It didn’t start well. We noted the three front of house staff, and sat down waiting to be served. After some time we noticed the small sign over the cash register telling customers to front up with their orders. No staff member had come near us, not to say hello, not to tell us that the system says we should order at the counter, not to tell us to get lost – which is what the lack of any welcoming smile seemed to be saying. We are not unaware of the “place your own order” routine, but when the signage is less than prominent, and when there are ample staff numbers who are doing nothing but chatter with the barista and deliver completed orders to the tables, then the Andrews blood boils.
Then there was the chalkboard, which I didn’t see. There was a comprehensive menu, but the muesli was toasted, and our preference was to forgo it in favour of cooked breakfasts. Then, standing at the cash register, I noticed the dish of gooey muesli in the counter refrigerator. Yes, it was Bircher; didn’t I see it on the chalkboard?
Anyway, having vented, I need to confess that the muesli, doused in mixed cooked berries, was scrumdiddlyumptious [Spell Check has gone berserk]. And the coffee was exceptionally good.
In continuous projection on a television screen was a promo for a Papua New Guinea children’s charity…………..and it transpires that Vada Café is owned and operated by the Gateway Church on behalf of their Gateway Children’s Fund. A totally worthy cause, and totally okay by me that commercial profit should be channeled to that good cause.
One final question. Why is it Frankston and not Frankstown? The suffix “ton” in place names is a shortening of “town”, but why is it used for some places and not others? Sure take your pick, but what determines the choice? In the Melbourne region we have numerous “tons” – Frankston, Alphington, Brighton, Flemington, Hampton, Ashburton, Carlton, Kensington, Preston, Clayton and so on. But we have only two “towns” – Williamstown and Thomastown. I suppose I could equally ask, why isn’t it Williamston?
Gary Andrews
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