How to Eat a Car.

When I was six I decided to eat a car. Leon Samson, a sideshow strongman who bent, chewed and ate improbable objects, inspired me. Along with the Jimmy Sharman boxing tent and the bearded lady, Samson was an agricultural show regular. I suppose that women comparing tea cakes and men battling over the size of their butternuts were regulars too, but if they were I never saw them. For kids, the rides and sideshow alley were the attraction.

My older brother took me once, begrudgingly, under orders. I remember. After he tired of my trying to choke clowns with Ping-Pong balls he dragged me to the shooting gallery. Together we shot hundreds of tin ducks, possibly thousands, rewarded only with some trifle just big enough to stick in a child's gullet. Then came the rides. The Octopus in a head spinning bucket, a Zipper more thrilling than any fabric fastener, and the Cha-cha which teaches younger siblings about centrifugal force and the weight of a brother. 'He ain't heavy' is a lie.

Next the freak-shows: half-man half-woman, a five-legged cow and the headless lady, who to this day I suspect really was headless.

Then came Samson. The man who, it was said, once ate a car in Darwin. He was amazing, and to prove it, gave me a bent six-inch nail imprinted by his teeth. I kept it for years, until that sad time when youthful naivety is crushed by reality's weight.

I’d forgotten my car project until I saw on-line that Samson had retired to Queensland, where I suppose he now bends bananas.

At six, eating a car was thinkable; if a mail-order bullworker could turn a scrawny kid into a muscly youth, anything was possible.

If you tackled a car today you’d be spoiled for choice. Like a Melbourne eat street you could consume Brazilian, English, French, German, Korean, Russian or even Chinese. Patriots can still choose Australian but only just.

As a boy my choice of car was limited. My parents drove a Durham beige 1963 EH Holden stationwagon, so that seemed the logical choice.

I decided as our family began a road trip that would end in South Australia. Cars were simple then. Nothing under the bonnet but engine block, radiator and a few hoses. Enough space in there for several more passengers.

No air-conditioning, just hand powered window winders and the blast of hot air dragged inside. We careered south. No tapes, CDs, DVDs, just rotten singing and I Spy screamed into the hot wind.

After a while eating the car seemed like a good idea.

At the end of day one, after licking dust off the rear bumper, I decided it could be done. I was a can-do guy even then.

Day two I set to work in earnest. Nibbling, chewing, chomping. It wasn’t easy, a task full of risks. Warm cracked seat vinyl comes away easy enough, but tastes of bum. Loose threads dangling from the roof catch in your teeth. As for glass and metal, it's scorching in summer and without a hacksaw and hammer all I would do was suck and scratch with my teeth. Other times I just wasn’t that hungry.

Still I kept at it. Having a goal was the only thing that kept me sane during that long, crowded car journey.

I didn’t succeed but at least I gave it a red-hot shot. For years afterwards I would swell with pride whenever my father would point to the scratched rear left door handle and say, ‘Remember when Jack tried to eat the car.’

If you would like to catch up with Samson, take a look at http://www.abc.net.au/news/2015-06-01/car-eating-strongman-samson-reclaims-family-and-showbiz-legacy/6507660