My cousin Harvey was beginning to annoy the crap out of me. It was mid-1956 and I had just turned twelve. Harvey had been saying it all morning, over and over, like he was mesmerised: ‘Elvis the Pelvis, Elvis the Pelvis’, with a stupid grin on his face. It had been on the front page of the Courier-Mail that day – a story about a new American singer who wiggled his pelvis like a girl. There was even a little cartoon of someone contorting himself like Plastic Man. But the more Harvey said it, the more stupid it sounded. It was starting to coalesce into one ridiculous word: ‘Elvisdapelvis, Elvisdapelvis’. I shouted, ‘Will you cut it out? That is not his real name, you know. It's just what the papers say.’ Harvey picked up the paper again: ‘But it's funny. Look at him wriggling. Elvisdapelvis.’ We went down into the backyard to play badminton, but he wouldn't stop. ‘Elvis!’ he called out as he threw the shuttlecock up; and then, ‘da PELVIS!’ as he served it like a missile at me over the net. ‘If you don't shut up, I'm not playing,’ I said. ‘He's just another one they've all got it in for. You haven't even heard him yet.’