THOSE of you who were pre-porcelain kids will remember growing up sitting on an outside toilet with a dunny-can beneath the seat, which was collected each week by the municipal dunny-man. Was this the worst job in the world?

AS mentioned last week, these toilets were filthy things, a horrible place, avoided at all costs, particularly by blokes, who didn't bother going into the thunderbox after dark if they didn't have to. Shooting off the veranda or onto the lemon tree was quite acceptable.

In fact, an old mate reckons his neighbours had a household full of boys and rather than fill their can with wee, installed 'a p**s-a-phone' at the side of the dunny, which was just a pipe buried in sandy soil, with a funnel at convenient height.

MR.POOP, we called the dunny-can-man doing the collection rounds in Mittagong. Not sure his wife liked being known as Mrs Poop in social circles.

"Dan Dan the dunny man, washed his face in a dunny can," we would sing, holding our noses, as Mr Poop came past in the rancid dunny cart. He didn't like it and I don't blame the poor bugger.

His job was bad enough, without having to put up with smart-arsed kids mocking him as he lofted a smelly dripping can onto his hessian-bag shoulder pad and carried it to his truck.

This wasn't a good job to have. In fact our teachers often made the ultimate threat. If we didn't do our homework, we would all end up being a dunny-can-man. It was a powerful incentive to study.

"WHAT sort of truck has forty pistons and flies?" was a standard joke around the back of the school toilets in our day. Yes, we all laughed out loud when someone delivered the punch-line... "the dunny cart."

This dunny cart was invariably accompanied by a swarm of blowflies, as it carried the full cans collected on the weekly dunny run, as well as empty, sterilized replacement cans, delivered by the dunny-can-man, who normally gained access to the rear of properties from the dunny lane behind the house.

These toilets had an access door at the back for the dunny man to grab the full can and slip in a fresh one. Not sure what happened if someone was perched on the throne at the time, but I am guessing that both them, after exchanging pleasantries, just went about their business as normal.

AN acquaintance told me that when he was a young bloke, he worked at Botany Council.

After finishing their night run, the dunny-can-men would all meet for a beer together at the Botany Bay Hotel, the only early opener around those parts. The after work ritual went on for years and this is why the pub became better known by locals as the Shit Carters Arms.

AND speaking of beer, it was a huge mistake not to leave a few bottles out for the dunny-can-man at Christmas. Not to do so had dire consequences.

Let's face it, accidents happen and the dunny-can-man can't be blamed for occasionally dropping a full can on the lawn when he is on a busy run, can he?

My old mate Stu, who had the neighbours with the house full of boys and the p**s-a-phone, reckons his mum always left out two bottles of beer for the garbo at Christmas time, but six bottles for the dunny-can-man, just to ensure nothing was accidentally spilled during the next year.

WHEN Dudley installed a proper toilet inside the house, the old dunny had to go and he wasn't mucking around.

There was plenty of stump blowing gelignite around the farm, so Dudley wired up the old dunny with a substantial charge, lit the fuse and ran off behind a gum tree to watch the action.

And action he got. Out of the blue, Old Dud calmly wandered in to use the toilet. Dudley shouted and waved, but it was no use, the old bloke couldn't hear a thing.

Bang! Up she went.

Corrugated iron flew into the air and splinters of wood disintegrated as the dunny was reduced to rubble.

There was nothing left. Nothing except Old Dud, staggering from the smoke and dust, shaking his head.

"Are you alright, Dad?" stammered Dudley, rushing up to his father.

"Yep," said Old Dud. "But I don't think your mother would have been too impressed if I'd let that one rip in the kitchen."