The story of how, after much sweat and many tears, I was able to write a jingle about washing machines and earned a hundred pounds (Australian) for my effort. The year was 1962.

In those days I was a country sales representative with the South Australian branch of Berger Paints working from the Head Office in the city of Adelaide. I also used to do some solo piano pub gigs on weekends. One of the venues was a charming old-style pub called "The Buck's Head" where I played background music on piano to the accompaniment of the Saturday evening lounge bar chatter. In the final hours of the session I used to hand out books containing lyrics of popular singalong songs.

As the clientele were usually a cheery, fun-loving crowd I had no trouble leading them into a good old-fashioned singsong "around the piano" which they took to with the lusty-voiced enthusiasm of sales reps and business people letting their hair down after a week of pursuing bottom lines.

Over time I developed personal relationships with many of the regulars. One of these was a young businessman called Roger Lockwood who owned and managed a business known as "The Washing Machine Centre" which was located at 284 Hindmarsh Road, Hindmarsh, an Adelaide suburb. Roger was a jolly young chap and he would always throw himself into those Friday night sessions with a great deal of energy. His spirit was consistently one of joyful relaxation and his voice could be heard above the rest at singalong time.

One evening during one of my breaks he approached me and asked if I had ever written any commercial jingles. I was able to tell him that, in fact, in earlier times, a well-known Sydney pharmaceutical company had paid me to write jingles promoting one of their key products at the rate of five shillings per piece. My "imperishable rhymes" used to appear above the luggage racks in Sydney trams and buses. His eyes lit up at this bit of information and he said, "If you can write one for The Washing Machine Centre, which is good enough to be presented on commercial radio, I'll pay you a hundred quid for it!"

Now, in those days one hundred pounds was worth a lot more than two hundred dollars today and I accepted the assignment with barely concealed eagerness. I even told him that I would undertake it without a written contract, but purely on the basis of gentleman's agreement sealed with a handshake.

The magnitude of what my limited talents had taken on didn't really hit me until that well-known scribbler's scourge known as "writer's block" crippled my creative craft and left me well and truly becalmed on a sea of unrelenting uncertainty! I felt as though it would never leave me and I began to feel ashamed at so thoughtlessly taking on an assignment that I now knew to be beyond my capabilities. Yet, I battled on and, over the next couple of months, did numerous drafts of jingles which, after editing, I angrily consigned to the waste paper basket.

I can tell you truly that this writer's block did come as somewhat of a shock to me. Didn't I have a reputation among friends and colleagues as a bit of a gun when it came to dashing off impromptu jingles or limericks at the drop of a strip-teasers veil? That piece of reflection, though, made me realise that, with such a reputation to sustain and a hundred quid to gain, I should continue to press onwards in the hope of arousing my muse.

The blasted assignment became an obsession and I found that I began to dream about washing machines and of their benefits to mankind! In fact, I became so engrossed in the idea of producing a genuine work of the jinglistic art that, whenever I was out in the field trying to improve my employer's bottom line or making a pass at a prospective flame, the thought of making a hundred smackeroos from a jingle about washing machines was constantly at the back of my mind or on the threshold of my thoughts.

I got into the habit of reciting little rhyming couplets to myself or I would spend my lunch hour reading Alexander Pope's "Essay on Criticism". But the more my creative urges lagged the more my shoulders sloped and sagged! To make matters worse, whenever I met Roger Lockwood of The Washing Machine Centre at the pub, I would mumble something about the jingle being ready soon and then ask him about his wife and kids and whom he thought would win the next Davis Cup!

During this stressful period of my life I still had to work at promoting Berger Paints in the country regions. My territory covered a large part of South Australia and included two large industrial centres called Port Pirie and Whyalla. On the way back to Adelaide one fateful Friday afternoon I had only two more calls to make, one of which involved an overnight stay in the small town of Burra Burra. I use the word "fateful" because that was the day on which I was able to expel the writer's block.

The night was particularly cold and miserable and, as I drove towards Burra Burra, my car was bombarded with sleet and hail that alternated with fierce gusts of wind and rain. So, to take my mind off the unfriendly elements outside my vehicle, I allowed myself to reflect on some ideas about the jingle that would, hopefully, make me richer by a hundred of the best. For the rest of the journey through the clamour of the forces of nature I found myself composing, decomposing and recomposing my masterpiece until, about ten minutes of driving from the Burra Burra pub, I knew that I had got it as right as it would ever be.

Back in Adelaide, Friday evening: I looked the jingle over until I was red in the eyes, but didn't feel inclined to change a word. I will admit that I felt somewhat apprehensive (perhaps nervous would describe the feeling more accurately) about what Roger Lockwood's reaction to the jingle might be. After all, the whole arrangement had been sealed by only a handshake! Nevertheless, I went to bed and slept as one who had completed the task to the best of his ability.

I turned up for my gig the following evening and commenced playing soft background music. Roger and his wife had not yet arrived. In fact, they only arrived just as I started to hand out the singalong books. He greeted me warmly and then asked, "How's the jingle coming along?" Without answering him directly, I grabbed the microphone and spoke to the crowd: "Hi folks! Tonight before we start on the good old standard singalong numbers, I want you to listen to this jingle I've written for Roger."

I then sat at the piano and after a short, lively intro began to premiere "The Washing Machine Jingle". After I had finished (and to my surprise) they asked me to do it againand againand then they all started to sing along with me. If you could hear that jingle now you'd probably find it difficult to understand why it was received with such acclamation, but there you are: the old KISS principle (keep it simple, stupid!) came into play and they found enjoyment in belting it out in an atmosphere that was very festive to begin with. Roger Lockwood was so delighted with the jingle and the reception it got from the lounge patrons that he pulled out a cheque book there and then, wrote a cheque for one hundred pounds and handed it to me.

There was a bonus: the jingle not only featured as the theme of The Washing Machine Centre's program on a local commercial radio station it became, by popular demand, part of the repertoire of the singalong regulars at the Buck's Head Hotel for many months afterwards.

PS: What's that? Oh, the jingle itself. Well, after all these years the lyrics without the melody wouldn't do it justice. A bit dated, and all that. Oh, all right, if you insist you'll see what I mean if I just quote the opening lines for you:

If you wanna buy a washer,
(A washer that is posher)
We've got washers galore
At two-eight-four.

I haven't seen or heard of Roger Lockwood for many years. I doubt that he's marketing washing machines now, but I wouldn't be surprised if, every now and again, he finds himself humming the Washing Machine Jingle.