"Then you apply pressure with your teeth. The half twist should have loosened the head so you can squeeze the flesh straight out into the bread roll. It takes a bit of practice, but you soon get the knack. It's all in the wrist movement."

"Amazing," I said as the ancient and noble art of one-handed prawn peeling was explained to me, my mind filling with images of men practising nightly in front of the bathroom mirror as they strove to perfect the art of one-armed prawn peeling and sandwich making, ankle deep in prawn heads and shells.

I am not a brave person but have in the past fallen victim to bravado which has more to do with stupidity than courage. It was bravado which saw me famously accept an invitation to take part in a camel race. My camel won but I was not on it, being sprawled on the ground several hundred metres behind it with five broken ribs. "Still," I thought, when considering an invitation to compete in a one-armed prawn-peeling and sandwich making competition at a friend's birthday party, "how much trouble can a person get in to by peeling a prawn?"

I consulted several close friends who suggested scenarios which included choking to death in front of a large gathering of people, for further inquiries had revealed that once you had made your one-handed prawn sandwich, you were then required to eat it.

I then spoke to a man who had taken part in a similar contest held at the annual Gladstone Seafood Festival and who confessed that the night before this clash of the prawn peeling titans, he had attended a social gathering where he had consumed more strong drink than would normally be considered reasonable. He awoke the next morning with an olympian hangover and the knowledge that in a few hours time, he had to compete in a one-handed prawn peeling and eating competition.

   "I did pretty well," he told me. "I peeled the prawn, slipped it into the bread roll and tossed it down my throat but it went halfway down and started to boomerang. It stayed down in the end, but it was a close run thing."
   "I see," I said, and while this was more information than I needed, it confirmed the wisdom of declining the offer to take part in the one-armed prawn peeling contest.

The spectre of the camel race danced before my eyes. Choking or public upchucking, while providing an excellent photo opportunity for the family album, would do little to enhance what remained of my image. I thought back over the contests into which I, ill-advisedly, had agreed to partake.

There had been cocktail mixing contests in which invariably, you consumed your own creations with socially disastrous results. There had been that barrel race on North Stradbroke Island, held as part of a fishing competition in which contestants were required to ride a motorised beer keg on wheels.

I lost control of mine and speared off the course, demolishing several spectators and coming to rest beneath my barrel, shrieking for assistance. I escaped with severe bruising and a gravel rash of which any teenage skateboarder would have been proud. The crown cheered wildly but appeared to be a little disappointed when I finally managed to get back on my feet.

Then there was the Blood Lunch at which participants gave blood samples which were analysed and points awarded on the basis of the results in terms of cholesterol and other readings. I cannot remember what, if any, point there was to this but I agreed to take part. I got the second highest and was congratulating myself on my performance when it was pointed out that, according to my results, I had been clinically dead for a year.

There has been the odd uplifting moment such as the invitation to judge the topless Miss Figurehead contest held as part of a sailboat race held off Arlie Beach. Suffice to say that the best woman won although, sadly, the bribes to sway my judgement which I had anticipated would be forthcoming failed to materialise. Bribe-less, I was forced to rely on instinct and experience which, happily, proved equal to the task.

I remain indebted, however, to the Gladstone gentleman who explained to me the tail-in-the-mouth-and-twist-with-the-wrist art of one-handed prawn peeling, for when I got to my eternal reward I suspect I will be asked why I should be allowed to pass into the Heavenly Kingdom. I'm betting that there will be a shortage of one-armed prawn peelers up there and at the mention of my qualifications, the pearly gates will swing wide.