for Harry's 21st: 'A twenty first speech is much like a circumcision', by Simon, Tony and Peter - 1994

August 7, 2015

April 1994, Melbourne

Good evening everyone.

A twenty first speech is much like a circumcision - both involve blood letting and it's best if the parents don't watch too closely. If we continue the analogy, which some might argue is an unwise move, I suppose we three are the doctors here tonight. I hope for Harry's sake we have steady hands.

There are a few things that twenty-first speeches are not about. They're not about justice. They're not about fairness. They are an opportunity to focus in on the 0.1 percent of a person's life that is basically of any interest to a drunken audience.

Take Harold Antony Burnett as a case in point. How many hours has he spent helping young kids. How many hours as he spent saying nice things and thinking nice thoughts about old people. He is a man dedicated to both family and community and has probably given as much to the cause of Dr Seussian poetry as anybody alive today. Nelson Mandela won the Nobel Peace prize last year. Harry must have been an unlucky second.

But are we going to pay homage to these hours of benevolence here tonight? Are we going to put up a slide of Harry helping a small child cross the road?

No. We are in fact going to show you a shot of the fifteen seconds Harry spent standing naked in front of the Eiffel Tower.

Harry has always been a bit of a writer. Indeed, most people would agree that most of his work is quite alarmingly well-written. During his trip away to Israel he regularly wrote back, but very rarely did he ever say anything about either the trip away or Israel. He did however have plenty to report on green lemurs, eukeleles, whale penises and fridge lights. He is often silly, sometimes weird and nearly always strangely brilliant. Receiving a letter from Harry is a joy.

He also writes on his envelopes. Take the following examples.

- This one has an arrow pointing to the seal - "Please do not feed the seals".

- "Contents - coded message regarding the development of Tibetan nuclear

arms"

- "To read secret writing, hold envelope in hot flame"

- " Note to Postal inspector - do not open for inspection unless you really wantto. "

- "Dehydrated letter - just add water"

One month ago, he composed the following RSVP to a friend's 21st.

I'm coming. Let there be no mistake, I will be there. Drunken and joyous. Dancing the two-step with nubile beauties and mooning the moon in symbotic recognition of your transition from adolescence to manhood. I will also be there the morning after - sallow and forlorn, as together we attempt to stop various internal constituents of our manhood from escaping to fairer climes. I undertake to swill beer, spread cheer and decorate each of my ten digits with an encircling cheezel. I pledge to spar mercilessly with both proponents and opponents of VSU and to compel scholarly admirers of modernist fiction to retreat ashen-faced to their squatid academic hovels. I furthermore will endeavour to ensure that no party-goer leaves unaccompanied by a traditional cellophane wrapped lolly-bag. Thank-you for your splendiferous summons.

And yes, as good as his word, Harry did indeed perform some tricks with cheezels before departing - stone cold sober and before eleven o'clock.

At school Harry was at the bottom of almost every scandal and every big bust that involved Weet-bix cards. When he got his hands on card number eleven of the much sought after and often under-rated "Great Australian Motor Races" series, he was crowned the undisputed Mr Big of the Weet-bix card collecting fraternity. Which I think we'd all agree was some achievement.

What this passion of Harry's demonstrates is just how scary a place our school was in the late eighties. The closer one got to adulthood the more one felt like collecting cereal novelty items. Just ask RM. Or ask Simon here - he's still got his snap crackle and Pop 'Under the Sea' mobile'

Harry's car looks forever like it really wants to kick your teeth in. A meaner looking fender I've never seen. It has an attitude. It harbours grudges. There is some evidence supporting the thesis that this avocado green FJ has in fact a grudge against Harry. I refer in particular to one September night which as memory serves me was both dark and stormy. We were in Collins Street. The fairy lights were on the blink. Harry was doing a handbrake start on a fairly substantial incline. All of a sudden we started rolling.

"Harry we're rolling"

‘Yeah, I’m aware of that. The handbrake isn't actually strong enough to hold the car. It’s really only here for aesthetic purposes and to make that comforting handbrake noise."

"'When are we going to stop?"

"Oh soon enough"

Some of you might be acquainted with the concept of touch parking. Harry that night introduced me to an expansion on that idea - "touch stopping". We just rolled back into the Valiant behind us.

There isn't a lot you can say about Harry's music taste. He was once asked to list his top five songs of the eighties. Number one was "We Built This City" by Starship. Number Two was "Current Stand" by Kids in the Kitchen. That's either an indictment upon Harry or the eighties.

But Harry and I have shared several very special musical experiences. Musical here is to be taken in its loosest possible context. One day we decided to translate all the theme-songs to Australian soap operas into Latin. Soap opera operettas we called them. i think I can safely say that we have since that day proceeded to sing them in nearly every possible public forum. It seems a shame to stop here. Harry.

[Neighbours in Latin]

I've got some bad news - the songs just keep on a-coming. ! We have in fact put together another tune. It's song about hardship, it's a song about pain. In fact, this song could be likened to a circumcision .If you take the bits we had to cut...

[To Gilbert and Sullivan's The Very Model of a Modern Major-General]

He is the very model of a modern vegetarian

Eats cabbage lettuce-lentils-rice-brown bread-potatoes, never ham...

He never would profess to having kissed a fair librarian

He is the very model of a modern vegetarian.

For years we thought he was in fact a USA imperialist

But now we know that he's a zany madcap hip idealist

A shame to every self-respecting Camberwell Grammarian

He is the very model of a modern vegetarian.

A travellin' went our Harry to discover his identity

Instead his photos all reveal much unashamed nudity

He swears he simply imitated hairy well-Hung- garians ...

He is the very model of a modern vegetarian.

Our Harry loves his Turkish coffee, Weet-Bix and focaccia,

Although his favourite dish must be a lightly spiced young Kathya,

And if she were a mermaid she would live in his aquarium

He is the very model of a modern vegetarian.

Oh give him water, flour eggs and he will make you mallo'ach

If we were crass we'd definitely rhyme this with a word like fuck.

But we are really new age sucky touchy-feely caring men

Just like our very model of a modern vegetarian.

And so we wish the very best of birthdays to our dear old friend,

It's sad indeed lamentable that in our speech the truth did bend

But if we had the choice there is no way we'd ever vary him,

We love our very model of a modern vegetarian.

for Sam Wilson's 21st: 'Look it was dark okay! And I've got terrible eyesight', by Tony Wilson - 1992

August 7, 2015

30 April, 1992, Kew, Melbourne, Australia

I first met my sister Samantha at the Mercy Hospital on the 2nd of November l972. I was two days old. Right from that first meeting in the maternity ward, we had a special bond. As we gazed into each other's eyes only we realised we couldn't actually see each other. Only we knew we'd both still have dribbling problems a couple of decades later, and our first joke together was some sophisticated little gag about how much Mum and Dad were going to have to spend on suncream. Sam was round —very round and very, very white. Indeed there has probably never been a closer human, toddling equivalent to a white chocolate Lindt ball.

Time rolled on, and Sam rolled with it. The Lindt-ball grew hair and spawned glasses. Eventually she began to say words, words that she would so hideously misspell over the years to come. Words like "eat", "dog" and "lolly". In 1988 Sam tried to order a pizza for the family and proclaimed after 20 minutes of frantic searching that Dial- a- Dino's was not in the phone directory. Pippa, eight years old and a little perplexed by her big sister's proclamation eventually had to inform her that you do not spell "dial" d-i-l-e.

By 1977 Sam and I both had imaginary friends. Mine was called Nini and her's Durrell. We played as a foursome, and Sam was always particularly keen to include Durrell in her extended jigsaw games. We suspect now that Durrell was there to see the pieces. He may very well have been the first seeing-eye imaginary friend.

Sam's honeymoon with the education system began at Mitcham Primary in 1976. By Grade 3 Sam had a friend. Her name was Melissa, and she had lice. Sam idolised Melissa and figured that if lice were good enough for Melissa, they were damn well good enough for her too. But although she wanted desperately to have lice, she wasn't all that keen on some of the lice-related perks. An itchy scalp, for example. And so she simply told Mum that the government scalp checker at school had informed her she had lice. Mum hit the roof. As a parent, it one of those great firsts. Your first lice infested child must certainly be up there with the first time your child cleans his or her face without the aid of a saliva saturated tissue or the first time your son washes his own sheets. Anyway, we were all thoroughly disinfected for a few days until Sam owned up. Mum, trying desperately to be the New Age Renaissance parent asked Sam why she had pretended her head was a parasite nest. Sam's answer was simple. "Everything always happens to Melissa". And it moved me to see my big sister retire her hairbrush that very day and vow to never, ever use it again.

I've always believed you can tell a great deal about the future of a child by the activities they engage in early on. I mean it was obvious the way she bashed her poor, defenceless and infinitely smaller siblings that she would end up studying the ins and outs of pain. And a childhood over-sensitivity to hot drinks could help explain her love affair with drinks of the somewhat cooler variety. As for everything in this world that Sam is inept, inadequate and hopeless at, they can be explained by her stamp collecting. Sam was an awful stamp collector evidenced simply by the fact she collected awful stamps. In Brazil, Australian stamps portraying the Queen's profile might be considered pretty exiting, but in sunny Balwyn they don't tend to raise too many eyebrows. Sam's assembly of so many royal heads in the one place is only likely to have been matched by Paul Keating's childhood dartboard.

And finally to courtship. Sam has been lucky enough not to turn out quite as romantically dyslexic as she first appeared. CH, JC, AR, GB and LB each had their stint as Sammy's man. My brother Ned and my sister Pippa were very keen that I tell one particular story tonight, even if I told no other, and that story relates to Landon Roberts. Pippa, for some reason seemed almost hysterically-keen. Landon was staying at Merricks with the family and had joined in a family game of backyard cricket.

Being great admirers of competitive spirit, I remember the family being pretty impressed by his competitive spirit. After a long energy sapping day in the field, Pippa finally had the opportunity to wield the willow herself. Now it must be understood that any blind jokes used here tonight are in fact mere warm ups for the ones that are going to be rolled out for my little sister's 2lst. Bearing that in mind, it is easy to understand the fact that Pippa had never, ever hit the ball. That was until the fateful thirteenth ball of Dad’s fourth over, the first delivery she faced, when she hit the most glorious cover drive ever to race across the hallowed turf of 8 Wave St Merricks. It seemed inevitable that the chewed up old tennis ball would spank into next door's tank for a historic boundary. Pippa barely bothered to run. In retrospect, it was a terrible decision. For somewhere, deep in the murky shadows lurked Landon "Tiger" Roberts, who dived three and a half metres to his left to pick up the ball, hurl it in the same motion and hit the one stump on offer. I remember being sent to comfort my crying sister some hours later, and could say little more to her than, "Cricket Pip —It's a funny game."

Unfortunately there was one occasion on which my observation of Sam's handling of the opposite sex got a little too close. The story is a little embarrassing so I'd appreciate it if it didn't go any further than the one hundred and forty of you here tonight. Again the location was Merricks Beach, the date, New Year's Eve 1988. In those days, Merricks was grope-wise, just about the place to be at New Year. At about 11 o'clock I saw an attractive blond girl stumbling across the foreshore towards me."Hello, how are you?" I inquired.

"Alright," she replied. "Where you from?" I asked.

"Where do you reckon, idiot?" she said scornfully.

This struck me as a little rude but hey, others had been ruder. "What's your name then?"

"Sam you dickhead," she replied.

Harsh, but hey, others had been harsher, and here was my opening. "Gee, I've got a sister called Sam," I said.

She placed her head in her hands and said nothing. Things were getting desperate. "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" Sam took my hand. Ah now I was getting somewhere. "Yes, you have seen me before. My name is Sam, I first met you at the Mercy Hospital when you were two days old and if you don't piss off and leave me alone I'm telling Mum you made Ned do the dishes tonight ... So now you can see why I incested, I mean insisted before that the story be kept amongst ourselves.

Look it was dark, okay? And I’ve got terrible eyesight! And I’d been drinking Kalua and milk out of a shampoo bottle.

Twenty first speeches often do not capture the true essence of a person and I fear I've not given the adoration the family feel for Sam enough emphasis. Why without Sam, Ned would have to watch Supermarket Sweep by himself. Dad needs to have Sam's table manners on diplay to take some of the heat off his hiccupping. But basically we like to have her around for the same reason most people like to have her around. Because she's friendly, funny, delightfully vague and considerate of all those she comes across. I have to admit, as I nodded off on my first day of existence in that Maternity ward in 1972, dry at last and thinking the world was pretty damn good. Little did I know that the next day I'd meet my big sister, and it would be looking even better.

Thank You.

Ray Wilson's 70th: 'The eightieth is always something very special, isn’t it?' by John Clanchy - 2015

July 17, 2015

21 January 2015, Melbourne, Australia

Note: Ray is 70

Maaaaaaaaa-te!

21st January 1935 – 21st January 2015. What a journey!

The eightieth is always something very special, isn’t it? And not just for you and your family but for all your friends too as we look on and wonder whether we’ll ever get there ourselves (let alone get there in your condition). So celebrate! Eight decades is not to be sneezed at.

Ray, I was thinking of you today, and so many great memories popped up. I’ll spare you the full-length movie for now and just re-run a few shorts – the first one personal, the other two sporting:

1. As your Uni mates, we always looked up to you – and only partly because you were half a generation older than us. But even we were surprised when you carried off one of the most gorgeous belles of the University in your final year. I remember Roger Gay and myself shaking our heads when you declared you were going to court Margaret. Jeez, we thought, the guy’s got guts, but the idea of a Northern-Westie Newman boy heading out into the Protestant-infested waters of the abstinent EASTERN suburbs in search of love naturally filled us with dread. We knew this couldn’t work.

‘She’s already said No to him twice,’ I told Gay.

‘Well, he’s heading out there for another try,’ Gay said.

‘What’s the bait this time?’

‘He’s gonna tell her that you and I are mates of his.’

‘You reckon that’ll work...?’

It did of course, but Gay and I continued to shake our heads. She’s a Science student, we kept telling each other; she must know that if he’s a decade older than her now, then she’ll never make up the difference. The day he turns eighty, she’ll still only be seventy. ‘Ray’s an Arts graduate,’ I told Gay, ‘he’s full of it; he’ll find a way to fudge it.’ ‘Even when he’s eighty?’ Gay frowned. ‘He’s very fit, I reminded him.’‘True,’ said Gay.

2. Sports: You were always a superb footballer, Ray – you left the rest of us for dead in skills and attitude. And probably did the same in every field of ball sports - with one exception. No doubt you’ll remember as vividly as I do our first ever game of golf. I was drunk and played superbly. You were sober and totally naff. You sliced the trees to ribbons on one side of the fairway, and you hooked baby starlings out of their nests on the other. You chopped when you should have chipped, and the sight of a sand-trap or a green gave you attacks of the yips. It was the first time on a golf course for both of us, and afterwards (mostly out of feeling for the starlings) I took you under my wing and promised to show you everything I knew about the game. It’s a great memory for me. Especially now that people tell me you’ve become a fabulous golfer in the six decades since, and I take profound comfort from knowing that if you’ve ever had a bad day on the golf course from that day to this (whether it’s the youthful octogenarian yips or the ‘Lazy-Susan’ return of the slice) then it’s got fucking nothing to do with me!

3. Footy: It’s Grand Final Day, Newman vs Ormond (1960-something). It’s late 3rd quarter and we’re in deep do-do’s. Ormond has just kicked a goal and taken the lead. The ball comes back to the centre, the umpire (a hired idiot called Minson) is about to bounce it and our leader – Captain Wilson – pushes his opposing captain into Minson’s back, and spoils the bounce. The Ormond captain whirls on Wilson and cries, ‘You prick!’ Wilson’s face turns white with shock. He glares at the Ormond captain and shouts, ‘Who just called the umpire a prick?’. Minson blows his whistle and tosses a free to Wilson. The Ormond captain looks at Wilson and again he shouts, ‘You prick!’ Minson blows his whistle and give the Ormond captain a 50-metre penalty for verbal abuse. From 30 metres out, Wilson slots the goal, and Newman is never headed again.

Brilliant!

Those were the days!

Happy Birthday, Ray. And may the second eighty be just as memorable as the first!

Bones.