For Murray Booth: 'Muz was my wise counsel for just about everything in life', by Mal Booth - 2010

10 May 2010, Woronora, Sutherland, Sydney, NSW, Australia

Muz was born in Sydney, but really he grew up in Melbourne as a boy and young man. Most of his high school years were spent at a selective boys school in inner Melbourne and there he played water polo and did well at subjects like Mathematics.

He gained a university entry score, but decided not to continue with formal education, starting work with the AMP in Melbourne after matriculating. He soon started to pursue some of his passions: cars, his dog Tim and bikes. Murray bought a Mini Cooper and started enjoying driving with his close friend Richard. (We were not able to contact Richard before the funeral.) They made some long trips away together in that car including one to deepest Queensland. Soon he acquired a wonderful Newfoundland dog that he called Tim. People say that dogs resemble their owners and I think Tim was a reflection of Murray’s personality. Tim was always puppy-like and one enormous dog who could stand with his paws on my shoulders and lick me fair in the face. He was gentle like Muz but his slobber had all the qualities of Tarzan’s Grip and it made interesting sounds when it hit the walls of the house as he shook it off his snout. They were wonderful to see together and Tim would do anything Muz asked of him. Dad had retired by then, so Tim amused his house colleague while Muz was away at work by eating all of Dad’s pot plants, some of his trees and then made a decent start on the terra-cotta pots. Tim thought he was a person, so soon became Muz’s driving companion in the Mini Cooper. He always sat in the front passenger seat and if I was ever lucky enough to be taken for a drive, I had to squeeze into the small back bench seat around Tim who also got himself in first. Tim became accomplished at rallying on country roads and whilst he never quite made it as a navigator, he did once make it into the driver’s seat indicating to Muz, that he thought it was about his turn to drive.

It was in Melbourne that Muz began his passion for bicycles. He rode with the hard vets of the eastern suburbs in the days of leather soled shoes and road bikes with toe clips. There he learned his road bike skills and eventually saved enough for his first serious bike, having it made by Cecil Walker in Melbourne city. He still loved that bike and it hangs with pride of place in the fleet that fills his garage at home. (I conducted several guided tours of his bike collection during the wake for various family members who did not understand the depth of his passion for bikes.)

I guess what our family also remembers about Muz in Melbourne was his love of The Goodies and the latter Monty Python productions, particularly The Life of Brian and Fawlty Towers. He had a very funny sense of the ridiculous that his sister Mez and I always found very amusing. We will miss his cheeky grin and dimples terribly.

After a while Muz and Tim took a transfer to Tasmania to work in Hobart. He bought himself a home and seemed to enjoy life there for several years. Muz eventually sold up and moved back to the mainland, but Tim would not have handled another shift of climate and he retired to a farm in Tassie.

Muz worked for a time in the AMP in Sydney, but he really hated it and decided to chuck it all in and go to university to study to become an accountant. He enrolled in a Commerce degree at the University of Wollongong and it was there that he met and started dating his wife Jenny. That was over 17 years ago. Over his time in Sydney he continued his passion for cars and first acquired an awful looking Holden HSV Walkinshaw that Mum and Mez called the Spearmint Machine or Ralph because of the sound it made when it roared away. That was eventually replaced by an older Brock HSV The Black Beauty which he still owns. I think Jenny used to call it the brothel car and did not like to be taken anywhere in it. We have a lot in common! He raced both HSVs in club races on tracks around the Sydney region.

About 13 years ago, he married Jenny and I was honored to be their best man at the wedding. I remember the day well because I had never seen my brother so happy. I think that day would only have been matched by the birth of his son Ben and his daughter Alexis. He was completely devoted to his family as a husband and as a father. His family was really his number one passion in life. My sister Mez loved to watch Muz with his kids: their little hands in his big hands was such a sight to behold. Sometimes he just loved to sit and watch them play. I think his wife and children completed him as a person.

I now want to illustrate several of Muz’s traits and characteristics that I’ve not yet mentioned.

Most people who knew him would acknowledge his generosity, with his support and assistance for others and also with his empathy for others. He enjoyed helping many of his friends to purchase the right bike and gear for their needs, often referring to himself as “muz.con” because “.com” was taken. He had helped both his sister Mez and I with moving house several times, providing both heavy lifting and many silly observations to keep us all entertained during those long hard days. Recently, he and Mum helped me unpack a whole house after my move to Sydney in early 2009. He was really glad to see his sister happy (after marrying Phil recently) and me back in Sydney where we could do much more together.

He was gregarious, though he’d not have said that of himself. Whenever we were in bike shops anywhere, someone would say hello to him. And he could work a crowd socially, not as the centre of attention, but because of his genuine openness and warmth. It was his suggestion to buy a dog for Mum and Dad over 11 years ago despite my reservations at the time. It was probably the best gift we ever gave them at Xmas time. Of course, I later claimed all of the credit, but Mum knew all along it was Muz’s idea.

Muz was a very decent man and I think he admired those qualities in our father. He was forgiving, not judgmental, considerate and respectful of others, particularly his Dad, his father-in-law, and many of his friends from cycling. He had long admired two friends from school who became Olympians: John Fox in water polo and Shaun Panayi in diving.

Later in his life he remained passionate about his cars and bikes. He loved Top Gear and would often message or call me while watching the show. He had tickets to take his son Ben to the live show in Sydney. I think he enjoyed everything about cycling: the drama; the sound of a pack spinning together; the colour and scenery; the degree of difficulty; the devotion of the participants; the traditions and legends; the machinery; and the artistry of the bikes. He had learned much from the veterans of the road in Melbourne and in Sydney he rode and raced with the Randwick Botany Cycling Club. He followed that passion most recently by setting up his own business in bike insurance assessment. I think he relished the opportunity to work on something he enjoyed so much. I greatly admired his initiative and his independence.

Muz was my wise counsel for just about everything in life: jobs, houses, superannuation, bikes, and cars. I asked him before making decisions on all of these matters. For the last 10 years or so I think he rated me somewhere between a four year old child and a helpless village idiot. It was a family joke that he would never trust me with important tasks like our BBQs even though he hated doing it himself. 25 years ago I decided to do my first Ironman and it was very very early in the sport’s history in Australia. I sought his advice about getting a proper bike to race it on and he arranged for me to get one built to his specifications by Gordon Hill at Hillman in Melbourne. A year earlier, Gordon had built the frames for the Australian Olympic team in L.A. so when I found that out I really felt unworthy to ride it well enough. Only the best was good enough for his brother. I had given him the old bike after he helped unpack my house in 2009, but I will now restore that bike myself. He sourced or approved all of my racing bikes. I can even remember phoning Muz from a bike store in Honolulu in late 2008 before I purchased a new pair of bike shoes. Recently, he and I converted the bike I last raced in Hawaii into a single-speed bike for inner Sydney streets at Deus in Camperdown. He realised what that bike meant to me and again had to approve all of the changes. It got to the stage where Pierro at Deus would suggest something to me and before I could say anything he would tell me to just ask my brother about it and then get back to him the next day.

Muz was always there for me when I needed him as a friend and a brother. I loved him and I will miss him more than anyone can imagine.

For Jon Hanna: 'I found in Jon a fellow warrior', by Janet Ní Shuilleabháin - 2019

17 March 2019, Ireland

Hi Everyone

I have the unenviable task of delivering Jon’s eulogy. Joanna asked me, and it is an absolute honour. And a challenge.

How can I distill down into words who Jon was, and what he was, to so many people. And given Jon’s love of language, linguistics and etymology, it’s daunting to try to use my words to talk about him.

But Jon knew that words were about communication, and that that was more important than anything else. He also wasn’t a language snob. So I thought I’d start with a turn of phrase that Jon often used when someone would tell him something that was upsetting. But Jon would use the phrase after some silence - because he also knew the power of silence. Calming silence, companionable silence. To pause and think and feel.

And then he would say; well, fuck!

I am gonna do the very Irish thing and talk about… who are your people and where are they from? Jon was one of four children, and they are here today. Sean, Sarah and Emma. And Jon’s hometown was Kilkeel in Co Down, where he learned to be careful which side of the road he walked on, how he talked, how to talk to different people, and how to sleep through pipe bombs. That’s real!
Jon grew up in a time before the Good Friday agreement, he grew up during the Troubles. He saw communities torn apart, and knew what it was to live with injustice. Jon’s mother was a wonderful woman who had her own struggles. But she encouraged Jon always to read, and much like myself and many others, books were our form of escapism; kept us alive, kept us together.

And then, as his god mother put it - he ran away from home when he was 17, and got himself into college. Jon attended UCD; he was the outspoken and ‘out’, bisexual auditor of the Gay and Lesbian society (which I can gladly say has changed its name to be more inclusive). Jon also went on to be social welfare officer of UCD Students Union. There he worked on building communities of people who were like himself. People who needed to be stood up for, needed to be fought for, needed to be minded.

It was there he met Celine, the wonderful person who shared his sense of social justice, his spirituality, and with whom he had four wonderful children. Sadhbh, Jason, Ciel and Fiach.

By the way, Jon is one of those annoyingly successful people who never graduated and got their degree. Formal education was too slow, too annoying, and not interesting enough for Jon. But such was his skill, at what we called Hackcraft, being an ethical hacker and coder. That skill has been recognised, and he has received industry accolades from many groups, including Microsoft, for his contributions.

There are many people here today who said they first met Jon, or only met Jon, through the internet. It was through the internet and through words and text that I first met Jon. We spent a lot of time in similar online communities; be it the An Fáinne pagan mailing list, or Boards.ie. We were mods of the Pagan forum, and when people said a Sex & Sexuality forum wasn’t possible, Jon and I argued that it was. So we got landed with that too.

When I was due to meet Jon in person finally, on the way to a moot, he had posted ‘how to recognise Jon’ like a computer program. Is the Jon you see bald? No? Not Jon! Is the person you see bald and has glasses? No? Move on! Is the person bald, with glasses and wearing a long trench coat? If not, move on. Go to next person! That’s where we met in person, and we could communicate as much at ease face to face as we did in text.

If you are someone who is here today because Jon crossed your path online, at a protest or anywhere, and something about him resonated with you, and you feel his loss: I am glad you are here today. It was through the friendships that grew up around us in Boards.ie that Jon met Joanna.

I had the absolute honour of being the best man at their wedding. Their sons Oisín and Ruadhán are here with us today. Jon and Joanna’s love reach out beyond themselves. Their home was a welcoming place to so many. It always made me smile, to see the small loving interactions between the two of them. I am going to miss that. Even if it was them being in separate rooms rolling their eyes at each other, at the same time, which I have seen!

Jon was someone who I could talk to about all aspects of my life. We were in all of the not respectable, small, alt communities. Which meant our conversations could be wide ranging, and cover anything and everything. I found in Jon a fellow warrior. He would often say, there are wartime people, and peacetime people. We discussed at length what it is to be a warrior in society when there are no spears to be chucked.

What fighting modern battles looked like, what putting yourself and your body in harm’s way for the sake of others looked like. And so much of his part in the run up to the referendum was doing just that, with the Radical Queers Resist.

But being a warrior isn’t just about fighting. It’s about upholding and embodying the ideals of the community you defend. Which Jon did by being an outspoken, at times belligerent, pagan and a witch. And a bisexual. And if someone had an issue with that, Jon made it clear it was their issue. “This is who I am, deal with it!” And by doing that, he made other people feel like they could stand a little taller, they could be a little more who they are.

We have now gotten to the section of this eulogy where I need to give a content notice. Because speaking honestly about what Jon struggled with, was what he did. And what I am going to do. But we can do this in a way that is not cruel or unkind. So if anyone needs to step out, or find someone to hold a hand, or put in earphones please take a moment to do so now. Because self care - when we live in a society that insists you should not be you, and does not value you - is a radical act of resistance.

For as long as I have known Jon Hanna he suffered from, and struggled with, depression. Jon was also a rape survivor, and struggled with disordered eating. There were times when I would see him and he was getting too thin and we would be concerned, and we would try feed him up. The cost of his happiness and being who he was, loudly, was the impact that it had on his sense of self value.

When you are a warrior who fights, it is your deeds and what you do that have value. And when you are not ‘doing’ or serving your community, it can easily feel that you have little worth. I know this because I suffer from it too, and it was something that Jon and I would talk about.

So quiet times are hard for people like me and Jon. When there is a war on, there are things that need doing. When things are quiet, and you need to spend time doing self care and healing and resting - it is very hard to do.

It might sound silly, and I know that there might be people who might not get it, but that can be the biggest struggle. And that can often go unseen.

So I look around the room today, to see so many people in so many communities that Jon reached out and effected, especially Bi+ Ireland where Jon was a coordinator. These are supportive communities that Jon and I would have dearly loved and needed, when we were coming out ourselves.

Jon’s pro-choice activism goes right the way back to the X case referendum in 1992 and his work within Student Union activism… when it was still so taboo to be pro-choice in Ireland, he and I were stridently so. It was an absolute delight and joy for him to see the pro-choice movement in Ireland grow, when groups like Parents for Choice were formed. We could have conversations with more people than just us!

Jon also got involved with Mara Kleins Clark's wonderful organisation, the Abortion Support Network. For Jon was one who believed that unjust laws should be broken.

Jon’s coding work brought him international connections and the regard of his peers, and his passion and interest in witchcraft did the same. There are witches all over the globe who enjoyed his wit, wisdom and discussions. These are his brothers and sisters in the craft, including those here today who are facilitating his funeral rites.

He knew the reach of his words and his deeds, but he was very humble about it.

“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away. Until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finish its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life… is only the core of their actual existence.” Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man.

The crop that Jon Hanna sowed in being uncompromisingly and unapologetically himself, is the effects you see in each other. Every time someone stands a bit straighter, feels they can put on a badge, or hug each other in support. That is the effect that Jon has had.

We’re all here today, from so many communities, brought together because of Jon. I will ask that you all look after each other and yourself, and if you can, carry forward and do the work that still needs to be done. And I am gonna end with another Terry Pratchett quote, and I ask that maybe you join me, and raise your fist in solidarity.

“A man is not dead while his name is still spoken.”

If you'd like to donate to the Abortion Support Network you can do so here.

For Natasha Jones: ‘Such a beauty, such zest for life’, by Riley Jones - 2019

4 December 2019, Memo Music Hall, Melbourne, Australia

Some of you might think of me as a funny bugger, and may have even seen speak at Natasha’s Dad’s funeral back in 2015, where I managed to sneak in some Slovenian swear words and get some laughs. I’m not sure I can manage that today, though.

I’ve actually been dreading this for a long time. Basically, since the day that Natasha received her terribly cruel diagnosis, and if not that exact day then definitely that first week, I’ve lain awake at night, time and time again, wondering about what I might say at her funeral should she pass away. And now here we are, a little over 15 months later.

My thoughts ran the gamut from just angry ranting, to hysterical crying, to just focussing on the positives, to everything in between. I think today we’ll get a mix of all of those.

I should start by saying that we shouldn’t be here. She was only 43.

And apologies in advance to anyone who has survived cancer or who is even just over the age of 43, because I keep thinking: why do you get to live and she didn’t? And that includes me, I’m the sweet age of 46. Here’s an actual example of this thought process from yesterday: why is Moby alive? Nothing against him, by why him and not Natasha? I know Tash wouldn’t want me to feel like that, but she was much nicer and better than I. It’s just not fair. She should still be alive.

But her cancer was horrible, more horrible than I think we realised. In retrospect, I can now see that this was almost a certainty to happen, but we tried to keep hope alive, to try to ensure that she could be with us for as long as possible. And as it turned out, that was nowhere near as long as we expected. None of us, not her, I don’t think even her medical team, expected her to go last Tuesday. Only two days beforehand, on the Sunday, she’d told me that she wasn’t going to die this year.

But it looks like it WAS her time to go, and as I’ve noted in a pretty distressing post on the Tash Tribe on Facebook, she went relatively peacefully, probably unaware of my desperate attempts to revive her. And many people have reassured me that, if she had to choose a way to go, as opposed to the timing, it was almost perfect. She was in her bed, having just had her first shower in days, warm under a blanket in her dressing gown with the love of her life looking over her, caring for her. Her last words were in response to Declan saying “I love you”, and she whispered back “I love you, too”.

And then a few minutes later, she was gone, and all of a sudden, it was just me and the kids left. I must say that, if I didn’t have the kids, I don’t know what I’d do, because there’s a big Natasha-shaped hole in my life, that can never be filled. I’m so lost. I keep wanting to tell her stuff, or watch a TV show with her, and then remember that I can’t. I still can’t believe she’s gone and I bawl my eyes out every day. And it’s only been a week. How can I do this for the rest of my life?

A life that used to be pretty great – only a year and a half ago – and which is now just miserable.
But, there is some light, because Natasha gave me you three beautiful creatures. And even with that, it seems like she was planning ahead and looking after me – which is very Tash. Y’all may not know this, but Xander has been comforting me, quickly coming over and giving me a hug whenever he sees me tearing up, and Elektra and Declan have been wonderful as well. But it’s my job to look after you guys, and that’s what I’ll do. I just worry I’m not going to be as good at it as she was, or anything else she did for that matter. But there are a lot of people in this room who have offered to help me, too.

SO, apart from my kids, I struggle to find any positives in this, but here goes.

The main positive is – she’s no longer in pain. Ever since the chemotherapy started, she required pain medication, and the pain only got worse towards the end. She was willing to endure it to be with her family as long as possible, but now, thankfully, she’s no longer suffering.

Another weird positive is that, once she was diagnosed, I had to step up and do all of the things she used to do, which was an astounding amount. And taking the kids to their dermatologist one day led to discovering that I had a small skin cancer in my scalp – it was benign, but could have got a lot worse. If Tash hadn’t been diagnosed, I wouldn’t have gone to that appointment, and I wouldn’t have had that skin cancer cut out, and then who knows.

Also, thanks to her diagnosis and treatment, I got to spend pretty much every minute of every day for the last 15 months with her, and a lot of time with the kids, too. Much more intense time than we would have had otherwise. And I must thank my work colleagues for being so flexible with us and giving me that opportunity – I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.

And that brings me to another positive, not of her death, but her life - we all got to be with her at some point during her 43 years on this planet. And I think we can all agree that makes us very lucky, because she was amazing.

I guess that makes me even luckier than most, as I was with this incredible woman for 23 years – half of my life, and more than half of hers.

For those of you who don’t know the story, Natasha and I got together 23 years ago in around November 1996. We had passed each other on the stairs in the Union Building at Monash Uni, our eyes had met, and we knew straight away there was a connection. We later chatted at a Union Night, trying to work out if we’d met before, but there was nothing we could pin down, so it just must have been destiny.

And then Natasha introduced me to her friend, Jade, and Jade told us that she had actually had to pull us apart at the Chocolate Ball at the Palace, here in St Kilda, many months before. So it was either destiny, or a drunken pash that neither of us remembered, but it turned out that we had fortuitously each found our respective soul-mate.

She was my wife, lover, travel companion, fellow music aficionado, partner in all things and, most of all, my best friend. We did pretty much everything together and I can confidently say that pretty much every good thing I’ve ever done and every good memory I have – she was there.

I loved everything about her – the obvious stuff that you all loved – her kindness, her smile, her thoughtfulness and generosity. But I also loved weird stuff – I loved her taste and her smell. She used to complain sometimes that she hadn’t had a shower and thus would smell, and I honestly told her numerous times that she had never smelt, never had an unpleasant odour, EVER. I meant that very seriously. It’s a pity the feeling was not mutual… (Let’s just say that she didn’t think my natural, aluminium-free deodorant from Byron Bay was very effective.)

Another thing I loved: her voice. Not just her singing voice which some of you may have heard – she sang like an angel. But her regular voice – I told her that I loved listening to voicemail messages she left, because hearing her voice just gave me a little thrill.

And I loved her feet. Not in a fetish-y way. But her nerves were a bit damaged from the chemo, and something she really appreciated was her feet being rubbed. So I would volunteer every night to massage her feet, and she looked surprised every time, and then happily thrust her feet at me, nearly kicking me in the face, and I would massage her feet and calves for an hour while watching one of our many TV shows that we mutually loved. Because we didn’t have as much alone time together, it was something I looked forward to.

Also, she was super-hot, but we all know that.

Another thing we all know is that Natasha was the nicest person you could ever meet, and so thoughtful. Even when going through the worst things personally, she would think of others.

As a very weird example, she kept suggesting women I could be with after she died, who would be good for me and the kids, and maybe even put up with my comic book movies. Some of her suggestions are in this very room! But I had to beg her to stop thinking like that, and pimping me out to her friends – I was married to her, and I didn’t want that to end, or to even have to think about it. But she was still just trying to look after me.

In that respect, the timing of her passing also seems like she planned it. In particular, she completed her magnus opus – the renovation of our house. She had been driving that for almost two years – getting permits and dealing with heritage issues and so forth, so when she was first diagnosed she asked me, if she died, would I complete the renovation. And I said “no”, because I’m an idiot. But she just went “Right!”, and decided to get it done. And for most of the last year, while she was dealing with everything else, we’ve been living in our partially renovated home. But it was finally completed so that we were able to move back in in late in October. And she loved it, and got to enjoy it for her last month, referring to it as her legacy, while snidely remarking that my next wife had better appreciate it.

She also stuck around just long enough to teach me most of what she knew about running the house and raising our three beautiful kids.

The first day that I drove the kids to a school thing after last Tuesday, Xander said to me “Dad – it’s lucky we’re all so used to you doing this for us”.

So that’s small comfort, but more importantly, the kids also got to have the best Mum ever. She devoted herself utterly to them. She fought tooth and nail to get them into their school, to help them with any health or other issues, to encourage them and drive them to whatever activities they were interested in. She was so proud of you all, even though she might ask you to play outside, or clean up your pig-sty room, you were still her pride and joy. OUR pride and joy. You three are truly greater than the sum of your parts – you’re like Mum, you’re like me, and ultimately you’ll be better than both of us.

There are so many other things I’d like to talk about, if I could go all day. Her love of books and the fact that we were hoping to one day to open a book bar for her to run. Her love of photography – she was so talented. Her love of travel, of course – she’d famously been to 56 countries. Her connection to Slovenia and Australia’s Slovenia: Tasmania. I hope she would appreciate that her coffin is hand-crafted Tasmanian Blackwood. Her dog, Indy, who gave her so much joy. And, of course, her many, many friends. She has SO many friends, and many of them have written very touching tributes to her online and on Facebook. A common thread with all of them is that Natasha made everyone she spoke to, everyone she dealt with, feel special. Because she thought you were special.

So when it came to organising today, I honestly found it too hard to pick even a few friends to speak – it would just always leave someone out, some group out, which is why I basically just went with Myshell to talk about Natasha pre-Riley, and me to try to cover everything post-Riley. But know that she loved you all, individually, and cherished the time she spent with each and every one of you.

Everything about this has been hard, so I want to just quickly thank some people who have helped me and our family through this. (I then went into some personal thank-yous...)

And that brings me to possibly the hardest thing about this service: choosing photos for the upcoming Tribute. How could I fit her life into 80 photos? She’s in so many AND looks great in all them. In the end, I just had to pick a selection from the ones already on my computer, so I know it’s not representative of her whole life. There are numerous trips around the world that are completely missed. But fortunately the booklets you’ve received today include some of those photos plus many others.

Also, I deliberately chose not to have any photos from the last month and a half, when she really started deteriorating.

These photos remind us of Tash in her prime. Such a beauty, such zest for life. A shining star.
I also want to explain the two songs accompanying this Photo Tribute. They’re both by Biffy Clyro, a band Natasha and I saw many times and which we even managed to take the kids to, back in 2014. The first song is called Folding Stars, and it was written by the lead singer when his mother, Eleanor, lost her battle with cancer. It’s very on point and will likely make you cry. The second song is Mountains. This song is a bit more uplifting, but also has a special connection to me and Tash. She bought this picture here for my birthday a few years ago, with some of the beautiful lyrics from Mountains on it. “Nothing lasts forever, except you and me. You are my mountain, you are my sea. Love can last forever, between you and me. You are my mountain, you are my sea.”

For Ron Wootton: 'For me, as the lights in the auditorium fade and the overture starts, he will be there in the wings', by Ian Mason

A tribute presented at St Mark’s Church, on behalf of Camberwell Grammar School:

In the early 1960s, when the Camberwell Grammar School Council decided to engage the services of an efficiency expert, a Time and Motion guru, to determine whether full use was being made of the school day, they made one fundamental mistake: they organised it so that Ron Wootton was one of the first to be interviewed.

At this stage of the year, it was not unusual for Ron to be painting the play set at midnight or even later, having already taught a full class-room programme during the day, and then taken a 1st XV111 football practice after school. Having spent some time with Ron, our visiting expert came to the conclusion that schools were different. He was right, of course, and the thing that makes them different is people like Ron Wootton. For him, a seventy- or eighty-hour school week was not unusual; as he put it, it was part of the job; it was what one did, if one taught at a private school.

At this stage the School was growing and, for many of those new to the school, myself included, it was Ron’s tireless contribution to the all-round life of the school that was to have such a profound influence.

Ron joined the staff at CGS in 1957, as an art teacher, having already had some contact with the School through Harrie Rice, whom he had helped the previous year with sets for that year’s play, in those days a very humble affair, performed in a green Nissen hut, that doubled as an Assembly Hall. In many ways, the whole school at that time was a very humble affair: its numbers, though improving, were still low, and its sporting teams often suffered humiliating defeats at the hands of their opponents. The Headmaster, the Rev Tom Timpson, asked Ron to take on the role of Sportsmaster, a position he was to fill with distinction for 34 years, during which he coached almost every major sport.

He took the 1st XV111 for over twenty years, and, although he never achieved his dream of beating Assumption, he earned the respect of opponents like Brother Domnus and Ray Carroll, as an astute coach, who could extract the best from his players.  

While he was a dedicated Australian Rules player and supporter, he also saw the need to broaden opportunities for boys to participate in team sports and was a prime mover in the introduction of soccer to the AGS. For a number of years, he coached the 1st Soccer X1, and the perpetual trophy for the inter-school six-a-side soccer competition is fittingly named after its inaugurator.

He took the school swimming team, for many years without the luxury of a venue at school, training wherever he could find an empty pool. On one memorable occasion, he strode into the Richmond Pool during Caulfield Grammar’s House Sports. Competitors, staff, parents and pool attendants were stunned, when he walked in, stopped the programme, commandeered a lane, and trialled a new boy who had arrived at CGS that morning. The Combined Sports were only a day away. It was 1961, the boy made the team, and CGS won the title by one point.

He revolutionised the School’s approach to Athletics. Realising one coach could not look after the whole team, he allocated the staff to individual events. If you pleaded ignorance of the particular field, Ron gave you a book on the subject, and arranged expert coaching from his extraordinarily wide circle of friends. It was part of Ron’s whimiscal nature and eye for the absurd, that saw him place a diminutive John Hantken in charge of the discus, and then organise as his assistant, a vast Argentinian discus thrower, who had carried her nation’s flag at the 1956 Olympics. There was no way you could turn him down; his energy and enthusiasm were infectious.

He introduced a great variety of new sports to the school, and saw them become part of the AGS sports programme. Water Polo became popular within the school, and, although it must have seemed a far cry from his days as coach of Australia’s Olympic team, he used his profound knowledge of the game to establish Camberwell Grammar as one of the top Water Polo schools in the State.

He was a great believer in the value of camps and trips in the education process. He was the first to take a Senior School camp at Bambara, and many of you here today will remember boats on the Hawkesbury, the Murray, the Gippsland Lakes; Art camps at Somers; overseas trips to Europe and Asia. As OC of the School Cadet Unit, he dispensed with much of the formal military training and drill to focus on developing the individual through bivouacs and outdoor activities. He founded the Duke of Edinburgh Scheme within the school, raising money so that no boy would be denied the opportunity to participate.

With Roy McDonald, Ron set up the Photographic Society; he established a students’ newspaper, which, unlike its short-lived predecessors, still operates today; he ran the School Printing Club; he was never too busy to help with the lay-out of school publications; his cover designs for play programmes were outstanding. No task was too much trouble, and he was at the beck and call of everyone, and, usually at such excruciatingly short notice, that a lesser man would have been tempted to refuse - the Parents’ Association, the Ladies Auxiliary, any department of the school that wanted a notice, needed a sign or some kind of art work for a function turned to Ron, and he always seemed to find the time to meet the demands made of him.

Ron was a superb artist, and this was recognised by the School Council when they named the new Art Studios in his honour. His guidance and inspired efforts in the class-room touched the lives of many Camberwell Grammarians. At the first Old Boys’ Art Show held last year, many of the more successful exhibitors were past students of his, and his own painting of Roystead was one of the first to be sold. Ron’s artistic abilities were nowhere better demonstrated than in his creative set designs. So good where they, that, one evening in the mid ’sixties, the Headmaster received a phone call from a nearby resident, complaining that there was a naked woman posing on the grand piano in the Memorial Hall. It was one of Ron’s paintings, part of the set for an Old Boys’ play. He designed, built and painted the sets for over 100 plays, and most recently, had been talking about how he could assist in this year’s school production of My Fair Lady.

To remember Ron Wootton is to remember a man whose presence could turn the most dreary occasion into something lively and entertaining. His talent for creating fun was extraordinary. Many of us have had the ‘pleasure’, albeit dubiously, of being part of his love of practical joking. At an Art Camp at Somers, Ron had organised John Frith, the former Herald cartoonist, to visit the camp. Ron thought it would be a good idea if we pretended that John was a hypnotist, and, at the concert on the last night, the staff, Ron included, would seemingly succumb to John Frith’s hypnotic skills. All went well, until Ron, who had arranged to be last in line, declared that he was not an appropriate subject and could not be hypnotised, but would be John’s assistant. I remember Harrie Rice muttering into my ear that we were in trouble. Four staff sitting on chairs, pretending to be hypnotised in front of an audience of boys, with Ron Wootton on the loose, was enough to make the bravest of men apprehensive, and, as it proved, rightly so too.

But above all, Ron was a schoolmaster; not a school teacher, for that term seems to imply something of the nine-to-three mentality. Ron was a real schoolmaster, and remains today as much a part of Camberwell Grammar as any building, any patch of ground. The School has a fine new Performing Arts Complex, a splendid Music School, and one of the best science buildings in the State. However, a school is more than bricks and mortar: its real worth lies in its less tangible assets. Notable among these is a man whose memory will live on in the hearts and minds of the hundreds of boys who passed through his hands, their lives forever influenced by a man with a great love of his art, his sport, his school. I do not use the phrase ‘his school’ lightly, for in the Camberwell Grammar School of today there is so much that is, and will continue to be, Ron Wootton.

I am not here today to say farewell for this is not really ‘good-bye’. Ron will be there every time I walk up the Roystead steps at five o’clock into the Common Room; he will be on the boundary line whenever the 1st XV111 runs out on to the Gordon Barnard Oval; he will be at every Old Boys’ Dinner in the memories and anecdotes of the generations he taught, and, , watching the curtain rise on another School play.

To you, Jenny, Kim, Lisa, and Andrea, and to you, John and your family, the whole School community offers its deepest sympathy. We share in your sorrow, for, with Ron’s death, we have all lost part of ourselves. He was, indeed,

                   ‘A man so various that he seem’d to be

                    Not one, but all mankind’s epitome.’

For Allan Zavod: 'Dad inspired us to be reckless and excited and fun and daring and part of the world', by Zak Zavod - 2016

4 December 2016, Melbourne, Australia

My dad led a remarkable life and was a remarkable man. And that is what we remember today. There is the pain of loosing him. And it runs deep. But there is also the joy of celebration in his life that was. He, in his abundance of love, touched many people, not least of us his family, but also beyond and into the community; here in Australia and forth into the larger world.

His roots started here in Melbourne, studying at "The Con" and playing here joyfully with school friends and music veterans alike. He then travelled for study at Berkeley and landing in the American 70's, immersing himself in slick Jazz and piping hot rock 'n roll. He thrived in the madness and challenge of it all and went on to collaborate and tour with some of the world’s musical greats including Jean Luc Ponte, Maynard Furgueson and Frank Zappa. But to speak plainly, I think one of the most significant musical experiences of his life happened relatively recently. Certainly the one I was most privy to. The Melbourne Symphony orchestra performed Dad's Environmental Symphony and I shared first hand in what it meant to him. To share his work with his home city and to have it received in such a way. To have the opportunity to share it with his beloved home community and to have people on their feet cheering and feeling. It was an experience that moved him as he moved others. We stood in the wings as the performance came to an end, as the final bars were played, and as the audience rose to their feet and as the energy in the room cracked and as the smiles on the orchestra members’ faces gleamed; and he turned to me and said "...you know... this is what I've always wanted." I knew at that moment that even though he was aware he might be leaving this world, he also knew he'd done things that he was mighty thrilled to have done, and even though he could have done them for another 100 years, if his time had to be now, he could be at peace with that. And I think we can take his lead on that one.

Dad's family of course was his pride and joy. The gem of seeing him smile in contentment at simply having the family together for a meal; indulging in that most basic and gracious of pleasures; food and chosen company. And well, he chose none to be closer than his family.

My Grandfather Eddy, who took hold of his artistic gene and grew it throughout the generations to Dad, and to me and to my daughter. My father and he bonded especially deeply in grandpa's twilight years where they spent many hours together speaking of the past, and of the future. Healing and sharing. Musically they shared a unique and vibrant bond through their careers and in these later years, dad and grandpa still played together often and dad encouraged him to keep performing all the way through his difficulties with Parkinson's. And so their musical joy kept on flowing.

His darling mother Anne, still here with us today. He was the light of her life, and continues to illuminate it even if now a little dimmed. He spoke often of his memories of a wonderful childhood in which he always felt nurtured and loved. And it was clear that his mother was a beautiful guiding soul to him, who protected him, and celebrated him.

My mum Christine, and dad, were soulmates. It’s hard to elaborate on what this meant to them. I perhaps am the one who knows most being their only offspring and having been present for so much of their love-filled lives together. We are all at loss without him. But perhaps no more than his angel partner, my mother. The passion they shared and the love and joy that blossomed between them and stretched its great boughs out over our heads and sheltered me from the dark, and inspired us to be reckless and excited and fun and daring and part of the world. That is quiet now and remains on in our hearts and in my mother. She can now carry that beacon for us. We all will a little. But his joy touched her in a unique way, as did hers touch him. And that is a torch that endures beyond death. For it is eternal.

As for me. There is not a great deal to say really. He is my Dad. He is the man who thought me to love. And I'll miss him, and he knows it. And I feel him with me. And it's ok. And it hurts very badly. But he is the one who taught me not just to love people, who are here, for a time, but that they also must leave. He taught and inspired me to love life, and living. And that is what we are left with. Thank you.

For Allan Zavod: 'Tribute to Allan Zavod, musician and composer', by Alan Finkel - 2016

4 December 2016, Melbourne, Australia

Twenty years ago I met a man. A most unusual man. A musical genius, playful, wild, intellectually powerful, a musical treasure, a legendary composer. Allan Zavod cut a powerful figure: tall, strong, wild curly black hair. But one thing dominated everything about him – music! When Allan played, either in a concert hall on a Steinway grand piano, or in his sickbed on a toy keyboard, Allan filled the room with music that resonated from the walls and through our bodies.

Born in 1947, Allan found music young. His mother Anne took him to his piano lessons and his Eisteddfod competitions – he won them all. His father Eddie, a superb concert violinist whose repertoire ranged from Gypsy to Classical, took him to symphonies and gave him his musicality.

Allan went to school at Brighton Grammar and from there to the University of Melbourne Conservatorium on an Ormond Scholarship, to be classically trained in Rachmaninov and Gershwin. While on tour in Australia, Duke Ellington discovered Allan Zavod and sponsored him to go Massachusetts to the acclaimed Berklee College of Music, where he graduated and became a music professor.

But Allan’s passion was performance so he left academia and went on tour playing keyboard with Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. He spent 30 years in the US performing, recording and touring with the Glenn Miller Orchestra, Herby Hancock, Jean-Luc Ponty, Sting, George Benson, comedian Robin Williams, actor Chaim Topol and Australia’s James Morrison. He performed for Her Majesty the Queen of England, His Royal Highness Prince Norodom of Cambodia.

Back home he married Chris and fathered Zak. But Allan’s real strength was as a composer. He wrote the scores for over 40 films, including my favourite melody from the movie The Right Hand Man. Of all his many awards, the one that brought Allan most pride was the Doctor of Music in 2009 from the University of Melbourne, only the fifth time it was granted since the University was founded in 1853.

Allan was famous as a pioneer of the jazz-classical fusion genre, but I truly believe that there was nothing that Allan could not play, enhance or compose. I got a glimpse of Allan’s musical life about 15 years ago when I visited him in Phoenix, Arizona, where he was staying alone in the house of Geordie Hormel, heir to the SPAM fortune, back in the days where spam was a kind of food, not unwanted email. Geordie was away and Allan was the only person in the house, with 32 bedrooms, six kitchens, a squash court, and most important a fully equipped sound recording studio where Allan and Geordie could play and compose. Next morning, a Sunday, Allan’s friend George Benson, famous for such smash hits as Breezin’ and The Masquerade, picked us up in his Rolls Royce and took us, wide-eyed, to his evangelical church.

Allan, I shared more than a church service with you. We ate and drank at restaurants, we reminisced on the Jon Faine Conversation hour, we jogged the back beaches of Rye and swam the front beaches of Portsea, but most important to me was the Environmental Symphony. Sometime around 2008 you decided you wanted to write a major orchestral piece. You had enjoyed an earlier success when you won an international competition to compose a jazz-inspired symphony that was performed by the St Louis Philharmonic Orchestra in New Orleans. But now you decided you wanted to do something even bigger. And it had to have meaning beyond the music.

We lunched many times, we talked many topics. I suggested it could be about the threats and opportunities for our global environment. You were sold, you were on fire, a full symphony in five movements was sprouting in your mind. But it was not enough. I had to give you a narrative, which I did. But it was not enough, I had to give you a narration, which I wrote. But it was not enough, I had to find you a narrator, which I did – Richard Branson. But it was not enough, I had to give you an outlet, which I did. Last year I found myself as the executive producer for your Environmental Symphony, played by the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra at Hamer Hall. I learned what it meant to call in the favours, to nourish and to cajole. It was not me alone. The support for this concert was huge, because it was for you Allan, and because, by your choice, it was a fundraiser for brain cancer research.

Letting me be part of your success is the greatest gift you could have ever given me. I thank you. I share my love with you. Rest in peace.

for Les Carlyon: 'Won't keep you, Les', by Andrew Rule - 2019

12 March 2019, Flemington, Melbourne,Australia

Above clip is whole service. Andrew Rule’s eulogy begins at 43.40.

Dear Les,

Won’t keep you, mate.

A lot of people here have heard you say that.

“Won’t keep you.”

An hour later, there you’d be, still yarning.

‘Won’t keep you, Les’

It’s the password to the Carlyon Club. It had a lot of members.

For a quiet man, you could talk on anything: history; newspapers; literature. And racing, of course. Not just gallopers but trotters and horses in general ... and working dogs and drenching sheep and tips on practical harness maintenance.

When Truman Capote died the best obituary on him wasn’t in The New York Times: it was yours. He was in your head with Larry McMurtry and Hemingway and Lawson and Tolstoy … and other great artists like Harry White and Roy Higgins and Ted Whitten and Manikato.

All equal opportunity subjects in Les World.

In 1980 I was a kid on The Age. Neil Mitchell was sports editor and heard me talking about horse breaking. Might as well have been talking Swahili for all Mitch knew -- but he knew “Les” would be interested. Everyone at The Age talked about you, even though you hadn’t been there for a few years by then.

So Mitch calls you, has the big chat, then gives me the handpiece. And that was that. The start of a 40-year conversation.

Remember how you read the manuscript of my first book in 1988? I took it to the house in Sevenoaks St. It wasn’t hard to spot:

The only house in Balwyn with a tractor in the carport.

(Won’t keep you, Les.)

It’s the hour before dawn as I write this.

Best hour of the day, you always said: “Never miss a sunrise, Andy. If you don’t stay up all night get up before dawn.”

God knows when you actually slept.

Dawn spoke to you. I reckon you sensed racing stables coming alive while the ordinary world slept. You called it Racing’s Closed Society. You loved it and no one described it better …

The thump of the bags of dirty straw and the tap of the farrier’s hammer. Strappers swearing at horses. The blue heeler straining at the chain, trying to eat the new apprentice kid.

You understood them, the horse people who shared your taste for the Jockey’s Breakfast -- a smoke and a good look round. There are plenty of them here today, Les.

There’s Patto over there: Led in forty-six Cup winners and broke in a couple of thousand horses. I asked him once why they rated you and he growled, ‘Because Les gets it right.’

Apart from everything else, you’re the poet laureate of the track.

You didn’t invent Bart Cummings -- he did that himself -- but you were first to catch his likeness, way back in 1974. The eyebrows curling up ‘like a creeper’ are now part of the language. Then there’s the story about Bart and the Pommy health inspector who told him the stable had “too many flies” -- and Bart straightaway asks ‘How many am I allowed to have?”

You made Bart a national figure, bigger than racing. Without you, Les, there’d be no bronze statue of him downstairs.

(Won’t keep you, Les.)

The way that restless mind of yours hummed after midnight. It wasn’t just the stables calling, was it? Your body clock was set in the last Golden Era of newspapers, the 1960s and 1970s. You’d come home still wired from the daily miracle of producing a paper, stay that way until dawn, I suspect. Even after you left that life, it never really left you, did it?

You once said you wondered how you would have gone in America, testing yourself among the best in the land that produced so many of our heroes: Twain and Mencken, Joe Palmer and Joe Liebling, Runyon and Red Smith. You didn’t go, but their words came to you. You absorbed them. We all learn by imitation and repetition but you added other things -- intelligence, that prodigious memory -- and imagination

Under the homespun, hard-bitten exterior you were the most sensitive of men, with an intellect to match that soaring imagination. You showed it again and again, but never more than in the opening chapters of Gallipoli. It was mesmerising. The night I started reading it, I couldn’t stop. And I dreamed about the charge at the Nek.

The year Gallipoli came out, we got a plumber to our place. Seventeen stone of tattoos in a blue singlet. A van full of tools -- and sitting on the dash, next to a meat pie and an empty stubby, was a copy of Gallipoli. Norm the plumber just had to have it to read at lunch time. When I told you, you were delighted -- but not surprised. Your readers were real people, everyday people, you said. “You’ll never sell many books if your readers are only the people who read broadsheet reviews,” you told me.

(Won’t keep you, Les.)

Some of us got to see you lay out a page, write a killer headline and caption and rewrite copy, turning lead into gold. You could do nearly anything in a newspaper except run the presses. The truth is, you were always one thing: a perfectionist about anything that interested you.

I once went up to your study/ library. It was also a smokehouse, you had maybe 1000 books in there and every one was pickled in tobacco smoke. You reached into your storeroom, (where you kept a perfect WW1 officer’s military saddle, as you do) and grabbed a bridle you’d made, stitched to fit just one horse. No buckles. Made to fit like a glove. Perfect.

That was you, Les. You made things perfect. But words were always top of the list.

I saw you get one letter out of place in 40 years. I make more mistakes every day.

As Chopper Read said, ‘Even Beethoven had his critics.’

But you don’t have many. You collected friends and admirers the way a lamp attracts moths.

As Neil says, some of your ‘boys’ were girls -- like Jen Byrne and Corrie Perkin and Virginia Trioli and Jill Baker.

Last week when the sad news broke, a group of your female admirers gathered for a drink and swapped Les stories. One leaned over to Jen Byrne and said, ‘Les wrote like an angel -- but there was always one horse too many’.

Don’t worry, mate. That one’s from Sydney and she wouldn’t know. AS IF you could ever have one horse too many.

Les, you’re a father, grandfather, prose stylist, critic, historian, mentor and mate.

A teacher who never stopped learning.

You turned knowledge into wisdom. Best of all, you were kind as well as clever. A rare quinella in the biggest race of all, the human race.

Pushing words around the page, you said writing was.

You pushed millions of words for nearly 60 years. Every one ground down to a perfect finish. It was the only thing that really mattered, apart from your family.

But you knew that what mattered more than the words left on the page were the ones you left out. Your tribute to Denise in your last book says it all: “I owe her more than words can say.” There it is: a lifetime of love and gratitude in eight words.

Les, we’re all we’re all going to miss you more than words can say.

**************

Andrew Rule also wrote a newspaper obituary for his great friend which appeared in the Herald Sun and is reproduced with permission below.

Les Carlyon, giant of Australian journalism, liked to quote Red Smith, giant of American sports journalism.

“Dying is no big deal,” Smith once told mourners at a friend’s funeral. “The least of us will manage that. Living is the trick.”

Carlyon fetched that line from his prodigious memory in honour of his contemporary Peter McFarline, sports writer and once Washington correspondent for this company.

But the sentiment — about living with purpose, rather than making a grand exit — fits Carlyon himself.

Right up to the final weeks of the illness that ended his life this week Les worked at the craft that made his name. His soaring intellect was anchored by homespun principles.

He was always on the reader’s side. He never joined the authors “club” nor any other, really, except the Australian War Memorial board he was invited to join because of his remarkable military histories, Gallipoli and The Great War. He was welcome at any club in the land, especially of the horse racing variety, but would usually be writing or with his wife Denise and their children and grandchildren.

Les had his weaknesses — cigarettes and black coffee, reading and racing — but never succumbed to the temptation to take himself seriously. But he did take his work seriously. It showed, in sentence after flawless sentence of crisp prose he kept up for nearly 60 years and millions of words.

Les Carlyon was born in that increasingly foreign country – 1940s rural Victoria – and never forgot it. Part of him was always the kid from up Elmore way but some talents need a broader canvas. Like his fellow artist, the late champion jockey Roy Higgins, young Carlyon quit the country to further his career: in his case to work at this newspaper’s forerunner, The Sun News-Pictorial, in 1960.

The Sun was as unpretentious as it was popular. It relied on appealing to ordinary readers. Carlyon the cub reporter quickly learned to make words short and sharp.

By age 21, fitting part-time study around full-time work, the rising star had been lured “across town” to write for the opposition newspaper, where he would cap a rapid rise to become editor at 33 before suffering a bout of the recurring pneumonia that has finally ended his life. He would later return as editor-in-chief at the Herald & Weekly Times but was best known for his precision at the solitary business of writing.

“Hero” and “champion” are so overused as to debase the currency. Carlyon was one of few entitled to be described that way by the many who admired him.

To want to meet a writer because you like their work, a writer once noted, is like wanting to meet the goose because you like pate. It can be a disappointment to meet heroes, but meeting Les was no let down. For a modest man, he was a good talker about shearers or Shakespeare and from Tony Soprano to Tolstoy.

He wasn’t one for pomp and privilege, had a faintly puritanical distrust of the trappings of wealth and power unless maybe it involved an unraced two-year-old. Yet he was on first-name terms with the wealthy and powerful.

When Les was “gonged” with the top award in the Honours list in 2014, it was a great thing and not befoe time. But Leslie Allen Carlyon AC was still “Les” to his friends.

He delighted in the story of the English publishers who decided (wisely) to publish his best-selling Gallipoli, but rejected his lifetime byline by printing “L.A. Carlyon” on the cover.

It seemed to the Londoners no serious author’s name could possibly be contracted to “Les” on a hardback in England. That made Les laugh. All that mattered to him is that readers liked the book.

For him, getting the story right was everything. He did it for decades and helped others do the same.

He was not only talented and tenacious but patient and kind with it. Who knows how many people he called — and how many called him — for “a yarn” late at night.

He shared knowledge without lecturing or hectoring, ego or spite. Few touched by genius are as generous. He treated his extended family of writers, reporters, publishers and broadcasters almost as well as he did his favourites — horses and horse people.

Jennifer Byrne would become a national media identity – in print then television – but nursed lessons learned as a teenage reporter from her first news editor.

Byrne recalls a “lean stripe of a man built like one of the racehorses he loved who took a bunch of know-nothing cadets and showed us how to become journalists.

“He showed by doing, by being the best writer on the paper. He wrote like an angel and produced stories which were also lessons. He was scrupulous about facts, generous in spirit, his stories full of unlikely winners and gallant losers; you could call them Runyonesque except for their depth and elegance.

“As time passed, we became friends, and I saw how much work went into what read so easily. He gave us chances we muffed, and helped us do better. He praised lightly but when it came, it was like a sunburst. To Sir with Love? Well, yes, but I am eternally grateful for the advice he gave and example he set, as are so many others. Les was the best of our business, and unforgettable.”

That testimonial speaks for the many people Les helped. They know who they are; they could staff their own newspaper, radio station or publishing house.

Carlyon influenced his followers deftly, the way the best teachers can. As for his own influences, there were the Americans like Red Smith and Twain and Runyon and Joe Palmer, but there was also Henry Lawson and Tolstoy and more.

He wrote about any subject with flair – but about racing with something like love. His collection of racing stories, True Grit, has barely been out of print in 25 years. No one does it better.

He went to Tasmania after the Port Arthur massacre and wrote what he saw at the scene. He wrote a timeless account of Princess Diana’s funeral. He went to Hiroshima to record the 50thanniversary of the atom bomb. He wrote about heroes from Bradman to Ali to Clive James and about those grand stayers Kingston Town, Tommy Smith and especially Bart Cummings. He wrote about business and politics, sport and war. He never wrote about himself.

Carlyon grew up in the shadows of the Depression and war, before the fashion for self-promotion took hold. He wrote countless words across decades but the “perpendicular pronoun” is as rare in his work as a spelling mistake or a clumsy phrase.

Carlyon did not invent Bart Cummings but was first to capture the likeness that helped turn a horse trainer into a national treasure.

He wrote of Cummings: “He was pragmatic and mystical, likeable and unknowable. Racing might be about desperates. Cummings was too casual to be desperate. He wasn’t like anyone else: he was simply Bart.”

The theme is that by being his own man, ignoring fame and fashion, Cummings accidentally found both, to become a figure comparable only with Bradman – in stand-alone success and bulletproof self-belief.

Les Carlyon spoke all over the world in the last 25 years but never more movingly than at the memorial service for Roy Higgins in 2014.

Everyone liked Roy, he said, “because he was so easy to like. He was the benign presence, he was humble, he was generous, he was courteous, he didn’t carry grudges, he didn’t look back, he wasn’t sour or cynical. He had time for everyone, be they the prime minister or a down-at-heel punter cadging for a tip.

“He was a great human being and that might be the biggest story, because it’s harder to be a great human being.”

All words that fit the man who wrote them.

For Mary Crawley: 'She really was one of a kind', by grandson Adam Crawley - 2019

16 February 2019, Barringun, New South Wales, Australia

A few nights ago something happened that I’ve always known was coming, but it was always impossible to consider. Our family has lost its matriarch and outback Australia lost one of its best. Mary Crawley’s reign at the Barringun Hotel may have ended but for anyone that met her there, she’ll be etched into their mind forever. A women of amazing intelligence, quick wit, unconquerable toughness, fierce loyalty and a believer that at all times and no matter the consequences you must always do what is right. ‘What’ll ya have?’ gave no warning to the unsuspecting punter walking into the pub that they were about to be engaged in some of the most intelligent and free flowing conversation they’d likely ever have. Sharp minded and well informed she was at ease talking to well to do and well educated people from the high end of town, but she always preferred the company of her ‘mates’. Her mates were a band of rough edged shearers, drovers, truckies or outback workers, sometimes troubled souls, often people who may have made decisions in their lives they probably weren’t proud of, done the wrong thing - people others would call rouges or criminals. Dare question them to her and you’d be met with a stern ‘you shut up! He’s a mate of mine’ dare question her to them and it would probably be the last thing you ever did. Some of my most endearing memories growing up were of these same hard men breaking down in tears to her; she might have given them a tune up about something they’d done (‘sorry Mrs Crawley’ was a common phrase), maybe told them she was proud of them; quite often ‘don’t worry, I’ll say a prayer for you tonight’ was enough to do it. It was like we shared our Grandmother with a bunch of other people that needed one, the perfect example of how absolutely everyone was equal in her eyes. She might be gone but I know how I’ll always remember her. Sitting in her armchair on the front verandah, she’s got a view across to the stock slowly stringing, of the Emus and Roos. In that harsh country that most think is desolate and ugly, where few people can survive, she saw profound beauty and enjoyed amazing contentment (‘if I won a million dollars I wouldn’t move anywhere’). Gidgee the dog is by her side, she’s got the form guide in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, she’s holding court to her family and closest mates, and maybe theres a caravaner looking for a ‘free shit’ for her to complain about. She’s got that cheeky glint in her eye and she’s just passionately told someone to ‘go to buggery’ cause they’re ‘full of bullshit’. I reckon that’s what heaven would be like for her. She really was one of a kind, and a lot of people, including me, are going to do it bloody tough without her. Farewell Grandmother, send me some winners from up there will ya?

RIP Mary Crawley ~ The best person I ever met.

for Greg Templeton: 'A friendship like that is rare – and it will last me this lifetime', by Penny Thomas - 2018

13 December 2018,. Carousel, Albert Park, Melbourne, Australia

I’m Penny Thomas one of Greggie’s dear friends from his life in Melbourne and Singapore.

Greggie & I went to university together but I really came to know him well when we moved into McKean Street together. He had returned to Melbourne from the UK and was staying with friends in North Melbourne. We were out together one night and knowing he was looking for a more permanent home as I was, I suggested we find a place together. He immediately accepted and we began to look for an apartment in Fitzroy. Now when I saw ‘we’ looked – I mean me J

I found the properties and Greggie gleefully turned up to a number of open houses, and we carefully assessed where the climate controlled fridge full of Verve might go ……. and whether it was in our price range. And settled on a gorgeous 3 bedroom converted shoe factory in McKean Street, Fitzroy North. We picked up the keys and he moved in first, in October 2009 and then Claire Murray joined us. He was very happy with the apartment and the fact that he had to do almost no work to get it. The shower was too small for him but he was living with 2 young ladies who both adored him and took care of him.

And that started the next phase of our beautiful friendship.

None of you will be surprised to hear that our house was always filled with music, given Greggie’s incredible musical prowess at guitar and singing. He was always strumming away on his guitar while meandering around the apartment singing. Or when we were sitting around the table after hosting Thursday night dinner, he and Cam would sing beautiful harmonies with Lou Simpson. I came home once to find he and Cam building a recording studio just outside his bedroom on our ground floor. I’m not sure how much music was ever recorded in that precariously constructed, maroon coloured booth, but he was pleased to have a studio in the apartment.

We had a great reciprocal arrangement at McKean Street – while Claire & I cooked dinner, he would provide a concert in the living room – we could make special requests or he would play whatever he pulled out of his brain at the time – he had a huge reservoir of songs, notes and lyrics in his head. All with his own special flavor. Or a particularly difficult song that he was practicing for a friend’s wedding. He played and sung so beautifully that he was very popular among friends getting married. I’m sure hearing his familiar, rich voice while walking the down the aisle for your wedding was just wonderful. Whether he was making the music or diving into the rich seam of playlists he had created, he gave me a music education in that house. And life had a great melody.

He was also hilarious to live with and still today, I have never laughed with anyone so much as I did with him. He was one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. There are a few of us in the room today who have been lucky enough to live with Greggie. I recall one such instance when we were sitting around on the couch with friends, Greggie playing guitar & singing – and Nick Haslett gently stuffing chips in Greg’s mouth as he sang so that by the end of song, the lyrics where so muffled you couldn’t understand him – but Greggie didn’t stop – he kept the tune going and the vague lyrics until we all fell about in hysterics. You always knew if he didn’t want to do something – like tidy up. He’d pull a face and stand there swinging his arms by his sides like a toddler …. A bit like this…..

One night I accused him of being a dirty bird …. Which he thought was hilarious, given my recent activities ….. and so the nickname “Dirty Bird” (complete with sound effect of a high pitched squeal) was born. This eventually morphed into just “Bird” and that’s how we would refer to each other – and sometimes others when referring to us as a pair. The Birds. We were each other’s plus one at weddings and 30ths, for trip hotel stays and then even holidays just the two of us. We closed the loop in each other’s friendship circles and in each other’s lives.

Greggie had 1001 sound efforts to go with his everyday language. They were so funny, that they just morphed into the lexicon. We ended up communicating with each other using a series of clicks & beeps.

Breakfast on Sunday mornings was always an event to go out for. We’d call each other on the phone (both still in bed) to check the others’ readiness to leave the house, me from the top floor and him from the ground floor. “Hello bird – are you up? Are you ready for breakfast? Hurry up bird, I’m hungry!”

He even came to a Lady Gaga concert with me. I really wanted to go and I asked him expecting a firm, “No Bueno bird” but he accepted! I purchased the tickets directly behind the sound desk as he had instructed (the best sound for the whole venue will be located there for those playing at home) and we had a brilliant night out together. His final feedback on the concert was “It was a wall of sound, bird, but still pretty good – apology accepted”.

Greggie also went off the booze for 6 months while we lived at McKean Street. He was training for the Oxfam trailwalker and to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. He was incredibly determined to ready himself for the 2 big physical challenges. He made a rule that he’d only drink for weddings ….. and he stuck to it. Save for a gloriously debaucherous evening, where we decided to treat ourselves to dinner an expensive French restaurant – and an even more expensive bottle of French red. We decided to call it a wedding that night.

In October that same year, Greggie turned 30 and he planned a massive party with Janey Kuzma. The afternoon started off well, warming up at McKean Street with a few bottles of Verve while Claire Murray and I ran around in our underpants getting ready – much to his delight. But that evening was a little too exciting for Greggie and after delivering THAT 30th birthday speech, untactfully insulting a large portion of the crowd and grabbing another drink as he excited stage left, Greggie was KB’d from his own birthday, with Mike Fink delivering him home shortly after 11pm. Good job bird.

The group present from our friends was enough money to buy himself a REALLY lovely guitar. We skivved off work one afternoon down to his favourite guitar shop in South Melbourne where he must have played 10 before he hit the jackpot. It was sunburst Taylor. Watching him play with such delight on his face was magical. Like a big kid in a big candy store – he looked over at me and said “This one’s really spency”. “Let’s put it on my credit card” I said. From that day onward that guitar was never far from his grasp, and her melody constantly permeated the peeling painted walls of McKean Street.

We had a steady stream of visitors at McKean Street. Jane Dennis was our regular couch surfer, Jamie Cousins Sutton stayed for a while. Cam, Nick, Suse, Emma, Amy, Lou, Luke, Lisa & Mike – the Reality Street crew - would join us on the top deck for beers and city sunsets. There was often someone perched on our uncomfortable breakfast bar chair chatting away to Bird when I came home over the weekend. An Ed, a Hannah, a Steph Ayres. People were drawn to Greggie like moths to a flame, because he was fun, honest and real.

It was also while in that house, that we took our first trip to Singapore. It was Grand Prix time and we spent 4 days boozing with Claire Singleton, living that uber luxurious lifestyle he loved. I think we saw some cars too. Mostly he was proud that we’d drunk tourist trap Boat Quay dry of Moet & Chandon and he had seen Mariah Carey’s back up dancers sunbathing by the pool. The quote of the trip became – “I can’t drink any more champagne bird ….. get me a daiquiri!” It was on that trip in October 2010 and the next in April 2012, that we decided we’d move to Singapore together.

I managed to move up in March 2014 and he arrived in Sept 2015. He was so excited to tell me that he had managed to negotiate the transfer with BHP and we cooed and squeaked at each other over the phone with delight.

We took a wonderful trip together to Ubud for Easter one year and luxuriated about our private villa with bottles of Verve, massages, and a 6 course degustation dinner with some of my Singapore friends – who often remarked to me afterwards how much they loved Greggie. You could take him anywhere.

And boy did he love luxury. Once Greggie had moved back to Perth in 2011 and was earning good money he really started to live life like a high roller. He had a beautiful apartment that Sandee Nilsson helped him decorate, an overflowing wine store that Pete Macrae helped him decorate and a track record for avoiding economy class air travel. When he moved to Singapore, hired his 3 bedroom apartment in the hughly popular River Valley area, took taxis to work every day, and hooked into the 12% annual tax rate, Greggie was able to maximize his love of luxury even more.

He and I took business class flights over to Mike Shipham’s wedding in 2015, and lived it up with friends in Vegas for 4 glorious days. We went to 5 star restaurants, saw A grade Magicians and Shows, and drank in bars all over Vegas - all of which Greggie loved – we even went shopping and to a pool party too – which he loved a little less. It was one of the most fun holidays with friends we had. In the plane on the way home, Greggie showed me the incredible tenderness I was lucky enough to experience from him in times of need – there was bad turbulence flying over the Bay of Bengal near India – I woke him up from a Diazapam induced slumber because I was afraid – and he held my hand until the plane stopped shaking.

We all knew Greggie was clever. While working for Exon Mobile he was doing individual uni subjects on politics while racing Claire Murray in reading as many orange covered, Penguin Classics as possible and learning new songs on guitar. He spoke French confidently with a French accent of course and his incredible memory for music, coupled with his curiosity to learn about things he was interested in, really was astounding. His intellect was phenomenal. It seemed so effortless for him. At work, with friends, with music. Not nonchalant. Just. Effortless.

And all the while maintaining friendships with people who wanted a piece of Vitamin G. You could have whatever level of friendship with Greg that your heart desired. Lighthearted and fun, deep & meaningful, advisory, motivational. He held a place for everyone in his life who mattered to him and he was fiercely loyal, sensible and immune to politics.

And he celebrated the achievements of all his friends. He whole-heartedly congratulated friends on finishing undergrad & masters degrees, on securing new jobs, promotions or house purchases. His celebration was always genuine and never with a hint of jealousy. I told him a while back I would congratulate myself on “making it” in Singapore with a colourful Hermes scarf. For my birthday last year, he bought that beautiful Hermes scarf for me – saying “you’ve earnt it Bird, and you weren’t going to buy it for yourself”.

And he gave THE BEST HUGS. In times of happiness …. sadness …… success …….. and after time apart. They could stop you in your tracks. They could dry tears. They made you feel safe. In a Greggie hug – the world stopped. It sounds very clique but it’s true. If a human wingspam is the same as human height – imagine 195cm of Greggie arms wrapped around you. He could squeeze the life out of you if he tried but for a tall man, he was a gentle giant. I came home crying very late one Saturday evening, lay on his bed and he hugged me til I stopped crying and feel asleep.

Greggie had the most incredible number of small phrases in his repertoire. Aside from being clever, funny and devilishly handsome, he was also wildly entertaining, which made him even more fun to be around. Allow me to share with you a small glossary of Greg terms:

· “Taste it” – meaning when you had got your come-uppance

· “You know, the usge”

· “What is it, that it is that you are staying out loud to me right now?” – meaning what are you talking about?

· “You’ve got to spend money to make money” “Risk & return” “Supply in demand” – always delivered in sequence

· “Lick it like you own it”

· “Good-ahhh”

· “Oh yeah”

· “You do you”

· “Approved”

· “Toot toot” –meaning look out we’re on the Bourbon train

· “If you like that kind of thing”

· “How do you LIKE me know”

· “Are you picking up what I’m putting down?”

· “Lick a dick”

· “I’ll burn you to the ground”

· “Oh C’mon” – meaning don’t make me do something I don’t want to do

· “EABOD” – eat a bag of dicks - I don’t want to do what you want

· Not to be outdone by “EABOBOD” eat a big old bag of dicks – I really don’t want to do what you want.

· “Slow burn”

Most of these phrases were him either expressing outrage, justice or affirmations. But the funny thing was, you never needed to be with him the moment the phrase came together – you could just be sucked into the vortex later when he re-used it, coupled with his hilarious theatrics – and feel like you’d made that memory with him. He was the same Greg to everyone who encountered him – there was no work persona, no filter – just him. And he was brilliantly funny to everyone.

This past October, my present to Greggie was a home cooked breakfast in his house the day before his birthday. He asked for scrambled eggs, with spinach & bacon. He talked about his plans for the trip to the Maldives and how excited he was that Lindsey would be joining him. He talked about how his plans to take 2019 off work were not shaping up so well, because he was really enjoying his job. He was happy and everything was coming up Millhouse. It was a lovely morning just the two of us. The left over spinach is still sitting in my fridge in Singapore – I’m unable to throw it away.

I could write volumes & volumes about Greggie. But it feels almost impossible to capture the richness, the emotions, the fabric, and the depths of our connection. A friendship like that is rare – and it will last me this lifetime.

We have a million wonderful memories and a million and one photos and videos of him. But as Greggie’s other dear friend Sandee Nilsson, pointed out to me last week, the terribly sad thing is, that we can’t make new memories with him. His theatrics, his jokes, his hilarious quips must live on with us. We owe that to Kerry and Debbie and to his beautiful nieces who he was so proud of – so we can tell them his stories one day soon … about their one in a billion, hilarious, kind, wonderful uncle. Our dear friend Greggie.

An incredible funeral finished with this performance by friends Cam Fink and Knockers. The running joke about ‘cover ofr a Greg Templeton song’ was part of Cam’s eulogy

for Greg Templeton: 'It's not a race mate, but I'm winning', by Nick Haslett - 2018

13 December 2018, Carousel, Albert Park, Melbourne , Australia

As prepared for delivery. Nick ad libbed a fair bit, and I’d highly recommend the video version.

I’ve been reflecting a lot on what we loved so much about Greg, and it’s been impossible to narrow it down to a few things. There are things like his love, humour, and intelligence that cannot be replicated, so we’ll all just have to remember them fondly.

What I’d like to talk about are the attitudes Greg brought to things, that each of us can try to adopt a little (or a lot) of.

So I’d like to talk about three things.

1 The often comical lengths he would go to in order to avoid doing something he didn’t want to do.

2 His attitude when he decided he was going to do something that he really didn’t want to do.

And finally,

3 The way he approached things he did want to do, like an excited child.

1. Greg rarely did anything he didn’t want to.

If it wasn’t essential, it didn’t get done.

If it had to be done, and Greg didn’t want to do it, he was famous for throwing his credit card or fistfuls of cash at whatever it was until it sorted itself out.

For those of you who have not heard of the Falls Festival, it’s a large music festival that happens over the New Year period at a few locations around Australia.

I ran the bars at the Tasmanian Falls Festival for a dozen years, and half the people in this room have at some time worked there. Greg “worked” there five or seven times. There was a lot to love about working in the bars at Falls. Spending four or five days with a hundred good friends, listening to great music and drinking lots of beers.

Greg loved it.

Well, most of it.

Greg didn’t like camping.

In all the years he worked there I don’t think he ever packed up a whole lot of camping gear into a car and took it to the festival, set it up, then , later, took it all down, packed it into the car again, and put it back where it was stored.

You know, the usual experience of camping for most people.

So Greg came up with all kinds of inventive ways to camp at a festival without doing any of the camping things. He’d sleep in other people’s tents, he’d buy a new tent and leave it behind.

One year he got someone else to buy him a tent and take it out down to the festival for him.

Unfortunately that someone was Shippo.

Shippo, knowing exactly how tall Greg was, bought a tent that was just a little bit too small for Greg across its longest point.

So there was no way Greg could fit into the tent.

Fortunately, Greg was a creative and resourceful man, and he overcame this by drinking so much that he didn’t care where he slept, and fell asleep with his feet hanging out the door of the tent.

But when it comes to not doing something he didn’t want to, nothing tops offering to pay someone $100 to pack up his tent.

To put this in context, the tent itself probably cost less than $100, and Greg had just worked for minimum wage at a festival where, after tax, he probably hadn’t made $100.

The thing is, he didn’t even have anything else he needed to do. He basically watched as his tent got packed up for him.

A spectacular unwillingness to do something he didn’t want to do.

2. Anyway, he wasn’t always like this, which brings me to point two.

There were some things that Greg didn’t want to do, that he put his head down and did anyway, and they were equally entertaining to be a part of.

Back in 2009, we decided we were going to do the Oxfam Trailwalker.

Greg had mentioned he needed something to focus on to get him active, so why not sign up to walk 100km?

To say that Greg did not enjoy long walks would be an understatement. He probably disliked long walks as much as he disliked packing up tents.

Our first training walk was an 11km circuit in Freycinet. The Wineglass Bay walk basically starts with 1km of very steep uphill, followed by 1km of very steep downhill, then finishes with 9km of reasonably flat trail, walking around the hill to get back to the start.

Greg had made it about 500 metres when he decided he had had enough.

We had a bit of a chat about whether he was giving up on the training walk, or the whole 100km walk in a few months, or just life in general.

He had a bit of a think, then shouted “Harden the fuck up” and got up and marched to the top of the hill.

I asked him at the top if he wanted to turn around and go back down, or continue on and he decided to march on down the other side into Wineglass Bay. Once down the other side of the hill he decided he’d changed his mind, and would like to have turned around at the top. And this was typical of the kinds of conversations we’d have. Greg knew full well he couldn’t travel back in time, but we had the conversation anyway.

So I explained that would mean walking back up to the top, he changed his mind again and we set off.

Then, on that walk, it became clear what walking 100km with Greg was going to be like.

He didn’t like being bored, and was rarely silent.

If he wasn’t singing he was starting random conversations.

“Walk a mile in my shoes”, a phrase that usually means to understand another persons perspectives, experiences, and motivations became a request to swap shoes. So Greg would say “Walk a mile in my shoes, because then I could walk a mile in your shoes, and your shoes look like they’re better for walking in. Wanna swap shoes?”

So our first training walk was punctuated by Greg shouting/singing “Walk a mile in my shoes” as his converse one stars gave him blisters.

To his credit, Greg trained pretty hard for the walk. We didn’t finish, but we did make it about 65km, which is one and a half marathons.

It came to a rather abrupt end when, as Ren put it “I remember turning and seeing him sprint past me at about 2am; I was gobsmacked. Where had his energy come from? And then he catapulted himself into a Y shaped tree and projectile vomited, from whatever food had been served at the last checkpoint…”

So when Greg committed himself to doing something he really didn’t want to do, he often showed real strength, and pushed himself until he found a Y-shaped tree to vomit in.

3. So finally, my last, and probably most important point: If we’re going to take anything from Greg’s life that we try to incorporate into our own, it’s the way he approached things that he did want to do.

The fun, the childishness, the stupidity, the whole new language that developed, spawning in-jokes that will last for decades.

So I’ve told you a story about a bold, but ultimately unsuccessful attempt to walk 100km, let me tell you another story about trying to drink 100 beers.

We were sitting down for our first beer after setting up camp at Falls on December 28th the day before the Falls festival kicks off. Greg and I both cracked open a beer. My phone rang and it was one of the suppliers trying to arrange a restock on new years eve. We chatted for a few minutes. As I hung up the phone Greg finished his beer and got up to get another from the esky.

“Do you want another one mate?” He asked.

I’d been too busy talking to drink, so my first one was still full.

“Nah, I’m right mate.” I replied.

Greg then cracked his beer took a sip, and looked at me and said

“It’s not a race mate… but I’m winning.”

And so it began. Somewhere in the first dozen beers we agreed to race to 100 beers, with the goal of getting there before the year ended in four days time.

I was chatting to Gus yesterday, and apparently Greg texted Gus at that point to say something along the lines of “I’ve challenged Nick to drink 100 beers. I think I may have just signed my own death warrant.”

My counter point would be that he hadn’t simply signed it, he had drafted it, had it printed on fine paper, and demanded it be signed.

Anyway, I digress.

Greg didn’t really enjoy ‘working’ at the festival, so I’d given him the seemingly simple task of band riders.

It involved putting a few items, maybe a case of beer, some wine and some spirits, into a tub for each band. So basically a five minute job for 50 bands, 250 minutes, or just over four hours of work across three days.

That said, it did require attention, and probably wasn’t the sort of job someone trying to drink 100 beers should have been attempting.

On day two of the race we had successfully covered 25 beers in the first 24 hours, and I remember Greg coming up to me with a bottle of Chimay, a Belgian trappist beer and smirking while drinking it, saying

“It doesn’t matter if you get there first, I’m going to get there fancier.”

“Where’s you get that beer mate?” I asked.

“Oh, there was a whole lot of stuff left over from the band riders.”

Then a few hours later.

“Hey Nick, about those beers I was drinking earlier.

It turns out two of my band rider pages were stuck together, so I was missing about ten bands.

We did need those beers after all. … So I’m going to need someone to drive me into Hobart to buy some more.”

So not only was Greg not doing his simple job very well, he now needed an assistant to help him with it.

Greg was gone for three or four hours, because Hobart was somewhat different to Melbourne, and Greg couldn’t simply drive to a Dan Murphy’s and buy replacements. I assumed he’d been sitting in the passenger seat drinking beers trying to get the lead in our race.

We’d been having a steady beer an hour for the last day, but I sped up a little and had about six beers while he was gone.

When he returned he was surprisingly sober, and he then realised he’d forgotten to have any beer while he was gone. He was now about eight beers behind.

Over the next few days hilarity ensued. Greg made numerous attempts at catching up, which almost always involved him drinking so much in a short time that he’d need a nap.

By about 7pm on new years eve I was not far off hitting the 100 beer target. I was on about 95 beers, and reasonably confident of finishing on time. Greg still hadn’t quite caught up, and he was about five beers behind,

As you can imagine, Greg took it al in his stride and accepted defeat graciously….

Actually, no he didn’t.

He started slapping beers out of my hand forcefully. Every time I opened a beer Greg would spring out from somewhere and smash the beer out of my hand.

After Greg had slammed his hand down onto three beers in a row, leaving my beers dribbling all over the ground, I began putting my other hand protectively above my beers. Sure enough, my beers started flying upwards as he smashed them from below. Then they started flying sideways. There was no way I was reaching 100 that night.

We wound up going to bed on 98 each.

On new years day be both sat down and opened our 100th beer together at around midday, and congratulated each other on a race well run.

Then we headed off to the staff party where we drank another 20 or so beers.

Hilarity there ensued. After numerous people doing laps of each other (explain the lap) Greg and I decided that we should try to do a lap. After a quick rock-paper-scissors, it was decided Greg would do a lap of me. Surprisingly, Greg was over my shoulder and heading down my back before we fell and nearly broke the floorboards. Fortunately Greg broke my fall, and I was ok.

Greg had a bit of a limp for a month or six.

There’s hundreds more stories of Greg pushing fun/silly adventures. I remember him regularly suggesting at 1am, after a night of watching blues and drinking beer at The Rainbow, that we should head to the Black Pearl for some Espresso Martinis to ‘sober up’.

Any protests were met with a sharp, “I don’t need excuses I need results!”

There was no denying a Greg on a mission.

The Black Pearl encourage using tabs. They issue cards for their tabs which have a message on them that reads something to the effect of “If you find this card in your pocket in the morning it means you’ve left your credit card behind the bar. Please come back in at 5pm to settle your bill.”

Needless to say, there’s countless text messages between Greg and me where one of us asks the other to meet at the Black Pearl at 5pm on a Saturday. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t uncommon for the same text message to occur on the next day.

And so I need to finish up with those three messages. That we can all take with us:

1. Try to avoid a few things you don’t want to do. Maybe go to extreme lengths to do so.

2. When you do commit to something you don’t want to do, give it your best. Work so hard that you throw up in a tree.

3. Most importantly, throw everything at the things you love. Take others along with you. Do it with such enthusiasm that other can’t help but want to be part of it.

So, I was trying to think about how to finish this up.

I thought “how do you finish up a speech about a mate you’re going to remember for the rest of your life?”

I thought maybe something emotional, maybe something funny, and then I thought, nah, something childish.

So, to the memory of Greg I say: mate, it’s not a race, but I’m winning.

Skulls beer.

Cameron Fink and Knockers finished this stunning memorial off with musica;l number.

For Greg Templeton: 'He was lovable, and he did all these silly things', by Cameron Fink - 2018

13 December 2018, Carousel, Albert Park, Melbourne, Australia

Greg, Greg, Greg. Louis. Goog. Goog Egg. Greggles. Greggie. Guggenheim. Muffin. Puddles. George. Greggins. Gareth. Vitamin G. Billis. Bird. Dirty Bird. Craig. Craig Templeman. Craig Templeman, Attorney at Law. Templesplit. Templestein. Templeburg. The Tempo. Temple of Boom. Gred. And one more that has probably never been said out loud.

About a decade ago, Greg was with me, helping me buy my first iPhone, which I knew nothing about, and he's an enormous nerd and loved that kind of thing, and took great pleasure in sharing that passion with everybody. So, he took me to the shop, we bought the phone. I didn't know how to use it, so the first thing he did was take it off me and put himself in as the very first contact. And I never edited that first entry, and ever since then, I've had the pleasure of getting messages and phone calls from ‘Poo and/or Wee’.

But no longer. There will be no more messages or calls from Greg. No more laughs, no more chats, no more drinks. No more hugs, no more holidays that he would have preferred to be somewhere else, but came because he wanted to be near his friends.

Ripped off. Even now, I can feel my reaction to this horrific state of affairs being shaped by Greg's influence. Somewhere underneath the regular, human, verbal reaction, there's a very distinct voice that I'm sure we've all heard that wants to lean back and just scream out in his Greggy way, "Oh, come on!"

He's left a Greg-shaped hole in our hearts and our homes, in our families and in our friendships, and as my brother, Cole Raleigh, observed, a Greg-shaped hole is a fucking big hole.

For anyone who doesn't know me, my name is Cam Fink. I, along with a huge number of people in this room, had the pleasure of meeting Greg from the Melbourne University phase of his life. We don't go quite so far back as the Melbourne Grammar connections, or the family, but that's still somehow a half a lifetime ago.

I remember going to the Binnie Street house with Lyndon and Kerrie and Debbie, and the friendship and love that was in that house a very long time ago.
It would be impossible to detail the influence that he's had on all of us. Gus has covered it well. Kerrie's covered it well. But all of us know how extensive his connection and love and bearing on our lives was. He was ... he is part of our fabric. He always will be.

Emma Lewis said it beautifully in a recent tribute. “Greg, I'm sure that all of us think we had a special relationship with you, and the beautiful thing is, none of us are wrong. You made each of us feel so special, and so loved because your kind and generous nature knew no limits.” And we've heard that from Kerrie and Gus already, and we'll hear it some more.

And what a remarkable trait that is, to make everyone you know feel unique, while they're with everyone else, also feeling unique. Counterintuitive, but it worked for Greg. You never felt that you were cramping his affection, or his affection for you or other people. It was bottomless. And he could pull it off in a single meeting. People could meet Greg once and never forget him.

Over the past few painful weeks, I'm sure I'm not alone in hearing from people who met him once, 10 years ago, at a party, or on a holiday, or on a trip, and they never forgot him. Kat May, where are you? Told me a story a couple of weeks ago about how, after her and Paul's wedding in Edinburgh, a lot of the Melbourne friends came over and met the Edinburgh side of the family, and their friends. And on trips in subsequent years, Greg was who they asked about. Greg was the man who made everyone who he didn't know feel special. He was the man who lasted in their memories.

I got a call from a man who met Greg once in Belgium, 10 years ago, when we were sitting across a pavement in Bruges, in the scene from the movie, throwing pastries at each other's balls over decreasing distances, instead of climbing the tower, because it's what Greg wanted. That was a weird condolence message to get, can I say. Martin, if you're watching this ... [the funeral was live streamed]

He was a big and fun, kind and caring man. Smart and hilarious, and our lives were all better when he was around. Mostly. For someone so universally loved and adored, he could be incredibly annoying. We've all got our own versions of the stories. I'm going to share with you a couple of mine.

There was a phase that went for about a year, where parties were rife, and people slept over. It was those kind of parties and that kind of life, before people had families and responsibilities. At the end of the night, you’d usually try to make your way to bed, drunk but under your own steam, safely tucked away, not bothering anybody. You'd be dozing off, and suddenly, you feel your own hand hitting yourself in the face. And Greg's voice, "Why are you hitting yourself? Why are you hitting yourself?" Such an absolute child. If anyone else did that, you'd be furious, but, "Oh, Okay, Greg. Go on."

"Why are you hitting yourself?"

When it was Greg's turn to do his share of a menial physical task ... I'm sure Gus has seen this one at work. He didn't want to carry a load of slabs at Falls. And when he was holding up people on a trip or a walk, he'd just stand there and just go, "I don't want to." I don't know how that made him more endearing, but it did, somehow. I honestly don't know a single other person who could have pulled that off.

Where is Ed Mahoney? When he'd lean over in a quiet moment, and just gently, into your ear, "Eeeee!"
He was generous, kind, and loving, but he also did some reckless things, like throwing up into the gap of my car window. Not inside the car, or outside the car. Into the gap. Just in case there was any danger of ever cleaning that up. Every time you put up ... That was after an orphan Christmas at Glen's house, he'd generously hosted so many times.

And it somehow worked. It all worked for Greg. He was lovable, and he did all these silly things. They seem selfish somehow, but they weren't. They were love and affection, and things that made knowing him amazing.

And it has to be said, it did go both ways. Greg was open to a dare. He once shook his head from side to side, like this, for 15 minutes, just because we dared him to. He immediately had to go to bed with a migraine, but he did it for 15 minutes. You know, I don't really know who else would do that. And as he might have said, after daring someone else to complete a task like that, "How do you like me now?"

There are many people who would have loved to be here with us today, if you couldn't make it. A lot of our lives have taken us, some of us around the world. A very notable absence is one of Greg's lifelong friends from the Brighton era, Michael Shipton. I hope you're watching, Shippo. He's in Chicago with Katie and their baby, and due to a green card application process, I believe, he can't leave the country. So, hopefully they're watching this on the livestream, and what we went to actually do ...

There's a bunch of people watching around the world. We've received a whole bunch of messages from people who appreciate that this is coming to everybody. So, let's all collectively point to that camera at the back of the room, and give a bit of a wave to everybody who's watching from afar. We want you all to know that you're loved, and if you ever need to share your grief with anybody, because it is hard dealing with these things remotely, if you do need to share your grief, there will be people who will listen, and the process is easier when you can share it with someone who loved Greg as much as you did.

Here's a story I'm now going to share on Shippo's behalf. Shippo says, my favorite anecdote comes from the first week I met Greg. He moved to Melbourne at the start of year eight. We became immediate friends, both easily bored with class, easily entertained by mucking around. Greg was allocated to join the same school camp as me, kicking off in week two.

The camp was unique, in that everyone stayed in the same army surplus tents, six to a tent. The tent cliques had been well-established the year before, in year seven, so Greg was facing the threat of being relegated to the loser tent. I, Shippo, suggested he deploy his charisma, schmooze my group, dislodge some nerd, and get accepted into the tent. He immediately saw the wisdom in this plan, and bounded off.
After lunch, he reported back, "That worked perfectly. I'm in, you're out." Incredible. And again, fucking Greg. Just makes you love him more.

Shippo told me that story as part of a slightly broader conversation about the temptation that there is to gloss over someone's imperfections in a eulogy, or limit them to digs and jokes and jibes. But I think we do our love for Greg a disservice if we do that. We love people for their complete characters, just as we like them to love us. And there's no shame in that vulnerability.

And Greg's character was very complex. He was a very loved man, and he was a very loving man. But he wasn't always very good at loving himself. Those of us who knew him well, and there are many of us in this room, know that he wasn't without his demons. He was a ray of sunshine to the world at large, but he often struggled with his sense of self-worth. But it felt like it was getting better.

Several people in the last couple of weeks have described their grief being, in some form, a sense of hopes and dreams for Greg being lost now. We all wanted the best for him, and it's heartbreaking that he won't get to explore any more of those incredible joys that were on his horizon. And it's heartbreaking for Karrie and Mark and the girls. Debbie, of course. For his Brighton boys, the Melbourne uni crowd, the Bedford gaggle, the BHP network, and the Singapore high flyers. We're all heartbroken for each other, and for Lindsay.

(To Lindsay) It's a decent nod to the complicated nature of Greg's character that many of us, including his mother, only recently found out that you exist!

Some great stories of Greg's trips from the holidays that we've heard a bit about from Gus and Kerrie . Of sunsets, of scenery. "Hey, Mom, this is where I am." End of message. And your strength through this has been astonishing, and a reflection of the qualities that he saw in you. It's brave of you to be here, and we're very glad that you are.

A lot of us probably have the best of intention of giving you some space and leaving you alone, but I get the feeling you are in for a tsunami. If you ever need to get off, just toot, toot. For anyone who doesn't know what that is, that is the Bourbon train.

Nick Cave wrote, in response to a question about his dead son, in a letter that I've seen multiple times in an eerie reflection of Facebook's algorithms, he wrote, "It seems to me that if we love, we grieve. That's the deal. That's the pact. Grief and love are forever intertwined. Grief is the terrible reminder of the depths of our love, and like love, grief is non-negotiable."

The depths of grief that we've all felt in the last few weeks is testament to just how much love there was for that man. An unforgettable, lifelong love.

Greg lived at Bedford House in North Melbourne in the mid-2000s, under Lisa's benevolent, dictatorial eye. And the day after he died, there was a spontaneous gathering at that house, with a lot of us. Everyone was welcome, but a lot of people just came to us because that was the place where Greg spent a lot of his time in Melbourne when he was visiting. And the way we can share our grief together is the way we can process it best, and support and love each other through such a hard time. And I'll say again, reach out if you need it. There will be someone here. Those overseas, or those who might not know many of his other mutual friends, reach out. There's someone to share it with you.

I'm going to finish with a quick story about a time when Greg was a rockstar. I think it featured in the eulogy delivered to the BHP crew, about a time that he was in Edinburgh, and I was lucky enough to be there with him on that trip. For anyone who's been to the Edinburgh Comedy Festival, you know that there's, quite often, late at night, there will be a variety show, where a whole bunch of drunk people who have been to a whole bunch of different shows pile into a venue to heckle the people onstage. To drink, to be very tough crowds, and to give everyone hell.

Greg and I go to one of these shows, and at the start, the first comic gets booed off. All right, tough crowd. The MC decides to spontaneously get a bit of crowd interaction going, and starts a competition, a singing competition, between Scotland and the rest of the world. The Scotland volunteer gets up and delivers a very serviceable rendition of a song I actually don't remember. A traditional Scottish song. He sings it serviceably and well. The crowd gives him applause that he deserves. Parochial applause from a Scottish crowd.

All the while, I'm elbowing Greg as hard as I can in the ribs. "Greg, get up there, you've got this." Greg does get up there. It becomes apparent as he's walking across the stage that he has not thought of what song he's going to sing.

We share a moment, and I don't remember who thought of it, but it was mouthed, "You're the Voice." It's a classing Australian song. Neither of us thought to wonder if it was a classic Scottish song.
So, when Greg started singing, as he does, you could see the look on the MC's face, just being completely surprised when this incredible voice came out of this man who had just wandered up on stage, drunk, stumbling about, and not really knowing what he was doing. He sensibly hit the middle of the first verse, so as to not keep people waiting too long, and reached a crescendo with the call and response that we all know so well, that ... I'm definitely not going to sing it.

And he reaches to the part, "You're the voice, try and understand it. Make a noise and make it clear." And with his swagger ... As one, the crowd just screams it back to him. The whole place was ... The MC was just ... couldn't believe how well it went. Applause. People stood up, started shouting. I hugged a complete stranger. It was a great moment. And the MC just could not believe how well it went.

And Dave Adams, where are you? Dave had some connections at the comedy festival, and he'd managed to secure us a couple of passes to a bar that only participants were meant to be at. And Greg and I went into the bar, and because he'd just been on stage singing, everyone thought that Greg was a performer. Asking when his show was, when he was coming back on again. And Greg, as you can all imagine, was just, "Meh, don't have a show this year."

The MC came and found us later and said, "Can you come back tomorrow night?" People started buying him drinks, and a few people spotted him in the street. And I just love that image of Greg walking down the street like a rockstar.

Cam and friend Andrew Nock (violin) finished the memorial with Fake Palstic Trees, ‘a cover of a Greg Templeton song’

for Paul Taylor: 'I’m going to miss all of Paul’s nuggets of wisdom', by Rachel Mudge - 2018

Thanks, I’m honoured to be speaking today about my dear friend Paul.

On what turned out to be a momentous day in early 1992, I met Paul on our first day of our Bachelor of Science degree at the University of Melbourne. He was introduced to me by my now husband, Stuart who met him in a chemistry lecture and me in a maths lecture that morning. Five and half years later Stu and I married with Paul as a groomsman. We become a tight knit group of friends along with some of his high school friends, Sonia, Nick and Maria, and others along the way. In addition to spending most lunchtimes and lectures together, we hung out at the Clyde, had hilarious weekends away at Lorne at his uncle’s place and spent many good times dancing the night away at quality venues like the Chevron in St Kilda Road and the Sugar Shack in a vault under the Flinders St train tracks! Paul and I discovered our shared love of Kylie Minogue and dance anthems!

Paul quickly become a friend who I had lots of fun and silly times with but also one who would listen to my woes and provide sage advice in his caring, common sense way, also giving me confidence in myself and showing me that I already knew the right/best thing to do in whatever situation it was. I saw a LinkedIn comment from his colleague Louise, they had pledged to keep Paul’s spirit alive with the mantra “what would Paul do?”. I like that idea and know I’ll continue to hear him in my head.

As is reflective of the lovely man Paul was, I’m not the only one who had him as one of their bestest friends. He was a big hearted, loyal, wise, eloquent, considerate, intelligent, humble and generous gentle man with a beaming friendly cheeky smile and I always felt lucky to be one of his close friends.

We all did our Honours year and then moved onto work or PhDs. Paul loved hanging out in the Mircobiology department so much he may well have taken over 6 years to complete his PhD… He taught many students over the years in tutorials and prac classes and had a big impact with his enthusiasm.

Stu and I moved to Paris for a few years and Paul came on his first trip to Europe to visit us. We showed him around Paris, then spent a few amazing days in Tuscany with him and he explored Italy for a couple of weeks by himself, a dream he’d had since learning Italian in school. His school boy Italian got a good workout providing a couple of highlights on our trip when we went on a circuitous mission to buy a white truffle, pretty sure we procured it on the black market via some mafia folk! There was also the entertaining time when he was trying to explain that we were staying on a farm to Lucio, the wine shop guy who had been very generous with the tastings. Paulie couldn’t remember the word for farm so started to sing “Old Macdonald’s farm” in Italian. Lucio joined in and Stu and I had tears rolling down our face and were clutching our stomachs with the hilarity.

That wasn’t an unusual thing with Paul, as the years passed by we would often have decadent meals out where we’d end up in tears after making fun of menu descriptions or coming up, inadvertently or deliberately, with new portmanteaus (new words that are formed by combining two words like brunch) and spoonerisms (where you switch the first couple of letters of two words, try this one, Paul was a smart fella…).

I’m so proud of Paul’s career too, starting with a part-time job at Melb Uni in biosafety he grew quickly with the field into his role as Director of Research Ethics and Integrity at Melbourne and then his role here at RMIT over the last couple of years. I was lucky to be trained by him as a Research Integrity Advisor and in true nerdy research integrity fashion, we declared our conflict of interest when he gave a seminar or attended meetings at my workplace.

I’m going to miss all of Paul’s nuggets of wisdom about all sorts of things, he taught me about the bioluminescence on the beach at Lorne, helicobacter being responsible for stomach ulcers and the best house plants to get. He was obsessed with the weather and knew all the types of clouds, we shared book, tv show, music and movie recommendations.

My kids are going to miss him like an uncle, who they loved talking too and having a big Paulie hug from. He often shared with us how much he loved being an uncle to Nikki and Jamie and what they were up to. We saw him last on Cup Day and picked apart the fashions on the field and laughed at photos of my non-daredevil boys apparently being tortured on rides at Disneyland from our recent trip to the USA. But his love for my family and me will live on. We’ll go to the Escher/Nendo exhibition at the NGV that Paul was looking forward to and we booked our tickets to Kylie next year at the Myer music bowl just after Paul died. I’ll go along with my boys and reminisce about all the Kylie concerts we went to together and we’ll sing and dance and probably cry for Paul whilst holding onto all the memories and treasuring the love that we had for each other.

For John Taylor: 'On 83, dad finally faced the inevitable, unplayable delivery', by Patrick Taylor (read by Jonathan Agnew) - 2018

I don’t know Patrick. But I’m thinking of him and his family this evening. Good job I read this ‘blind’. Wouldn’t have got through it otherwise pic.twitter.com/OBLucbKylE

— Jonathan Agnew (@Aggerscricket) August 20, 2018

20 AUgust 2018, Lord's, London, United Kingdom

My Dad, John Taylor, had – unlike the current England batting line-up – dug in and battled doggedly to reach 83.

He built gradually through his 50s as a true gentleman, a pharmacist, a sportsman and a father of two boys before unexpected cloud cover descended just as he was looking to break free from the shackles and play with the freedom that retirement would bring.

On an ever-increasingly sticky wicket, he faced up and defended against a beamer in the form of leukemia, the yorker of muscular dystrophy, the googly of Parkinson’s, the reverse swing of diabetes, and latterly, was struck down by the vicious bouncer of dementia.

But like fellow Yorkshireman Brian Close, he never winced, complained or succumbed to the temptation of amateur dramatics, he just accepted the cards he was dealt and squeezed every last drop out of life that he could on a single-by-single basis with his amazing care team acting as runners.

On 83, dad finally faced the inevitable, unplayable delivery and left the field of play.

I use this cricket analogy because Test Match Special has been and will continue to be an institution of great importance to generations of our family.

Dad was rushed to hospital on Thursday 9th August with another bad chest infection. On Friday, we were told that he had 24 to 48 hours to live and that he may in fact never regain consciousness.

On the Saturday I visited Dad in hospital with my wife, and after an hour she had the inspirational idea of getting Test Match Special on my mobile. After five minutes, he opened his eyes and was completely in the room and aware of us.

He was able to convey that he was comfortable and was at peace. I was able to tell him what a wonderful father he is and just how much I love him.

Not one comfortable with massive shows of emotion, after 15 minutes he requested that we listen to the cricket.

For three hours we listened to Chris Woakes crashing it about at Lord’s and making his maiden Test century. We got a digital radio into Dad’s hospital room and he listened to Test Match Special the next day.

I don’t think it’s any coincidence that he passed peacefully just after England had sealed victory.

for Kimberly Walker: 'You move towards the open door and the silent night beyond', by Ben, Talia, Toby & friends - 2018

25 June 2018, Heidelberg Golf Club, Melbourne, Australia

Ben Cook (Kim's partner)

Kim was born on February 26, 1972 in Toronto, Canada to parents Barry and Jeannie.

I think fo r Kim the most memorable aspect of her childhood was the snow. She always remembered the thrill of waking up to the hush in the air that follows an overnight snowfall, where all the usual sounds are muffled, and looking out the window to see the magic of a world made anew. Then barracking against the snow plows being able to clear the roads, in time for teachers to be able to get to school, and the excitement of hearing her school named on the radio as closed for the day. Then breakfast would be wolfed down, into the snow suits, and outside to get started on a snow man. The big advantage of living in a court was that the snow plows would come in and circle the court, pushing the snow into a central pile that would gradually increase throughout the winter. Then this pile of snow was perfect for a snow fort and even a little toboggan run with a hard icy landing.

Kim also loved heading to her grandparents’ farm in outback Alberta for her summer vacations. As she describes it there wasn’t much to do on the farm, but it was a whole world. She’d play in the wool pile hammering nails and searching for critters, she’d spend hours lying on the dock of the pond staring down at the waterbugs. She’d help her grandma with the clothes wringer and stoking the giant cast iron wood stove. She’d wonder through the enormous vege garden picking and eating carrots and peas. Raspberries and strawberries would also be picked and eaten with fresh cream from her uncle Allen’s cows. There were also the odd trips down to the peace river, where her grandad would tuck bread between their toes for the fish to nibble.

Kim just adored her grandparents. Her grandfather Bern for the way he could wiggle his hears, and for when he’d wink at Kim and turn his hearing aid down when getting nagged by his wife. And her grandmother Pearl who had to work so hard as a farm wife and also the district nurse, but nonetheless devoted energy into her epic flower garden simply for the beauty of it.

From an early age it was clear that Kim was a really bright kid, loving reading, using it as a sanctuary of sorts. She was also very athletic. When Kim came up to bat on her school softball team, the opposition would yell “heavy hitter” and the outfielders would move back, often an exercise in futility. She won the interschool sprints and long jump, and was a very talented gymnast.

Her friend Debbie Green writes:

In my mind you were my first real friend way back from Grade 4 when we were is Mrs. Zeidenberg’s glass together. It was a pretty scary experiences going to the “gifted” class but as soon as I saw your smile and heard your laugh I knew we would be fast friends. We went through 5 years of grade school in the same class and I remember thinking that if I could have picked a sister in this world it would be you. In my memories you are the woman who knew what she wanted, knew what she deserved, knew what mattered and had a laugh so contagious you just couldn’t help but be happy when being with you.

But on the whole Kim wouldn’t have described her childhood as a happy one. She remembers being worried a lot as a child, cripplingly shy and often feeling like she didn’t fit in.

Despite everything she had going for her, Kim remembers being devoid of self-confidence. Mostly attributable to her mother, who criticised her constantly, told her she was worthless and asked why she couldn’t be more like her younger sister. Her mother would regularly drink herself to a stupor, and get more cutting the drunker she got. Her father Barry was considered the fun dad of the neighbourhood and was king of the kids, but somehow was not able to recognise or address the seriousness of what was happening under his roof.

When Kim was 14 she got her first job working in a nearby ice-cream stand, and this was followed by a job at a local video store and at Canada’s Wonderland  running the SkyRider rollercoaster. She loved to torment the patrons by announcing that there was something wrong just as ride was beginning, and pretending she couldn’t stop it. She worked hard and relished having her own money and being able to get her own things. I think it was a huge step in the development of her self-worth. By this time she had to put a padlock on her bedroom door to stop her mother tampering with her things.

Now Kim’s friend Jacque will read a tribute from Nicki Balfour Smith, a dear high school friend of Kim’s.

Jacque reading Nicki Balfour Smith (Kim's friend)

‘I first met Kim in Grade 9 at Unionville High School, a brand new, strangely pink school that specialized in the Arts. Although neither Kim or I had anything to do with the Arts program we attended this pretty school with tree’s and pink everywhere, not a colour either of us fancied. I don’t remember when exactly we first met since I was a jock and spent most of my time in the gym, and Kim was never to be seen in those places except for maybe a mandatory gym class. I do remember being in English class with Kim where I would listen in fascination as she explained the authors deep philosophical sub-plots, all the while wondering if I was missing some pages in my copy. I never quite saw the things Kim did in our books, especially with Shakespeare. I found them quite simply painful to read while she loved the hidden stories and deeper meanings to the dialogue.

I do know that Kim and I became fast friends mostly because we had the same sense of humour and outlook on life. Kim had an infectious laugh and loved dry British humour. She loved Monty Python and anything with John Cleese, especially the movie ‘A Fish called Wanda’. I grew to appreciate her off the track shows and whimsical takes on life. I recall many lunch hours, evenings and weekends with Kim just chatting and ending up with a sore stomach from laughing so hard.

In high school Kim was fearless. She didn’t care about conformity, had a take it or leave it attitude and you had to like her for who she was. Kim was a strong woman, believed in herself and was one of the most loyal friends I ever knew. She had your back no matter what. Not everyone liked this, but it was another reason Kim and I became such good friends.

One of Kim’s favourite places to visit was my cottage, just 2 hours north of Toronto in Muskoka. We spent many cottage weekends there with our group of friends swimming, tubing and always having a great laugh. When Ben first came to Canada about 14 years ago, this was a place he too had the chance to visit and fall in love with. I hope one-day Toby and Tali can come to this magical place as well. I know Tali is excited to see a Moose, and there was one there this past Spring.

Kim had a quirky taste in music in high school and I clearly remember her having me listen to Jethro Tull and I was puzzled and amazed by their strange lyrics. She was also the first to make me an all-female tape of mixed songs (someone may need to explain this to Toby and Tali). She didn’t like the fact that my music was mostly male leads and bands, as the strong feminist she was, she needed to steer me on the right path to support more female singers.

When Kim travelled the world, she always stayed in touch with a postcard and usually a quirky story of something that had happened to her. I always worried about her, but at the same time always knew she would be safe. She was well read and well cultured knowing how to fit in wherever she landed.

One thing I always remember Kim saying is that she never wanted to own more than she could pack up in a few boxes and move on with when it was time, and she was okay if these boxes were all books. Kim never wanted to be tied to one place, she wanted to travel the world. This is how I knew she had met her match when she met Ben and planted her new roots in Australia. After meeting Ben on their cross-Canada adventure I saw how happy she was and knew that is where she would call home.

Although through our lives Kim and I went many years without seeing each other, Kim and I always picked up right where we left off. Even when I visited Australia last August after not seeing each other in 8 years, it felt like we had hardly been apart. I believe this is a sign of a true friendship, the ability to pick up where you last left off.

I know Kim has impacted many lives, including mine and my family’s. I am thankful to all her friends who supported her in Australia especially in the past few difficult years. Her friends and family meant the world to her and with my not being able to physically be there for her, I am grateful to all of you who were. And of course, to you Ben for being the best partner and friend I could have ever wanted my Kim to have. She lived a full and loved life because of all of you.

Tali and Toby, your Mom was one of a kind and someone we will never forget. She loved you both more than you could ever imagine and she will be with you every day, even if you can’t see her.

Hugs and kisses to all of Kim’s family and friends and may she always stay in our smiles.’

Ben Cook

Late last year we had the enormous honour of a visit from Kim’s favourite high school teacher, Mr Moe Jacobs.  The next day Kim wrote the following.

Last night we laughed about students we could remember and classroom antics, and the fact that I met my first love by asking him to edit my essay for Mr J's class. We also went over some of the work I had saved and chuckled over his comments, which certainly wouldn't fly today but which were so vitally important to my self respect back then. He didn't suffer fools, and nor did he compliment anything undeserving. So of course, I worked my ass off on every single poem, story, essay and exam. Below is one of my favorite comments by Mr J: 'In summary, if indeed skill is to be respected and talent admired then you are afflicted with the latter and may even contract the former. From a purely chauvinistic viewpoint, if Jason, or any other man ever lets you go, he should be shot. Of course, if you let them go, then that's OK. You are special Kim. You basically use your torment to create. That sets you apart. Don't relinquish your soul for the comfort of acceptability.'

Kim finished high school and went to Guelf University to study literature. By this time her parents had separated and Kim’s father was making the 3 hour commute to visit her all too regularly which was cramping her style a bit. So she transferred from Guelf to Simon Fraser University in Vancouver, a 4 hour flight away, which seemed to provide a big enough buffer.

Emily will now read a tribute from Erin Edmonson, whom Kim met in Vancouver.

Emily reading Erin Edmonson (friend)

Kim and I met in the early 1990s, working together at a restaurant. Our uniforms were denim shirts and jeans. I can still see Kim, long hair in a high ponytail, high waisted jeans, brown hiking boots. That laugh, that smile were there, way back then. Most of us at the restaurant also went to Simon Fraser University and worked to defray the costs of books and tuition, but most of us also had help from our parents. One of the first things I remember learning about Kim was that she had no help from anyone and that she was covering all of her costs on her own. She seemed remarkably organized and responsible to me, even then. She was grown up when we only thought we were. She had come out to the West Coast of Canada from Ontario when the national trend was to come from everywhere else in Canada and go to school somewhere in Ontario. We went to the same school, but didn’t see each other much on campus because we were both always working, so it was at the restaurant where we became friends. She had already travelled around Europe and had stories to tell when the rest of us dreamed of going somewhere after graduation. She loved that her last name was Walker, sure that it was a prophecy to fulfill. I was majoring in Middle East History and one day between shifts, I told Kim how I would love to see what I was learning about. Immediately, she suggested we go. “I’m serious,” she said.

“I’m serious if you’re serious,” I said.

“Let’s go,” she said.

So we did. It was that simple. It was a done-deal from that moment.

To me, that is Kim. She meant what she said, and she said what she meant. There was no bullshit, no pretence, ever. She didn’t boast or brag, she just did.

Kim had a firm line between right and wrong. Always. Her moral code was clear and unwavering. She gave respect, truth, and loyalty, and she knew that she deserved respect, truth, and loyalty. If you couldn’t give them, she had no time for you. I always admired her clarity and strength in this. She didn’t suffer fools or forgive hypocrisy, and I loved her for this from the very beginning of our friendship.

Our trip was amazing. A lot of sugary sweet tea, cards, ruins, museums, hikes, bike rides in the desert, and boat rides on the Nile, ill-advised camping outside oases in unsafe places that we were too young to realize were unsafe.

We spent days in the drawers of the Egyptian Museum writing found poetry with the object lists. We recited much better poetry at the amphitheatre in Palmyra. We posed like statues in the ruins of Ephesus. We climbed Mount Sinai and Nemrut Dagi in the middle of the night to count the stars and watch the sunrise and sing songs with strangers.

At mosques and mausoleums we had to borrow the scratchy, slippery black polyester public abayas to cover ourselves. We got used to it, but always laughed at each other. At Al-Azhar in Cairo, we wanted to be respectful, but we looked too funny not to photograph ourselves, so we snuck into a dusty roofless storage area and set the timer on my camera to take a 1990s version of the selfie. We couldn’t get the timing right or have the same look on our faces, so in the pictures we are ridiculous and laughing, and so young.

Everywhere we went, if there was water, Kim jumped in. She was fearless, yes, but mostly she just wanted to be in the water; she couldn’t resist a chance to float and splash around. She jumped in a spring en route to the Oracle of Delphi, some weird irrigation canal under the hale-bopp comet, the Dead Sea, the Mediterranean.

We wanted to go everywhere, and agreed to be open to anything, but the one solid plan we had for the whole six month trip was to spend her birthday at the Pyramids of Giza. I can still remember how important this was to her and how excited she was that morning when we set out from the hostel at sunrise to take a rickety public bus to the Pyramids. We spent the whole day there. We brought bread and cheese, water, journals and cameras, and just basked in the presence of the Pyramids. We watched the camel drivers rip off tourists all day and when they offered us rides for money, we said, “No thank you, we have feet.” By the end of the day, our banter with the camel drivers had become friendly and funny, and one of the guys gave us a free ride to some hills on the edge of the Pyramid site to watch the sunset. When it got dark, he took us through the camel corrals to a stone wall where we could watch the cheezy tourist light show projected onto the Pyramids. A booming voice talked about the “mystical fervor” with which the Pyramids had been built. We laughed and laughed, and then the camel driver gave us a ride through the busy streets of Cairo to the bus stop and waited with us until our bus came. It was one of those rare perfect days that you know is perfect even as it is happening.

“Mystical fervor” and “we have feet” became our mantras. They were our private jokes and our rallying cries for the rest of the trip. For years afterward we passed these phrases back and forth. Every February 26th since, I think of this perfect day.

Now our trip exists only in my memories. And that’s not fair. But I will keep them and share them with Tali and Toby - and when they start walking the world, I will show them Canada, as I promised you.

After that trip, Kim moved to the UK and sent me cheerful letters about her cramped apartment and terrible restaurant job. She saved enough money to travel across Africa, north to south, and move to Australia. We met up again in China, on her trips to Canada, and kept in touch through the adventure of motherhood, where she was, again, as always, my mentor. We agreed the motherhood was our greatest adventure, and the most important thing we had ever done. I am eternally grateful that we found a way to share it.

Kim was my good friend. And I will always be grateful for everything we shared. And I will miss her horribly.

Alex will now read a tribute from Amander Kidner, whom Kim met in London.

Alex reading Amander Kidner

In the early hours of the morning, my beautiful friend Kim left for spirit. She has left behind, not only her amazing little family, but also her legacy of kindness and wisdom. 

Kim and I met in our early 20’s, both hostesses in a restaurant on the eternally cool Kings Road, Chelsea. She was just a couple of years older than me but had already travelled and explored so much that she carried this worldly aura. I was frippish and naive to her calm and sense. It would have been easy for her to be disdainful of me but instead she embraced the best of me, she’s always done that. 

We whiled away the hours with humour and candour; our friendship honest and simple. And then she left to travel some more and our paths diverged. 

Some 10 years ago, through the gifts of social media, we reconnected across the world; Melbourne to London. We watched each other’s lives as we dived into love & parenthood and the crazy all-consuming discoveries that flow with that; we engaged in light comments and philosophical discussions here and there. 

And then she got sick, she was told she had very little time, and we plunged right back into that friendship we had left behind at our hostess stand 20 years ago. 

She has given every ounce of herself to be around for her family for as long as possible, she has walked this illness through three and half years and I have walked alongside behind the written word of our messages as we have shared our loves, our fears, our histories and our hopes. There is nothing like the shadow of death to focus our hearts to truth. 

As she did so many moons ago, she saw the best in me through every conversation, she offered wisdom won through pain and joy and I know she offered that to everyone. One of her fears as she neared the end was that her children might think she had not ‘fought’ hard enough to stay alive and it breaks my heart that she could even consider that of herself when she loved them so passionately and absolutely. She raised herself up and away from her own childhood of pain to offer them the very best of herself because that is the strength of woman she was. 

And now I have had to say goodbye to one of my closest and dearest friends despite not having as much as hugged her for two decades. That is love, that is friendship and that is heartache.

PHOTO MONTAGE (Traveller by Martha Wainwright)

Ben Cook:

In December 1999 Kim’s travels brought her to Australia. Initially the plan was to stay for 1 year, complete her Masters in Literature and then continue on her way. By the time she arrived it was too late to enrol, but she did manage to get a place to complete her Diploma of Education. Throughout the year 2000 Kim worked as a waitress in the cooperate boxes at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. While she was waitressing, Kim paid scant attention to what was going on the field. But she did notice that a team by the name of the Essendon seemed to win every time they played, and win by a lot. She found the Essendon supporters arrogant and took a particular dislike to the Essendon captain, James Hird. She’d barrack for every team that played Essendon, and chose the Bulldogs as her team purely because they were the only team to beat Essendon that year. It pains me that Kim has seen an Essendon premiership live and I haven’t. And I’m pretty sure that Kim put a curse on the Bombers that year, because it has been pretty much downhill ever since.

I first noticed Kim a good 6 months before I met her. I was working as an integration aide while Kim was doing teaching rounds as part of her Dip Ed. In my mind’s eye I so clearly remember Kim standing up at the other end of the staff room talking to a group of student teachers, hearing her cool accent and thinking wow. But the days I worked didn’t coincide with her placement days, I only saw her the once and it seemed that was that. Early the next year a one year teaching contract at the school needed to be filled, and Kim was put forward by her supervisor from the previous year as an outstanding student teacher. So it was my dad as an assistant principal at the school who got in touch with Kim, called her in for an interview and pretty much offered her the job on the spot. At that point I don’t think it occurred to dad that Kim would someday have his grandchildren.

Before taking up the position Kim had to fulfil a commitment to teach English to kids in China, so her start to the year was delayed a month or so. I did see her around a couple of times and recognised her from my single sighting the previous year. We finally met at a staff conference in Ballarat, and I finally learned her name when she said “hi, I’m Kim”. And we had our first of so many coffees together.

After that we’d often chat in the staffroom on the couple of days a week I was working, and Marilyn tells me how she could see my eyes light up a mile away when I saw Kim. Now and again I managed give her a lift home to her one bedroom unit in Ivanhoe. Apparently the landlord was sold on Kim when she said she couldn’t believe how close it was to a public library and a train station. All she had was a futon, a couch she found on the nature strip, some crockery and pots and pans from the local op-shop, and a set of photo albums with all these incredible photos from all over the world. No TV or any interest in getting one, just books and music. She just had this unpretentious worldliness and sophistication about her. I think when I saw where she lived I was smitten. But still had a lot of work to do.

It was well into June by the time I started to get somewhere. Playing soccer for Latrobe Uni, I’d just got back into the senior team after coming back from a broken leg, and I kicked an absolute pearler of a goal. I know this isn’t about me, so I won’t go into details, but come up to me later and I’ll describe it if you like. Up until that point, in both soccer and love, goals had been few and far between for me. I was too defensively minded I guess. But after the game I called Kim and asked her to a movie, figuring whatever happened it would still be a good day. After the movie, a dubious arthouse choice with a little too much dog fighting for Kim’s liking, we were deep in conversation about life and love. Kim said she was surprised that I was single, and I was surprised that she was surprised. And then she said if I wasn’t so much younger than her, and if we didn’t work together and my dad wasn’t her boss then maybe we’d be a chance. I countered with an example of a couple of friends with a similar age difference who were making it work. I said that I was only working part time and only until I finished uni. And I said that I’m sure if my dad knew that his tenure was keeping me from being with somebody like Kim, then he’d resign on the spot.

So Kim somewhat tentatively said we could give it a try, and away we went.

Kim only taught for just over 3 years, but she was the sort of teacher they make movies out of, such was the impression she made on students. She loved teaching philosophy in particular, tricking the kids into discussing ancient philosophers through movies such as the Matrix and the Truman Show. The disengaged students were suddenly thinking, and the engaged students went to a whole new level.

When one student was causing trouble, Kim told him if he could prove to her that homework didn’t exist she wouldn’t make him do any. So he went away and came back with a well-reasoned essay, confident he would be excused from homework for the rest of the term. But was devastated when Kim pointed out that by doing the essay as homework he had disproven his own argument.

Her former student Amanda O'Reilly writes

Just over 11 years ago I bumped into Kim and (a very small) Talia when I was working at Ivanhoe Library and it was like we had only seen each other yesterday. I hated school overall, it was not a happy time in my life. But Kim always made me feel welcome and appreciated and cared for. In year 10 when we got to choose electives I knew I wanted to be in her philosophy class. She was just always interested in her students and their wellbeing. Kim was so funny and caring and much more than a teacher. I know she kept me afloat when school was rough and I will always be grateful to her for that.

For me, getting to know Kim in those early days just the greatest. She was so worldly, funny, loving, affectionate and so damn smart. She introduced me to a whole new world of music, an eclectic mix artists like Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Nina Simone, Tori Amos, the Tragically Hip, the list goes on and on. We’d watch movies together, which Kim regularly interrupted by saying “I’ve been there!” As not many movies were made in Thailand or Bali I really couldn’t compete. She loved going on road trips, whether it was for one day or several. We’d pick a town on a map, she’d put the music on, her feet on the dashboard, and off we’d go. We’d wonder through little country towns, as Kim would seek out opp shops and used book stores. And boy could she read.

After we’d been together a few years we headed back to her beloved Canada for an epic road trip. We went to many of her favourite places, and also explored new parts of the country that she had never seen before. We went to Long Beach on Vancouver Island, and Kim says this is the place where she looked out onto the Pacific Ocean and realised just how big the world is, confirming her yearning to explore it. We went to her great friend Nicki’s cottage, which sits on an island in the middle of a lake. That was heaven for me. And most special was the visit to her grandad’s farm, the first time in about 20 years for Kim. We gave them about 10 minutes notice that we were coming, turning up at the local general store and asking them if they new Uncle Allen. We spent time with Kim’s Grandad, then 98, as well a bunch of little third cousins who absolutely adored Kim. I don’t know if it was the time spent with cute little kids, or the emotional goodbye to her grandad, or maybe it was seeing me drive the combine harvester, but Talia was conceived very shortly after that visit.

I know before we had Talia Kim wondered what she’d be like as a mother, never having had a great role model to say the least. But Talia and Toby, from the moment each of you came into this world she was besotted by you. And just a total natural.

Kim’s interactions with Talia and Toby have always been completely in the moment, with absolute engagement in whatever you guys were doing. And accompanied by a simultaneous sense of wonderment. It was like Kim would step out of herself and look down and think, wow you guys are so friggin cool.

Kim made the decision very early on that she would stay at home with Tali until Tali started school, and then when Toby was born 5 years later, she immediately committed to another 5 years at home.

It was as a stay at home mum that Kim began to channel some of her connection with her grandma. She taught herself to sew (so now we each have multiple quilts to choose from), and learnt to knit from Helen who ran the local playgroup. She got into gardening, determined to give our kids the experience of eating fresh produce. And she turned herself into an extraordinary chef, cooking and baking and always on the lookout for new recipes.

And she loved involving you guys in these things, getting your hands dirty in the garden, kneading dough, and Tali she was so pleased when you took over her sewing machine when she could no longer use it.

She’d take you guys to the park, the pool, the zoo, the museum, the Studley Park boathouse to feed the ducks. And each park became known by a certain characteristic. The whizzy dizzy park, the long slide park, the pink park, the pirate park. Or she’d happily curl up with you on the couch and read books and poems or watch a movie.

She was so grateful that she got to spend that time with you guys.

Her friend Megan writes:

I had just moved to Melbourne in April 2007 and was in a playground with my 3 year old feeling a little lonely and sorry for myself when I struck up a conversation with another mum pushing her toddler on a swing. As soon as she found out I was “fresh off the boat”, as it were, she took me under her wing and suggested we meet up at another playground the next day (she would bring coffee and cake) ... and I had found my first friend in Melbourne ❤️ Kim had a smile the size of her native Canada and a heart the size of the planet. She opened her heart and home to a complete stranger for no other reason but to be kind.

The beginning of Kim’s cancer journey coincided with Toby’s first day of 4 year old kinder in February 2015. That evening, feeling fine, and not suspecting anything was wrong, Kim was simply stretching her shoulder back with her hand on her abdomen. She felt a lump and immediately suspected something was very wrong. After an excruciating couple of weeks of scans, and initial reports that it was benign, it was determined that it was a large malignant mass on her liver.

And from then it felt like all hell broke loose, and never relented for the next 3 and a half years. Kim had 3 major operations, the initial liver resection as well as 2 major hip operations 18 months ago. She spent 8 months on chemotherapy over 2 separate periods, as well as another 9 months on immunotherapy. I counted well over 50 days of radiation therapy. Interspersed with all this were numerous CT scans, Pet Scans and MRIs, each anticipated by a gut churning dread and followed by oncology appointments which were invariably bad news.

The bone pain began over 2 years ago, leading to multiple compression fractures up and down Kim’s spine, a broken neck which meant she hasn’t been able to turn her head for 18 months, fractured hips and femurs, and several other sites of the disease. For the last 8 months of her life Kim was unable to walk or even sit comfortably in a wheelchair, so she was confined entirely to our bedroom for that period.

But one area the cancer was unable to reach was Kim’s incredible spirit and determination. While Kim’s survival chances were very low right from the start, she refused accept it as a given. Every time there was a hurdle put in her way, she just took a deep breath and kept moving forward. Just before Christmas 18 months ago, the scan came back indicating that both Kim’s hips were hanging by a thread and could break at any moment. As we sat at home waiting for a phone call with admission instructions, Kim said screw this let’s go to the beach. So we turned out phones off and drove to St Kilda. With one arm over my shoulder and the other hand on her cane, we hobbled down to the water for Kim to brace herself for the next ordeal.

Last year one of the radiation oncologists said to me when Kim comes in she always seems happy and smiling, but then they look inside her and can’t believe she could present so well. I asked Kim why she always walked so briskly into her appointments when I knew she was in pain, and she said “because I don’t want them to give up on me”.

Once Kim knew her diagnosis was clearly terminal, her aim became staying as healthy as possible for a long as possible.

And despite the constant physical and emotional pain, Kim was so deeply grateful that she got stick around as long as she did.

She would read to Toby virtually every night, initially poems, but was so chuffed get to the end of the first Harry Potter book, an unexpected milestone. They then got through the remaining 6 Harry Potter books, and the entire Percy Jackson series for good measure. And Toby she was so proud to watch you discover your reading super-power.

One night earlier this year Kim was reading to Toby, but she was missing words, re-reading sentences, dozing off, and really struggling, but without realising. She said to Toby: “Am I doing ok?”. And Toby straightway said: “Yes mum, you’re doing great!”

When Kim stated very early on that she wanted to be around to watch Talia graduate from primary school, it seemed like a bit of a long shot. And she never would have envisaged how incredible you would be, not only with all your achievements, but more importantly for her was to watch you become such as confident, generous and funny young woman with a backbone of steel. So many times when she’d get yet another round of bad news, you would sit quietly with your mum and hold her hand and give her the strength to keep going. She’d apologise for putting you through this, and you’d say “that’s ok, I know it’s not your fault”.

And to lighten things up you got her this card, which always made her smile, taking pride of place on the mantel piece.

And as much as Kim needed caring for throughout this journey, she poured her heart and soul into doing everything she could to look after us into the future. She knitted us each “mummy love” blankets to wrap ourselves in when we need to feel her warmth. She planted a little orchard at the front of our house so we can have fresh fruit in the years to come. She wrote and wrote and wrote, leaving us with a 50,000 word gift. She says that “even if my arms aren’t around you, my words and advice and love will stay with you.” She prepared us each goodbye letters, already a well of strength for me.

And when she was told her cancer was clearly terminal 2 and a half years ago, when most would decide to hit their bucket list hard, Kim decided we needed a dog in the house. A happy puppy presence, something to get us out into fresh air, something to snuggle with (no offense to the cats) and a companion. Jet has more than fulfilled his part of the bargain, and I think Kim even grew to love him despite being a dedicated cat person.

Kim was completely lucid and alert and even vibrant right up until her final few days. And when she gently slipped away from it was in our bedroom, with myself and Toby asleep on the next bed interspersed with our furry creatures, and Tali asleep in the next room. Not much about this journey went the way Kim would have hoped, but she would have thought the ending was perfect.

Goodbye my love, you’ll always be in my heart.

PHOTO COLLAGE (Waterbound)

Talia Walker, 13 (daughter):

So here we are. The day that should not be happening yet. The day that shouldn’t even have occurred to us yet.

Mum should’ve had a long life; decades of time were cut short by this disease, but even so, I think mum lived more than others. Even through a hard childhood, she broke free and travelled to places most would never go, and met people most would never think of meeting. She made lifelong friends and lived through the type of stories that you might find in books. Even her stories from home were fascinating to us, as Canadian childhood is, of course, very different to ours. While we fantasized about the snow days that, though we crossed our fingers every time the temperature hit freezing, depressingly never came, she would shows us pictures and tell us more amusing stories of her time back home.

Out of the many things mum left for us, her love of reading was perhaps one of the best. Mum read to my brother and I all our lives, from when she was a sleep deprived mother from looking after a newborn who apparently stubbornly refused to sleep all through to the next child, an 8 year old who also refused to go to sleep without a chapter or two.  Even when the English language was even more confusing than it is now, it was being read to us, grammar rules that still make no sense and all.

Her love of cartoons was also passed down; we have books of everything from Calvin and Hobbes, a cartoon about a stubborn 6 year old and his tiger, to collections of Leunig at home. Since I could find no appropriate Calvin and Hobbes cartoons, I will end my speech with one of mum’s favourite Leunig poems.

'No sooner do you arrive than it’s time to leave.
How beautiful it is, how glorious, yet it’s nearly time to go.
So you take it in, you take it in.
And you take a few small souvenirs, some leaves: lavender, rosemary, eucalyptus.
A few small pebbles, a few small secrets, a look you received, nine little notes of music, and then it’s time to go.

You move towards the open door and the silent night beyond.
The few bright stars, a deep breath, and it really is time to go.
No sooner does it all begin to make sense, does it start to come true,
does it all open up, do you begin to see, does it enter into your heart…no sooner do you arrive than it’s time to leave.

Yes, it’s the truth.
And then you will have passed through it, and with mysterious consequence it will have passed through you.’

Thank you.

Toby Walker, 8 (son)

As far back as I can remember I’ve loved reading poems with Mum. I will read two poems by by Shel Silverstein who is one of our favourites.

The first is called “the Voice”.

There is a voice inside of you
That whispers all day long.
“I feel that this is right for me,
I know that this is wrong
No teacher, preacher, parent, friend,
Or wise man can decide
What’s right for you - just listen to the voice that speaks inside

This one is called “Years from now”

Although I cannot see your face
As you flip these poems awhile.
Somewhere from some far-off place
I hear you laughing and I smile.

for Ann Brownlie: 'With her and through her we learned about fun', by Mike Groves - 2013

26 November 2013, Quorobolong, New South Wales, Australia

Ann Brownlie. Just saying her name changes the way you feel ... and it is always for the better.

Despite how we feel today ... we all agree that Ann's was a life well-lived. I will touch on three things: • family and friends ... • time ... and • laughter And to Judi, I especially say this: you always have and always will have a place of honour in our family. You are family. We hope you know and have felt the love we have for you and how highly we regard and love you for your life of commitment to Ann.

Family and friends

As I look around the place where we have gathered it is clear that Ann has a multitude of friends ... and you are gathered here today as though you were family. Ann beautifully blurred the lines between family and friends and while those of us who share the same blood line were greeted as much-loved friends upon arrival at Skye Point Road, Dora Street, Baker Street, Hawk Mount Road or Sandy Creek Road ... her friends were greeted and treated as much-loved family.

Ann took people into her heart, made a special place for us and let us settle in. You were never singled out for special treatment because you were a relative, colleague, or from whichever orbit that allowed your life to intersect with hers. You were loved, cherished, anguished over and cared for as if she and you shared the same mother or she had birthed you herself.

She loved her family - Bruce, Olive (her parents), Enid, Johnnie, Ruby and Barry ... and her sense of family meant that she cared for Olive and made space in her home and invited Enid to live with her until only recently. That is a rare and wonderful legacy.

Time

Many of us today will say she was taken before her time. Time was what made Ann unique among us all. She knew that love was spelt T-I-M-E and she gave it willingly and in buckets full - and I have no doubt sometimes at her own cost. Jobs would be set aside; projects put on hold because Ann valued us more highly and so gave us the benefit of her time.

We all have felt the world stop spinning so quickly; our heart rates return to normal; and our senses re-engage with the world because Ann stopped the clock, turned to us and gave us what the clock took away. She had no other agenda than to enjoy being with us and experiencing what for her was the pleasure of our uninterrupted company.

It was both a delicious and luxurious feeling for us all ... rarely experienced outside the warm hearth fire of her heart. Sometimes we were carried along on her adventures, to share in the fun, so you could experience what brought her joy and put a spark in her eye ... to stand back in satisfaction at a job well done ... or be bemused at how it all turned out to become another story to tell about success or failure … at her own expense and for the delight of the listener.

A rare and wonderful legacy.

Laughter

Ann knew the value of laughter. Her wit and sense of child-like fun even in the mundane and ordinary tasks of life was a place we loved to go. Her face puckered up trying to stifle a giggle that made you want to laugh even more (often at the most inappropriate moment). (I tried to stop once but I needed a tissue because I snotted). For me the sound of her laughter peeling above the sound of a gathering will be one of the things I will cherish forever … and miss the most.

A rare and wonderful legacy.

Finally Bringing all these things together - Family and Friends, Time and Laughter - they were ingredients, shaken together and pressed down so they couldn't be separated and they were contained in a unique vessel in the shape of Shirley Ann Brownlie. Friends ... with apologies to Auden ... we won't be stopping the clocks, or cutting off the telephone ... we won't be preventing the dog from barking with a juicy bone ... we'll keep the moon shining and we'll brighten the sun ... we'll celebrate the life of Ann because with her and through her we learned about fun. Thank you, Ann, for the life you have lived and shared with us. Thank you for treating us all gently and gracefully … and that we were loved whether, family or friend. Thank you for the time you gave us. Thank you for the laughter we shared with you. Thank you for your rare and wonderful legacy.

for Baylon Ryan: 'Dad cared about people', by son Peter Ryan - 2018

1 June 2018, Melbourne, Australia

89 years ago, in I928, the year that Dad was born, the 29th Eucharistic Congress was conducted in Sydney – and the patron saint of the Eucharistic Congress is Paschal Baylon – so, in his honour, Dad’s mum and dad – Winifred and John, named the new little bundle of joy – Baylon.       (And also because they wanted him to be a good fighter).

As a matter of interest, St Paschal Baylon’s father’s name - was Martin Baylon – same as my youngest brother - Marty!

That Baylon family lived in north- eastern Spain in the 16th century. And North- eastern Spain is an exquisitely beautiful area that I’ve had the great fortune to walk through.

Dad was to become a good fighter. He needed to be because he arrived on this earth as the Great Depression emerged.

Lightly built, of Irish Catholic heritage, Dad wasn’t a big man, but he was a big character, and he lived a big life.

He was born in a place called Rainbow, in the Mallee wheat growing region, about 400 kms NW of Melbourne.

By the time he was three, he looked a lot like his third son, Terry – and there are pictures to prove it. You’ll see them a bit later.

Dad was the youngest of 5 children – the others were Jack, Anna, Win and Marg. The family eventually settled in Bendigo, which is still there today.

Dad had the usual boyhood adventures - like being apprehended by the police for using a slingshot to shoot birds on the banks of Lake Weeroona, playing footy and cricket, and looking for gold in the nearby diggings with his friend - Ned Kelly.

But most of the time he stayed out of trouble and was a good, conscientious son, studying, chopping the wood, fetching the shopping and so on. There wasn’t much money around, and I suppose he learnt in those years the value of money, and how to make it go a long way, and sometimes just to do without it.

He was educated by the nuns at St Killian’s Primary and the Bendigo Marist Brothers, and graduated to receive his Leaving Certificate.

When he was 13, Dad’s mother died. This was, of course, very sad and difficult for Dad and his family – to lose your mum at such a young age. But as families do, they supported each other through these hard times.

When he was 17, Dad left school and came to live in Melbourne. He got a job as an apprentice telephone technician at the Postmaster Generals’ Department. (the PMG as it was known, and what was to become Telstra). This was 1945, the year the 2nd world war ended.

He started out living in a hostel in Brunswick, St Don Bosco, and played football for the Richmond Young Catholic Workers - where he met John Dickinson - who was going out with young June Monagle – Mum’s elder sister. Johnny introduced Bayley to a pretty 16 year old Bonny Monagle, my mum. They married at St Ignatius Church in Richmond in September 1955 - and the rest, is history.

Dad was idealistic, a man of ethics and practical, and got involved in union politics. His grandfather, Simeon Ryan, had been mayor of Bendigo in 1901, and had earlier done some arbitration work himself.

Dad’s Irish Catholic background, and his sense of social justice, put him firmly on the side of the underdog. And while he had respect for, and practised adherence to legitimate authority, if he saw corruption or abuse of that authority, he would call it out.

Subsequently, at the age of 25, he was offered and took, the job as secretary of the Northern Australian Workers Union, and moved to Darwin.

Not only did he perform that rather large role, but simultaneously he was editor of the union newspaper - the Northern Standard - until the secretary role proved too big to accommodate both.

The paper folded (no pun intended) but not before Dad did a deal with the Northern Territory Times (who had inferior printing presses). The deal was that they could use the presses, but they must publish anything the union wanted – unedited. Of course they agreed.

Anyone who knew Dad, knows that he was tough, and uncompromising if it really mattered.

So this stood him in good stead when he took the job in Darwin, where he presided over some wild and spirited union meetings.

He once needed his good - and burly - friend, Billy Ivinson, to protect him at a union meeting where a branch stacking had been arranged, after 2 boatloads of merchant sailors were brought in by the opposite faction – essentially hired thugs- to attempt to disrupt the proceedings. He came away successful and unscathed, and Billy remained his lifelong friend.

During this time, he had some big battles and conducted some ground-breaking workers’ rights campaigns – in particular, he created the first ever award for pearl divers.

He once had an encounter with Gough Whitlam who of course, went on to become Prime Minister. Dad was Labor, and right wing. Gough was Labor, but left wing. Gough sneered a one liner at Dad – ‘So, the lion meets the lamb’. But Dad being Dad - never considered himself the lamb. Nor did anyone who actually knew him.

The fight in those days amongst the unions was between the communists - and the others. But Dad reported that despite strong ideological differences, everyone really wanted the same goal – a better deal for workers. So to that end, there was often mutual respect across the political spectrum.

Around that time, Dad was also encouraged as a union leader to apply to represent Australia at the Duke of Edinburgh’s Conference in Canada. He was beaten on that occasion by Bob Hawke.

The Melbourne evening paper of the time ‘The Herald’ wrote a page two story on Dad in 1955, when he was just 27 years old – saying how he wasn’t very big in stature but he was big in tenacity and courage. You might not always agree with Dad- but you wouldn’t disagree with that statement.

I recently came across the Jewish expression, tikkun olam

In Judaism, the expression was first used to refer to social action work, in the 1950s.

Simply put, it means that the world is somewhat broken, and it is our job, all of us, to try to fix it.

I'm not sure Dad knew that expression, but he practised tikkun olam his entire life.

After they were married, Mum went with Dad back to Darwin and pursued her study of tropical weather patterns and gecko behaviour. Maybe, probably not.

It wasn’t long until they got news that their first child, Paula, was on her way, and that she wouldn’t like the thick, Darwin heat.

So Mum moved back to Melbourne - to a cool 1956 August where Paula could start saving for the first of many electric blankets she would eventually own.

Mum and Dad went on to live in Adelaide and Port Pirie in South Australia, where they did some of their finest work, producing the next 3 boys.

They then moved back to Melbourne, in fact Richmond, with Mum’s parents – who we called Nan and Pa.

And in late 1963, the family of Mum, Dad and five kids, moved to a white, weatherboard house in a quiet street in Greensborough and started the small religious cult known as the Ryan family. Dad was a parishioner at St Mary’s for 52 years.

As cults do, the group grew steadily - to 12, a good biblical number -:2 adults and 10 lively, but mostly well behaved kids, arriving over a period of 19 years.

Ten children, 26 grand-children and 3 great grandchildren later, here we are.

Dad did a few funny things over the years – and not always on purpose.

Some of the transport arrangements we had growing up were very interesting.

We never owned a car, but Dad always had a work car.

For a time, the 3 oldest boys – myself, John and Terry - travelled in the back of a Holden ute (white knuckled - through rain, hail and shine). And of course, St Christopher was there with us too, also hanging on for dear life.

On the car trips, we learned our first swearwords –For example catchy questions like –“What do you think you’re doing - you bloody idiot?!”

Mind you, it was never much worse than that, but sometimes Dad was swearing at the people inside the car.

Dad also conducted tutorials like how to spit, whistle and kick a football, without swearing. Actually, we taught ourselves how to spit.

A particularly interesting vehicle was a van we had for a short time – that sometimes needed to be cranked - with a thing called a crank handle - to get it started. This van had no windows in the back and came with some seating challenges -i.e. -it had none.

For one Bendigo trip, Dad got a wicker chair and lashed it with rope into the middle of the back of the van, so Mum could sit there like the queen, and imagine the scenery going past for 2 hours as the old van rumbled up the highway - north to Bendigo.

In the early days, photography and Dad was a fleeting and tenuous connection.

Dad had an old Brownie camera that came out of the hall drawer without fail every time one of the kids made their first communion.

It was one or two photos at the most, and if you happened to be scratching your groin - as he said ‘cheese’, you were immortalized forever, as a nine year old, groin-scratching, short pants wearing, gap-toothed boy with a bad haircut, looking the wrong way – even if you were one of the girls.

As a result, needless to say, there’s little photographic evidence of the early goings on - of the aforementioned Ryan Family cult.

Later, when Mum and Dad were able to go on a well deserved holiday to the US and Europe, he became an avid photographer, and carefully annotated nearly every photo he took, with descriptive notes and fond quips about Mum, the love of his life.

I won’t mention too much more about secret cult business but– there was one all-male occasion - after returning from our one and only fishing trip to Jamieson.

We got home early from this Easter time outing, because we didn’t know how to camp - and just couldn’t sleep in the car another night.

So to do a little male bonding -Dad, 43, John, 12, Terry 10 and me, 13 - all sat around in our pyjamas, smoking pipes - with our hair neatly combed - in a quiet house, without any girls or babies around.

Another interesting behaviour of Dad’s - was when - us oldies were young and courting, and late night, we’d be sitting having a quiet cuddle in the lounge room, and Dad would come out from his bedroom wearing only his white Y-front undies and go to the kitchen and drink a cold glass of milk, then return to bed - without saying a word.

This was scary, and clever on his part. And it was the only time I ever saw him: 1. in his undies and 2. drinking milk.

Football played a huge part in Dad’s life. In the ‘60s, he drilled us kids on 2 things - learning the rosary off by heart, and reciting the name of the Collingwood coach at the time: Bobby Rose.

As I mentioned earlier, Dad was a keen footballer himself, and later in his career, played on the gravel grounds of Darwin. He hung up his boots after kicking 5 goals in his final match.

However, his direct involvement as a passionate fan and volunteer in VFL and AFL football, spanned 26 years and 572 games – that’s his amazing record keeping.

12 of those years were devoted to Collingwood. For 9 years he scoured the Collingwood recruiting zone, much of which was in the Diamond Valley.

Among many, his star recruit was Peter Moore from Eltham, who went on to win the Brownlow medal twice.

The next 3 years he was a forward scout - analyzing the performance of the team Collingwood was to play the next week.

And like everything he did, the analysis in his detailed report was insightful and obviously useful to the coach. At Collingwood, he assisted Tommy Hafey. He liked Tommy – they were contemporaries, and Tommy asked him to continue aiding him when he was sacked from Collingwood mid-season in 1982, and moved to Geelong in 1983.    

Dad agreed, and followed Hafey to Geelong, and stayed for the next 14 years, serving a number of coaches. His favourite was Malcolm Blight. Malcolm had been a champion footballer and Brownlow medallist.

He was intelligent, articulate and friendly. Dad was delighted to be invited to dine with Malcolm on one occasion, and I think the highlight of his football career was being flown to Perth, in his role as forward scout, during the finals one year.

Mum went with Dad to many of these games, and it became an enjoyable regular outing for both of them.

Lots of things happen in a big family over many years - many funny and happy, some difficult and sad – but the family held together because it was built on a strong foundation.

Dad loved all his grandchildren, but I want to make special mention of Dad’s second grandchild, Julian, to whom he was particularly devoted, and with whom he was very tender and loving. Jules had a condition that prevented him from speaking and voluntary movement, and passed away after 9 years.

Dad was a true patriarch of this big family. His passing brings the end of an era for us.

It’s a family that’s strong and close and that, I know, was always Dad’s intention.

He worked very hard, and reached the top of his profession at a national level, selling and marketing electrical goods–and for many years worked 2 jobs - to feed, clothe and educate us all. He and our beautiful Mum taught us to value people - not wealth and possessions. Dad never really owned much himself. He just wasn’t interested. The things he valued, you can’t buy.

Dad gave to the community.

He was a Justice of the Peace for 30 years from 1976.

He served on various school and parish committees.

He was a zone representative for Neighbourhood Watch for 18 years.

In his retirement, he spent a lot of time volunteering for older, frail people at Villa Maria – 14 years in fact.

He also volunteered at the Anti-Cancer Council shop in Carlton, and for 10 years was on an ecumenical committee of local Christian churches that organized the community Christmas carols.

Privately, he contributed to charities for years, and was very generous to individuals or families who needed financial assistance.

He was acknowledged for his contribution to the community with an Australia Day Awards certificate of appreciation in 2007.

He spent many years irritating - and sometimes praising - politicians -with regular letters and later faxes to Canberra and Spring St, trying to keep the so-and-sos honest.

He was devoted to his faith and he prayed for us all – all the time. His love of family was strong and obvious to everyone. He was our protector.

Growing up, you always felt safe with Dad at your side - even as a young adult.

On one occasion, I was getting my car brakes assessed, and the mechanic at this garage said it was going to cost a small fortune – which I didn’t have - to do the repairs. And by the way, all the wheels were off and the brakes had been dismantled.

Dad told me to tell them - not to go ahead - to put everything back together- and that I was coming to get the car.

He came with me when I collected the car, and stood quietly, but menacingly, in the background, and silently gave them the message that they shouldn’t even think about getting heavy or trying to extort money from me. And he didn’t have a plan B.

I never saw Dad back down from a battle – even though maybe, very occasionally, that may have been the better option.

There are just too many stories, and too many things to say about Dad.

How can you do justice to a life in just a few minutes?

Dad cared about people.

He loved his family deeply, and he tried his best - to fix the world - where he could, the best way he knew how.

Thank you Dad - for looking after us and loving us.

We love you, and we know that you are now, and forever, in God’s love.

for Marie Bernadette Ryan : 'Wherever Mum is, it’s a warm day, every day'. by Serena Ryan - 2018

20 June 2018, Our Lady of Lourdes Church, Rockingham WA, Australia

Before I begin on behalf of our family I’d like to extend heartfelt thanks to the Ladies of Bethanie - it was always so obvious to me how much you cared about Mum and right until the end, you were unwaveringly kind and compassionate. We are so grateful to have had you there for Mum and Dad and wanted to acknowledge how much your kindness meant to us all.  Thank you.

To Father VJ, thank you for offering Mum support over the years and for giving her the last rights - it was beautiful to listen to you and pray with you as your words shepherded her through her final moments.

Thank you to Emily for your courage. You are our hero. Thank you.

Thank you also to Eileen and Gerrard McMorrough who provided me with light when I was in total darkness. I will never forget this.

To all who have attended today to celebrate Mum’s life with us, thank you. So many familiar faces here today - she would’ve been so chuffed.

So, to the wonderful Marie, Ibu, Sunshine

My Mum.

For as long as I can remember, I felt like Mum loved me deeply and unconditionally. It’s been truly humbling to have been loved so much for my entire life - it was her greatest gift to me because she taught me so much just by loving me.

When I was a kid I always remember the school holidays - Mum was always so happy to have us home and I remember never being bored - whether it was big days at the beach or in the pool or wandering through an art gallery when I got a bit older, she was always so thrilled to spend time with me - I’ll never forget that. She was my first real friend and until the end of time she will always be my best friend.

She’s irreplaceable.

As I grew older our relationship naturally morphed with us and I understood more about her as a human and how she’d made her way in the world. It was my honour to get to know her.

I never laughed more than when I was with my mum. She was always cheeky, irreverent & naughty - when I heard her tell a nurse to feck off in her final days, I’m proud to say she was also completely unrepentant.

She was a glorious human being.

We had some great adventures together - so many fun times like when we would go to Bali and she would be at the plane door ready to get off before the plane had even finished taxiing in for landing - or how when you gave her a gift you’d know if she liked it or not if she asked for the receipt. In later years I just gave her the receipt just in case because in her words ‘I like it now but I might not tomorrow’.

She was incorrigible.

Other great moments came when we were just sitting on the couch nattering away or, on the phone making each other laugh when one of us was a bit down. Little moments that will mean so much forever.

There were pivotal moments in my life where she gave me amazing advice and wise counsel. At times she had made choices in her life that others didn’t agree with so she taught me to be sure of myself and the choices I made - that I didn’t have to justify myself to anyone.

She understood my need to move to Melbourne and often comforted me on my guilt about leaving because she felt that way about coming to Australia and leaving her family. She understood this and whenever I wailed about it, she always comforted me and said ‘my darling, you are exactly where you’re meant to be’. And in the very tough times, this still rings in my ears.

There will never be another woman like her.

So now that she’s gone and I’m away from home, the nights seem a bit longer so I find myself awake wondering what Mum is doing right now.

What does her world look like? I find it really comforting to think about this so let me tell you how I think she’s going.

On arrival Mum would’ve been welcomed by her Mum and Dad, her Granny and sister Vivienne all of whom she missed deeply her whole life.  Great Aunty Nan with the booming voice and heaving bosom will also be there - she was lovely and terrifying in equal measure.

As she arrives Mum’s smile will be lighting up the room. She always had an incredible smile so it’s seems right that she shares that with who she’s with now. Her nickname was Sunshine so now, she will be sunshine itself I think.

Mum will have perfect vision - she will see luscious trees, plants, the clear blue ocean and lots and lots of flowers. Frangipanis, succulents and palm trees. The scents and sights of which will delight her.

Her hearing will be perfect as the birds herald her arrival.

She’ll hear all her favourite music - Neil Diamond, the Fureys, Andrea Botcelli, Andre Rier who she had a massive crush on, and there’ll be some Indonesian gamelan in the background, the sound of which she loved waking up to in Bali.

Mum will be feeling no pain.

She’ll feel the breeze on her face and the kisses of her family around her. I suspect she will be dancing because that was something she always loved doing so I expect a decent amount of booty shaking.

She will walk unaided and freely.

But now to the all important question

What will Mum be wearing?

Without doubt, she will be wearing a hat. Something big and glorious. And she’ll be loving herself sick in it but at the same time, she will be worried if her hair looks ok.

She’ll be wearing a sarong, tied up at the front but the jury is out on whether she’ll be wearing any underwear - she was quite fond of having the wind in her willows on a warm day so that’s anyone’s guess right now - and good luck to her on that score.

And I know that would make her laugh her head off that I mentioned this.

She will quickly find popularity - she’ll hang with the bohemian crowd to talk about art and all things creative whilst looking down on us all - maybe moving plants or making pictures on the wall wonky or helping me finally grow a frangipani in Melbourne - she’ll be throwing us clues and gifts from now on I believe. We just have to be on the lookout.

Wherever Mum is, it’s a warm day, every day.

She is never cold and her heart beats fiercely.

And she is happy.

So what’s he legacy?

For me, it’s her big heart, her always seeing the bright side of life and the good in people. How she would always say hello to people she didn’t know just to brighten their day, and hers. I find myself doing this and loving it as I get older.  I will think of her when I sip tea from a beautiful China cup and saucer and every time I rifle through my massive scarf collection and, when I look in the mirror I can see her. What a gift that is.

Her love of art flows through me - I see beauty everywhere I go and she taught me that - to find beauty in the little things.

She’s passed on her love of cooking and entertaining so the house is always full of people which I love.

She was a true traveller - she boarded a ship as a very young woman with my dad and two little ones and moved to the other side of the world. I’ve always found that truly brave and to have had adventures as many and as long as she did, she’s inspired me to travel the world as much as I can. Meet people, try new foods, new music and new cultures - what an amazing legacy.

My job now is to honour that legacy.

But the big question is: will she make good on her threat to haunt me?

God, I hope so.

So mum, I guess this is where I get off and you move on down the road.

Towards the sunshine.

Thank you Mum

For loving me

For raising me

For protecting me

For believing in me

And, for being my friend

Thank you for everything.

You are my best friend and I will love you forever.

This is not goodbye, it’s just an intermission until we meet again.

I love you Mum.

Mind yerself now

for Michael Gordon: "He would tap me on the shoulder and say, 'You're OK. You're strong'", by Ali Mullaie - 2018

16 February 2018, MCG, Melbourne, Australia

It is a great honour to be asked to share my story of my relationship with Michael Gordon.

I keep thinking and dreaming of Michael and the many things that were between us.

It is impossible to find the words that describe who he was to me.

He was the closest friend a person could have.

He was a father figure. A brother. A role model and he was my colleague when I worked at The Age in Information Technology.

He introduced me to his family Robyn, Sarah and Scott and I became a part of his family.

He helped me with job opportunities.

He was always there for me and I was there for him.

I could pick up the phone any time and speak to him.

We would meet for coffee, go for lunch and dinner.

He would take me on drives to Phillip Island.   

He took me to the footy and to the beaches where he went surfing.

He discussed his designs for the holiday house he was building.

He introduced me to the Australian way of life.

We hugged each other whenever we met.

We sent each other messages. When I was feeling down, he would tap me on the shoulder and say, 'You're OK. You're strong.'

We would talk about everything, or we said nothing and enjoyed each other's company. Or we would just have a laugh.

What can I say? We connected.

We first met on Nauru in the computer lab at Nauru College, where I was a teacher of English and computer science.

The connection was instant. I could feel it. I was appointed his interpreter.

We spent a lot of time walking around the island.

He wondered if my name was Ali or Sir, because everywhere I went, the students called me Sir.

He saw how they ran up to me and how we walked together.

He saw that the locals respected me because I taught their children and because I was engaged with the community. He understood my achievement.

On Nauru, I taught myself English and Computer Science.

I did not waste my time. But I had no family. Michael could truly hear me. Until then no one outside Nauru knew me. No one had told my story.

And because he was there, and spent time with me and with those inside the camp and because he listened he wrote the truth about our despair and our aspirations.

He did not see me as a victim.

Our friendship had nothing to do with this.

It was not based on sympathy.

He was human and he saw me as human.

I want to get the words right as if Michael is listening and can feel what I am saying.

We were born in separate countries and came from different cultures.

I was Hazara but it made no difference.

Our friendship was not about the past.

It was about now and about the future.

It was about total trust and about two human beings.

Two Australians.

I deeply miss him.

for Daniel Kennedy: 'He was a true hero to us all', by Sean Dooley - 2005

4 July 2005, Leongatha, Victoria, Australia

Daniel Kennedy was born in Barham NSW, second child to Pam and Peter, on the 18th of October 1983. 1983. The 80s weren’t that long ago— I’ve still got shirts from then. I think I’m wearing one now. Normally at a funeral the person you’ve come to farewell was usually born in the 1920s or 30s. There is a whole life that has been lived that we can celebrate. Dan’s life was only just beginning. This shouldn’t have been the whole story. It just seems so wrong.

Dan Kennedy was a remarkable person. Now I’m only a second cousin and probably most of you here knew him a hell of a lot better than I did. But even though I rarely saw Dan more than a couple of times a year there are few people that have made a bigger impression on me.

Over the past few days talking to those who loved him, it dawned on me that I wasn’t the only one to feel this way. And I am not the only one who feels so ripped off that Dan has gone. But this is not the sort of attitude that he lived his life by. I’m sure he had his moments of despair and self-pity like the rest of us but the Dan Kennedy that we all knew wouldn’t have dwelled on the negative stuff for too long; he would be out there trying to make the best of things, to make the most out of what we’ve got. Dan took whatever life threw at him head on; he didn’t have time for making a fuss. He didn’t want fanfares, he never asked for anyone’s pity. He just wanted to get on with living.

And he was always this way. As a baby Dan basically skipped walking. By the age of 9 months the family had moved to Tarra Valley and later, Toora, and Dan went from crawling straight to running. At first it was chasing after his big sister Melissa, and then later, running from his little sister Amanda. And he didn’t really stop running, as was evident by the number of accidents he had as kid: running into a fence and damaging his front teeth, running through another fence—barbed wire this time— and straight into a dam where he almost drowned himself. It was amazing he even made it to Toora Primary school at all.

But he didn’t stop running then. Pam would send Dan off with his lunch every morning and every afternoon it would come home in his bag untouched. Not that he didn’t like the sandwiches she made, just that he was so busy running around at lunchtime that he never had time to eat it. Pam soon learned not to make tuna sandwiches, or anything that would go off after sitting in a school bag all day.

For those of you who knew Dan only in the last few years when the leukemia and the complications of the treatment had ravaged his body, it may come as a surprise that Dan was an outstanding junior sportsman. Following the influence of Pam and Peter, Dan was into virtually every sport going. Little Athletics was his first competitive sport, but he also excelled at basketball, footy, cricket and word is he had the strongest throwing arm in the district. He won a number of athletic events at regional competitions and placed in a few at state level. Dan represented the Alberton Football League in the under 13 & 15 teams, made the representative sides for basketball and cricket and in 1998-99 won the “Dean Jones Alberton Junior Cricket Association Player of the Year.”

He not only played with the Toora Under 16s cricket team for seven years, but being a small town, often the adult teams were a few blokes short and Dan was more than willing to fill the breach. Pam remembers Dan filling in for the senior team when he was eleven. The ground was a cow paddock in the off season and the mongrels made him field down at fine leg amongst all the divots and everything else. Not the easiest surface to pick which way the ball would bounce. By the end of the days play Dan had more divots in him than the cow paddock. It was around this time that at a game played at Tarwin when they were again short of numbers. Dan trotted out onto the field to fill in and following was his six-year-old, three-foot-high sister, Amanda. It was a scorcher of a day and a number of the older boys were feeling the heat and had to leave the field. Not those two idiot Kennedy kids, they stayed out under the blazing sun the entire day.

In February 1999 the family moved to Leongatha as all the kids were attending Mary McKillop College. Dan joined the Leongatha Football Club and commenced playing on the U16 team.  During a match towards the end of June he kicked a goal as the half-time siren sounded. As the huddle formed it was realised that Daniel was nowhere to be found. He was still lying where he had kicked the goal, unable to move as he had torn his hamstring. Little did anyone know that this would be the last time Dan would play footy.

In August 1999 Dan didn’t seem himself.  A trip to the doctor ensued. Blood tests were taken and results came through at 10pm that night.  Midnight saw Dan at the Royal Children’s Hospital which was to become his second home for the next six years particularly Ward 6 East. Dan’s footy and cricket days were over. But he didn’t let that get him down, merely turning the same tenacity he showed on the sporting field to dealing with his disease. At times the treatment seemed worse than the cancer but Dan never allowed his spirit to remain unbowed for very long. The horror of what he went through never changed who he was. For instance, he hated using his mopep. A mopep is a small blower that he needed for clearing the gunk from his lungs. Dan didn’t think he needed to use it but the physios insisted. He usually managed to wangle his way out of it by distracting the physios—chatting with them, cracking as many jokes as he could so that by the end of the session he hadn’t got around to doing his exercises.

For six years Dan was in and out of hospital and it’s just impossible to imagine what he had to go through. And as strong and resolute as Dan was he wouldn’t have been able to fight as well as he did without the unbelievable support of his family. Pam, Peter, Melissa, Amanda, his grandparents Jan and Tarz and I’m sure many others that I don’t know about provided the most sensational support crew and were the strength Dan needed when he’d used up his own reserves. Amanda even went the extra step when in 2003 Dan relapsed and it became apparent that he needed a bone marrow transplant and she volunteered to be the donor. Some families would break under such strain, not this one. They not only continued to love and support each other but were able to help Dan live as normal and productive a life as possible in the times he was out of the hospital.

The leukemia didn’t totally spell the end of Dan’s sporting days. In remission he was well enough to take up lawn bowls and was soon playing pennant at Toora and actually skipped a Division 5 rink at Corinella soon after.  The highlight for him was making it into the final of the ‘100 up’, which he played against his father, Peter.  He was unsuccessful at his first attempt but turned the tables 3 yrs later at Leongatha when he got to beat Peter in the 100 up final. Now his old man might try and claim he was playing dead that day but I wouldn’t be believing it.

With treatment started in preparation for his bone marrow transplant, the bowls pennant finals were nearing and Dan was hoping he would be well enough on the day to play.  As it turned out he was too sick to compete but someone up there must have been in his corner because that day the rain and hail came down by the bucket load and with the green underwater the match was postponed to the next Saturday, by which time Dan was fit enough to play and they went on to have a memorable win.

Though he had an incredible struggle, and several times we all thought we’d lost him, Dan kept on fighting and making the most of the times when he was well. When he first started treatment he used to come down to our place at Patterson Lakes to go fishing with my Dad who was also undergoing cancer treatment. Though there was a fifty year age gap, Dan and Baz really bonded as they reeled in bream after bream after bream. Later when asked by the ‘Make a Wish’ Foundation what he would like to do for his wish he chose a trip to Cairns, deep sea fishing where he caught a nice 3-and-a-half foot shark and a couple of large Coral Trout.  He was still speaking of that trip the week before he died.

Another habit I think he might have picked up from my old man was a love of the races. Sick of running down to place his bets at the TAB, Pam soon set up a telephone account for Dan. He was so good at the caper that he soon had the nurses and doctors and even the hospital chaplain coming to him for tips. Even in the intensive care unit he had a form guide by his side. Once Dan turned 18 he gained a membership at Stony Creek Race Club and would attend as many meetings as possible with Rex, Coral & Mook, summoned to pick him up and deliver him home.

Dan was an avid Carlton fan. No one is exactly sure why Dan chose to barrack for Carlton— Peter is a Bulldogs supporter and his Mum goes for Melbourne. But typically, Dan chose his own path. It was as if he didn’t want to take sides and that too was typical of Dan. Always fair and considerate of others, the last thing he ever wanted to do was cause a fuss.

But last year we did get to make a fuss over Dan. The family had to twist his arm but for those of us lucky enough to attend Dan’s twenty-first, it was an incredible experience. It was a real celebration of life and I know that it meant the world to Dan and he felt it was the best thing he had ever done. Having his 21st allowed Dan to reconnect with some of his mates from school and for the past year he felt like he was back involved in real life, one that didn’t involve hospitals and needles and isolation units.

And then came the infection that led him to hospital for the last time. He was going to have some of his toes amputated but Dan dealt with it in typical fashion. I spoke to him just after he’d gone in and within minutes we were joking about how toes were over-rated anyway. He was like that right up to the end. Solid, unflappable, going about what he had to do with as little fuss as possible. But I reckon just like his twenty-first, he wouldn’t mind the fuss we are making today. It’s so good to see so many people here who like me feel blessed just for having the chance to know such a wonderful person as Dan Kennedy.

Sure, he wasn’t here for anywhere near long enough but the way he lived his life, rose to meet every adversity with grace and courage and acceptance, is an inspiration. In just twenty-one years he showed us all how to go about living. As Peter and Pam said to me, he was a true hero to us all. And you can’t argue with that.

Goodbye Dan.

For Michael Gordon: 'Mikey was a role model for humanity', by Sally and Johnny Gordon - 2018

15 February 2018, MCG, Melbourne, Australia

Sally and Johnny were Michael's sister and brother. Johnny's speech is a great example of an ad-libbed eulogy. He's allowed us to include his handwritten notes to illustrate.

Sally:

I’ll be quick as this is very much not my forte. Harry, Mikey and Johnny always have this bit covered. I’m the cheer squad and always just so proud.

We’re all here out of love and respect for Mikey.
He leaves a tremendous hole in our lives.
However, the overwhelming number of emotional and profound tributes has left me with two big hopes.

The first is that all of you who can pick up his baton, will do so.

I hope that many of you will be inspired by him, and then that you will inspire others, to do the stories often regarded as not very sexy. 

Give voices to those who otherwise wouldn’t have one as Mikey did.

As Fergus Hunter said the world desperately needs more Michael Gordons.

Now more than ever.

Take his torch and keep it burning

My second wish is that those of you who are in a position to affect change will work together, and work really, really hard together, to right the wrongs that have so unbelievably become the norm.

Only a few weeks ago Mikey so proudly, so humbly and so beautifully accepted his Walkley award in the company of his colleagues.

He later told me he wished he’d thought to finish with this gesture of support for his friends, the men still on Manus. 

That’s the essence of our brother. 
And we loved him like crazy.

Go well darling Mikey.
 

Johnny:

G'day everyone, I'm Mikey's brother. And how lucky can one guy be to have Michael Gordon as your big brother? It's like one of those [lucky] things you look back at from when you were a kid, "Like crikey, I saw Bob Marley when I was 12 years old!"

But anyway, I'm going to throw these things on [reading glasses] and try and not howl like a mutt. Alright, welcome all, that's what I write down to start with, and what a tidal wave of goodwill. 

Thanks every one of ya, hey Mark if you was looking through my eyes and just go, "giddy up" and thanks so much, so give yourselves a round of applause.

Okay here we go.

Mikey was a role model for humanity, but he was my role model as a kid. He taught me to surf, he was a top bloke, and he was much quieter than me, believe it or not. But you know what I always brought out that other side, a lot of people go, "Well, Michael, he's running on all twelve cylinders!".

Okay I've got two little things written down here. It says, "Police Rounds, Philip Island'

So when I was a kid, I'm learning to surf, I was just a youngster, right, and as you know Mikey was the journo and as a kid, he did it all [whole paper], but he used to do the police rounds. So I think it was something like a 2-11pm shift. So I'd get dropped in at flippin' Russell St., I don't know I'm like twelve or something, right? And Mikey goes, "You know, we can't split till eleven, so he's constantly on the beam, we got the police radios hummin' in the background and he was telling me, "Alright, it's a really big spoil - straight across the road there's the watch house. If you don't act like a kook, we can go over and use the coke machine." It was like ooooooh!

So anyways, when you're a kid right, nine o'clock, you feel like it's three in the morning right, so it's like 11 o'clock we finally get in the car, ready to go, and he goes, 'You know what, I'm tired, I've been working, we can't start the car right?" We had this little red Escort, right? So, I'm sitting next to him ... and the music would be pumpin' and then as you know he was a bit of a ... he loved his music so we had the killer music pumpin' down, but as a grommet I'm half on the nod, right? And he's trying to drive thinking 'if big man shuts up we gonna hit a tree' so it's a safety device to keep me awake.

So, I've just got a pair of shorts on, and Mikey would just go, "Bang!" and just give you the biggest slap on the flippin' thigh... and he goes, "how are the ham steaks now?" 

We had some incredible surfs together and the thing is too big brothers normally bar you if you're like two weeks older ... he was six years older than me, but I was in the posse and that's why I'm mates with all this mob too.

Okay, the next story, [reads note] we gotta here, it says table tennis right? And Michael, he was like the most competitive fruitcake, right? So we had the table tennis at my joint and as he'd get more focused, because he might be like two points ahead, it's like 'don't get mad, get even.' But he sounded like flippin' Jackie Chan or something on flippin: "whaaaa, woo oo, kneyah," So even weeks after Michael had left, Harris and I'd look at each other as we walked through the corridor and just go, "kneyah!" -  and we knew that was Michael's backspin right?

Okay, there's my two casual stories, okay [applause] No no, you're not out of jail yet! [laughter] Okay, back to the notes, here we go.

Birds of the same feather flock together and that's why his family are absolute legends and you know what? His mates - all flippin' legends. Everyone here, you're flippin' legends because you're part of our flippin' mob, right?

And even on that day where we lost Mikey, he was surrounded by legends. You know, these people were black belts of their field and I just wanna give them an ocean of thanks. There's one guy called Nathaniel, I've got him in my phone as "The Man," so let's just give him a round of applause for doing what he did.

I turn the page.

My aboriginal bras have told me their ancestors from The Dreamtime will guide Mike through his journey. Go well, my bra.

Johnny, Sally, Harry, Michael Gordon