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.