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Eulogies

Some of the most moving and brilliant speeches ever made occur at funerals. Please upload the eulogy for your loved one using the form below.

for Matthew Mather: 'Matt was our glue guy', by Santo Manna - 2022

November 4, 2022

30 September 2022, Montreal, Canada

The first day we met Matt. Anybody want to hear about that?

I say “we” meaning our tight little subgroup within the 86/87 McGill Engineering class – or another way to put it – the gang that failed Professor Knystautys’s Mech 1 class in Fall 1986, plus me and Ohayon who arrived a semester later, and then of course Rob Megeney who joined in Fall 87, instantly became one of us… and promptly failed Professor Knystautus’s Mech 1 Class. All kidding aside, I could not have been more fortunate to fall in with that crew.

When I say “tight”, most of you know exactly what I mean – that extraordinarily close bond our extended group of McGill Engineers share. It is an exceedingly rare and special connection, like family really, and it only strengthens over time. I never practiced as an engineer but still wear this iron ring Vince Canonico gave me, now 30+ years ago, as a constant reminder of that unbreakable bond.

And it means everything when you tell Matt’s story. Because Matt fit, like a glove, in our family.

So back to that first day we met Matt. As an aside, Rob told me a story I never knew – Matt had arrived at McGill a week early to register for classes. After meeting and hanging out with us, he registered a week late!

It’s September 1988. I’d just turned 20, Matt was about to turn 19. It’s Orientation Week in the McConnell Engineering Building, and after participating in the day’s events at Open Air Pub we go out on the town. All the usual suspects are there – Marc, Rob, Cyril, who at that time were all living together in The Loft on St Urbain (not as luxurious as it sounds), John Keller, David Ohayon, Curtis, Louis and others.

But there’s another guy, he’s a new arrival to McGill Engineering and no one knows him, but he gravitates to us early on in the day and is there tagging along all night. Marc said it was like a puppy dog following us around! He’s the only first year among us. And he grows on us.

And, many hours later and after many watery Peel Pub pitchers, in the wee hours, a bunch of us end up crashing at the Loft. And in the morning, I wake up, on a mattress in the middle of the floor, fully clothed with my PPO lab coat still on, I hear snoring, I open my eyes, and Matt’s face is like right here, inches away from mine.

After that night he was never not a part of us, a part of who we were - and not just any part, a core part.
In the hours and days after we received the terrible news, talking through the pain and helping each other process the loss – and in those moments and in the blur of emotions, as people do in these cases, we talk about the essence of the person we lost, what they brought to the table, and that’s what we did about Matt.

And in these exchanges a theme emerged, and certain words around that theme.
Words like “core”, and others like:
“Hub” - Vince said that
“Glue” – heard that word a few times, and Marilyene mentioned it in a Facebook post.
There’s a term “glue guy”, especially well-known in hockey circles.

The glue guy:
• is great in the room…
• keeps things light and loose and makes sure his teammates have a great time, cracking jokes, inventing crazy games, playing pranks…
• goes the extra mile to create a positive atmosphere.

Calm and easy-going, the glue guy defuses tension, leading everyone towards harmony and away from dissension.

On any NHL team the glue guy is super important, often more important than the flashy superstars - no matter how things are going on the ice, or what controversies are happening on and off the ice, glue guys hold the team together.
THEIR VALUE TO THE TEAM CANNOT BE OVERSTATED.
THAT WAS OUR MATT – MATT WAS OUR GLUE GUY.

You know what I’m talking about. No matter the setting, Matt would make one of his wisecracks, and follow it up with that classic Matt little giggle at his own joke, and no matter what was going on everyone would feel better, and we would love him even more.

We are so tight, that didn’t just happen automatically – it took work, and Matty was one of those guys who did the work, and as the glue guy he made us even tighter.


And of course his influence didn’t only extend to McGill Engineering settings.

He touched my family too – back in 2019 Matt and Julie were in New York City for a sci-fi book convention and I took Katie, then an adolescent. She’s a big reader and had read his books, and loved them. He gave her a bag of swag, and signed some stuff, including a CD of Cyberstorm, which Angela, Ross and I listened to on the drive up from Manhattan yesterday.

He was also a core part of his immediate and extended family to be sure, and so many other little groups, and sometimes he brought them all together and then he was a core part of the collective of groups, the super group! No more obvious example of that when we attended his and Julie’s amazing wedding in Mexico.

And through him we got to meet the great people he attracted, like Julie, and then Joey and Stacey, and so on. That’s the takeaway for me, that’s what we all have in common. Matt wasn’t only our glue guy, chances are he was yours too.

So now together we suffer this terrible loss. But just like it was after that first night, Matt will never not be a part of us.

And Julie, know that you, Charlotte and Jack will never not be a part of us.

And we are never not going to miss him terribly, but together we will move on.

I’ll close with words from a couple of geniuses like Matt, in art and science, that make me think of him.

Leonard Cohen
"There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in"
Leonardo DaVinci
“A beautiful body perishes, but a work of art dies not.”

RIP Matty

Enjoyed this speech? Speakola is a labour of love and I’d be very grateful if you would share, tweet or like it. Thank you.

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In SUBMITTED 4 Tags SANTO MANNA, FRIEND, MATTHEW MATHER, TRANSCRIPT, CANADA, LEONARD COHEN, LEONARDO DAVINCI, MCGILL UNIVERSITY, ENGINEERING, MCGILL ENGINEERING, NHL, GLUE GUY, FRIENDSHIP, EULOGY FOR A FRIEND
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For Douglas MacLeod: '‘What luck, what luck for all of us to have known him!, by Colleen Burke - 2021

May 25, 2022

Facebook won’t allow embed video. Visit link here and go to 2:11;20 to watch Colleen beautiful speech

3 December 2021, Victorian Pride Centre, Melbourne, Australia

Doug and Stephen have spoiled me rotten almost my entire adult life. When I was in my twenties, I told them I wanted a sperm cocktail if I wasn’t married with kids by the time I was 35. I didn’t care who was the Dad, you couldn’t choose one over the other.

‘DougnSteve’ has been one word for a long time: Doug who made laugh and Stephen who loves to laugh. If the baby was blonde or dark we’d know who the Dad was.

I learned about the world through both these men. I always thought of them as much, much older as they were, always so good at being adults. They’d take me to beautiful restaurants, to a 5-star resort and tell me stories about exotic things like mortgages and volcanoes. I’d often find a fiddy in my bag after visiting, to pay for a vet bill or a bald tyre when I thought acting in profit share plays was the way to go. They have always been there for me when pets, parents and people I loved died. ‘You know where we are, we are here,’ is Stephen’s most common phrase. Stephen who sends a thank you note if you had them over lunch. Who says “oh poor baby, when I had a cold” or some minor ailment. Anyway we’ve heard beautiful stories about Doug’s past and I’d like to talk about the end of the story for our storyteller, when the heroes shine through. Some of you know it and some of you won’t.

Doug had an amazing career but the most important part of Doug’s life was Stephen.

I’ve followed their love story for a very long time. They had been together for a short time when I was first smitten by Doug’s charms. It’s been a 40-year marriage that became official in 2018! Stephen would like to thank Magda for her contribution to marriage equality. Stephen had been a carer for Doug after his stroke for a long time, and Doug had survived his first bout of encephalitis when they got married. When Doug was in ICU the first time with this disease, surrounded by machines, the doctors were completely mystified, it took them quite a while to diagnose. Stephen was terrified, there were a million tubes and wires to Doug’s skull and Doug was delirious and when he told the nurses scurrying around him, “This is my boyfriend and this is my girlfriend, and they both like looking at naked men.” Anyway he made it through but he knew he had come close to dying that first round with encephalitis and was determined to marry his man.

His speech at their wedding was very typical of Doug, “there is enormous pressure on me as a writer to come up with the right words so I looked to the greats: I searched through the sonnets of Shakespeare, none of them were good enough for my Stephen; I looked to Chaucer, to Blake, none of them were right. So I looked to the words of the great…. Ronnie Barker: “What luck! What luck to have met this man, this beautiful, kind and sweet man, what luck, what luck!“

I’ve put up a photo of Doug with Sascha my dog. They had something special going on —we’d go for walks and Doug said he felt really powerful walking my wolf. Walking was still a challenge after his stroke. I took him to a bar for dinner in Fitzroy Street where the barman had invited me in previously, and made of a fuss of my dogs. I thought it would be fun for Doug. Anyway, it was a busy Friday night and the owner was pissed off because the dogs were taking up room as they do, spreading themselves out on the floor. He still served us dinner but he was grumpy, and as we were leaving Doug slipped him a 20 to thank him. That’s who Doug was, gracious and polite.

My dogs were a way to reach Doug when he had no words, when he was very ill. He could commune with Sascha but not Tinker so much…. her head was too big apparently. You will see them together later and thank goodness The Alfred and the rehab allows pets on the bed, on the white sheets, no questions asked. During that very harrowing time which, fortunately, Doug had little to no memory of, there were moments of great beauty where his soul, character and talent shone through. On the few occasions I visited him when Stephen wasn’t actually there, (Stephen would have to be almost terminal himself to not be there, he showed up from breakfast to dinner every day for a year bringing Doug delicacies and comfort, never leaving his side, you couldn’t drag him away). Anyway there was a time when Doug could only communicate in verse, he complemented me on fine attire, I can’t remember how he rhymed, something brilliant… and when Stephen called on the phone “You’re company to me is sweeter than wine” and another brilliant rhyme, I won’t even try. Apparently, this rhyming thing happens to other patients too but Doug sounded like Shakespeare. No wonder the nurses loved him

Another time he was really distressed as he could only hum — words weren’t coming out. The man who could repeat the script from a movie word for word after seeing it once, couldn’t speak! So I played him the humming chorus. He calmed down, the composer, the musician that he was, began humming the notes perfectly. A moment of great beauty. No wonder the nurses loved him.

Once he was really concerned, as he was convinced that every object in the rehab room was about to fly and he wanted me to leave to be safe. Our very own Dr Who episode. Stephen and Doug shared a great love, and Doug and I shared a great love of Dr Who. This is who he was even in his confusion, he wanted to put my safety above his. Doug always wanted to write a Dr Who episode. What a fucking cracker it would have been. Great beauty.

When Doug came down with encephalitis a second time, he came close to dying many times and the doctors were convinced he would never leave hospital. And the reason he survived this long is down to one thing, and one thing only — Stephen’s love, and his mantra “you’re getting better Douglas, You’re getting better”. Stephen who moved heaven and earth and brought in a High Court judge to bring him home after a year in hospital. And he gave Doug the best life he possibly could. Stephen who would bring books to any nurse in hospital who was kind to Doug, the nurse who took Doug for wheelies in his wheelchair, the nurse who took the time to hold Doug’s hand. Pretty much every nurse who cared for Doug would fall in love with this man, who was always polite and courteous even when he was in great pain.

Stephen created a family of carers in their home. ‘Home’ that sacred word. I’m bringing you home, Doug. They brought Doug joy; Andrew, Sachie and Nathan, their good friend David and the lady who brought cake, I’m sorry I can’t remember your name, all these amazing humans were Prozac to Doug. They showed up the day he died, showed up to his cremation and showed up today. I think true love is not that heady romance at the start of a relationship, it’s showing up every day as Stephen has done for the last 10 years when things were tough. Let’s face it, things the last three years were hellish. This man who is made of integrity and warmth and empathy. Who tethered the lifeline to Doug in his astronaut pyjamas and kept him going, kept him wanting to live. Despite all the pain that Doug was in, he just wanted to keep waking up and seeing Stephen’s face. I know you all want to show Stephen how sorry you are but keep it brief today. He’s keeping it together beautifully, but there’s years to come when you can show Stephen some love.

I’d like to thank everyone who has showed up today, who’ve given their time and brought their love. I’d like to pay tribute to the people at this amazing venue, the people on the front desk who were always so welcoming, to Justine the CEO who gave us so much time, to Ingrid the venue coordinator who bought those stunning rainbow cups for us to use, and to Dannii and to Michael from Joy FM who went above and beyond to make all this happen. I hope it’s the start of many marriages, celebrations and funerals for this community. What a gorgeous space for it to be held in.

When Doug was dying, I played him the humming chorus again. The doctors told us that hearing is the last sense to go. I thought I must sing, I must sing, bring him some comfort, but I’m really not a good singer. I started playing him my Spotify playlist on my phone, it was all so sudden, just to give him some music. Mama Cass came on — ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’. I tried to sing along. Poor Doug who we thought was unconscious raised his hand in an ‘oh god, make it stop’ motion. Stephen got more morphine for him. Doug had given his last bit of feedback which we all valued so much. I think the review of your life is who shows up to your funeral. The love of your life and a large group of beautiful friends.

What luck, what luck for all of us to have known him!

We love you Doug





Enjoyed this speech? Speakola is a labour of love and I’d be very grateful if you would share, tweet or like it. Thank you.

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In PUBLIC FIGURE D Tags DOUG MCLEOD, DOUGLAS MCLEOD, COLLEEN BURKE, FRIEND, COMEDY WRITER, ACTOR, TERMINAL ILLNESS, CARING, TRANSCRIPT, LGBTIQ, MARRIAGE EQUALITY, AUTHOR, THE COMEDY COMPANY, END OF LIFE
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for Michael Gordon: 'Decency coursed through his veins', by Fergus Hunter & Simon Balderstone - 2018

July 20, 2021

16 February 2015, MCG, Melbourne, Australia 

Fergus Hunter is the son of Simon Balderstone, a lifelong friend of Michael Gordon's, who also spoke beautifully at the memorial. (see below)

Most of the people gathered in this room today are probably here, ultimately, because of words. Powerful words and beautiful words and words of consequence – this was the life’s work of Michael Gordon, the man we loved and admired.

And it’s words that have really vexed me leading up to this because I’m not sure I can muster them to do justice to Micky. Funnily enough, I felt a similar unworthiness when sending him pars for the stories we worked on together over the last few years – stories and years that I treasure.

It was my great luck to have Micky around my entire life. He was like a brother to my father for over 40 years and, as a result, like family to me. He was a constant.

The last time I was in this room was three years ago for Harry’s service. Now Scotty – as is his right – has snatched one of my references and themes here. But I would add that Micky on that day also spoke of Harry’s humility and his ability to mix in any company as well as what Scotty quoted.

That same day, Les Carlyon said this about Harry. He said he could scold in print without being mean, he said his was always a human voice.

And the reason I quote that, again, is the obvious one: they’re describing Micky as well.

He was born from decency, he married it, he surrounded himself with it, he passed it on. Decency coursed through his veins. It twinkled in his eyes and radiated from his easy smile. It imbued every word that came out of his mouth or that he bashed out on a keyboard with those index fingers. When he gave you a famous Gordon hug, decency enveloped you.

That trait – and many others – guided him as a journalist and as a person, two identities that were pretty well intertwined.

A special achievement of his was to spend two decades examining Australia’s two darkest and most challenging issues and still emerge with the respect and admiration of a broad spectrum of people. Debates around Indigenous affairs and refugees are highly emotive and deeply complex, they make people very uncomfortable. But at the end of it all, Micky earned tributes from people like Tony Abbott right through to detainees on Manus Island.

You only achieve that by being as intensely respectful and likeable and reasonable and fair, as decent, as undeniable as Michael Gordon.

That weight also meant a lot of his stories on these things got a run or a better run because it was him writing them. He single handedly elevated important issues. That’s how he used his power. That’s what we’ve lost.

Micky was a lot of things to me. He was boisterous yum cha on grand final weekend, he was the papers spread out over the dining table, he was live music in St Kilda, he was bizarre IT issues in the office (I was only occasionally frustrated by that). He was Melbourne, he was The Age, he was football.

While he was like a second father or uncle for much of my life, I got to have him as a professional mentor and counsellor these last four years, a role I know he played for so many people. There was special poetry for me to get those bylines with him because my dad got those byline with him decades ago (not to age you, dad).

There was a column Micky wrote in 2016 that he was obviously very pleased with – he had that chuffed, humble, satisfied feeling about a column. It seems like he may have mentioned it to a few people. It was on the first anniversary of Malcolm Turnbull’s prime ministership and the main point of pride was that he had snuck in a couple of Neil Young references. You have probably picked up the Neil Young theme in the speeches.

“It’s better to burn out than to fade away,” he quoted.

The Saturday before last, Micky’s body – inexplicably, shockingly, unfairly – decided to burn out. This special man, this giant, didn’t fade away at all. Of course he didn’t. He inspired, scrutinised, and loved right to the end.

 

Simon Balderstone:

I think I made a strategic error, speaking after Paul (Kelly) singing, especially that song. But seriously, it’s great to follow my troubadour hero, as it completes a Keating – Mabo – Yothu Yindi – Paul Kelly - Mickey – Indigenous circle for me.

There are a thousand stories, a thousand memories, a thousand adjectives to put forward about Mickey, but I just want to in a few minutes provide a bit of a sketch pad, a bit of a framework and outline for you all to colour in, in your own ways.

It was obvious, right from the start, when I first met Mickey when he was the junior at the Industrial Relations round, at Trades Hall, and I had just started at the Age - 1977 – that he was going to be a top journo…and a great friend. I was drawn to that amiable, natural charm…the charm he showed towards everyone – no matter what their station. 

All the qualities he had, built on one another over the decades.

He was always, to so so many, a great role model, a great mentor, adviser, helper, friend…as an example, the parliamentary press gallery is pretty often dog eat dog, but Mickey got on with everyone.

He was chirpy but not cocky.

He was a worker bee, but definitely never a drone!

He was, as we’ve heard, seriously competitive, but not aggressive about it - well, occasionally in Sun vs Age footy matches! Also during runs around the lake, …he’d insist on doing interval work, and constantly broke the group ban on surging.

He was a sentimentalist, with traditions and routines - exercise routines; Grand Final weekends; cloud swallow dumplings; special lunches - carrying on Harry traditions – incl. the Harry lunch….we talked only two weeks ago about how we’d missed last year’s GF weekend but there was no way any of us were going to miss this year’s;  well before that, music weekends in Sydney , with the Cyril B Bunter band and a fledgling group called the Oils ….and special holidays, like Christmas or New Year at Currumbin; Bells Easter weekends – all we consumed were fish and chips and beers; and the weeks at Byron, or Noosa …

…. but as well as being a sentimentalist and loyal, …. he was also, always, open-minded, fresh-minded, for trying something new … (including being a pioneer when it came to surfing journalism, whether it be through Backdoor, or his column) ….

That applied to his music too – he had traditions, favourites…such as Neil Young of course, and The Beach Boys, esp. Brian Wilson, but was always on the lookout for new stuff too, to embrace. -  and he could spot talent too…. Way before she was famous, he spotted Tracy Chapman, singing in a bar in New York, and likewise, in the 80’s, with Paul Kelly, as Jim mentioned. He rang me from New York to tell me about this singer/songwriter, and how he’d just had a kick of footy with him in Central Park!

Micky was gentle and calm but also busy, even frenetic, (especially during what I called his “Club Mickey” days and routines, with activities, routines.…all day, somewhere, an activity to fit in, join in or do….…

He was never a showman - Mickey never made himself the yarn… Yet, as Paul Keating said…not a voyeur, but a participant in the best possible way… that phrase about of yours Paul, I know resonated deeply with Mickey….

He was worldly and wise -  but sometimes so sweetly naïve in his calmness:

When he was in Port Moresby for the South Pacific Forum in 2015, down a very dark road, one night…he and some colleagues were trapped by a RASCALS roadblock, made of 44-gallon drums …blocked in, with the driver desperately going this way and that to try to escape, the RASCALS closed in…Mickey wrote an “armed mob running towards us, pelting us with rocks” …wielding guns, knives. What Mickey didn’t write was that he said: “I’ll get out and calm them down”! –  there was a cacophony of “No way!” - No way Micky:  not everyone is always going to fall for that natural charm – The car blew a tyre, had its mirrors blown away, was damaged by missiles and clubs. But they eventually escaped, when a kind local moved some drums at a dark dead-end, and were protected again later by a copper with an M16 in his boot.

--

Micky got so many good stories, did so many great interviews, by being so decent and trustworthy…gentle, considered, he came away with much more information than some foot-in-the-door, badgering, Spanish-inquisition type journo…

…and also because of his trustworthiness - he never revealed a confidentiality, and “off-the-record” was “off-the-record” …one former polly said to me last week that Mickey never did the wrong thing, never went for target journalism, and always kept his sources secret (which made me realise that the polly must have been one!)

And even when he was naughty he was endearing…after very late nights at the non-members bar at Parliament House, Mickey thought the best way to avoid cops was to drive home to our house in Barrallier Street really slowly, creeping along the side of the road, even half off it…accordingly, the nature strips had to watch out, as did the shrubbery on them - and there was hell to pay on rubbish bin nights!

And Mickey has been so kind to me recently, when I’ve been a bit crook…. that lawn at Berrima which Ferg wrote about so well…the lawn Mickey mowed for us a couple of weeks ago…not sure whether to just let it grow now as a hay paddock, or mow it every second day to keep it Mickey perfect….

To Robyn, Scotty, Sarah, Sally, Johnny…all the family…you’re a remarkable family, full of kind, sweet, strong souls – and we’re there for you.

I’m trying to, as Mickey would say, “feel good, feel strong”.

Love you, Kid!

Enjoyed this speech? Speakola is a labour of love and I’d be very grateful if you would share, tweet or like it. Thank you.

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In PUBLIC FIGURE C Tags FERGUS HUNTER, MICHAEL GORDON, THE AGE, COLLEAGUE, MENTOR, FRIEND, FAMILY FRIEND, TRANSCRIPT
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Marc Termayne for Errol Ellis.png

for Errol Ellis: 'Errol was his own man, and he had his own expansive, big style', by Marc Tremayne - 2018

February 5, 2021

15 February 2018, Abbotsford Convent, Melbourne, Australia

Hi everyone. Yes I’m Marc Tremayne, believe it or not. Probably most of you would rather not!

What wonderful recollections and memories Andrea and Jen. Only loving sisters could imbue a delivery with such intimacy and warmth. Beau adored you both so much. Thank you both for sharing moments together with him.

Simon, Miff, Harry, Akira, Kip and extended family, our warmest expressions go out to you all.

Beau was enigmatic, a contradiction in so many ways. I mean exactly how long is a piece of string? For a start where do you start? Evanescent and yet ever present. Full of whimsy and yet never flimsy in his approach to addressing things. Or perhaps undressing things! His wit was it!

Beau could be stubborn too and if he became entrenched with an idea, to extricate him from that viewpoint was like ripping a rusty nail from a bit of lumber – and that is very very difficult…..and the corollary to that was his warmth and capacity which were just remarkable.

We had many good times together. We studied at Swinburne very poorly and very very briefly – Appalling Students! We were chucked out. And we just continued partying – Errol was a great party animal. He loved gatherings, he loved people. He was very gregarious. He syncopated, and he resonated, and everybody loved him because Errol loved himself…..(laughter)…..

He did love himself, he was a great host…I think that with Beau, if ever you were at a party and Beau’s, and Anne’s, if the wine glass was at less than 85% capacity he’d be personally offended. Your wine glass was continually topped up and he always made sure you had the most delicious time. Experiencing his particular sense of personal abundance, because Errol was abundant. He’s irreplaceable.

He wasn’t a conveyor belt dude. I had a friend who was working in TV dinners – he was putting the carrot in compartment five. Well Errol wasn’t like that. Errol was his own man, and he had his own expansive, big style. His photo on the little brochure here, that’s Robert De Niro I reckon walking along the beach. He was debonair and charming, alluring and captivating. Whenever he was talking to you, you were the only person he was talking to, he wasn’t talking to the entire village, or talking to himself. He was talking to you personally, and you just melted into his sincerity and his authenticity and his uncomplicated love.

We had some (good) weird times together Beau…. (much laughter)….I just remembered something that popped up. After probably the ‘Thumping Tum’ or ‘Sebastians’, we were cruising down South rd in the wee hours one wintry morning, and we were in that Morris thing with a dicky seat in the back. Anyway we were rocketing down there, full steam ahead at about 50ks an hour, on tissue thin wheels, on undernourished tyres, the wheels were wobbling and the only ventilation was through bullet holes in the thing. I’m not sure how many rocks had hit it, they went straight through the tin, it was so thin. Right in front of us, a milk cart presented itself - a massive Clydesdale, a dray, tons of milk, right in front of us. We had milliseconds to think. We just closed our eyes and miraculously we translated through this ignominious situation…and ended up on the other side. Errol was navigating. And I never looked back in the rear vision mirror and wondered what happened to the bloody milkman or the cart or the consignment of milk. That’s Beau…what happened there I don’t know. I’ve got no idea.

Another time, Anne was telling me. She was saying “You know, one day Marc, Errol went out to buy a hamburger with a mate when he was hungry, and came back with a bloody Mercedes!” That’s quintessentially Errol. How about that. The dextrous efforts he went through to extricate himself from that dilemma……with the speed of a proverbial thousand gazelles. He was most relieved because he had a big obligation on the car, this Mercedes, all for a hamburger coupon. Can you believe that?

I don’t want to really stay much longer. I could talk and talk for quite a while. The memories keep trickling and trickling like the proverbial spring flower.

Errol was almost messianic. I mean that in the most sincere sense. He had an aura about him. A diaphanous quality, which seemed to draw you in. You’d always be enlarged by your exposure to this wonderfully unique, engaging and charming genius, for that’s what I think he was and I’m going to miss him so much. And I’m honoured to have the opportunity of talking about him, not in a cavalier, but a very respectful way.

I want to mention one other thing too, and this is a big one with Errol. He was one of the first conscientious objectors – geez he had guts! He went through so much trauma, so much drama, so much cruelty and unkindness and he stuck to his guns – he wouldn’t budge. That was Beau. He did that and he was eventually discharged from the army. I think there was a bloke named Peter Redlich, and he represented him and he got him discharged from the bloody army! As Groucho Marx said “There’s military justice and there’s justice, there’s military music and there’s music”.

Simon was going to take Errol to the wonderful Roger Waters show. You know Simon, he would have loved it. He probably DID love it. He would have been there, that’s for certain.

Something about Groucho Marx, and Errol loved Groucho Marx. He said in his letter of resignation to the golf club that “I couldn’t imagine being a member of any club that would accept me!” That was a bit like Beau.

I think often Errol under expressed himself, and he was always giving those around him an abundance and a feast, a cornucopia of opportunity and possibility. He was historical, he was charming, he was eccentric, he was faithful, he was naughty, he was intelligent, he was a one-off. You won’t find another Errol. God bless you Errol!


Enjoyed this speech? Speakola is a labour of love and I’d be very grateful if you would share, tweet or like it. Thank you.

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In SUBMITTED 4 Tags ERROL ELLIS, MARC TREMAYNE, TRANSCRIPT, FRIEND, EUL, FUNNY, AD LIB
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For Robin Williams: 'This guy comes in and we're like a morning dew, he comes in like a hurricane', by David Letterman - 2014

June 22, 2020

Well, thank you ladies and gentlemen. Thank you.
I guess like a lot of us, most of us, I've been thinking about Robin Williams, I believe we found out a week ago that he had died. Many things come to mind in a situation like this. And of course, more questions are raised than can possibly be answered, but I started reflecting about it.
I knew Robin Williams for 38 years. 38 years, which in and of itself is crazy. How time...
I met him at The Comedy Store. He and I were kids along... It was myself and Jay Leno and Tom Dreesen and Tim Thomason and Johnny Dark and Elayne Boosler and on and on and Jimmy Walker. We were all out there at The Comedy Store and we wanted to make people laugh. We wanted to get on The Tonight Show. We wanted something because we all felt that we're funny. In those days, we were working for free drinks. Some were working for more free drinks than others, but.
So what you would do is you would go on stage and then you do your little skits and then you would come off stage. If there was a new guy coming on, you'd want to stick around and make fun of the new guy.

Paul: Sure.

David Letterman: Because we were all worried that, "Oh, somebody else is coming in who's really funny." And then we'll have to go back, in my case, to Indiana.

Paul: Yes.

David Letterman: I can remember the night my friend, George Miller and I, who was a very funny comic and was on this show many times, we were at The Comedy Store and they introduce Robin Williams. For some reason in the beginning, he was introduced as being from Scotland. They said he was Scottish.

Paul: I see
.
David Letterman: Now we're stumped. We don't know. There's a Scottish guy, really, coming to the United States? So we were feeling pretty smug about our position right away, because it's going to be haggis and that kind of crap. So we're relaxed. We're ready to go. All of a sudden, he comes up on stage and you know what it is. It's like nothing we had ever seen before. Nothing we had ever imagined before. We go home at night and are writing our little jokes about stuff. And this guy comes in and we're like a morning dew, he comes in like a hurricane.

Now, the longer he's onstage, the worse we feel about ourselves because it's not stopping. And then he finishes and I thought, "Oh, that's it. They're going to have to put an end to show business because what can happen after this?" And then we get to see this night after night after night. We didn't approach him because we were afraid of him. Honest to God. You thought, "Holy crap, there goes my chance at show business because of this guy from Scotland."

And then like a shot out of a cannon, he goes and he's on the Happy Days show. And then from the Happy Days show, he gets to be on Mork & Mindy. Now, there's some structure to his life. He's not at The Comedy Store every night because he's got an actual job. So the rest of us can pretend that it never happened. But yet, then he goes from Mork & Mindy and then he starts to making movie after movie after movie. He's nominated four times for an Academy Award. It wasn't really until Paul and I started the NBC version of this show, which by the way, is still running in Mexico.

Paul: It is.

David Letterman: Very popular. But it wasn't until then that I sort of got to really know Robin Williams, because he would come on to promote movies or concerts or whatever he was talking about. He was always so gracious. We would talk about the old times and never did he act like, "Oh, I knew you guys were scared because I was so good." It was just a pleasure to know the guy. He was a gentleman and delightful. Even in the old days, he was kind enough to ask me to appear on his Mork & Mindy show. Now, this is a double edged sword because he did it only because he was trying to help other fledgling, starting out comics.

Paul: Make sense.

David Letterman: Right. The other side of the sword is I had no business being on that show. I have no business being on this show. But he was nice. He gave me a job. So in those days, jobs were hard to come by. And there I was, and I was on Mork & Mindy. I can remember between the dress rehearsal and the actual taping of the show, the director of the program, Howard, Howard, Howard Shore-

Paul: Howard Storm.

David Letterman: Storm. Howard Storm comes up to me and he says, "Well, you've been trying all week." He says, "This is your last chance."
So even to the detriment of the show, Robin was kind enough to invite me to come on because he thought, "Why can't I spread this around and have some of my friends sharing my success," which is exactly what he did. He then was on our show, the show, in the old show, a total of nearly 50 times.

Paul: Total of 50 times?

David Letterman: 50 times. 50 times. Two things would happen because Robin was on the program. One, I didn't have to do anything. All I had to do was sit here and watch the machine. And two, people would watch. If they knew Robin was on the show, the viewership would go up because they wanted to see Robin. Believe me, that wasn't just true of television. I believe that was true of the kind of guy he was. People were drawn to him because of this electricity. This, whatever it was that he radiated that propelled him and powered him.

And then he came on when I came back after my heart surgery, Robin was nice enough to come on that night. And it was very, very funny and very, very appropriate. Here's a picture that I will now cherish even more than I had previously. There are four people right there. Two of which wildly funny, insanely funny, two are not.

The handsome woman there is Mitzi Shore. She owned The Comedy Store. We all, the three of us, worked there. I think Robin and I, it'd be safe to say, we started there. Richard Pryor was already Richard Pryor, but he would work there. The guy in the middle, I trimmed hedges.

Paul: Yeah. Oh, well.

David Letterman: So we would like to... We put together a segment of Robin Williams appearances. Moreover, more than anything, it will make you laugh. Really, that's what we should take from this is he could make you laugh under any circumstances. Here he is on our show.

[Clips]


God bless you, my friend.
Well, what I will add here is beyond being a very talented man and a good friend and a gentlemen, I'm sorry. Like everybody else, I had no idea that the man was in pain, that the man was suffering. But what a guy. Robin Williams. We'll be right back, ladies and gentlemen.


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In PUBLIC FIGURE D Tags DAVID LETTERMAN, THE LATE SHOW WITH DAVID LETTERMAN, TRANSCRIPT, ROBIN WILLIAMS, EULOGY, TRIBUTE, TELEVISION EULOGY, DEPRESSION, SUICIDE, FRIEND, COMEIDANS, THE COMEDY STORE, RICHARD PRYOR, MORK & MINDY, HAPPY DAYS
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Three firends: Jessica, Linda and Divya

Three firends: Jessica, Linda and Divya

For Jessica Chan: 'Laugh as much as you breathe', by Divya Emanuel - 2015

May 12, 2020

15 January 2015, Our Lady of Lourdes Church, Singapore

Laugh as much as you breathe
Love as long as you live

These two lines sum up Jessica. She always had a smile on her face, laughed loudly and heartily. She spoke with passion and with such vehemence you wouldn't want to cross words with her. She loved food, friends and family. She was an impassioned Singaporean who showed us, her motley group of friends what true Singapore hospitality was.

She had a fiery temper, loved possessively and dearly and disliked with just as much fervor. She picked her friends carefully, but once inside her circle, it was a very special bond to be wrapped in.

Before I met Jess, our sons who were 6 months old were friends first. Jess used to bring Julian to the Bayshore clubhouse and my mum used to take my son there. While the boys played, Jess and my mum became friends. When my mum left for India, she asked me to go meet this lady Jess. One morning I went to the clubhouse, little knowing I was going to make a friend for life. So, thank you to 2 little boys here, for giving their mummies' such a beautiful journey to experience.

Life with Jessica was one big party. She organized endless events for the group. We participated in Christmas day lavish dinner, Chinese New Year open house, Julian’s birthday bash, Lantern festival, Halloween, all happening year after year. In between all that there were BBQs, trips to Pula Ubin and food trails to explore. She not only loved her friends dearly; she extended that love to our families every time they visited Singapore. If one thing shows in all of this, it was her energy and zest for life. She embraced it and made the best of her very short, young life.

When she was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer early last year in March 2014 at 46, Linda and I sat crying by her side ...she cried with us but by then had sorted this disease in her head. She told us her life had been full & complete and she had no regrets. She married the love of her life, travelled, had Julian her miracle child and lived in a landed house, a Singapore dream. She accepted her fate and felt blessed for the life she had enjoyed.

Jessica's threshold for pain was very low and her wish was to pass away quickly. Unfortunately, her suffering was long and painful. Watching her these last couple of months, was the hardest thing to do.

Her pain is finally over. She was robbed of a full life, and has gone too early from us but as she lays peaceful, I know she's always going to be present among us , dishing out her worldly wisdom because that's what ten glorious years with her has given us - beautiful memories to love, cherish and hold onto.
We will miss you forever Jess .


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In SUBMITTED 4 Tags DIVYA EMANUEL, FRIEND, MOTHER'S GROUP, CANCER, MOTHER, SINGAPORE, LAUGHTER, LOVE, TOO SOON
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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

December 10, 2019

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.’

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In SUBMITTED 3 Tags RON WOOTTON, IAN MASON, CAMBERWELL GRAMMAR SCHOOL, PRIVATE SCHOOL, SCHOOLMASTER, WATER POLO, SPORT, FRIEND, COLLEAGUE, TEACHER
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Allan Zavod in dinner suit about 2000.jpg

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

June 5, 2019

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.

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In SUBMITTED 3 Tags ALLAN ZAVOD, ALAN FINKEL, MUSICIAN, COMPOSER, FRIEND, JAZZ-CLASSICAL FUSION
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for Greg Templeton: 'A friendship like that is rare – and it will last me this lifetime', by Penny Thomas - 2018

December 22, 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


Source: https://vimeo.com/307165852

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

December 22, 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’

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Rachel and Paul at Kylie Minogue concert, 2015

Rachel and Paul at Kylie Minogue concert, 2015

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

December 16, 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.

MemorialCard.jpg

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for James Baldwin: 'Jimmy. You crowned us', by Toni Morrison - 1988

August 15, 2018

20 December 1987, published New York Times, USA

Jimmy, there is too much to think about you, and too much to feel. The difficulty is your life refuses summation - it always did - and invites contemplation instead. Like many of us left here I thought I knew you. Now I discover that in your company it is myself I know. That is the astonishing gift of your art and your friendship: You gave us ourselves to think about, to cherish. We are like Hall Montana* watching ''with new wonder'' his brother saints, knowing the song he sang is us, ''He is us.''

I never heard a single command from you, yet the demands you made on me, the challenges you issued to me, were nevertheless unmistakable, even if unenforced: that I work and think at the top of my form, that I stand on moral ground but know that ground must be shored up by mercy, that ''the world is before [ me ] and [ I ] need not take it or leave it as it was when [ I ] came in.''

Well, the season was always Christmas with you there and, like one aspect of that scenario, you did not neglect to bring at least three gifts. You gave me a language to dwell in, a gift so perfect it seems my own invention. I have been thinking your spoken and written thoughts for so long I believed they were mine. I have been seeing the world through your eyes for so long, I believed that clear clear view was my own. Even now, even here, I need you to tell me what I am feeling and how to articulate it. So I have pored again through the 6,895 pages of your published work to acknowledge the debt and thank you for the credit. No one possessed or inhabited language for me the way you did. You made American English honest - genuinely international. You exposed its secrets and reshaped it until it was truly modern dialogic, representative, humane. You stripped it of ease and false comfort and fake innocence and evasion and hypocrisy. And in place of deviousness was clarity. In place of soft plump lies was a lean, targeted power. In place of intellectual disingenuousness and what you called ''exasperating egocentricity,'' you gave us undecorated truth. You replaced lumbering platitudes with an upright elegance. You went into that forbidden territory and decolonized it, ''robbed it of the jewel of its naivete,'' and un-gated it for black people so that in your wake we could enter it, occupy it, restructure it in order to accommodate our complicated passion - not our vanities but our intricate, difficult, demanding beauty, our tragic, insistent knowledge, our lived reality, our sleek classical imagination - all the while refusing ''to be defined by a language that has never been able to recognize [ us ] .'' In your hands language was handsome again. In your hands we saw how it was meant to be: neither bloodless nor bloody, and yet alive.

It infuriated some people. Those who saw the paucity of their own imagination in the two-way mirror you held up to them attacked the mirror, tried to reduce it to fragments which they could then rank and grade, tried to dismiss the shards where your image and theirs remained - locked but ready to soar. You are an artist after all and an artist is forbidden a career in this place; an artist is permitted only a commercial hit. But for thousands and thousands of those who embraced your text and who gave themselves permission to hear your language, by that very gesture they ennobled themselves, became unshrouded, civilized.

The second gift was your courage, which you let us share: the courage of one who could go as a stranger in the village and transform the distances between people into intimacy with the whole world; courage to understand that experience in ways that made it a personal revelation for each of us. It was you who gave us the courage to appropriate an alien, hostile, all-white geography because you had discovered that ''this world [ meaning history ] is white no longer and it will never be white again.'' Yours was the courage to live life in and from its belly as well as beyond its edges, to see and say what it was, to recognize and identify evil but never fear or stand in awe of it. It is a courage that came from a ruthless intelligence married to a pity so profound it could convince anyone who cared to know that those who despised us ''need the moral authority of their former slaves, who are the only people in the world who know anything about them and who may be, indeed, the only people in the world who really care anything about them.'' When that unassailable combination of mind and heart, of intellect and passion was on display it guided us through treacherous landscape as it did when you wrote these words - words every rebel, every dissident, revolutionary, every practicing artist from Capetown to Poland from Waycross to Dublin memorized: ''A person does not lightly elect to oppose his society. One would much rather be at home among one's compatriots than be mocked and detested by them. And there is a level on which the mockery of the people, even their hatred, is moving, because it is so blind: It is terrible to watch people cling to their captivity and insist on their own destruction.''

The third gift was hard to fathom and even harder to accept. It was your tenderness - a tenderness so delicate I thought it could not last, but last it did and envelop me it did. In the midst of anger it tapped me lightly like the child in Tish's** womb: ''Something almost as hard to catch as a whisper in a crowded place, as light and as definite as a spider's web, strikes below my ribs, stunning and astonishing my heart . . . the baby, turning for the first time in its incredible veil of water, announces its presence and claims me; tells me, in that instant, that what can get worse can get better . . . in the meantime - forever - it is entirely up to me.'' Yours was a tenderness, of vulnerability, that asked everything, expected everything and, like the world's own Merlin, provided us with the ways and means to deliver. I suppose that is why I was always a bit better behaved around you, smarter, more capable, wanting to be worth the love you lavished, and wanting to be steady enough to witness the pain you had witnessed and were tough enough to bear while it broke your heart, wanting to be generous enough to join your smile with one of my own, and reckless enough to jump on in that laugh you laughed. Because our joy and our laughter were not only all right, they were necessary.

You knew, didn't you, how I needed your language and the mind that formed it? How I relied on your fierce courage to tame wildernesses for me? How strengthened I was by the certainty that came from knowing you would never hurt me? You knew, didn't you, how I loved your love? You knew. This then is no calamity. No. This is jubilee. ''Our crown,'' you said, ''has already been bought and paid for. All we have to do,'' you said, ''is wear it.''

And we do, Jimmy. You crowned us.

* A character in ''Just Above My Head'';

** a character in ''If Beale Street Could Talk''; two novels by James Baldwin.

Source: http://www.nytimes.com/books/98/03/29/spec...

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In PUBLIC FIGURE C Tags TONI MORRISON, JAMES BALDWIN, FIREND, FRIEND, AUTHOR, TRANSCRIPT, OBITUARY
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for Timothy Trant Martyn: 'Our lives are but a gentle wind that quickly passes', by Brendan Sheehan - 2017

January 10, 2018

23 December 2017, Melbourne, Australia

It’s said that our lives are but a gentle wind that quickly passes. But in passing, a wind touches all in its path. And so it was with Tim’s life: in some way he touched all of us here today, and many others beside. 

I once remarked to his mum that Tim struck me as the Kennedy of the family: • Absurdly good looking • Smart • And infused with an ethos of public service. An ethos of public service is a fine thing in a person, showing an underlying quality of generosity. Everyone today in their remarks have referred in some way to the spirit of generosity that characterised Tim. He was generous in his personal relations with other people and with that he was gentle and humourous, which is not at all to say soft.

This generosity was evident, of course, in his working life, where his commitment was to social justice. We’ve heard today of his time at Jesuit Social Services and then for the UN Food and Agricultural Organisation, particularly in the South Pacific but also Africa. Robert Kennedy said that some men see things as they are and ask “why?’. But I dream of things that never were and ask “why not?”

Looking at Tim’s life, you can see that see that Tim asked a further indispensable question: How? In addressing the how question, Tim brought an invaluable quality to the table. His whip smart sister Melissa described Tim as being whip smart. Let’s call it “curiosity”. Tim was curious about the world around him.

You can see on his Facebook posts his curiosity about the natural world and, indeed, his wonderment. And he was both curious and questioning about the interaction of people and the way life works. He recognised that, outside the privileged enclave of the Western world, the way the world works is pretty harsh. By any measure, Tim would be regarded as socially and politically progressive. Mick, his grandad, his Sopa, would have been proud of this. But equally Mick would have been proud of Tim’s open mind, his practical bent.

Tim didn’t blindly accept nostrums: he would actively play the devil’s advocate to test both his own understanding and that of the person he was talking with. I have to admit that was a bit annoying – he was always so damned reasonable about it. So Tim wasn’t a slave to any particular ideology, unless you classify “commitment to social justice” as ideology. Tim recognised that there are gradations in every social situation and that perceptions need to be so filtered, responses need to be nuanced and appropriate to the situation.

In particular, he understood cultural context: the way we perceive property, wealth, income and their apportionment is not the way, say, Fijians see these things. Let’s just say that Tim was committed to both empowering the communities he worked in and with, and to achieving a better and fairer economic distribution for the labour of these communities.

Tim was fortunate in his early life. Ro and Gavin provided a loving and caring environment and imbued in Tim the values and qualities which we are commemorating today. The Sheehan-Martyn family, the Martyn-Sheehan family – Ro and Gavin – have an extraordinary conception of and commitment to family. That was of such benefit to Tim growing up and carried over into Tim’s adult life.

Tim was a big personality and he needed in his life an equally big personality to sustain him. He found that person in Sarah – and I assume that it worked the other way: Tim sustained Sarah. Tim and Sarah created a life together and then came Sizzy. There’s no way that words can capture or portray that love Tim had for Sizzy. To you Sarah, I say you were born and remain a Gwonyama but when you married Tim, you became also a member of the Martyn family…and by association so too of the Sheehans and Lowreys. You’re one of us Sarah, always know that and make sure Sizzy understands that as he grows up.

A couple of years ago Tim took this photo of a sunset over the ocean, off Broome.

sunset tim eulogy.JPG

It’s a unique moment in time, as seen and captured by Tim, but the moment has passed by, like a gentle wind. The photo put me in mind of a line from the Buddhist Heart Sutra:

gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate …gone, gone, gone to the further shore, gone completely to the further shore.

Tim has gone from us to the further shore. It is profoundly sad that we won’t feel again the gentle wind that was Tim’s life among us. But just as Tim’s photo captured a unique moment in time, our minds carry our memories of Tim’s unique life and our hearts carry continuing love for him.

So it is. Requiescat in Pace

Timothy Trant Martyn 23 February 1979 - 12 December 2017

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In SUBMITTED 3 Tags TIM MARTIN, BRENDAN SHEEHAN, FRIEND, A GENTLE WIND, TRANSCRIPT
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for Fiona Richardson: 'Tanja, she’s mad! Way too intense…..You’re too nice to work for her…', by Tanja Kovac - 2017

September 5, 2017

28 August 2017, Melbourne, Australia

Fiona Richardson MP was a Victorian ALP Minister for Women and the Prevention of Family Violence. She died relatively suddenly from cancer in August 2017. Tanja Kovac was her Chief of Staff. Tanja is National Co-Convenor of EMILY's List Australia, a financial, political and personal support network for progressive Labor women in Parliament.

I didn’t know Fiona Richardson MP before I went to work for her.

A respected and at times feared factional warrior from the Victorian Right, Fiona’s reputation as a fierce political operative preceded her. I understood the kind of tenacity and toughness it took to mix it with the faceless men of the ALP. Fiona had not only survived in that culture she had thrived. She’d even married into it, forming a formidable partnership with former Victorian ALP State Secretary Stephen Newnham.

A couple of days before taking a job as her Senior Advisor in the new Andrews Government, I bumped into Labor mates at the soccer who were shocked when I said I was going into her Ministerial Office.

“Tanja, she’s mad! Way too intense…..You’re too nice to work for her…”

At the same time I would later find out that Fiona was being told similar things. About me. "You can't employ her. She's a feminazi. She's in the Left!"

The more people warned us away; the more we gravitated to each other. Bad-ass bitches, she loved freaking people out whenever we strode together - Left/Right - on a mission.

She brought me in for gender and legal expertise to help manage her Women and Family Violence Prevention portfolios. I stayed and became her Chief because we found in each other a kindred spirit.

It’s one thing to be a Women’s Minister; yet another to invest in women while doing it. Fiona built an all woman Ministerial Office - a coven of witches - all deeply loyal to her. A passionate, pro-choice feminist, unafraid to speak her mind, I focussed on supporting her to be the best leader she could be.

It was a dream job. I wished I’d kept the note she wrote to me on my first day. "We’ll do this as a team”. And so we did. I regret that it took so long for us to find each other. I needed Fiona in my life earlier – a powerhouse political mentor and ally.

My greatest achievement as her Chief of Staff was to get her to finally accept my hugs and spontaneous praise whenever she gave an awesome speech or did something else amazing (which was often). She was a prickly pear, no doubt a physical manifestation of the family violence she had experienced as a child. I wore her down until she hugged me back. It's how I know the love was mutual.

We travelled to New Zealand and New York together to check out innovative family violence services while we waited for the Royal Commission into Family Violence to hand down its findings. We saw many things that inspired us on those trips. But we also had time to get to know each other. It felt very comfortable roaming the streets of a foreign place, talking about our families, kids and politics.

I discovered her eccentricities. The preference for barefeet, the secret love for all things spiritual. She didn't smoke. She didn't drink. She didn't eat meat. She'd fought breast cancer.

She was complex.

An intuitive, intellectual, innovative, ideas person.
A fearless, fearsome, fragile, factional warrior.
A loyal, loving, larrikin, Labor lady.

She was Boadaceia Fi!

Tennyson described the ancient woman warrior “Standing loftily charioted, Mad and Maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility”.

This is how I think of her: The get-away-with-anything-blonde, with steely blue eyes and patrician tallness. So politically sharp it was dangerous to be around you. A true leader.

She loved ideas. Hers came partly from political nous, but also intuition. It was a wholly powerful combination.

Fiona worked with Rosie Batty on anti-family violence initiatives. (Image supplied.)

It's no accident that she provided the intellectual policy genius in two key areas of Andrews Government Reform - the removal of dangerous Level Crossings and, of course, Family Violence Reform.

She achieved so much in a short space of time.

Overseeing the Royal Commission into Family Violence, getting Respectful Relationships into the State Curriculum, family violence leave for our public sector workers, funding Victoria against Violence and turning the state orange and developing the state’s first Gender Equality Strategy – which the whole nation is now emulating! Her decision to talk about her own family's experience of violence on Australian Story took guts. She touched the lives of so many people. The whole country got to understand why she was such a fearless champion for victim-survivors.

No-one was more destined to be the nation’s first Family Violence Prevention Minister.

What she did for Rosie Batty. Quietly. No fanfare. She’s so grateful. Fiona had unfinished business.

Before she died she was working to create a Family Violence Prevention Agency to change attitudes and behaviours towards violence in the home within a generation. She planned dedicated and long term funding for prevention, protected by legislation. It would be a world first. Now Fiona's Law, as I will think of it, rests with good women and men across Victorian Parliament, to fulfil her legacy.

 

For those wishing to financially support Fiona's legacy, make donations to Safe Steps Family Violence Response Centre safesteps.org.au or the Luke Batty Foundation lukebattyfoundation.org.au.

 

Source: https://www.mamamia.com.au/fiona-richardso...

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In PUBLIC FIGURE B Tags TANJA KOVAC, CHEIF OF STAFF, FRIEND, FIONA RICHARDSON, POLITICIAN, EMILY'S LIST, WOMEN, TRANSCRIPT, EULOGY, OBITUARY
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for Shelli Whitehurst: 'She bitch-slapped cancer so hard', by Wendy Hargreaves - 2017

July 30, 2017

28 July 2017, Elsternwick, Melbourne, Australia

My first glimpse of Shelli Whitehurst was through a crowd of freeloaders at a restaurant launch here in Melbourne. Shelli was holding court with a huddle of listeners.

Melbourne’s queen of social media was in the house.

I was with the old-school journos on the other side of the room. Back then, there was always a line in the sand… bloggers and journos never mixed.

But I was drawn to Shelli like a moth to a flame – like all of you.

There was this energy about her. It almost fizzed over. And if she allowed you into her orbit, you got a big fat dose of that energy, and then some.

Even on her darkest days, Shelli impacted the world. She was like a magic pill for any problem in her path.

Shelli’s amazing surgeon Chantel Thornton nailed it with this comment:

“Sometimes people enter our lives that will change the way we think. Michelle Whitehurst was one of those women – a woman of integrity, enormous courage and incredible tenacity for life. I have been privileged to be a part of your medical team.”

I have to agree. It really was a privilege to know Shelli… to be one of her people.
She loved introducing us to each other, and making magic happen.

Just ask Jenny and Chris… introduced by Shelli and now engaged to be married over in Shelli’s spiritual home, the U.S of A. Or Marty and Adam – not a romantic coupling, but brought together by Shelli to open the ridiculously successful South Press in Toorak Rd.

And let’s not forget Shelli’s other magic superpower - problem solving. I’ve lost count of the number of times Shelli pulled my head out of arse in times of strife and gave me a plan. And I know I’m not alone.

Shelli’s wonderful cousin Brendan and his partner Dean won’t mind me telling you that Shelli pushed and shoved them into following their hearts to start a new business (For My Petz in Yarraville… if you have fur babies, it’s fabbo).

Shelli had a gift for making lists and getting shit done. I’m sure many of you have been bossed around by Shelli. She’s given me so much hell for faffing about. There were never any excuses. World domination or don’t bother.

Ask Kimberlee Wells, a friend from Shelli’s advertising days. She said:

“We had big dreams of world domination. Kept the walls coloured with post-it notes. Had the private jet on order. Drank only in large format. And laughed and loved for more than 20 years. Shelli’s kindness and impact had no boundaries. And now, nor does her spirit.”

There were similar sentiments from Shelli’s biggest hero, New York advertising guru Cindy Gallup, who sent me a message saying Shelli would be kicking ass in heaven as much as she kicked ass here.

Shelli lived large and played hard, with a charisma that demanded attention.

Shelli was fierce, and nobody’s fool. And she knew how to enjoy life.

Like when she went for a foot massage with her mate Teela in Atlanta. Shelli enjoyed it so much that she ordered her masseur to start over again. And she wasn’t joking.

Others tell of Shelli’s antics in sparkly Minnie Mouse ears at SXSW, or hitting New York in her Tiffany & Co Nikes in the robin egg blue colour she loved so much.

Melissa remembers a 6pm dinner date with Shelli at Di Stasio, only drawing breath at midnight when the waiters turned the lights out. Those men in white jackets had been politely polishing glasses for at least an hour before hitting the lights.

That was how Shelli rolled. Deep communication was her jam.

When she was planning a visit to her dear friend Tom Miale in New York a few years ago, she got the ball rolling by demanding he cook a fancy meal. It became a running joke. She’d say stuff like… "Tom, I won't be happy unless there is a parade of shirtless men constantly pouring me bubbles.” When it came time to choose a meal, Shelli chose a much simpler affair - steak.

This is how Tom tells the story:

“Shelli arrived at home with bearing gifts for all - toys for my two children and about $200 worth of gourmet cheese for my wife and I. She said ‘I couldn't choose, so I bought all the cheese at the shop’. After a simple meal with some good wine, and loads of cheese, I asked her why she chose something as simple as steak for dinner. "She said, ‘I'm tired of the fancy stuff. Tonight, I need a meat-and-potato meal with a family’. To me, that interaction was who Shelli was. She appreciated the good stuff, she was always the life of the party, she loved to jet-set around the world, she never turned down an invitation to a fancy restaurant, but at her core she was most happy having simple, intimate interactions with friends and family. I can honestly say that I don't know anyone else that had as many close friends and family all over the world.”

If Shelli called you a friend, she’d give and give and give. Then she’d give some more. She even turned her cancer diagnosis into an act of giving, helping countless others with the extraordinary Kit for Cancer.

And she gives hope with her clever catch cries – like that amazing line broken crayons still colour. Shelli’s communication skills were legendary.

And she was always coming up with big ideas, more recently at 2 or 3 in the morning while talking to a dozen of her insomniac mates at once on Messenger.

Her notebooks bulged with them, and some were on the cheeky side, like the phone app called “Plus One” she plotted with a certain top restaurateur about town… a portal to hook up single professionals with hot and suitably sophisticated plus-ones so they never have to turn up anywhere alone (and no, it wasn’t an escort agency, but if things got saucy, the customers were all grown ups).

Shelli’s latest project, Because We Can, was all about generosity, sharing cool stuff and celebrating joyfulness with her connections around the world.

Wouldn’t it be a wonderful if Shelli’s global network continued disrupting shit on her behalf?
If you’re lucky enough to be one of Shelli’s people, it’s now your job to stay connected and dream big. And more importantly… don’t be scared to fail.

She gave this lesson to my teenage daughters Vivienne and Lauren, sneaking away for secret conversations on the importance of big dreams and open hearts. My girls loved her like an aunty, and have promised to make her proud.

On one of my many insomniac chats with Shelli on Messenger, she made me promise to make today’s send-off about her good bits – not dwelling on cancer.

Turns out, she asked the same of her friend Marty, who said:
“Shelli wanted me to make sure that we all didn’t remember her as a sick person, but as someone who was an entrepreneur, someone who was witty, someone who was successful and someone who was an incredible amount of fun. Shelli was every one of these before she was sick but more importantly she was all of these while she was sick.

"I don’t know of anyone else who would make their sickness into one of her projects, to ensure that no one would go through it like her.

"This in itself speaks of her courage and strength to always reach for the stars, knowing that when she got there it may benefit others more than her. This is why her legacy will live on.”

Beautiful words Marty.

Shelli will be all of those things and more, for those who knew her, and for a whole heap of people who didn’t.

To Betty and Don… I hope these words help you understand the sheer size of the huge tsunami of love out there for your beautiful daughter.

Finally, let me quote another one of Shelli’s US friends, Jeff Loya. I’ve followed Shelli’s wishes and avoided the dreaded C word for most of this eulogy, but I can’t resist this quote:

“She didn’t die from cancer. She bitch-slapped cancer so hard, it will think twice about entering another human”.

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In SUBMITTED 2 Tags SHELLI WHITEHURST, FRIEND, WENDY HARGREAVES, CANCER
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For Peter Hutchinson: 'All that mighty heart is lying still', by Ian Mason - 2016

December 14, 2016

24 September 2016, Powerhouse clubhouse, Albert Park, Melbourne, Australia

When David Dyer became Headmaster in 1966, he was determined to take CGS to the forefront of private schools in this state, if not in Australia. Vital to the achievement of this goal was the securing of appropriate staff.  By appointing Peter Hutchinson to the staff in 1967, he selected a man who was to become an integral part of the journey towards recognition, his contribution to the School in keeping with a man of his stature.

 

Hutchie enjoyed teaching; he enjoyed being in the classroom. It mattered not whether it was with a lowly stream of Year 9 Maths or a Year 12 Physics class; he loved it all. He was an excellent judge of his students, and they responded well to his encouragement and motivation. In 1984, he became Head of Science, much to the delight of his colleagues, who appreciated his style of leadership. The David Danks Science Laboratories were in the planning stage, and, until their opening in 1991, Hutch attended many meetings with the architects and builders, being closely involved in the creation of what were to be outstanding facilities.

 

In 1973, when David Dyer wanted to increase the number of Houses from four to six, to meet the demand of burgeoning numbers, it was a move he could not make without being absolutely certain he had the right people to fill the new positions. Hutchie became the inaugural House Master of Schofield, his house rapidly becoming a force to be reckoned with. As Housemaster, first of Schofield and later Bridgland, he earned the trust and respect of his charges; they knew they could always come to him for advice, for a fair hearing and support, and literally hundreds of boys have cause to be grateful for his tutelage.

 

Hutchie excelled, not only in the class room, but also on the sporting field. He had joined Power House Football Club when he first came to Melbourne in 1956 to pursue his Science degree at Melbourne University, and over the next twenty years, played 363 games with the Club, being Captain for six seasons and winning its Best and Fairest Award a record seven times. He was declared a VAFA Legend and awarded Life Membership of the Association. After many years of football and cricket, Hutchie took up tennis. A keen player, he became President of his local club, steering it through the difficult years of massive water restrictions, obtaining grants from the Boroondara City Council, the School and the Bendigo Bank to build water-free courts and then overseeing their construction. When he set his mind on achieving something, he was a hard man to refuse.

 

At CGS, Hutchie played a vital role in the resurgence of the School’s reputation on the sporting field. As Master-in-charge of Football, he played an important role in creating a strong ethos in the School’s football teams and establishing a style of play that saw the School win the majority of its AGS games during the ‘seventies and ‘eighties, though not even he could break the Assumption hoodoo. In Ron Wootton’s absence at the Olympics in Munich, Hutchie took over the lst XVlll and the School AGS Swimming team. For thirty odd years in the Athletics season, he trained the School’s shot putters, introducing what is still remembered as the Sigalas glide. All this in addition to a seriously full House sport programme, with Schofield being the first of the new Houses to win the coveted Jarrett Cup.  When he retired from playing football with Power House, the Old Camberwell Grammarians Football Club was quick to make the most of his extraordinary knowledge of the game, appointing him as its coach. Hutch quickly took the team to a premiership, ironically disposing of Power House in the preliminary final on the way. His contribution to the OCGA was rewarded later with Life Membership.

 

Over the years, despite his heavy commitment to CGS, Hutch retained his strong ties with Power House, especially as Chef de Cuisine at Big Camp, Easter Camp, Special Kids’ camps, work camps. In recognition of his dedication, he was awarded Honorary Life Membership of Lord Somers Camp and Power House. He shared his culinary skills with Camberwell Grammar, cooking at all sorts of School camps, many of them at Somers: play rehearsal camps; Art camps; lst XVlll football training camps.

 

He worked tirelessly as the Common Room Association’s representative on the Superannuation Board, and was directly responsible for many of the improvements that came in staff salaries and conditions. At various times, he was President of both the CGS Past Parents’ and the CGS PastStaff associations, organizing functions as diverse as Croquet days at Kingussie, Frog racing in the Common Room and, in the PAC, a TAB race meeting and auction.

 

Hutchie loved a good party and had a seemingly endless repertoire of jokes, limericks and songs. Be it in Swannie’s or the Common Room, his love of life was infectious. His singing voice had its own quite distinctive pitch, and many have revelled in listening to such classics as The Little Red Hen’ and ‘Sweet Little Angeline’, a rendition of the former featuring in his commemorative service at Power House Lakeside. Hutch was to say the least, an enthusiastic participant and joined in a number of School productions, most notably the 1986 Centenary Revue at the National Theatre in St Kilda, where he featured in both the show’s opening number and its finale. The revue began with ‘Willcommen’ from Cabaret and there was Hutch in the chorus line, replete with a frilly tutu and fishnet stockings – he made a formidable Grundhilde. And that was not the last the audience were to see of him. The finale included ‘Farewell Auntie Jack’, with the ABC icon being played by Hutch, sidecar, boxing glove, an energetic Kid Edgar, played by Irving Lenton and all. The School magazine for 1986 records the closing of the revue in the following manner:

 

“Song and dance was plentiful at the conclusion to Act ll … and the cast returned to bid goodbye to Auntie Jack, played by the great, great Peter Hutchinson. Appropriately, in our Centenary Year, ‘The Best of Times is now’ ended a memorable evening’s entertainment.”

 

“… the great, great Peter Hutchinson” - such was the respect and affection  he had earned from staff and students.

 

In an attempt to quantify Hutchie’s contribution to Camberwell Grammar over his 33 years at the School, CGS could be compared to an ocean liner: the Headmaster, hand on helm, directing the course; below in the engine room, the likes of Hutch being the source of the power that keeps the vessel moving.

 

Over the last few tears, Peter traversed fairly stormy seas, but at last he has found his peace and as William Wordsworth would have it,

 

“… all that mighty heart is lying still.”

 

CGS is forever in his debt.

 

 

 

 

 

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In SUBMITTED 2 Tags PETER HUTCHINSON, IAN MASON, TEACHER, CAMBERWELL GRAMMAR SCHOOL, FRIEND, TRANSCRIPT, WORDSWORTH, SPEAKOLIES 2016
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For Rachael Warren: 'I think this could be Rach’s storm', by Karen Ingram - 2016

August 8, 2016

5 August 2016, Joseph Allison Funerals, Essendon, Melbourne, Australia

Rach’s journey began forty-seven years ago. She just missed out on reaching 48. Too young. She had more to do and had dreams left unrealised, notably her biggest dream of getting to the US. Just like a Facebook timeline, anything said here today will give but a glimpse into Rachael’s life and experiences. It wasn’t all for us to know. For those who played a part in her story, especially those here today who have travelled from up the road, across town and from interstate as well as friends and family I’ve had contact with in the past few weeks who couldn’t be here, I know Rachael would have been grateful and really happy that you cared for and remembered her. There have been many messages from friends in Queensland, NSW, ACT and country Victoria as well as from Texas and LA.

Rachael Ann Warren was born at Footscray Hospital and spent her early years living in Boronia, North Melbourne and West Melbourne with her family and enjoyed family holidays around the surf club at Ocean Grove. She spent her primary and high school years in Canberra, specifically Duffy Primary, Holder High and years 11 & 12 at Narrabundah College.  She made some great friendships at high school, some that endured until her final days and I’d like to acknowledge the support offered from her friends in the SMILES group in recent times.


Rach’s love for music was obvious from a very young age and it really took off in her teens. She was mad about Duran Duran, Adam Ant and INXS and went to as many concerts as possible with her friends. This defined her as an 80’s girl but she’d never be stuck in the 80’s rut like many other people I know. Rachael’s infectious passion and knowledge of music rubbed off on everyone she encountered.  While at high school she began writing music reviews for the Canberra Times and then as soon as school life was over she took off to Sydney. 

Forgive some of my scant detail in dates and places and happenings. I know that Rach worked with bands, venues, promoters and record labels in Sydney throughout some exciting times for Australian music and touring international artists. A fervent fan she remained a diehard champion for the artists and people she worked with who earned her respect.

In one of my last visits to her in palliative care, I sat with her in a somewhat shocked state and I told her what I knew about her. I told her that I knew her to be dedicated, loyal, reliable and a hard worker who we could trust and depend upon and that many people spoke highly of her passion and her work ethic. I told her that she was clever and funny, compassionate and caring and that music meant the world to her. I paused. I wasn’t sure if her eyes closed meant she was asleep or that she could or couldn’t hear me. “Go on” she said. I let a little laugh slip out and went on to tell her some more. I knew her to be a great problem solver and a fighter, a brave and courageous woman, who stood up to the shit. I told her that I knew of some of her physical, mental and emotional pain that she’d suffered over the years. I told her that I knew she’d been let down.  Ultimately I knew that it wasn’t only people who failed her but the health system had failed her despite the fact she tried really fucking hard.

There were many people and events that brought Rach much joy, and animals.  Joe Strummer, her much loved cat was six months old when Rach moved in with Helen. It was about seven years ago when she responded to an ad for a housemate, which specifically said ‘must love cats’. Rach said she ‘LERVED’ cats and that she had four kittens!  Helen said she couldn’t have four kittens because she already had four cats so Rach arranged for the re-homing of three of them and Joe came with her. Rach and Helen’s relationship wasn’t all smooth-sailing in that first year, but Joe seemed to be the glue that held them together.  I’d like to acknowledge the deep connection that Rachael and Helen shared over seven years of living together, as friends and confidantes. Helen asked for the pink rose to be brought here today in memory of the countless pink roses Rach would ‘find’ or pick for Helen whenever she left the house. I’m happy to know that Helen will be looking after Joe Strummer the cat for the rest of his days.

Rach continued working and volunteering in the music industry after moving to Melbourne in the late 90s. She worked on many Meredith’s and Golden Plains festivals, continued to tour with bands and built a stack of connections and long-lasting friendships. Some friendships waxed and waned, some dropped off and some ended with a giant FUCK OFF.  Some of those were re-kindled again. I know she had a few really close friends who stuck with her through thick and thin. You know who you are and I thank you.

The twenty years she spent volunteering at 3RRR were arguably her happiest. She loved 3RRR and many of the people she worked with, she considered family. You meant the world to her and your contribution to her life was matched by the contribution she made to so many aspects of the station, volunteers and staff. As a mad supporter of the Mega-hertz footy team and the Community Cup, her head is now resting on her team’s scarf. I’d like to extend a personal thanks to Bec Hornsby, Dave Houchin and Donna Morabito who helped me orchestrate the production of the compilation cd in memory of Rachael, as a gift to her friends – at a recommended volume of LOUD. There was so much music which could’ve been included on the compilation, it was a daunting task and the ones that made the final cut are a mere representation of her love of music, the genres and the artists.

Rachael drew much of her strength from both music and her tattoos.  Frida, Amy, Joe, Henry, Chris and others - they were a reminder to her of the strength and the rage that’s sometimes needed when kicking against the pricks. Let’s not let her strength, courage and bravery diminish the sensitivity, vulnerability and hopelessness she experienced throughout her life. She lived with mental illness, grief, loss and significant physical and emotional pain, reluctant until the end to declare the full extent of her illness and I know this because of the degrees of shock and disbelief expressed by people in response to the news of her death.

In the past couple of months Rachael and her mum Sue managed some quality time in each other’s presence, supported by Bob which provided great relief. Her last weeks in palliative care she was tenderly cared for by the nursing staff and received visits from her aunts Rhondda and Barbara and friends.  I read out many of the messages I’d received from her friends on my last visit. She bounced her leg in response so I knew she could hear me. I played a few songs friends had posted to her timeline and read some passages from a book on Hindu goddesses. As I left her that day, on what I thought would be her last day, the cd which Donna compiled was playing.

There had been a concerted effort in the past couple of weeks to get in touch with Henry Rollins. Rach had spent countless hours/days looking after him on I don’t know how many of his visits to Melbourne and they became friends.  The following message arrived just after I got home after my last visit. 

Rachel, hey. It's Henry. I feel lucky that we had so many chances to visit with each other over so many years. It was always great going all over the city, even when it was so hard to get parking. I have been thinking about you a lot over the last few days and what always comes to the front of my thoughts is how you always looked out for me and how you meant it. I can only hope I was a fraction of that for you. You were always real and I always got it. People can often let you down but you never did, ever. Like I said, I have been very lucky to know you. Hang in there and let the people around you take good care of you. You are in my thoughts and of course will continue to be. Big hug from me, Rachel. Henry

I texted the message to Rhondda and asked her to read it out to Rachael as soon as I received it.  By this stage, she was unresponsive however I know Henry’s words would have meant the world to her. 

Rach slowly drifted away over the next two days and passed away peacefully just after midnight after a big windy storm swept through.  I said out loud that night, “I think this could be Rach’s storm” and loved the idea of her stirring up a storm to take her soul away.

Henry’s message has been put inside her coffin.  Maybe it will be her rock ‘n’ roll passport to the other side, as if she needed one.  I have a funny vision of Rach’s ‘passport’ from Henry Rollins being shown to Bowie, Lemmy, Amy, Joe Strummer, Prince and other fallen musical icons to which they’d respond with open arms and big grins, calling out “Hey Rachael!”

In memory of one of the rockest chicks ever who dedicated her life to music.

23 September 1968 – 26 July 2016

 

Track listing:

1. Queen Bee                                                                Taj Mahal

2. Back to Black                                                           Amy Winehouse

3. Don’t Change                                                          INXS

4. I Hear Motion                                                         The Models

5. Rusty Cage                                                            Soundgarden

6. Hard                                                                       Rollins Band

7. I love Rock n Roll                                                  Joan Jett & the Blackhearts

8. Alive                                                                      Pearl Jam

9. Everbody Moves                                                 Courtney Barnett & Dave Faulkner

10. The Killing Moon                                                Echo & the Bunnymen

11. Hurt                                                                          Johnny Cash

12. You Can’t Always Get What You Want             Rolling Stones

13. Don’t Fall in Love                                               The Ferrets

14. Get Up, Stand Up                                              The Wailers

15. Rock the Casbah                                              The Clash

16. Rapture                                                             Blondie

17. Girls on Film                                                      Duran Duran

18. Greg! The Stop Sign!!                                       TISM

19. I’m So Bad (Baby I Don’t Care)                       Motorhead

 

 

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For Bob Sizer: 'He became a legendary barracker at the bowls. Many opposition teams shuddered when he waddled through the gate', by Robert Clough - 2014

February 1, 2016

28 May 2014, Napier Park Chapel, Bendigo, Australia

Bob Sizer - what a character! Bob Sizer created a few ripples at our very conservative bowling club when he wandered into the place. We were lucky to stock heavy beer, let alone have one of our members drink copious amounts of it! And he had the temerity to challenge our resident experts on everything from bowls to world events.

Bob became so enthusiastic in these debates that others couldn’t get a word in. Finally, rules of engagement were introduced where Bob had to raise his hand, then be invited to contribute to the conversation.

But through the noise, froth and bubble that inevitably surrounded Bob some major character traits shone through:

• Honesty, both with himself and his dealings with others.

• Loyalty.

• Generosity of spirit. I have personally seen many times Bob dip into his kick to help others that might be going through a rough trot.

Bob Sizer was a lovable rogue who has been missed from around our club since he became too ill to get there... and that he will never be back saddens us all.

A couple of weeks ago I visited Bob at Stella Anderson. He was in bed and asleep. After some procrastination I woke him. He had been in a deep sleep and was startled when I spoke. He hadn’t been feeling very well and was obviously quite down emotionally. He said ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m getting weaker and can’t even get out of bed. I know it is wrong to say this but, I wish I was dead.’

Bob’s mind was still as sharp as a tack but his body was letting him down. We struggled for conversation for the first time ever. I had been considering asking Bob if he wanted me to take down some notes of his life story for his eulogy rather than leaving it to others who might miss aspects that were important to him.

It is a difficult and sensitive subject to raise but this seemed to be as good a time as any. He paused to think about my request for a moment and said, ‘I don’t know if anybody would be interested...but maybe there might be a few things.’

I was expecting that he would go through the basics of his life, such as where he was born, went to school, his work and family. It should have been no surprise that what followed was a history of his sporting life.

Bob was a sports fanatic with a memory for the details that he retained to the end. What started as a trickle became a flood as he warmed to the task. Once he was in full swing the words came quicker than my ability to record them. It was hard to believe that this was the same person that I had roused from sleep just fifteen minutes before. The following is a shortened version of what Bob told me that day because I would like to tell two of the Bob’s stories in detail.

Bob didn’t grow until his mid to late teens, so wasn’t much suited to robust sports as a lad. As a youngster he played tennis on the asphalt courts around the corner. He had told me earlier of playing mixed doubles with his sisters. He took up golf after tagging along with some other neighbourhood kids to the Brighton Golf course and volunteering to be caddies. He was a good caddy as he had a good eye for finding the balls.

There was a competition organised for the caddies to play against each other. Bob was a left hander but had to play right handed as they didn’t have any left handed clubs. In his first game he ran out of golf balls after nine holes so hurried over to the pro shop to get some old balls. He ran out of balls again on the 17th but handed in his card anyway. His score after 17 holes was 181 and he came last.

Bob improved rapidly, and to quote him, he became ‘deadly around the green.’ He was the caddy champ two years later. He came second in the Todd Stewart Cup for under 16’s to the assistant professional at the club. This guy led the Australian Open after the first round a few years later. This won Bob free membership to the club. He won a number of club events over the next few years. His handicap got down to 9 when he was 17 years old. He stopped playing soon after.

He had started to grow and everything changed. Robert Andrew-Arthur (I think this was his name...my writing was not too good) played tennis at the Church Club and also played squash. His regular squash practice partner had stopped playing so he asked Bob if he wanted to practice with him. They played at the Ormond club every week for months. Bob never won a game. The people at the courts asked Bob if he wanted to play pennant. He agreed to give it a go and defeated all fifteen rivals at the trial games. His pennant squash career was under way.

Bob worked his way up to the A grade pennant competition. Revered coach Gordon Watson offered to take Bob under his wing but Bob chose to stay playing with his mates. Gordon and Bob agreed, when they met again years later, that passing by this opportunity had cost Bob the chance to become a really exceptional squash player. Bob suffered a double hernia and had to stop playing squash while he recovered. After 12 months or so without playing, a couple of friends asked Bob to come along for their regular hit at A1 Sports. They ended up playing pennant. The team was in C Grade and as Bob got fitter he started to dominate. They were premiers that year.

After the grand final win they dragged Bob out of the shower for a team photo. The fact that it appeared on the back page of the Sun the next day may have had something to do with Bob’s teammate: Herb Elliott. Bob was obviously a very good squash player and he told me many stories of big games he had played in over the years. He said that his form could be closely correlated to his weight. If he got down to 13.5 stone watch out!

I think it was after a squash game that Bob starting drinking...He said ’that there was nothing else to drink.’ He certainly made up for lost time from that point on. Apparently it is only coincidence that the Lake View Hotel has gone broke since Bob stopped going there. On the way home from squash one day Bob bumped into a mate who asked if he could help them out by playing cricket for Bentleigh Meths (Methodists?) the next day. They had a late withdrawal. This happened to be in the A grade. Bob recalled that he batted at 11 and made 35. He was fielding at mid wicket and decided to move himself towards square leg (does this sound like Bob?). The batsman obliged by hitting a catch straight to him. Instead of congratulations the captain gave him a blast for moving without being instructed.

Bob played mostly in the B grade thereafter batting at 6 and bowling medium pacers. They were premiers the following year. After his playing days Bob became a cricket umpire of some renown, officiating in 20 A grade grand finals in a row. He later began travelling to Bendigo to score for Spring Gully particularly over the finals. Bob spoke often about lawn bowls and the people and clubs he had been involved with. But on this day he said that his mate Terry Clark (I think from McKinnon) probably had him sewn up when he said ‘Bob, you may well have been a champion cricketer, squash player and golfer but you would have to be the worst bowler at this club!’

He became a legendary barracker at the bowls. A number of our teams believe that Bob’s support was the difference between them winning and losing finals. Many opposition teams shuddered when he waddled through the gate.

There are two of Bob’s stories that I would like to share with you today. I imagine that most of you have heard them before but these a real Bob stories and it’s appropriate for us to hear them again today. I’ll try to retell them as he told me.

The first is a cricket story. Bob was an accomplished slip fielder with a quick eye and safe hands. It was from this vantage point that he watched the skipper of the top team pulverize the Bentleigh Meths attack in their regular season game. He scored 96 as his team cruised past the 225 run total set by Bentleigh Meths. Bob noted that he scored most of his runs via a shot through the onside. He also noticed that this shot was played in the air for the first metre or two. A plot formed in his mind. After just scraping into the four, Bentleigh Meths fronted the top side in the semi final. Bob pleaded with his captain ‘Macca, put me at short leg, I reckon I can get this bloke.’ Macca relented. Bob teed up with the bowler to angle the first two balls wide of outside off stump, then to spear the third one in at the batsman’s pads. He took up his position at short leg, so close that he had one foot on the concrete wicket. The first two balls were wide of off stump and sailed through to the keeper as planned. Bob readied himself as the trap was set. The next ball was directed at the batsman’s pads and, sure enough, the batsmen moved into his favourite shot. He clipped it perfectly....straight into Bob’s hand. The ball had moved so quickly that the players were baffled where it had gone. Until Bob held it aloft, the ball still firmly embedded in the palm of his hand. There was some conjecture about how the ball had got there and in fact whether it was a catch. Until the square leg umpire, who had recalled Bob’s fairness in denying a catch two weeks before, indicated that it was legal. Bob had got his man.

The next story is a punting story. Bob’s punting stories could fill a book and his annual trips to Sydney for the Autumn Carnival could provide enough material for a series. There was one particular day in Sydney that Bob described as his best and worst day on the race track. It started the day before when he and five mates fronted up to a club (??Rooty Hill RSL) for lunch and a few beers. They played a few games of pool before lunch but settled into a fiercely fought euchre battle afterwards. Bob’s side were victorious 13 games to 12 when they threw in the cards. It is a wonder they could play at all, given they had had 4 shouts each (ie 24 schooners). One of his mates invited Bob back to his place for dinner but his wife refused to let Bob in. They were so drunk. Bob took the taxi back to his motel and flaked out. He woke the next morning as crook as a dog. Now I’m using Bob’s word here. It took him 2 hours, 4 shits and 3 spews to get through breakfast. As sick as he felt, he was determined to get to the track. He had set aside $1,500 for just three bets that he was really keen on. They were in races 1, 3 and 7. He got to the track for the first still feeling terrible. In between 4 Fanta’s and another couple of shits and spews he managed to place his each way bet. The horse ran a place and he got back his money plus a bit. Hanging around for race 3 was hard but with the help of some more Fanta and a couple more visits to the toilet he made it. But the horse he backed failed to live up to Bob’s expectations and did no good. He was tempted to go but his best bet of the day was in race 7. He spent a miserable couple of hours waiting for the seventh to come around. He was feeling no better. His head thumped and his guts squirmed. His bum hurt when wiped it and his chest muscles were strained from vomiting. He was sick of Fanta! Finally race 7 arrived and he couldn’t believe that his fancy was a $20 outsider. He placed his remaining $900 each way and crossed his fingers. When they rounded the corner Bob’s horse was in front...a sitting duck. “You’ve murdered him Mallyon!” he yelled as it was being slowly hauled in which each bound. Bob’s horse surged as they neared the post and stuck its head out to win. It was the biggest win of Bob’s punting life but he was too crook to celebrate. He also felt vulnerable. He had over $16,500 in his pocket. He couldn’t wait to get home so slunk out the gate to catch the early bus. He sat next to a girl in the bus who made conversation. When asked, Bob said that he’d had a good day but gave no details. The girl said that she’d also had some good fortune. She explained that she had seen some old dero put a huge wad of money on this horse in the 7th race. She thought that if it was good enough for him to back this thing, then she should have a crack as well. And it won.

She was flabbergasted and embarrassed when Bob confessed that the ‘old dero’ was him.

Helen and I, and all those at Bendigo East Bowling Club, will miss Bobby Sizer.

 

 

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For Lemmy Kilmister: 'Precious lord, take my hand', by Dave Grohl - 2016

January 18, 2016

10 January 2016, Forest Lawn Memorial Cemetery, Los Angeles, USA

The funeral streaming had technical difficulties during the amazing Dave Grohl eulogy. It's worth persevering, and the beautiful, tears-inducing Little Richard finale is in full sound from 7.00.

Hi guys

There’s not enough time for me to tell you how much Lemmy meant to me, and all the amazing experiences I had with him.

The first time I met Lemmy was at fucken Crazy Girls about twenty years ago, and I was walking back from the mens’ room,  and on the way back, I looked to my left and I saw Lemmy by himself in the corner on a video game. And it blew my mind. I knew that I couldn’t just go say something because he was on his own in the corner. On the way out I thought, ‘I have to say something. He’s my hero. He’s the one true rock ’n ’roller that bridged my love of ACDC and Sabbath and Zeppelin with my love of GBH and the Ramones and Black Flag. So I walked up and said, ‘Excuse me Lemmy, I don’t want to bother you, but you’ve influenced me so much, you’re my musical hero. I’m a musician. I play in the Foo Fighters, and I was in Nirvana. And he looked up from the video game, and the first thing he ever said to me, he said, “sorry about your friend Kurt [Cobain]”.

And in that moment he revealed this gun-slinging, whiskey-drinking badass, motherfucking rock star to be this gun slinging whiskey drinking badass mother fucking rockstar with a heart, and I walked away thinking if I never see him again, that’s enough, for the rest of my life.

But then we becamse friends. And its one thing when you have a hero, but it’s another when your hero becomes your friend.

And over the years I have a lot of great stories of going to his apartment, and walking through the aisles of pornos ... or going to the Rainbow and ordering two Jack and cokes and the waitress brings two Jack and cokes and he’s fucking male

Or the one time I text him and say, ‘hey man, my band’s playing at the Pantaras Theatre tonight you should come down check it out’,  

I said, it’s an acoustic show, it's not like a big rock gig

[mimes texting] Ok

An hour later, I’m downstairs backstage, and I hear fucking Motorhead blaring out of the dressing room, and I get so excited, “finally someone else in the band’s listening to fucking Motorhead!’ and I open up the door and there’s [mimes catatonic fagging] Lemmy, by himself listening to Motorhead.

My mom was there, so I say to Lemmy, I want you to come and meet my mom, so we walk across the hall way, and in that room was my mother, and my wife, and my daughter who was a baby I think she was six months old at the time. So Lemmy walks in with his drink, and his cigarette, [mimes pointing] ‘that Lemmy, from Motorhead’.

[Throat growling 'Lemmy']

And then he looks and he sees that there’s a baby in a crib, and he puts out his cigarette in his drink, and he puts the drink down. Now to most people that  would seem like nothing. But to me, that was my hero putting out his cigarette in his drink and putting it aside because my daughter was there in the room.

So I think what everybody has always known, at least where I am today, is that Lemmy was not only that gun slinging whiskey drinking badass mother fucking rock n roll  star, but he had the biggest heart and he set such a great example because he was so kind to everyone, people he  didn’t know, people he known for years, he was so kind.

He and I shared a love of Little Richard.

I always said that if there was one person I could meet it would be Little Richard. Because whose more badass than Little Richard? One day I was in the airport, at LAX and I was standing on a curb and a guy came up and said, ‘Hey I heard from Lemmy Kilmister that you wanted to meet Little Richard?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well that’s my dad.’

‘What?’

And it’s true.  We walk over to this limousine, and he taps on the window, and the window comes down a little bit, and it’s fucken Little Richard sitting there!

Oh my god.

And this guy [whispers]

Windows comes all the way down.

Little Richard says , “I got blessings for you ... ‘ And he signs this bible pamphlet for me and hands it to me, and [Dave pulls out pamphlet to much applause] I kept it.

[Long pause fighting back tears]

And I wanted to give it to him on his birthday.

So last night [audio video glitch]

So this is a song Little Richard sang, and I thought I’d read it. It’s called ‘Precious Lord Take My Hand’

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, and help me stand
Lord I'm tired, I’m so weak,

Lord you know I’m worn,

Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home

When my way it gets kinda dreary precious Lord’s somewhere near
When my life is almost gone
Hear my cry, lord
Hear my call
Hold my hand lest I fall
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home

Cheers Lemmy

 

 

Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IgZWttSDQT...

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for Christopher Hitchens: 'As if Christopher felt the only person really worth really arguing with was The Hitch'' by Martin Amis - 2012

December 6, 2015

Video from 1.34.11

20 April 2012, Vanity Fair Memorial, Cooper Union, New York, USA

I'm Martin Amis, or 'Little Keith', as Hitch always called me. 'My dear little Keith', he used to call me, and I used to call him, 'my dear Hitch'. The most salient and striking thing about Christopher is how widely he was loved. Not just by us, family and friends, but by you. And one struggles to think of a public intellectual with a following half as passionate.

I wonder why this is? There are several elements in it I think, before I reach for the central one.

First -- very handsome. In a phrase that he used to like using, 'handsomer than a man has the right to be'. And we were both very fond of Humbert Humbert's self description in Lolita where he says about halfway through the novel, “I wonder if during the course of these tragic notes, I have sufficiently stressed the sending quality of my striking, if perhaps somewhat brutal good looks”.

Hitch wasn't, his good looks weren't brutal, they were sort of full and friendly. And my middle daughter, Fernanda, was once in the kitchen, age 5, and she said “it look's like Hitch”, and the man on the screen was the handsome actor, Sam Neil.

I also think that his voice was very important. It was a perfect voice, without any mannerism or any kinds of poncy intonations, that I can't seem to purge my own voice of. And as I said, contributing as I told you, to the charisma of The Hitch.

“The Hitch has landed”, he used to say on the phone when he landed at Heathrow. And when we did Charlie Rhodes the other night, when we remembered him, I and others. Charlie, I think, was surprised and a bit alarmed to learn that Hitch often referred to himself in the third person.

This is not a habit consonant with cloudless mental health in most cases. Though, The Hitch was one of the sanest people I've ever known -- not always rational, and by no means always prudent, but penetratingly sane. He knew who he was.

He was also something of a self-mythologiser. 'The Hitch has landed'.

When he took up the Cypriot cause, partitioned Cyprus, he told me, “I'm such a good friend of the Cypriot people, that when I arrive, it says in the headlines of the Nicosia Morning Post, it says “Hitch Flies In”. I said, “what does it say when you leave?” he said, “Hitch Flies Out”.

Very early on, in our early twenties, I said, “Does that girl like The Hitch?”, and he said, “She loves The Hitch, she wants to marry The Hitch”.

Another time he said, “Martin, you're always coming out with phrases like this,”, he says, “Whenever there is injustice, immiseration or oppression, the pen of The Hitch will flash from it's scabbard.”

I've got several stories where Hitch comes out with a great line, and he didn't like this one, he said it was anti-climactic, but I'm very fond of this story. And it seems to crystallise something, and lead us to what was perhaps the heart of the charisma of The Hitch.

He and I were in South Hampton in Long Island having driven that far from where we were staying, in search of the most violent possible film on the Island. This was our idea of happiness, it was to take a bottle of whiskey into a film like Dirty Beast or Scum. Nothing could top that, anyway we were pathetically reduced to Wesley Snipes. And trudging rather grimly towards the cinema, and I said, “No one's recognised The Hitch for at least ten minutes”. And usually he is, every few, ten or twenty yards he's stopped by someone, and then he has a long and friendly conversation with them. And if you ever signed books with The Hitch, he would have a long and friendly conversation with everyone in his queue. Anyway, I said ten minutes must have gone by, and he said, “Longer.” He said, “Much longer -- at least fifteen minutes.” And he said, “And I get more and more pissed off, the longer it goes on.”

He said, “I keep thinking, what can they feel, what can they care, what can they know if they don't recognise The Hitch.”

And as we approached the cinema there was a elderly party rather awkwardly perched on a hydrant, and as we were entering the cinema, he said, “Do you love us, or do you hate us?”.

What he meant was, America, and Americans, he didn't mean him and his wife.

And Hitch said, “I beg your pardon?”

He said, “Do you love us or do you hate us?”.

And Hitch said, “It depends on how you behave.” he said, and went straight into the cinema, rather than sort of curling up with him for half an hour.

I thought that was very good, but also slightly misleading, as if what Hitch did was calmly appraise American behaviour, or whatever reality you presented him with, and give it his judicious appraisal, but he wasn't like that. And we wouldn't have loved him so much if he'd been like that -- there are plenty of people who are like that.

It was more, I think that he was bored by the phrase contrarian, but, what he was was an auto-contrarian. He contradicted himself. As if Christopher felt the only person really worth really arguing with was The Hitch. So we see him tie himself up in knots with supporting Ralph Nader, Bush-Cheney in 2004, collusion in the impeachment of Bill Clinton, and Iraq of course.

And what people don't see, but I think sense, is that he suffered very much from those isolations that he brought on himself.

After the Clinton business, I rang him up, and I'd seen him on television looking not well, and I said to him “How are things?” And he said, “Man, I'm living in a world of pain.” he said. This was two or three weeks after he'd broken [the story].

And he suffered very much I think about Iraq, he didn't talk about it, but you watched him watching the news, and when the vote, when the first democratic election took place in Iraq, the excitement was sort of suppressed excitement, it showed; and the misery during the civil war period of 2005/06.

He was like a Houdini, where he was right most of the time, but every now and then he would go out on a limb, and he would shackle himself so dramatically, that had he escaped, or partially escaped, it would have been all the more amazing.

And that was why he was loved, I think.

He made intellection dramatic with this argument with the self.

I'll just end now with one of his favourite phrases was, 'what could be more agreeable', he used to say. It was one of his very English remarks. He would say it while he, I and others settled down for sixteen or seventeen hours of food, drink, tobacco and conversation. And I just want to ask, who could be more agreeable than The Hitch?

To end on a wishful note, what could be more infinitely agreeable, imagine what it would do to your heart, if The Hitch had landed, and he was on his way to join us here, at Cooper Union.

Thank you.

Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Er8YIqfOy6...

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In PUBLIC FIGURE A Tags CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS, MARTIN AMIS, FRIEND, INTELLECTUAL, AUTHOR, VANITY FAIR
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