For Father Bob Maguire: by John Safran - 2023

5 May 2023, Melbourne, Australia

I spent so much time with Father Bob over 20 years, I feel I can auto-generate an A.I. chat between him and me, regarding today.

“Bob, you’re dead. Do you want a state funeral?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Ooh, I’m not sure about the state and the church colluding in matters spiritual. It worries me… I want a Tibetan sky burial, where they take you up the mountain and you’re eaten by the birds”

“Or I could push you out to sea on an iceberg”

“Oh yes, I’d like that”

“But Bob, a state funeral, because it’s such a rare honour, will really annoy your enemies, so it will be like, ‘needless to say I had the last laugh’”

And he’d go “Hmmm, enticing… but still no!”

And then I’d say “You always said, there’s no you and me, there’s only we. And the great we - all the people who loved you - need a chance to come together and say goodbye. And they’re not going to fit on top of that mountain in Tibet”.

And he’d say “Oh go on, have the state funeral. But no flags!”

Bob was like a reverse Native American. He thought his soul would be taken away if a camera wasn’t pointed at him. But it wasn’t because he was vain, it was because he felt such joy, and he knew it provided others with joy, grappling with the important questions of life in an irreverent way. A funny way of being serious, he would say.

While he might have been ambivalent about a State Funeral, he was always interested, obsessed even, with gauging the success, or otherwise of projects he was involved in. Calling me to ask about podcast download numbers, overnight ratings, book sales, follower counts. So, Bob you’ll be delighted to know that the eulogy I tweeted about you, was a blockbuster, my biggest ever, with 400 thousand views, 12 thousand likes. I’ll read it for you Bob, upload it to the cloud you’re no doubt sitting on now:

What was Father Bob like privately? Somehow kinder and funnier than he was publicly. We somehow ‘fought’ nonstop from the moment the record button was pressed in 2003, through documentaries, radio shows and books, right through to filming this year, but we never once fought. More than being kind in broad brushstrokes, he was kind in small ways. When an elderly congregant couldn’t catch the Collingwood matches, he organised tapes from Channel 7 that he would slip to her, along with the Eucharist wafer, during communion. Bob was wise as Buddha. He attracted all manner of outcasts, not all pleasant, but he was open hearted to those people too. I asked him how he did this and he said, “You don’t have to like people to love them.” When filming, it was an editor’s nightmare to cut from the shot before I’d burst out laughing each time Bob finished a sentence. I never thought Bob would ever stop making me laugh, but with the sad news of today, he finally has.

Thank you.

For Rita Moclair: 'She had to ride 64 miles on the back of the postman’s bike to fetch water from the nearest well', by son John Kelly - 2022

15th February, 2022, St Mary’s Catholic Church, Dunolly., Victoria, Australia

Rita Monica Moclair was the youngest of nine. She grew up in rural Galway in the West of Ireland in the 40’s and 50’s. She and her siblings lived in the toe of an old boot on the side of a boreen. She had to ride 64 miles on the back of the postman’s bike to fetch water from the nearest well and she walked barefoot to school every day in snowdrifts neck deep.

She was doted on as the youngest and loved her siblings fiercely in return. She missed them terribly when she moved to Australia. She is survived by her brother Joe and sister Angela.

Despite obtaining her GCE in Ireland, she returned to high school in Mildura as a mother of 8 and enrolled in a number of HSC subjects, excelling in Australian History which she read avidly up until the time she died.

She worked in London in the 50’s but her work there is still so controversial and sensitive that legislation prevents me from identifying it because- even at a remove of 60 years- Empires could be undone if it were to be revealed.

The 60’s were spent raising the first 6 of her 8 children in Belfast, Athlone and Killarney before moving to Mildura in January 1973 where Joe and Romy were born.

Killarney is one of the most beautiful places in Ireland-McGillicuddy’s Reeks, Innisfallen Island, Muckross Gardens, the Gap of Dunloe, Torc Waterfall and Aghadoe Heights were our backyard. Mum loved it despite the occasionally fractious relationship we had with Mrs Murphy next door who once emptied her house of all its furniture in order to build a wall between our two houses in Upper Lewis Road, dispatching her two young sons to patrol it, yelling insults that have passed in to family folklore such as, “Your ma can’t cook a banana.”

She was homesick and heavily pregnant with Joe when we arrived in Mildura, having spent a fortnight acclimatising to our host country at Mont Park Psychiatric Hospital watching World Championship Wrestling and queueing for soup in the canteen before driving through the Wimmera and the Mallee in a two-car convoy, through drought and dust storms and locust plagues and mice infestations before being delivered to vines and orange orchards and three-cornered jacks and pop-up sprinklers and cacti and bungalows and enervating heat. To console herself she’d play Mary O’ Hara’s Spinning Wheel repeatedly, mourning the old country and the family she’d left behind.

She was a model of resilience her entire life and she soon adjusted. Things took a turn for the better when she discovered an Edward Beale salon in Moonee Ponds and managed to get a decent haircut in the Australia of the 1970’s, notwithstanding that it involved two overnight trips on the Vinelander there and back, covering a distance of 1200 kilometres. In 1981 she supported us by opening a shop that sold religious artefacts, importing crates of tea and fabrics from Sri Lanka. She also managed 17 acres of vines, producing walthams, sultanas and currants for sale.

At the end of that year we piled in to our old Holden station wagon and made for Melbourne with Joe as her co-pilot manually operating the high beam by banging a button on the floor of the driver’s side. Mum supported us by delivering groceries and cleaning at half-way houses before securing work at the ATO where she made friends for life in Ranjanee and, later, Christine. The development of Menieres disease forced an early retirement. City traffic intimidated her when we moved to Melbourne, but within a few years she returned home thrilled with herself for having sailed through a congested intersection whilst blithely eating an apple.

One of the most formidable of her many qualities was the unstinting commitment she had to securing first rate educations for her children despite her inability to fund them. She coaxed Xavier College into taking Tony by reminding it of its core Jesuit charter of caring for orphans and widows. When she was called to Whitefriars to discuss Joe’s sub-stellar academic progress she chided the school for its inability to recognize the rare jewel she had entrusted to it. She auditioned a number of equally prestigious institutions such as Siena, Preshill and Sacre Couer who vied for the privilege of educating her precocious and brilliant progeny. She wouldn’t hear of payment.

She returned to Galway in 1984 and rented a house in Renmore. The Ireland she returned to was not the one she had left and that period was tough, although she was buoyed by the release of The Smiths second single which became a staple of her limited pop repertoire and, amongst her children, her most popular cover, totally eclipsing Betty Davis’ Eyes.

She returned to Melbourne in 1986 and lived in Blackburn before moving to Burwood. The backyard was always full of friends, friends of friends and partners and she was always cooking elaborate meals and consoling Pete’s girlfriends, Pete’s estranged fiancees, Pete’s aggrieved exes and women who were on the cusp of instituting proceedings to enforce their contractual rights against him. She continues to receive letters from one of Pete’s exes who is, apparently, doing just fine and has, like, totally moved on.

She left the city and moved to Timor in 2001. She described these 20 years as the happiest of her life. She lived on her own and committed herself to recreating Monet’s Giverny, a Sisyphean task she was never going to complete. Having complained bitterly in the late 90’s of how, despite raising 8 children of her own, she had not been provided with a single grandchild, a flood of fecundity soon ensued. Rebekah was the first in 2001. We were living in Alice Springs then and mum, Hanny, Pete, Tony and Romy drove from Melbourne in a hired camper van to attend her baptism and deafen her with Territory Day fireworks, a round trip of 4,500 kilometres. Being flown above the red centre by James Nugent remained one of her fondest memories.

Once the flood gates opened, Gabriel, Charlie, Maisie, Max, Frances, Eloise, Lucien, Dan, Raphy, Pippa, Ines, Claudia, Helena, Rita, Michael and Lucinda followed like machine gun fire and she was often glad of the geographical distance she had established. She had a prodigious memory and recalled everything of significance about each of them, their friends, their educations, their hobbies, their interests, their fears and aspirations. Each of them felt seen and understood by her.

She loved travelling and managed to see some of the worlds great gardens in Kent and Normandy and Tuscany and Ubud and Kyoto and Kalgoorlie and Coolgardie and Fitzroy Crossing. All of these were fed into her life’s work in Timor. She was a fiend for gazebos and pagodas and rockeries and Japanese bridges and ornamental totems.

In recent years she had eased off travelling and had stopped driving. She remained formidably curious and physically active, but she was deaf as a post. We, as a family, are deeply appreciative of the care for her provided by her neighbours in Timor especially Maree, the Fosters and Leigh who was entrusted with realising her endless projects.

She was a champion. I can’t believe she’s gone, but she was ready. Physically she had declined, but mentally she was as acute as ever. Living on her own terms was non-negotiable. She valued her independence above everything. She lived for her garden- it was a way of repaying Paulette for her generosity in buying Timor and providing it to her so she could live there on her own terms. Ensuring Gabriel attended the Australian Open was an unflagging priority and she hounded me to secure a ticket to the men’s final for him, insisting I call John McPherson to make it happen. One of the last things she did on earth was to sit and watch Rafa snatch his 21st slam knowing that Gabriel was at the venue watching it live thanks to her intervention.

What lessons do we take from mum’s life? Money comes and goes, it’s not important and shouldn’t guide your decisions. Do what you love and success will follow. Be the first to give. Don’t watch Rafa in the final of a slam. Don’t pray that Novak’s plane crashes. Remember that feelings aren’t facts and that you can compel your limbs and muscles to act rightly in spite of your feelings. Whether you can or cannot cook a banana is unimportant, except to the Murphy’s. Pass on your plum pudding recipes. Don’t get Pete to do the dishes. And by somebody I don’t mean Lovedy.

For Robert McKie: 'Sample some of the sausage rolls and scones', by son Cameron McKie - 2021

13 July 2021, Heidelberg Golf Club, Melbourne, Australia

Dad would always come to your rescue. I was a skinny kid who felt the cold. One frigid cold day’s skiing on Mt Buffalo I must’ve become hypothermic and shuffled off the side of the slope to lay down in the snow for a little sleep. It was Dad who found me (I’m sure he’d purchased my bright red Spicer spray jacket for this exact scenario). Ditching his poles he scooped me up and skied down to the car, handed me over to Mum who stripped me down then wrapped me in blankets, rubbing me furiously to thaw me out while Dad turned the ignition and cranked the heater. Crisis averted. Years later, as a 16-17 year-old, stranded on the other side of town after a party, possibly following a few too many drinks… all I had to do was find a phone box and call home. Anywhere, anytime of the night or early morning. In next to no time Dad would arrive in his dressing gown. He’d drive my friends and I home to safety with no questions asked. No repercussions.

A solution for every problem. When I rolled the HR wagon a couple of months after it was gifted to me, Dad was the first person I rang. He arrived at Blairgowrie within two hours. I fully expected him to tear strips off me, but his only concern was that Nick & I were OK and that no-one else had been hurt or worse. He immediately identified the problem: my over-confidence behind the wheel clearly didn’t match my complete lack of driving skill and duly paid the $300 for me to undertake an advanced driving course (problem – solution). He’s done the same for every grandchild on their 18th birthday ever since.

Dad was adaptable. In the words of Clint Eastwood, “He improvised, he overcame”. Sometime in the 1960’s, realizing that there were too many Rob’s at Brownbuilt for him to make his mark, he promptly changed his name to Bob and set himself apart. Another fun fact: In the late 60’s he developed what sounded like a repetitive strain injury from all the note-taking during lectures at RMIT so he switched from right to left handed 6/52 out from a major exam for which he was granted a half-hour time extension. He passed the exam and wrote with that characteristic backwards-leaning, left-handed scrawl ever since.

Ratio & percentages. Up until late last year it’s been Mum’s health that was always the issue. I’d ring Dad asking after her and he’d say, “She’s 5% better today. If I can keep the food up to her and keep her hydrated, I reckon she’ll be 90% by the end of the week”. If one of the kids was unwell and had a couple of days off school he’d ring for daily updates and always ask for a wellness percentage. Just recently after he’d had a shower from his favorite Home Care worker (Tory – he was pretty fond of Tory) he said he felt a million dollars before quickly revising that figure down to $100,000 given his palliative situation.

Dad sat me down recently to discuss his funeral. He said the difference between a memorable funeral and a so-so one wasn’t so much in the eulogy or the song choices but in the food on offer afterwards. He said you had to encourage as many people as possible to stick around and mingle – and the food was the key. There needed to be plenty of it but more importantly you had to get the ratio right. Dad said he’d been to enough funerals by now to have worked out the perfect formula: 70% sausage rolls: 20% scones with jam & cream: 10% sandwiches. I had a sense I was on Candid Camera, but I duly scribbled down those percentages all the same.

Dad couldn’t always read a room. In his term as president at Watsonia Probus, he fixated on the dwindling numbers of blokes in the club. When the male-to-female ratio hit 30:70 Dad decided he’d propose a motion that only male applicants be accepted into the club until the ratio returned to 40:60. He was convinced he had the numbers but when it came to the vote at the AGM his so-called backers kept their hands firmly in their pockets, leaving Mum swinging in the breeze beside Dad, her hand held tentatively aloft. The motion was roundly rejected. It’s a good thing he never went into politics.

Dad had no interest in football but recognised that a basic knowledge of the game was an essential social networking skill, whether it be chatting with work colleagues, down at the tennis club over a round of golf. When Richmond made the 1980 GF he made sure he secured two tickets. Standing Room, Bay 13. The Tigers won easily but we didn’t hang around for the post-game celebrations. On jumping for joy at the final siren, I’d landed ankle deep in a Collingwood supporter’s Esky. Recognizing the imminent danger, Dad scooped me up and headed for the exit.

He was at the picture framer’s a few years ago helping Mum pick out a frame for one of her lovely paintings when he spotted a commemorative print of the 2017 Premiers. Mum always took care of the Christmas and Birthday shopping, and she wasn’t keen, but occasionally Dad would see something and insist they buy it: “Dood, it’s beautifully framed, has a great picture of Dusty with all the players’ signatures. Duncan will love it”. He was right – it’s hanging in pride of place over Dunc’s mantlepiece.

Dad made mistakes – rarely. The night before my final HSC exam – physics, Dad wandered into my bedroom and asked how my exam prep was going. I told him I’d essentially written off physics as my 5th subject because it was my weakest and would only carry a 10% weighting anyway. Dad refused to accept that this was a wise strategy and proceeded to teach me the entire course over the next 8 hours or so. I passed the exam on next-to-no sleep. A couple of months later Dad and I were down at the Monty Tennis Club loading up his trailer with several stacks of chairs for my 18th Birthday party. Vaguely recalling some of the basic physics he’d taught me, I threw a rope over a pile of chairs when Dad told me not to worry. He assured me they wouldn’t move on the short trip home. I wasn’t convinced but said nothing. Sure enough, as soon as he turned right out of Dobson Street 64 chairs fell out onto Para Road causing traffic chaos. The pair of us never moved so fast, scrambling to throw those chairs back into the trailer.

Measure twice. Cut once Dad was hands-on. He loved to get involved. Always turned up with a boot full of his own tools, screws, extension cords, etc. He loved passing on his knowledge. It was only really in the last couple of years that he became more of an adviser, less hands-on; but he’d still tackle smaller projects at his workbench in his garage. I’d always text him photos of any home improvements I’d made. Even at 50 I still craved his affirmation. Looking through old slides this week, I realized the scale of my projects paled into insignificance next to his. When he completed his impressive rear deck at Astley Street the building inspector told him it would still be standing long after the house had been reduced to rubble. In the week before he died, I drove him out to see Rohan & Jess’s new house under construction. It made his day, to feel involved in the building of something.

Dad wasn’t really an animal person although we must’ve worn him down at some point in the mid 70’s because he agreed to a family cat, Whiskers. Whiks was supposed to be an outside cat, but Mum and I had a pretty loose interpretation of outside, particularly in winter. So, our evening routine would be: dinner on the stove, the pair of us seated on the couch with Whiskers asleep on our laps, Dr Who on the telly. At the sound of the key in the front door I’d leap up, race to the sliding doors and toss the cat out then act like nothing happened. Whiskers would still be airborne when Dad put his keys down on the Laminex bench. He was always onto us though – maybe it was the fresh claw marks in my forearms. Dad never said anything, although he would level an occasional frown of disappointment at us both. (Mum and I tended gang up on Dad). It was a good thing when Em finally came along – she tended to take his side which evened the ledger.

Still on the subject of animals. There’s a well-known sketch of a frog and a pelican. The frog’s in trouble. His head and torso are deep inside the beak of the pelican. His legs are dangling limply outside, but his hands remain tightly gripped around the pelican’s throat. It’s titled, “Never Give Up!” This was Dad’s Mum Jean’s motto - she kept a photocopy on her fridge. Dad fought his disease tooth and nail. Like the frog he knew he was up against it from the outset, but he fought valiantly. We didn’t waste an opportunity over the past 6 months to tell Dad we loved him or to give him a hug. He accepted this affection more and more freely as the disease took its toll. It wasn’t until very late in the piece that he came to accept his fate and, in true Dad fashion, only once he was satisfied that he’d given it his all.

Thank-you all for attending today. Dad/Bob would be truly humbled by this turn-out for his send-off. But I’m sure you all see it as a fitting testament to the quality of the man. So please, if you can, make sure you stick around. Sample some of the sausage rolls and scones. Have a drink and start up a conversation with someone that also knew Dad/Bob, because friends, family and ensuring people stayed connected were what sustained him his whole life.

Robert (Bob) Roy McKie
30/11/37 - 5/7/21

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

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!

For Bill Pattinson: 'He loved us all, and we loved him back', by Brett Pattinson - 2020

May 2020, Port Macquarie, Australia

Good afternoon everyone.

On the way here today i was pulled over by the police, i wound down my window and the officer said “blow into this bag” i said “what for” he said “because me chips are too hot”.....

When i was asked to do the eulogy, I thought why me? Craig or Dad are usually the ones that do the speeches in the family ... .so i agreed under some degree of fear and loathing....

So, that being said, I asked some friends about how to go about writing a eulogy.... And it seemed to me that everyone is a bloody expert and has an opinion!!! One of my mates said ... you have start with a joke..... So here we go …

I knew I was the brightest in the family because dad always called me sun!!!!!

Ok, so i see that didn’t quite hit the mark. Then my brother Craig sent me a “how to write a eulogy” document.... Here it is (hold up document and then throw it over shoulder) .......

Another friend told me i need to get everyone’s attention and in the moment (a woo woo hippy friend of course) so......

Did anyone ever notice that dad used to pick his nose??? He was a master nose picker. He could be in a room full of people and he could pick his nose and no one ever seemed to notice. And it was even better that he had his stubby index finger (from a magic accident) he could pick his nose and it looked like half his finger was up his nose. i was in awe of this when I was a kid, I have practiced this art but without the half index finger it doesn’t have the same effect.

Sorry, I have digressed from the job at hand anyway.

The definition of eulogy is a speech or piece of writing that praises someone or something highly, especially a tribute to someone who has just died. Dad would have liked this idea, he never shyed away from a bit of attention …

William Earnest Pattinson –born 14th November 1931 in Sydney to Frank Edward Pattinson and Edith Ivy Taylor (Nan & Pop Patto)and brother to Frank, Marian, Evelyn & Elaine the youngest....thank you to Frank, Marion, Evelyn and Elaine we are all very grateful they could come all this way today under the current restrictions we are faced with, and thank you to Peter, Brad and Dean for making that happen.

Dad was known as Bill , Billy, Pop, Poppy or simply Patto to most people.
Dad grew up in ....Bellfield and Sutherland south of Sydney, and lived in Oxford St Sutherland in the family home. He attended Belomre Primary School and then Hurstville High where he left at the age of 14 or 15 (I couldn’t get a straight answer on that one). He either left or got kicked out ....we aren’t sure....

Dad had a habit of wagging school, in fact, as Aunty Elaine told me, he was so bad that each day in the morning he had to report to the headmasters office and get a stamp on his hand so his mother and father could confirm he’d been at school.....

Unfortunately,they found out much later that he had actually stolen the stamp from the headmasters office and was stamping himself and nicking off to god knows where.

Apparently he ended up suspended for 3 months....i don’t think that bothered him.

Let’s talk about dad’s early days ... So the story goes dad and Frank were both rascals and mischief wasn’t far from them at any one time..... When uncle Frank left school his first job was as an apprentice electrician. Anyway tax time came around and uncle Frank got a call from the ATO and they said uncle Frank hadn’t paid enough tax.... Frank was a bit perplexed because he was sure he had......

As it turns out Dad had also either left school or wasn’t attending anymore and he had gone and got a job as a bus conductior, but he was under aged so he lied about his age and had given them Franks name and date of birth and never paid any tax........

Can you put two and two together????? Yep that’s right Dad had failed his first test in accounting!!!!! And now i bloody well know why dad was so hung up about the tax department.

Another little bit of trivia –uncle Frank was married to Aunty Dulcie –but apparently a little birdy told me that dad dated Dulcie before Frank. However, uncle Frank took a fancy to her and wooed her away and they were married and lived happily ever after ....so all of us have to thank you uncle Frank …. otherwise we might not be here today and this story could have been very different.

After leaving school he got a job at a dry cleaners where he worked until he met mum, Jean Margaret Montgue and they fell in love....

So the story goes (this is Mums version) they met at a dance in Oatly where Dad pursued mum and then stalked her to Oatly train station where he chased her up and down the aisles of the train until she agreed to go out with him..... Dad was a handsome rooster, and persistant!

It’s probably where the curse began...... (insert quick summary of the curse)

I guess the deal was sealed and “the curse” had worked and Dad and Mum were married in February 1952, two years after they were married, on February 17th 1954 my brother Craig was born....i assume that in the following years Dad was on the road a lot because it wasn’t until the 8th of March (International Womens Day) that the looker of the family... me!! …was born.

I think things turned pair shaped at that point...... For some reason they saw me as a bit of a handful (go figure) because Dad went straight back on the road......this time for a very long time, until on the 27th March 1971, Ness was born.

Things changed again around that time and dad slowed down on the touring etc... I think he actually really liked ness....she was his little princess.

Over the years we lived in quite a few places, from when Craig was born until we all left home, I think we moved 9 times. Cootamundra –olive st Heathcote –Coopernook ave Gymea Bay –Parthenia St Dolans bay –Plover St Grays Point –Carrington Ave Katoomba – Cliff drive Katoomba and then finally retiring Tojobling St port Macquarie ..... Hopefully i didn’t miss any ????

Dad was always on the go, from my earliest memory of dad he was always busy, he worked
Hard...really hard...often 2 or 3 jobs at once and every one of them he was proud of. From his days as a sales rep with various companies to national sales manager of Treet Packers then onto a senior management role at Dairy Farmers.

Dad also had many side hustles going on....the one I remember the most was the trophy engraving business he would come home from his day job and go downstairs at our house at Dolans Bay and work till all hours engraving trophies......he did this so that we all had everything we ever needed.

We never wanted for anything but his true passion was always entertainment.... Dad loved people and people loved Dad. He loved to entertain, or show off if you like. He was incredibly skilled at what he did and had many strings to his bow.

His main passion was magic..... From what I can gather dad learnt his magic skills from Mum’s dad (my grandfather) Chica’s brother and I seem to remember dad telling me he first learnt the Chinese rings...you know those big rings .....his signature tricks were amazing and any of you that were lucky enough to see him in action will agree he was pretty bloody talented.

He used to do what they call paper cutting, which for those of you that don’t know what that is, he would spend hours the night before a show preparing these intricate designs that were pre-cut with a very sharp razor.... It really was something special to see. You know how I mentioned his amazing talent for nose picking....and you may have noticed how his index finger on his left hand was only half an index finger....well he did that whilst doing the paper cutting, I can only imagine the audiences reaction that night.

Dad could sing, dad could tell a joke, he compared but most of all he was a magician ......he really loved it and I loved watching it..... For a young boy it was amazing... And I still get a thrill from seeing any good magic. Growing up dad would tell me how all the great magicians did their tricks, all the tricks except the ones he did...he wouldn’t tell me those ones!! I know my cousin Dean badgered him about learn the tricks because dean thought it would help him pull the birds. He travelled the country doing shows and he performed with some very famous people from all round the world. Did I say how good he was? He was great.

I think dad thought he could teach Craig and I how to do magic and especially how to be clowns. And in my case it worked!!!Dad loved dad jokes .... how do you know when a clown has farted?? Something smells funny !!Which brings me to one of his proudest rolls..... Ronald McDonald!!

Dad embraced being Ronald like nothing else and as you can see McDonalds is still a part of our family.... He was super proud right on through his life. I was talking to Craig the other day about this and neither of us can work out why this role was so important to dad..... Was it the money? Was it the notoriety???Or was it simply that he loved to entertain kids? He never really told me and I wished he had...I do remember being very clear with dad that I didn’t want any of my friends to know that he was a clown, which he sort of agreed to, until, one day he turned up at my high school to pick me up in the Ronald McDonald van... Blasting the horn....insert noises.... From that day forward I was known by the whole of Caringbah High as Ronnie!!!!!I could go on telling you all stories and some bloody funny ones all night but we simply can’t.

A couple of quick stories that are precious to me:

Dad and I had a pact...actually not a pact more of a code and it was just a few words... ‘don’t tell your mother” this especially applied whenever I was with dad ....after footy training, on the way home from bagpipe practice, after swimming , after golf..... We would always stop at the pub for a few quick ones.... When I was small I would sit in the car and he would bring out a schooner of pink lady and a packet of smiths chips and I would savour those in the car while listening to 2SM on the radio...... This, I think , was where my love for music came from..... I can still taste those things .... these days he probably would have been arrested for abandonment. I guess they were different times. Anyway after a few schooners dad would jump in the car, chuck down a few pieces of PK chewing gum and say “don’t tell your mother” this went on right through my life with dad.

I remember when I temporarily got expelled for pushing the lockers over and nearly killing the vice principal....dad got me off the hook and on the way home....guess what he said???? Yes that’s right “don’t tell your mother “

Dad had one really annoying habit that drove me crazy.... He was a little OCD ... Well actually a lot OCD .... He handed that down to both myself and Craig.... thank god Craig is much worse ...... Sorry bro, anyway, he used to write post it notes and put them everywhere..... E.g.: don’t forget to turn the power off, don’t drive too fast there are lots of coppers on the road, wash the car, turn the iron off, close the fridge and the list goes on ..... So, if you have a look on the coffin ......... I’ts payback time !!!!!

Dad loved many things in life.... He loved beer, he loved football, he loved fish and chips and baked dinners.... He loved sardines on toast, and he loved cups of tea, he loved salt and sugar ......he loved salt and sugar.... Dads plate always resembled the snow fall on Mt Kosciuszko .......

He loved magic, he loved dad jokes... He taught me some cracking jokes, once he secretly came to one of my shows and afterwards he gave me a dressing down because there was a heckler in the audience and I told the guy to fuck off....dad didn’t think that was professional and proceeded to give me comebacks for hecklers 101 ...... E.g. “why don’t you put an egg in your shoe and beat it” “i remember when I had my first drink too” “why don’t you go and stand next to the wall it’s plastered too” and my favourite “don’t worry mate that haircut will come back in to fashion one day”......I learnt everything I know from dad.... I learnt how to be nice to people, I learnt how to be kind to people. I learnt how to tell a joke and I learnt how to take a joke.

A few things dad hated. He hated the tax man, he hated coppers, he hated Manly Sea Eagles (don’t we all??) But you know what, he didn’t hate too much. He preferred to be a good, decent, and honest bloke. That is how I will remember dad. He was loved by most people. I have rarely ever heard anyone say a bad word about dad. And isn’t that how we would all liked to be remembered???

I think dad believed his crowning achievement was us! All of us in the room: his brother and sisters, his wife, his kids, grandkids and great grandkids....he loved us all and we loved him back.

Dad’s fabric is sewn into all of us and we will carry that forward until our time comes to hand it on in our memories. I loved this quote that someone sent me: “active memories in the lives and minds of others reflects the true greatness of a worthy soul”

Dad wasn’t just a good man ,he was a great man, a gentle-man......our hearts will ache without him and we will miss him dreadfully....
Rest in peace Dad I love you

For Neil Alister Turner: 'He always hated that name. Neil', by Matt Turner - 2018

10 September 2018, Perth, Western Australia

Speaker’s note: I am the eldest son of six siblings. My father had invited me to go on his annual fishing trip. He died of a heart attack on the small boat 30kms offshore. It was Fathers' day.

Neil Alister Turner,
He always hated that name. Neil.
Just last week at the Airport, when we were checking in the lady wanted to know who this Neil Turner was?
Dad had to bring out his drivers license and explain the whole story to prove who he was.
He turned to me and said “stupid name - every time I go to the Airport , this is always a fucked up show”

Alister Turner
That was the name of my Dad.
I was proud of my Dad.
Not because he was a brilliant surgeon who changed so many lives.
Not because he was a loving father who brought up a horde of kids in difficult circumstances.
… but because he was good man.

He wasn’t one to show too much emotion.
He hated big dramas and fuss.
He never got angry … well maybe a little bit when his racehorse ran badly.
But he was always there to help no matter what. He just wanted to fix things up and then get on with life.

Growing up he showed me what it was to work hard.
He would get up early, 6 days a week and work all day in a job that not many of us could do.
He never complained and always had time to help us with a costume or a some school project that was always due the next day.

My Dad loved books. He was always reading some crappy crime thriller. He always tried to palm them off to me; I must have 3 boxes of them in my shed.
He even wrote a few of books himself. I think one may be coming out pretty soon.
Seriously … Licorice Lunch. It is autobiographical.
Go out and buy it.
You are probably in it.

I reckon it will probably need one more last chapter added.

My Dad had a swagger about him, like he was almost arrogant.
He thought he was a great dancer. He was actually pretty good.
He thought all the women loved him. Maybe they did.
He said to me one day “I have been working out at the gym Matt. I am feeling really strong. But no matter how hard I train my muscles won’t get any bigger”
If you ever saw my Dad in shorts you would know he had legs like a crayfish.
He complained “My calf muscles just won’t grow”
I told him “ You are nearly 80 years old … what do want with huge calf muscles?”

I was lucky enough to get invited along on my Dad's annual fishing trip last couple of years.
The Happy Hookers.
These guys have been going up north for decades. During the day they go out on the boats fishing and at night the play cards and …. have a couple drinks.
Tits Turner, as they called him, was always amongst the winners of best fish at the end of the trip.
He seemed to be able to be pulling up Red Emperors when everyone else was getting catfish.

Recently he has not been as strong as he use to be and struggled to pull fish up from a great depth.
He would turn to me and say “Dan , here you better pull this one up”
As I hauled in a large Coral trout , I would be like ” Geez Dad my name is Matt, Dan is you other son ….the one who would be spewing over the side of the gunnel.”
Sorry Dan.

This year Dad was worried the fishing trip was going to be no good. That nobody would enjoy it.
He thought the accommodation would be crap. The boat would be too small. The weather would be bad and the fish wouldn't bite.
It didn't turn out like that.
The cabin was fantastic, the boat was best ever. The ocean glassed off at high tide each day and the fish were varied and abundant.
Pulling up fish and putting down cans of export with his mates out on the ocean.
I am only speaking for myself but I think that was a perfect way for my Dad to go out.
Dad if you listening “Your journey was a success, it was not a fucked up show…. you nailed it perfectly”

For Adrian Callinan: 'His last words on that night were, ’I am so proud of you', by Damian Callinan - 2017

5 July 2017, Greensborough, Melbourne, Australia

Hello friends and family of Adrian. I’m Damian, Adrian’s youngest son & the member of the family least likely to require counselling after a public speaking engagement. I did contemplate turning up this morning and feigning laryngitis just to see their eyes widen … [feigning raspy voice] … ’Sorry, can’t do it guys … one of you will have to step up … Chris where are you going? … Michelle, Net … Paul? … Why are you lying down?

Anyway, one behalf of my Glossophobic siblings, I'd like to welcome you and thank you for coming to pay respects to the wonderful Adrian Paul Callinan.

I did say to dad, only one year ago, if he got to 93, he'd only have to make one more, and then it's just a six to bring up the ton.

[Roll Call & Thankyous]

As most of you would know Mum passed away in 2008 and to be honest dad, you haven't even come close to her numbers … so you need to have a good hard look at yourself … seriously … it was standing room at mums … we even had people dressing up as priests to try to score a seat on the altar.

I also did the eulogy at Mum’s funeral. Dad used to keep copies of it and proudly handed out. Mostly to people he knew, but not always. In fact I took him on tour with me 6 months after mum died & I think it may have led to me copping a fine from that cop who pulled us over just out of Ararat … ’I’ve got this dad …  No, a copy of Mum's eulogy won’t help … alright …double demerits, your most kind officer.’

My friend, writer and Public speaker Tony Wilson used mum’s eulogy to launch his website ‘Speakola’ - a repository of public speeches of all ilks, from all comers … it’s a wonderful addition to the world.

Tony has been kind enough to share some of the stats with me. At 3512 views and 52 shares, Mum's is the second most read eulogy after Eric Idle’s Eulogy of George Harrison. Which means mum, while coming second to the Beatles is more popular than the Rolling Stones. According to Tone, mum’s speech has been more popular than the likes of Martin Luther King & Ted Whitten.

So the pressure is on Adey Babe. My view is why shy way from a winning formula, so I’ll be drawing influence from mum’s speech … here we go …

Adrian Callinan was the eldest daughter of Jack and May Purcell. He attended Santa Maria Ladies College in Northcote where he was captain of the school netball team and … hang on, I probably should have edited this a bit more … I might've have to go off notes

[Put notes aside]

Adrian went by many names … ‘Stringer’ … for which no satisfying explanation was ever been proferred. He was dubbed Adey Babe by dear family friend Jeanie P and he never lost that moniker, did you Adey Babe? He occasionally got Hadrian as in the wall; Hiraji as in 1948 Melbourne cup Winner … & Age, as in the declining Fairfax newspaper.

Mum had a few variations … ‘Oh Adriannn’ the most famous. Used at times of peak frustration, like when dad decided to go to the toilet just as they were about to go out. To understand the scale of her frustration, dad could be in there for considerable periods of time. In 1992 alone, he missed Annette’s birthday, the change of federal government and most of August. But mostly she said his name 3 times with increasing volume until he heard her … ‘Adrian! … Adrian!!! …. Adrian!!!!!!! … you're putting sugar on the salmon patties!’ Some times she truncated all 3 into one ‘Adri … Ade … Adrian!! … the toaster doesn't go in in the fridge!!’

Whatever you called him, you loved him. We often pump up the tyres of the recently deceased but much like mum, that isn’t necessary with dad. He was universally loved and admired. Our family have been inundated with messages this week from so many disparate sources commenting on how dad had touched their lives from our friends, ex-students, winemakers, teaching colleagues the managers at Bundoora Retirement Village, winemakers … actually mainly winemakers … Even the Ararat Police Station gave us a call.

Dad was multi layered as most quality people are. An Educator, son, thespian, husband, welfare volunteer, grand dad, wine connoisseur, great grand dad, confidant, brother, athlete, uncle, mentor, lover of literature & the arts, and of course a purveyor of fashion … which reached it’s high point in the 70’s

Here we see dad and mum at the Cluden Races in Townsville circa 1974. Look at him absolutely owning his batik over shirt with pockets. He also wore a Safari Suit better than Don Dunstan, made walk socks and walk short ensemble his signature look and as you’ll see in the later montage, he didn’t mind popping his leg up to show off his wares … ‘Hi, I’m Adey Babe … Cancer’

Today I’d like to shed light on the different versions of Adey Babe … He is looking a bit mobster up there and that’s not surprising because dad didn't mind getting involved in an under hand negotiations, of which mum may or may not have been aware. t’s become apparent over recent days that we have all been involved that dad was a deal broker.

Paul & Annette - were offered use of the family car of a Saturday in exchange for babysitting the brats … Michelle & I

Chris - in Year 7 Chris was offered financial incentives to read … a shilling a book I think, I’m not sure what currency you used back in your youth … it didn't work. It’s a credit to Chris that he has carved out a 40 year career in education without being able to read a single word … look at him sitting there holding onto the mass booklet… so cute … it’s upside down mate

I was the lucky one.  We 5 are offspring of a mixed marriage. Mum, first cousin to the great Phonse Kyne, had no choice but to barrack for Collingwood. Dad, an early adapter to the use of untested, performance enhancing drugs was destined to barrack for Essendon.

Aged 8 and still trying to squeeze into the Collingwood jumper Nana Purcell had made me, dad took me aside and said ‘if you barrack for Essendon, I’ll take you to the footy every week’ … I didn't concede straight away but over a period of 18 months of watching the Dons get flogged at Windy Hill, I slowly shed by black & white striped skin and awoke black with a red sash. Immediately my teeth stopped aching, my vocab improved & I stopped spitting at strangers. With Chis already a Bomber, Paul was gutted. He was from that day condemned to a life time of going to the footy on his own. Lacking the vocabulary to articulate his pain, he just spits in our general direction from time to time.

Then there was dad the athlete.

That, ladies & gentleman, is the ‘Brunswick Flash’

Dad excelled at sport at school and was a member of the 1st 18 Footy team, 1st 11 cricket team & Senior Athletics team at Parade Christian Brothers. As were Chris and I … Paul also … attended Parade. To be fair Paul was the Due of Latin … Speaking a dead language has been of great solace to him over the years.

Post school years, dad’s sports stories seemed to take on a more epic scale. One Saturday after one of his regular Friday pub sessions with his teaching cohorts, he claims he awoke with a prodigious hangover. Mum made him a bowl of porridge and sent to him off to the game where he proceeded to kick a bag of 8 goals for Bacchus Marsh. One of the goals, said to be roosted from the centre of the ground, was immortalised in the Bacchus Marsh local paper under the head line ‘The Goal That Callinan kicked.’ From then on mum superstitiously made him porridge every Saturday morning but he never got close to repeating his heroics that day at Maddingley Park.

However, his most told story was so full of inaccuracies, that we used to ask him to repeat it just to see how far he could bend reality. The story goes that whilst competing for Brunswick YCW Athletics team in the grand final, the scores were locked together and it was decided that the teams would select their best athlete to race off. The event chosen: the 300m … yeah, not one of the more well known events. Apparently the ‘Between the Legs Javelin’ & ‘Backwards Triple Jump’ were also considered.

Dad put his hand up, for as it transpired, the 300m was dad’s pet event. Despite almost never being added to the card at any meet ever, he had secretly trained for this eventuality. He settled into his blocks, the recently injected pig enzymes taking affect, the gun went off and Dad romped to victory. The winning margin longer with every telling. In the last rending he crossed the line 365 metres in front of his opponent.

This is Airman Adey Babe

Leading Aircraft Man 116548 -
Enlisted - July 31st, 1942
Discharged - September 15th, 1945

This is the version of dad we knew the least. Like many of his generation he kept his war experience close to his chest.

In the footsteps of his brother Tony, already serving as navigator in the European theatre, dad joined the RAAF in the hope of becoming a pilot but due to an inner ear condition and testing positive to Peptides, he became a Radar Operator. He served in Darwin & the Atherton Tablelands. According to his service record we do know that a/ he was rated at of very good character b/ He was ranked as A Class in Trade proficiency 3/ he was wounded in action… though he fact that he could barely change a light blue in civilian life, the wonder was he wasn’t electrocuted more often … what, too soon?

Meet Adrian the Thespian

… that’s dad in Moliere’s ‘Tartuffe’ in 1948

Dad took great delight in telling the story that he was introduced to mum by their mate Tom Duffy after he had played a game of footy for Brunswick YCW. Dad took an immediate shine to her and asked her on date. Unable to think where they should go, he suggested that she come & see him perform in a play the following week. The plays title - ‘He Was Born Gay’ by Auberon Waugh … If mum had seen that photo, it’s unlikely the date would ever have occurred.

Back in the 40’s Dad starred in Melbourne Uni Revues and formed a stage alliance with his good mate Jack Cooper. Together they co-founded the the Cardijnian Players with the likes of author Ron Conway and Tony Coburn who went on to fame as the director of Patrol Boat in the UK. Mum reckoned that when they moved the to the country dad would either join the local Rep group or start one if there wasn’t. Mum would take care of the costumes, host the wrap parties and set up the trundle bed so he wouldn't keep her awake form snoring.

His passion for theatre spilled over into his teaching and he would continue to direct school plays and musicals even after he had become the Principal. On retirement he picked up where he left off and joined the Heidelberg Theatre Company where, amongst other pieces, he starred in Rome & Juliet alongside Dame Judi Dench and Sir John Geilgud … just seeing if you are all still listening.

I never did get to perform with dad but he did do a rehearsed play reading with our nephew David Callinan … & pretty much blew him off the stage … sorry Dave

Meet Adrian the Self Styled Sommelier

He didn't let go of that bottle of Grange all night.

For a man who couldn't so much as prepare a single leaf salad without dressing, Adrian loved to host a dinner party. However mum’s culinary skills paired with his wine knowledge meant they rarely had a knock back. Mum would buzz around the kitchen whipping up a multi feast course feast while dad moved around behind her washing up and putting away everything she didn't want washed up and put away.

So mum would shuffle him off so she could prepare the ingredients for the Fondue or Beef Stroganoff, and dad would repair to the bottom of the linen closet and select the wines for the night. This process could last so long, you would have sworn he was in the toilet. He’d consult his wine magazines, scrapbook journals and then light his pinot infused candle at his James Halliday Altar before lining up the selection for the evening on the ‘buffet’ and begin to decant. The selection would then be logged in their dinner party journal along with mum’s menu and the list of guests, a virgin would be sacrificed, preferably from Bordeaux or Burgundy … and then they'd bring out the cheese board.

And then there is dad the teacher

That’s my sister Michelle & I with dad at his new desk at Greenwood High School. His first gig as Principal

While he flirted with career on the stage, dad never missed a beat once he became a teacher. He was bloody good one too.  Former students would regularly get in contact with dad years down the track to let him know that they has achieved their dream thanks to his support.

On Friday when we sat down down to arrange the funeral with Gabriel Walsh told us that only the week before, a local guy she had dealings with had told her that dad was the reason he was doing what he was doing today. Rod was student at Greenwood & a habitual truent. Dad went around to his house and told him to try to come to school a couple of days a week. He agreed but soon enough his attendance fell way so dad went back & dragged him to school and told him to build a shed. He did and it was a good shed. Rod is now a successful builder & developer.

Even as principal dad got his hands dirty,  directing the school plays and taking remedial English classes for the senior students before hours.

He was loved and esteemed by his colleagues some of whom are with us today Ken Rigby, Glennys & Ian Collis, Geraldine Sullivan

But it wasn't just his students and peers who rated him. Have a listen to these Education Department Review Quotes …

His first school Bacchus Marsh HS 1951-55 — ‘A brisk and vigorous teacher: presents lessons clearly with good use of questioning & blackboard & performs numerous extra-curricular activities including bookstore accounts and dramatic work most efficiently

Then to Warragul HS 1956-59 - ‘A very sincere, thorough & capable teacher. Presents lessons on sound lines securing very good co-operation from his classes. A valuable member of staff.’

Let’s skip forward a few years passed Oak Park HS, Eltham HS & Strathmore HS to when he got his first Principal Job at Greenwood HS

Greenwood HS - ‘Adrian Callinan deserves a sainthood for lasting a single term let alone 5 years. When I walked into the school I had never seen such a feral bunch of long haired, unemployable layabouts and that was just the staffroom. Those teachers are so left wing they make Lenin look like a fascist. I’d burn the place down and start again but most likely one of them will fall asleep at their desk with a spliff in the hands and do it for us. Thankfully Adrian has been able to take refuge from the carnage in a rather good shed built at the rear of the school.

Then there is the husband and father.

If you thought he was good at the other stuff, in this department he was world class!

We all had close but very different relationships with dad and our first memories are telling. Annette recalled dad finding her knickers in his briefcase at a Bacchus Marsh High School Staff Meeting; Michelle getting trinkets from dad after he got home for teaching Night School; Chris hearing dad singing happy birthday through the radiogram; Paul recalls dad’s poor attempts at leg spin in the backyard … & I remember his face through the glass in the line up at the orphanage.

The love story of Adrian & Kathleen reads like an old school Hollywood romance … that keeps going well beyond the credits. Their post war courtship courtship was Gene Kelly & Kathryn Grayson in ‘Anchors Aweigh’… their country years were Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert in Green Acres … their burgeoning family was Clifton Webb & Jeanne Crane in ‘Cheaper By The Dozen’… their dotage ‘On Golden Pond’ with Henry Fonda & Katherine Hepburn

But no Hollywood screen writer would have come up with the the cruel plot twist at the end of their beautiful 61 year relationship.

The unfathomably sad circumstances that took mum away from dad could easily have broken a lesser man. He had every right to wallow in self pity but he actively chose to hold himself together so we wouldn't lose both parents to the same tragedy. Watching that beautiful man apologise to his wife as her live ebbed away is the most profoundly brave and loving act I’ve witnessed. Seemingly from that moment he lifted his head and walked forward to forge a new life without the woman he adored and who adored him.

[Gets out handkerchief from his pocket and finds instead a pair of female undies]

Annette!!!!!

When dad retired mum and he started a very happy phase of their lives together but the School Principal in him was slow to recede and from week one they would schedule weekly ‘Staff Meetings’ of a Monday morning. This sounds like I am making this up but I’m not. On the agenda would be items for discussion such as medical appointments, correspondence to be written, dinner parties to arrange, should we put a phone in the toilet …

Since mum passed away of course the meetings sadly stopped, but you will be pleased to know that as of this Monday passed, the meetings have reconvened and I just happen to have the Minutes from that very meeting … written by mum

Minutes - Kathleen & Adrian Callinan Monday Staff Meeting - July 3rd, 2017

Present - Kathleen & Adrian

Apologies - None

Schedules - 10am

Commenced - 10.38am [Adrian was in the toilet]

Order of Business

•     Join Pearly Gates West Beef & Burgundy Club

•     Locate nearest Dan Murphy

•     Jack Cooper to take Adrian to join ‘Kingdom Come Amateur Theatre Company’

•     Get hearing aid batteries

•     Speak to Dr O’Shea about Adrian’s IBS [I’ve told him that this stuff doesn't matter any more but he won’t be dissuaded]

•     Redo the now more extended Christmas card list

•     Decide on menu for dinner party with the Duffys, Jack Cooper, Jack Leonard, Jesus and Jeanie P - thinking kai si ming and pavlova

•     Adrian is keen to buy a new car … have managed to put this off for the time being

I wrote this reflection about dad the night after he passed away. It was raw and flowed out as if he were over my shoulder helping me find the words. I’ll read it now it sums up best what dad meant too me

The last drizzles of colour cascaded from mid air only to disappear in less impressive drifts of smoke. Horns from boats on the harbour and distant cheers replaced the cacophony of the pyrotechnics and we were able to resume our conversation. The sulphurous hangover lingered as I stood on the balcony and detailed the magic of my night thus far. He hung off my every word in much the way I had done when he read to me of a night in my childhood bed. I loved the longer narratives of Arthur Conan Doyle and the word plays of Bennet Cerf, but it was the magical worlds of faeries conjured by WB Yeats and the canny lasses of Robby Burns that made me sit up and clutch my spare pillow. The accents and oratorial poise he summoned, seemed to take me directly to fog shrouded isles and moonlit corn rows. I loved those nights. But on this night the roles were reversed. The noise & clatter of a Sydney New Years Eve faded in the background as I spoke to him on the balcony of the Opera House amidst the revellers whose post operatic party we had crashed. Still in the glow of a preview performance of ‘The Complete Works of Shakespeare' in the Playhouse, the English Lit teacher in him swooned at descriptions of analysing the Bard's text in rehearsal; The Actor in him delighted in hearing tales of my improvisations during the constructed mayhem of the piece and the Father in him swelled with pride. It remains one of the most profoundly happy conversations of my life. He gushed with envy and I told him how much of an impact his passion for literature and theatre had fundamentally shaped who I am. His last words on that night were … ’I am so proud of you.’ …. A couple of nights ago, in a lucid moment amidst fits of delirium, I held both of his hands and his eyes locked onto mine and he said it again. They were his last words to me … ‘Farewell Adrian, if we do meet again, why we shall smile: if not, then this parting was well made'

In the last year or so I occasionally returned the favour and read to dad. Often choosing every poems and prose he had read to me as a child. With his memories fraying at the edges he would pick up and join in with me on some poems. We both loved Robbie Burns and this was our favourite … so one more time with feeling Adey babe

Corn Rigs & Barley Rigs - Robbie Burns

It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie;

The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,
Till, 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me thro' the barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:

I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night
Amang the rigs o' barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

Related speeches: Damian Callinan's eulogy for his mother Kathleen & Damian Callinan's story about loquat jam and his mother's death.

for Paul Cox: "At this stage I believe in nothing and everything", by John Clarke - 2016

filmmaker Paul Cox died on 18 June 2016, Melbourne, Australia

There is no available audio or video of this speech

When Paul Cox was moved from hospital into palliative care, we prepared ourselves for tough news. Paul was getting smaller and weaker, his voice was in retreat and family and friends had attended his bedside to say their goodbyes.

His siblings flew out from Europe. I didn't expect to see him again. A week or so later, Paul decided he was going home and explained to the palliative care people that although he loved them dearly, he would not be dying just yet.

He travelled home in a Popemobile-shaped taxi and began blessing people as he passed them in the street. This cheered him up enormously and when we saw him a few days later he rose to meet us, offered us coffee and sat rather grandly in a chair, chatting for hours with a keen emphasis on the future.

His voice was stronger, his memory was wonderful, his manners were elegant, his talk was clever and in some cases what he said was astonishing.

At 7 o'clock each evening, for example, he went out on to his little balcony in Melbourne and raised both arms high in the air in order to receive healing waves being beamed to him by a woman in Uzbekistan.

Paul was very amusing about all this but as he said, 'at this stage I believe in nothing and everything'.

A few years earlier, the first time he was going to die, he received a liver transplant and, in a state of profound gratitude, he continued writing and making films.

Last year he made a movie in which David Wenham played a man who has a liver transplant and falls in love. Paul met his partner Rosie when they were both receiving liver transplants. He was in his late sixties at the time and she is a beautiful Balinese woman of somewhat more tender years.

"I know what you're thinking Johnny," Cox said to me when he introduced us. "Rosie is much younger than I am. But I want you to know Johnny, my liver is younger than Rosie's."

Half a lifetime ago Paul and I wrote some films together and we've always stayed in touch. I'd never written a movie before and I quickly learnt it was no use suggesting to Paul a thematically consistent sequence involving sport, for example. That wouldn't fit in a Cox film. Too healthy. And there wasn't much interest in men who fixed cars and called each other 'mate'.

Paul's films looked like Dutch interiors with dappled light playing through the window and they were full of urban characters who were ill at ease, often slightly wounded or suffering from incongruity of some kind.

As with many collaborations, we wrote by talking a lot together and then writing separately. Paul's house was always full of good conversation. At one stage Werner Herzog was living in a shed in the backyard with a dingo.

Peter Watkins also lived there at some point, while he and Paul were discussing a film project. Peter had made the brilliant 1964 docudrama 'Culloden' in which 1960s British journalists report live from a battle which occurred in 1745. This strategy of anachronism was new in 1964 and the effect in 'Culloden' was terrifying.

Paul's public presentation was that of a serious artist but he was nevertheless given to fits of amusement which produced a snuffling and rumbling sound such as might occur if a badger were attempting not to explode. When he regrouped, he expressed matters once more in his formal mode, which was not unlike an antiques catalogue.

A suggestion which would solve a problem was 'good,' a great idea for a scene was 'fine,' and if he completely approved of a whole section of plot and dialogue he would pronounce it 'very fine'; as in 'I read that section again last night Johnny. That really is very fine.'

When Lonely Hearts, the first film we wrote together, was about to be released 35 years ago, Paul wrote me a letter which I have always kept. In the last line of the letter he said he hoped that having worked on this film together and seeing it come to fruition, would 'strengthen our shy human friendship'. It did.

Having received blessings from Uzbekistan, Paul announced he was going to America. The only people who thought this wouldn't happen were those unfamiliar with Paul's willpower. The doctors wouldn't allow him to fly across the Pacific for 14 hours so he'd negotiated overnight stays in Bangkok, Dubai and Frankfurt and then a trip across the Atlantic to Chicago.

His film Force of Destiny was to play at the Ebert Film Festival and Paul had been invited to speak. Rosie would go with him and make sure he rested, ate the right food and took his tablets. The couple left on April Fool's Day and that night Rosie, whose canonisation is imminent, sent a message reporting that Paul had gone out to dinner in Bangkok. This was probably a PB for the palliative care unit at the Austin but Cox was just limbering up. After Dubai and Frankfurt the official party arrived in Chicago and Paul made a gracious, honest and very engaging speech to an audience who couldn't believe quite what they were watching.

Following the festival, Paul and Rosie made their way home and Paul was planning another movie. The fact that he died on Saturday will probably slow him down a bit although I expect he'll call sometime during the next week or so with a revised schedule. "I'm still going to do it," he'll say. "Why not? I have some good ideas. I want to talk about it. Come to dinner."

For Lou Richards: 'Lou is bigger than a legend', by Ron Joseph - 2017

Richards' funeral: Joseph's speech - collingwoodfc.com.au

18 May 2017, St Paul's Cathedral, Melbourne, Australia

Lou was right. He told me his farewell would be bigger than Texas. He also told me that I would have to speak at his funeral.

"All the other people I know are dead,” he said.

"You better start thinking about what you are going to say, because it will be a bloody big funeral. Harold Holt’s will have nothing on mine. I had a house down at Portsea near him, you know. He didn’t drown. He took off with a sheila.

"It will be a state funeral, just like his. So that’ll give Jack and Bobby Davis the shits.

"Don’t let them have it at Jeff’s Shed. That is a cold hole, like Jeff. It will be a telecast around Australia, it might even be around the world. So you better be ready to talk on national television, Ronnie, and don’t stuff it up. You’re bloody lucky to get this opportunity, you know. No one else would give it to you.

"Tell Nicole and Kim to make sure that they get a good quid for the television rights. If Seven are covering it, tell the girls to charge double. Casey paid me bugger-all for all the time I spent with him at 3DB and Channel 7. He was a good bloke, Case. Edna and I loved our time with Ron and Pauline, but he was tight, tight as a fish’s ...

“EJ’s was a state funeral too. I’m bigger than Ted ever was. I nicknamed him Mr Football and he believed it for the rest of his life.

“I called Barassi Mrs Football. Of all the blokes I have nicknamed over the years Barassi is about the only one that ever lived up to his moniker.

“And if that Mike Fitzpatrick’s at my funeral, you know the bloke who used to play for Carlton, the Rhodes Scholar — Rhodes Scholar, my bum — tell him he spent too much time at Oxford and Cambridge and can’t recognise a legend when he sees one.”

So Lou leaves us after 94 marvellous years. With memories that will last our lifetime. There would be few people in this church who wouldn’t have their own special story of Lou and his ability to warm up an event, a lunch or a dinner, with laughter and fun. You could almost say that Lou knew it was expected of him.

I remember as a young upstart at North in my early years having my first visit to Channel 7 and Ron Casey’s World of Sport. Uncle Doug Elliot was presenting an ad for Ballantyne’s chocolates, reading his lines off an idiot sheet, a piece of butcher paper held by two members of the Seven camera crew. Live on TV Uncle Doug was halfway through his ad, staring intensely, glasses over his nose, reading the idiot sheet when up came Lou and set the butcher paper alight. I couldn’t believe it.

Jack Dyer, Bob Davis, Neil Roberts, Skeeter Coghlan, Bill Collins and Bruce Andrew fell around laughing. It took a stern Ron Casey to get World of Sport back on track.

And who could ever forget the Phoenix Hotel? As legendary as the Flinders St Herald Sun building alongside. Sir Henry Winneke was Victorian governor in the ’70s and after a VFL dinner at the Southern Cross, Lou invited him back to his hotel for a drink. Sir Henry, the great man that he was, obliged. When I made it back to Lou’s pub at one in the morning there was the Rolls-Royce, numberplates VIC 1, double-parked in Flinders St outside the Phoenix. Upstairs, Sir Henry was the centre of attention. Lou came up and asked him if he would mind staying because Edna wouldn’t believe that royalty had visited his hotel and he wanted Edna to meet him. Lou was gone for five minutes and then reappeared.

“Governor,” he said, “Sir Henry, your Excellency, I never know what to call you, but Edna is in bed upstairs. She has rollers in her hair and she said is to tell you that she couldn’t care if you are the king of England, she’s not coming down to meet you.”

What a beautiful marriage Lou shared with Edna. They were inseparable. They shared a wonderful marriage and friendship. When Edna went into care, Lou didn’t leave her bedside. When Lou died last week he had endured 3350 days without her. It was only after Edna had gone that you could get Lou out for a coffee, a lunch, a footy match or a drive in the car. He could still laugh, there was some special events — his 90th birthday at Kim’s, the unveiling of Lou’s statue at Collingwood — but his darling Edna had left his life. You knew that deep down all Lou was ever thinking was, “Where’s Edna?”.

Having read, observed and listened to all the glowing tributes that have been printed and aired on the radio and TV since last week, it is easy to overlook the depth of the man himself. A character on the footy field, as a tough, take-no-prisoners captain, and a character off it as a person with a rare knockabout charm and sense of fun — as well as a generosity of spirit and a strong sense of doing the right thing.

The National Trust in 1982 went as far as classifying Lou as a national treasure. But Lou is much, much more than that.

First and foremost, he was a devoted husband, father and grandfather, brother to Ron and Glenys, and an uncle. And regardless of all the fame that came his way, Edna, Nicole, Kim, with the grandkids, were always his pride and priority.

How lucky were we at North. Shirley Trainor, the wife of our ’60s president Tony, was a close friend of Edna. They were best friends. Inevitably the Trainor family introduced Lou with Edna to a football club that wore blue and white, not black and white stripes.

After some hits and misses in the early ’70s, North started to get its show on the road. They were heady days. Fundraisers and functions that rolled from one week to the next, and Lou was always there. People attended just to be in the room with him. Six successive Grand Finals and in 1975 the inaugural premiership.

Then the famous draw and replay of 1977. The VFL competition was on its way to being a national competition. The Grand Final was televised live and in colour, and Ron Casey and Lou Richards led the way. For 40 years, Lou would be up on Grand Final day at 6am to host North’s Grand Final breakfast, that through his brilliance became its own institution.

Lou would then leave the Southern Cross to call the Grand Final with Mike Williamson or Peter Landy. Prime minister Hawke never missed one of those breakfasts and Lou never missed giving the PM his famous line, “Bob, the only thing you haven’t done for the workers is become one”. With Allen Aylett, Albert Mantello and Ron Barassi, it seemed that Lou was also a part of the executive team at North. Lou loved his involvement and North loved him back.

Out of all of this grew great friendships like Shirley’s and Edna’s that stood the test of time. It would be wrong to say that North was the only beneficiary of Lou’s generosity. Lou had friends at every club and he delighted in helping them all with his presence and star quality. Today we say farewell. Lou is a legend. Who else gets an eight-page wraparound in the Herald Sun that is as much a part of this city as Lou and the MCG.

So Lou Richards leaves us after 94 marvellous years, with memories that will last our lifetime.

Lou might not have kicked as many goals as Tony Lockett or Peter Hudson but he is a legend. Lou might not have won as many Brownlow Medals as Haydn Bunton, Bob Skilton, Dick Reynolds and Ian Stewart but he is a legend.

And if his game as a player was just a little short of the class of the great EJ or the dynamic Ron Barassi, Lou is still a legend. In fact, Lou is bigger than a legend. Decency, loyalty, gentleness, warmth, kindness, integrity, humility, cheek and fun all in equal parts gave us Lou Richards.

Our love and thoughts are with Kim and Nicole and their families. Their loss first of Edna and now Lou is immeasurable. I thank them for the honour of speaking here today, I thank them for sharing Lou with us and, on behalf of all of us and our marvellous sport, I thank Lou for all that he gave.

We remember Lou with affection, admiration, gratitude and delight

For Muhammad Ali: 'He is gone, but he will never die', by Billy Crystal - 2016

10 June 2016, Louisville, Kentucky, USA  

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, uh, we’re at the halfway point [crowd laughs]. I was clean-shaven when this started.

Dear Lonnie, family, friends, Mr. President [Clinton], members of the clergy, all of these amazing people here in Louisville. Today, this outpouring of love and respect proves that 35 years after he stopped fighting, he is still the champion of the world.

Last week, when we heard the news, time stopped. There was no war, there were no terrorists, no global catastrophes; the world stopped, took a deep breath and sighed.

Since then my mind has been racing through my relationship with this amazing man, which is now 42 years that I know him. Every moment I can think of is cherished. And while others can tell you of his accomplishments, he wanted me to speak and tell you of some personal moments that we had together.

I met him in 1974, I was just getting started as a stand-up comedian and struggling. But I had one good routine: it was a three-minute conversation between Howard Cosell and Muhammad Ali where I would imitate both of them.

Ali had just defeated George Foreman and regained the heavyweight title. Sport Magazine made him the Man of the Year. Dick Schaap, a wonderful writer and a great man was the editor for Sport, and he hosted a televised dinner, honoring Muhammad Ali. So Dick called my agent looking for a comedian who did some sports material. As fate would have it, that comedian was not available and she wisely said — it’s destiny, man — and she wisely said: “But listen I got this young kid and he does this great imitation of Muhammad Ali and Cosell. He would be perfect for you.” I don’t know why, but Dick said: “O.K., I’ll try him. If he stinks I can cut him out of the show.” I couldn’t believe it. My first time on television and it would be with Ali.

I went to the Plaza Hotel; the event was jammed. I met Mr. Schaap, who would later become a part of my family. And he said: “Well, how should I introduce you? Nobody knows who you are.”

And I said, “Just say I’m one of Ali’s closest and dearest friends.” And my thought was I’ll get right to the microphone, go into my Howard Cosell and I’ll be fine. And then I nervously move into the jammed ballroom and that’s when I saw him for the first time in person. It’s very hard to describe how much he meant to me; you had to live in his time. It’s great to look at clips and it’s amazing to have them, but to live in his time, watching his fights, experiencing the genius of his talent, was absolutely extraordinary. Every one of his fights was an aura of a Super Bowl. He did things nobody would do.

He predicted the round he would knock somebody out in, and the he would do it! He was funny, he was beautiful, the most perfect athlete you ever saw — and those were his own words.

But he was so much more than a fighter as time went on, with Bobby Kennedy gone, Martin Luther King gone, Malcolm X gone, who was there to relate to when Vietnam exploded in our face?

There were millions of young men my age eligible for the draft for a war we didn’t believe in, all of us huddled on the conveyor belt that was rapidly feeding the war machine. But it was Ali who stood up for us by standing up for himself.

And after he was stripped of the title, and the right to fight anywhere in the world, he gave speeches at colleges and on television that totally reached me. He seemed as comfortable talking to kings and queens as the lost and unrequited. He never lost his sense of humor even as he lost everything else. He was always himself: willing to give up everything for what he believed in. And he used amazing rhetoric about the life and plight of black people in our country that resonated strongly in my house.

I grew up in a house that was dedicated to civil rights. My father was a producer of jazz concerts in New York City, and it was one of the first to integrate bands in the ‘40s and ‘50s. Jazz musicians referred to my dad as the Branch Rickey of jazz.

My uncle and my family, Jewish people, produced “Strange Fruit,” Billie Holiday’s classic song describing the lynching of African-Americans in this country. And so I felt him, and now there he was just a few feet from me. I couldn’t stop looking at him and he seemed to, like, glow, and he was like in slow motion, his amazing face smiling and laughing.

I was seated a few seats from him on the dais, and in the room were all the athletes in their individual sports, great ones: Gino Marchetti of the Baltimore Colts, Franco Harris of the Steelers, Archie Griffin who had won the Heisman from Ohio State, literary legends — Neil Simon, George Plimpton — all in a daze fawning over Ali, who then looked at me with an expression that seemed to say, “What is Joel Grey doing here?”

Mr. Schaap introduced me as one of Ali’s closest and dearest friends. Two people clapped: my wife and the agent. I rose, Ali still staring at me. I passed right behind him, got to the podium and went right into the Cosell: “Hello, everyone, Howard Cosell coming to you live from Zaire; some would pronounce it, ‘Zare.’ They’re wrong.” It got big laughs. And then I went into the Ali.

Impersonating Ali: “Everybody’s talking about George Foreman, George Foreman. George Foreman’s ugly, he’s so slow. George was slow, I catch ‘em voo! voo! voo! [swinging fists]. Then I rope-a-dope, I rope-a-dope George and I’m so fast, 33 years of age, but I’m so fast I could turn off the lights and be in my bed before the room gets dark.”

Still impersonating Ali: “However, I’m announcing tonight that I got new religious beliefs. From now on I want to be known as Izzy Yiskowitz. I am now an Orthodox Jew, Izzy Yiskowitz, “cha-im” [I am] the greatest of all time!”

The audience exploded. See, no one had ever done him before. And here I was a white kid from Long Island imitating the greatest of all time, and he was loving it.

When I was done, he gave me this big bearhug and whispered in my ear, “You’re my little brother,” which is what he always called me until the last time that I saw him.

We were always there for each other, and if he needed me for something, I was there. He came to anything I asked him to do. Most memorable: He was an honorary chairman for a dinner at a very important event where I was being honored by the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. He did all of this promotion for it. He came to the dinner. He sat with my family the entire evening. He took photographs with everybody; the most famous Muslim man in the world honoring his Jewish friend.

Because he was there, we raised a great deal of money, and I was able to use it to endow the university in Jerusalem with something that I told him about. And it was something he loved the theory of and it thrives to this day. It’s called Peace Through the Performing Arts. It’s a theater group where Israeli, Arab and Palestinian actors, writers and directors all work together in peace, creating original works of art. And that doesn’t happen without him.

I had so many, so many funny unusual moments with him. I sat next to him at Howard Cosell’s funeral, a very somber day to be sure. Closed casket was on the stage; Muhammad and I were sitting somewhere over there next to each other, and he quietly whispered to me, “Little brother, do you think he’s wearing his hairpiece?”

So I said, “Uh — I don’t think so.”

[As Ali] “Well then how will God recognize him?” So I said, “Champ, once he opens his mouth, God’ll know.” So he started laughing; it was a muffled laugh at first, but then we couldn’t contain ourselves. There we were at a funeral, me and Muhammad Ali, laughing like two little kids who heard something dirty in church, you know? We’re just laughing and laughing.

And then he looked at me and he whispered, “Howard was a good man.”

One time he asked me if I would like to run with him one morning, do road work. I said: “Well that would be amazing. Where do you run?”

As Ali: “Well, I run at this country club, and I run on the golf course early in the morning. It’s very private. Nobody bothers me. We’ll have a great time.”

I said: “Champ, I can’t run there. The club has a reputation for being restricted.”

As Ali: “What does restricted mean?”

“They don’t allow Jews there; they don’t have any Jewish members.”

He was incensed: “I’m a black Muslim and they let me run there. Little brother, I’m never gonna run there again.” And he didn’t.

My favorite memory perhaps was in 1979. He had just retired and there was a retirement party at The Forum, Los Angeles, for Muhammad and 20,000 of his closest friends in Los Angeles. I performed a piece that I had created, the imitation had grown into a live story called “15 Rounds.” I play him from the age of 18 until he’s 36, ready for the rematch with Leon Spinks. I posted it on the internet last week, footage that nobody had ever seen before of me portraying Ali doing his life for him all those years ago in 1979. There were 20,000 people there, but I was doing it only for him. It’s one of my favorite performances that I’ve ever done in my life; I sort of got lost in him. I didin’t even know where I was at the end of the performance.

And suddenly I’m backstage with another heavyweight champion, Richard Pryor. And Pryor is holding on to me, crying, and then I see Ali coming and he’s got a full head of steam and he’s looking only at me, and he nudged Mr. Pryor aside and he whispered in my ear with a big bearhug, “Little brother, you made my life better than it was.”

But didn’t he make all of our lives a little bit better than they were?

That, my friends, is my history with a man and I have labored to come up with a way to describe the legend. He was a tremendous bolt of lightning created by Mother Nature out of thin air, a fantastic combination of power and beauty. We’ve seen still photographs of lightning bolts, ferocious in its strength, magnificent in its elegance. And at the moment of impact it lights up everything around it so you can see everything clearly. Muhammad Ali struck us in the middle of America’s darkest night, in the heart of its most threatening gathering storm. His power toppled the mighty foes and his intense light shined on America and we were able to see clearly: injustice, inequality, poverty, pride, self-realization, courage, laughter, love, joy and religious freedom for all. Ali forced us to take a look at ourselves, this brash young man who thrilled us, angered us, confused and challenged us, ultimately became a silent messenger of peace, who taught us that life is best when you build bridges between people, not walls.

My friends, only once in a thousand years or so do we get to hear a Mozart, or see a Picasso, read a Shakespeare. Ali was one of them, and yet at his heart, he was still a kid from Louisville who ran with the gods and walked with the crippled and smiled at the foolishness of it all. He is gone, but he will never die.

He was my big brother.

Thank you.

For Ger 'Farmer' Foley - 'The most appropriate song that you could ever get for this man is Mr Brightside', Irish pub wake, by Brian O'Sullivan - 2016

24 March 2016, Falvey's Bar, Killorglin, Kerry, Ireland

Mr Brightside is the song Brian O'Sullivan sang with his friend Ger Foley every New Year's Eve. Foley died of kidney failure and the success of this viral video has raised awareness in Ireland for organ donation.

Ger Foley

He is salt of the earth. He will never be replaced.

We will remember him forever in our lives.

And I’ve been doing this song for a few years, I haven’t done it for a couple of years, up on this fucking counter, and I think that the most appropriate song, that you could ever get for this man, is Mr Brightside.

Are you ready!

Are ye fucking ready!

Coming out of my cage
And I've been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
Now I'm falling asleep
And she's calling a cab
While he's having a smoke
And she's taking a drag
Now they're going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it's all in my head
But she's touching his chest
Now, he takes off her dress
Now, letting me go

I just can't look its killing me
And taking control
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea
Swimming through sick lullabies
Choking on your alibis
But it's just the price I pay
Destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes
Cause I'm Mr Brightside1

I'm coming out of my cage
And I've been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
Now I'm falling asleep
And she's calling a cab
While he's having a smoke
And she's taking a drag
Now they're going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it's all in my head
But she's touching his chest
Now, he takes off her dress
Now, letting me go1

'Cause I just can't look its killing me
And taking control
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea
Swimming through sick lullabies
Choking on your alibi
But it's just the price I pay
Destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes
'Cause I'm Mr Brightside
I never
I never
I never
I never

For Jerzy Krupinski: 'It's always been hard to reconcile the guy that evaded the Nazis for 5 years, but was barely able to change a light-bulb' by Ben Cook - 2014

22 March 2014, Melbourne Australia

I remember Dzia Dzia's retirement party when I was about 7 years old. When the then state minister for education Tom Roper gave a speech I realised the Dzia Dzia must've been pretty important. Then growing up, hearing the stories and reading his book, I came to learn what a brave man he was, considered a hero by many. 12 years ago, at the age of 82, he was proof reading my masters thesis and advising me on some pretty hard-core statistical analysis, I really became aware of what a sharp and intelligent guy he was.

But those aren't the things that define Dzia Dzia for me.

When I think of Dzia Dzia, I think of what a generous, loveable and unself-consciously quirky person he was. And to be honest, it's always been hard to reconcile the guy that evaded the Nazis for 5 years, but was barely able to change a light-bulb, let alone a tyre.

I think of Dzia Dzia the swimmer, well into his 70s banging out 800m a day in the Brighton Sea baths, and swimming deep into the colder months. But if you've got the image of Dzia Dzia slicing through the water like a seal, I'll have to shatter that illusion. His was more a hybrid of breast stroke, and, let's face it, dog paddle. But he didn't care about the aesthetics. He just loved swimming and that's the point. He kept swimming in the sea baths until getting rescued became such a regular occurrence that the life guards politely insisted he look at other options.

I don't think Dzia Dzia ever owned a pair of Reeboks, but their old slogan "Life is not a spectator sport" suited him perfectly. For him, sport is about participation, not watching.

But not all sports were created equal. I remember once he walked in when we were watching cricket, he watched for a minute, and then he said "I don't see the point of this game, sometimes they hit it, sometimes they don't, sometimes they run, sometimes they don't". And he walked out leaving us dumbfounded. After such a brutally succinct dismissal, cricket has never been the same for me.

I think of Dzia Dzia's infatuation with the Centre Road shopping center in Bentleigh, which he claimed was the best in Melbourne. Multiple fruit shops, multiple butchers, and each with their specialty. And a shopping trip would consist of a visit to whichever had the cheapest price of whatever he needed. If that meant green apples at one shop, and red apples at another, so be it. And if he had to sacrifice quality for price, that's wasn't an issue either.

Not that he saw it that way. Dzia Dzia was always adamant that expensive wines, whiskeys and perfumes were a waste of money. Why spend $100 on bottle of Channel No 5 when you can get a perfectly good replica for $15. But getting mum a bottle of Channelette perfume for Christmas was a mistake he only made once. And whether or not he really believed this, it was a good way to torment my dad and uncle Peter - I don't think you guys ever did manage to arrange the double blind whiskey test.

I think of Dzia Dzia's massive repertoire of jokes. A couple stand out, but not as much as Babcia's immortal observation: "with these jokes you can hang yourself."

And his driving?

Well, I had a bit here about his driving. But before the service I noticed that as the funeral director was wheeling the coffin through the door back behind me, he miscued and bumped the coffin into the door frame. I thought that was a lovely tribute. Especially the way he sheepishly checked to see if anyone had noticed, and then continued as if nothing had happened.

Remarkable for the fact that he kept his license deep into his 80s, as much as that he got it in the first place. Mum says you'll take 1000 reversing dings over one serious accident. But I say, just turn around and have a look.

But lastly, wherever Dzia Dzia may have moved onto now, I hope the waitresses have been forewarned not to bring out his tea before his dessert. Dessert can wait, but the tea goes cold and you've got nothing to wash down your dessert with. And if the waitresses haven't been forewarned, they'll find out pretty quickly.

So Dzia Dzia, I know you were a hero to many, but you weren't to me. You were our Dzia Dzia, I love you for that. And I say with deep affection, there will never be another like you.

For Kathleen Callinan: 'Sometimes death makes you leave out the bad bits but there were no bad bits', by son Damian - 2008

20 February, 2008, St Mary's Greensborough, Melbourne

Gidday … how are you going? … tough crowd … sorry, always wanted to say that!.

The others in the family don’t know this but a long time ago Mum said to me … ‘On the altar at my funeral I want a long stick … leaning against a priests cassock … on purple fabric … with a pair of large unworn men’s sandals’ … unfortunately I forgot all about it … but I turned up today and coincidentally the parish already had it set up … weird.

[It was Lent & I’d noticed the display at the previous night’s Rosary]

My name is Damian and I’m the youngest of Kathleen & Adrian’s Famous 5, though they are still yet to provide photographic evidence that would contradict rumours I’m adopted. Making me the Timmy of the Famous 5 … That’s the rest of the family down there … put your hands up … in laws & Bernie … grand kids … great grand kids … cousins … and if there are any illegitimate offspring out there, today’s probably not a good day to bring it up … I’ll introduce to the rest of the band … Aunty Dorothy on keys … Chris on guitar … and David on computer.

Dad said to me the other night that he had faith in me and I could say whatever I wanted to today … kind … but silly man. So hear we go …

I’ve been wondering over the last few days what mum has been up to she left us.

• I presume the first thing she would have done when she arrived at the gates of heaven would have been to explain to St. Peter that she is allergic to garlic and that mushrooms disagree with her IBT … and asked about the vegetarian options for when Helen, Jo & I arrive.

• She would then have made sure she had at least 2 remote control wands for the front gates for when she’s out after 7.

• Once inside she would have found the best pie shop.

• She would have then gone through the heaven gold book and pulled out any vouchers that members of the family could use.

• Joined the library; the craft group and flashed her Beef & Burgundy life membership at Bacchus.

• Once she got into her unit she would have made sure the VCR wasn’t too low for her to program … then put the kettle on, cracked a packet of jam fancies; sat down on her brand new Jason recliner and picked up the phone to ring God and chatted to him … for a fair while. She would have had a list of things to ask… mass times & happy hour times … made sure God reminded Adrian to put on his hat when he walked up to get the paper … & a shade cloth for the front of the unit would be good … & eventually the Lord would hold the phone slightly away from His ear and shake His head in wonder & finally realise that of all His creations, my mothers gift of speech was His indeed greatest triumph.

We’re not exactly sure what mum was doing in the fateful moment before the accident but one thing is certain … mum would have been mid sentence. What that sentence was, we’ll never know and it remains as one of the many ‘incomplete’ transactions with mum … Shell & David not getting to have the dinner with her they were about to enjoy … Paul not getting his Sunday night call in Townsville … Chris not getting to finish one of her crosswords … Net not taking mum down to Sorrento one more time before the rebuild.

But the great thing about mum is she didn’t die with incomplete thoughts. There was no ‘must get around to loving him a bit more soon’ … ‘must remember to tell her I love her’ … she did it all the time … a phone call rarely ended without a ‘love you lots.’ Even the tone of her voice instantly made you happy.

For those of you who don’t know her, here’s a beginners guide to my mum. I’ll start with something not many people know …

… ‘My mum could land an off break on a 10 cent piece!’ …

She’d always told us she played cricket as a schoolgirl at Santa Maria but we rarely saw any evidence … until one day.  I was playing alone in the backyard throwing the ball against the garage wall then hastily taking a stance to dispatch the ball back into the hydrangeas. Mum came out with a basket of washing under her arm. Tiring of my Bradmanesque solo test, I pestered her to play with me and eventually she relented. She took the ball and went to the Jeanie Mac end which afforded only the briefest of run ups. Now just on a good length of our pitch was ‘the hump’, that looked like an elephant had been buried arse up. Chris used to exploit it by relentlessly peppering me with bouncers until one day I ran inside with a hump growing out of my temple. I thought mum knew nothing about the hump but she found it first ball and soon had me flinching as a ball after ball spat from outside off back towards me keeping me trapped in my crease … after awhile I just said ‘I’ll give you hand with the washing.’

… ‘My mum could cook the apron off Margaret Fulton’ …

She could work her magic on everything … except rabbit. Her pavlova is the stuff of legend. The Andersons only used to have us over for Christmas ‘cos of mums Pav. Her scones were to die for … bad choice of words. Mum’s favoured cookbook was the red & white checked Women’s Weekly ‘Simple City.’ However, she began to outgrow the CWA style of cooking and sought nouveau cuisines and soon a ‘Mixed Grill’ was being replaced by ‘Kai Si Mingh’ and ‘Shepherds Pie’ by ‘Apricot Chicken.’ Paul says there was a minor revolt in the early 60’s but by the mid 70’s mum’s kitchen had put down the insurrection and her empire reached its zenith. It was at this pivotal moment in our family history that mum attempted a dish called  … ‘Brazillian Casserole’ … I’m not exactly sure what it was but given it’s name we can presume that it was perhaps a casserole without hair. The only two ingredients any of us remember are beef and … instant coffee. We put salt on it … pepper on it … even ice cream, but nothing could make it stay down. It was the only time dad ever wanted a dog so he could have slipped his plate under the table.

Her other triumph of recent years was the ‘Flying Bed & Butter Pudding.’ While mums cooking skills never faded, her mobility wasn’t so good of late. One night in Armstrong Street after another stellar entrée and main, mum popped into the kitchen to bring out the piece de resistance … ‘Berry Infused Bread & Butter Pudding’ She appeared in the door frame with tray in hand and then just as quickly disappeared as she tripped sending the entire dessert sprawling across the floor in a text book funniest home video moment. But rather than get upset she simply helped us pick up the least dodgy bits and we ate it anyway.

‘My mum could sew the apron off Tonia Toddman.’ …

Many in the room were the beneficiary of her skill and generosity of time. Net & Shell … & her good friends Dorothy & Gerry … & Aunty Joan … who would already have mum playing bridge up above by now wearing one of her frocks.

Having a mum who sewed a bit was probably more of a boon for my sisters than my brothers & I. For Net & Shell it meant an endless supply of dresses; skirts … even klots from the latest fashion magazines. For us it meant endless hours standing looking into shop windows staring at the clothes we would never wear. If I pointed out a garment in a shop a mum would take it off the rack, turn it inside out and say … ‘I can make that!’ She would then ‘have a go’ and make something just far enough away from the original for it to stand out … t-shirts with a skateboard motif but with a boat neck … denim shorts with pleats … Paul, Chris & I lived in fear of casual clothes days at school.

 … ‘My mum was a bit of spunk’ …

Have a look at her!! … Being the youngest, mum was in her mid 40’s by the time she was dropping me off to school & even at that age I’d look around at all the other younger mums and think … not a patch on my beautiful mum and no-one … no-one dressed as well as her … she made the 70’s her own!!

 … ‘My mum was grouse fun to go on holidays with’ …

Our family had many holidays, none more famous than the trip to Townsville to stay with the Dorney’s, most of whom have made the trek to be here today. 5 kids in a Holden station wagon for 2500 kilometres. I was only 3 at the time but I can remember some things. It’s funny when you are the youngest by some distance you tend to be absorbed into family stories whether you were there or not. I often think I can remember particular events I was part of simply because I’ve heard the stories so many times. Just after Pearl Harbour in ’41, we were all listening to the crystal set and mum said to us … ‘Remember the time we got held up by Ned Kelly?’ and I said … ‘Yeah … he took my ipod’ … and mum said … ‘Don’t be silly, you weren’t even born then … now go and get the mutton from the meatbox like I asked you before.’

Over recent years Jo & I have been lucky enough to have many trips way with mum and dad … and mum was such good company. She was so appreciative of us but the truth was, when one finished I couldn’t wait to plan the next one. The next plan was to take them on tour with me in June… mum and dad roadies of sorts… now dad has to show his bum crack and carry the speakers on his own.

… ’My mum is the most loving person I’ve ever known’ …

The only thing dad asked me to make sure I mentioned today was that her love was ‘unconditional.’ I thanked for them that in one of my shows and it meant a lot to both of them. But what does it mean? It means in mum’s case, an unfaltering love for dad … us … and Margie & John & Dorothy & The other Callinans & Andersons & Dorneys & O’Connells … there were no category 4 restrictions with mums love. And I’ve seen in the faces of my nieces, nephews and cousins today and in the hospital as we said our goodbyes to mum, how far that love spread.

No matter what we did she loved us the same. Dad does unconditional love at Olympic standard as well. Mum had multiple gold medals in the discipline. Through relationship breakdowns; career changes and whatever life threw at all of us … she has been the constant … the reassuring voice that would love you through anything … it sounds easy … it’s not. Most of us at least on occasions love with judgement and conditions … she never did.

On Saturday night … the night before the accident, Bernie my cousin and her husband Graeme had invited me to perform my show “Sportsman’s Night” at their Yarra Valley winery as part of the Grape Grazing Festival. Chris & Lisa offered to drive mum and dad up and soon it ballooned into a family reunion of sorts with siblings, cousins and friends of mum and dad as well. At one point in the show I said something wildly inappropriate about Mary McKillop, which I won’t mention in these hallowed walls lest they come down upon us, but see me outside where its safer & I’ll fill in the gaps. Anyway I found myself looking at mum as I spoke. Dad leaned over and put his hand on her lap, but mum looked at me like I’d just told her Chris Judd had had a change of heart and was going to Collingwood … she was beaming at me.

I loved my mum! And more and more as I got older. Sometimes I just wanted to squeeze her cos she was so cute and proud and loving. Sometimes death makes you leave out the bad bits but there were no bad bits.

Sure she used to bang on a bit, and she used to talk about doctors and priests too much … don’t worry, it was all good about you Steve, Jim & Owen … and she used to repeat stories all the time but we all do that … sure she used to bang on a bit and talk about priests and doctors and repeat stories but …

But most of all, my mum loved my dad … and he loved her! I’m so proud to have them as role models.

There’s been many varied chapters to their lives together … their post-war courting; electricity free Myrniong, Bacchus Marsh, Warragul, Watsonia; international travels … but to me it’s been the 24 years since dad retired that are the happiest. They have enjoyed every second together and have been like giddy teenagers.

They’ve loved their time at ‘The Village’ as they call it and happily call themselves Village People. Mum has lapped up life there in the same way she has attacked new challenges late in life … like the computer & the George Foreman grill … I went to happy hour with them one night and it was like being in the film Cocoon. I loved it … but I left hastily at the end in case I got invited to an orgy.

My dad has been heroically strong this week in the face of the most devastating event in his life but he has honoured mum and us and let her love carry him through. And his strength has helped me see mums spirit carry on in the family … I love my dad.

To finish I’m going to produce a document that will shock even my immediate family. Much has been made in recent years of dad and his long awaited memoirs, but unbeknownst to us, mum tiring of his slow progress has written her own.

I’ll just read a couple of extracts now … the rest will be published soon.

EXTRACT 1 – Splades

“I discovered the most marvellous thing in Myer yesterday. It looks like a spoon at first but when you look more closely, you can see that it also looks like a fork. They call it a splade. It’s beaut for eating canteloupe. I’m going to make it my life works to ensure that everyone in Australia has a set … then I’ll take on America!!”

EXTRACT 2 – Meeting Dad

“I was at the football this afternoon watching Brunswick YCW and I met the man of my dreams … boy was he a looker.  Anyway he was about to ask me out when Tom Duffy barged in and introduced me to some coot called Callinan who wants me to come on a date to watch him in the theatre. He’s got Buckleys.”

EXTRACT 3 – Myrniong

“Adrian has got a teaching post in the country. We will be living in a place called Myrniong which he tells me is a huge town with a warm climate and all the mod cons. Its close to everything so we won’t need a car”

EXTRACT 4 – Coffee Casserole 

“Sick of the family not appreciating my cooking so tonight I’m going to throw some instant coffee in a crockpot with some rabbit and call it something exotic … Brazillian casserole! Yeah that’ll do.” 

Jo has put together a photo montage with the assistance of Paul & Michelle and others finding their favourite photos. That’s right, my eulogy has a ‘film clip.’

But before we do that. Whenever we went away I would always buy something for mum. We did buy her a salad dressing but then suspected it may have contained garlic … but we did get her some loquat jam, which has been sitting in my car as I kept forgetting to give it to her. So to make sure I have no incomplete business with mum … here’s your jam mother dear.