For Diego Maradona: 'I‘ve just never seen anyone have such a beautiful affection with a football', by Gary Lineker - 2020

26 November 2020, London, United Kingdom

He‘s so revered, he’s so worshipped in Argentina. He constantly had a huge entourage around him.

I went to see a game and I’ll never forget it, to see Boca Juniors play. He had his own little box there. I went with his family. And he was standing …. the atmosphere was unbelievable at this game.

And his family, one of his daughters was literally holding him as he was screaming over the balcony, holding him so he wouldn’t actually fall off. He had such an incredible passion for the game.

I never thought in my lifetime I’d see anyone come remotely close to Diego, in terms of ability with a football. I think we’ve seen Messi, who’s very similar in many ways, Argentinian, diminutive, brilliant left foot, but Diego was incredible.

I played, I actually played with him as well for half a game, played for the Rest of the World at Wembley, against, funnily enough, an English league side because it was a centenary, I played for the Rest of the World, because I was at Barcelona at the time.

And all the player, there were people like Platini on the pitch, lots of great great players from around the world. And everyone was totally in awe of him.

The first thing he did was in the dressing room, he sat there; just a pair of shorts. And you know you roll your socks up? He did that and just juggled them on his left foot for about five minutes. And everyone was going whoooah whoooah.’

Then we went out on the pitch and he did something incredible, one of the most unbelievable things I‘ve ever seen on a football pitch. it might not sound that amazing to you at home, but I think you’ll appreciate this.

He juggled the ball all the way out to the centre circle and then he got to the centre circle, still juggling it, and then he went bang, he whacked it as hard he possibly could (up into the air) and he waited. And then it came down and he went bang and did it again. He did it 13 times, and the most he ever did was walk three paces to it.

All of us were standing there going, ‘That’s impossible’. I remember going to training the next day at Barcelona. We all tried it and the best anyone did was three, and they were all running for the third one.

I‘ve just never seen anyone have such a beautiful affection with a football.

For Bert Newton: 'He cut his 21st cake on television and stayed there for his entire life', by Eddie McGuire - 2021

12 November 2021, St Patrick’s Cathedral, Melbourne, Australia

Thank you to Patti, to Matthew, to Lauren for the opportunity to speak of Bert. And if I can be so bold I’d like speak on behalf of those who worked with him,. who loved watching Bert over a lifetime in showbusinesss as the consummate entertainer,

I have the impossible job of condensing our feelings for Bert and his legacy into 4.5 minutes according to the office of protocol, but as Bert would say, we’re live and I have the microphone so I might go a bit longer.

Albert Watson Newton AM MBE, to Graham Kennedy he was ‘Herby’, to Don Lane he was 'Moonface' and to all of us he was Our Bert.

Today we honour his life with a state funeral and Premier Andrews, Patti has asked and the family have asked for me to pass on their deepest gratitude to you and the state of Victoria for bestowing this honour.

Since Bert's passing there has been recognition of his incomparable compering and performances but what has been underlined from story after story is Bert's amazing generosity of spirit.
On camera, on stage, behind the microphone, Bert Newton gave of himself to make a show work, a segment pop, make his colleagues look as good as they could be, to give everything for his beloved audience.

Friend and colleague Peter Ford was one of the many with stories of Bert's generosity, of his noblesse oblige, ‘to whom much is given much is expected’, and Bert never forgot. Peter told the story sworn to secrecy until Bert said he'd carked it, of Bert hearing of a man dying of HIV/AIDS at a time when sufferers were stigmatised and isolated. Not only did Bert visit and spend hours with every person in the ward but gave the man one of his beloved gold Logies, An amazing gesture, one that lifted the morale of all in the depths of their despair with the only reward being that Bert gave those on their worst day something to remember as their best.

Patti had never heard the story until last week when Peter broke it. It did, however, go some way to solve a family mystery. Bert had won some 36 Logies over his career but the family could only find 17. Suddenly it all made sense.

It was just one of a myriad of stories shared by friends and colleagues and strangers and fans. Sam Newman reminded me of the famous Mr Anonymous speech written by Paul Keys, and delivered by Richard Burton in 1983 in paying tribute to Frank Sinatra, another giant of show business. I feel it articulates perfectly the essence of Bert Newton so to paraphrase: 'Bert was a giant, among the givers of the world he stands tallest. He has more than paid rent for the space he occupied on this planet, forged as he is from loyalty and compassion, carefully hidden, hidden because he ordered it. I appear as the heralder off grateful multitudes who have opened those unexpected envelopes, special delivering answers to prayers, those awakened by late-night phone calls which remedied their problems. Those performers, business people politicians and the sick, down on their luck, who suddenly landed the role they never expected and still don’t know who to thank. And for untold beneficiaries of the caring and kindness of this splendid man, who truly was, his brother’s keeper. And they are legion, those whose lives took a turn for the better, because of this man.’

Bert was such a legend that to be even acknowledged by him was to feel like you'd made it.

When he named his toupee ‘Eddie’, he said at the time I was on everything else I may as well be on his head, I was honoured and gratified, first that he knew who I was, second because I'd become part of his act. But thirdly because it was pure Bert - a punch line, a laugh and a nod of support to his colleagues. We've heard of people getting a segment on his shows, the note of congratulations, a phone call, a text, on your best day but more importantly on your worst, because Bert knew both.

Shakespeare wrote in Julius Caesar that “it is common proof that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, where to the climber upward turns his face, but when he attains the utmost round he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees by which he did ascend.” The first part is pure Bert. The second is the antithesis. For Bert never turned his back on his people. He joked, he sent them up, he understood them, but was always there for them and he never left them.

But lowliness was his young ambition's ladder. When Bert was a boy, having lost his father age 11, the Fitzroy of the 1940s and 50s was a far cry from the hipster headquarters that it is today. It was one of the toughest parts of the country, it was a notorious slum. So fired by his imagination of what could be, inspired by the Marist Brothers who saw something in this Year 7 boy who had a knack for radio plays, that he walked from his family home to the city, down the very streets outside as a 14-year-old to 3XY.

One year later he was on air, self-taught, self-driven, what he missed in the classroom he learned in the arena of life. Elocution, diction, general knowledge, music, panelling, timing, vaudeville, how to adapt in a fast-changing world, how to interview, how to perform.

He cut his 21st cake on television and stayed there for his entire life. At 84, he was still making headlines with posts on Instagram from his hospital bed. Bert never stopped evolving, never stopped learning, never lost his insatiable appetite for what's new. He was the least jaded old-fashioned performer you would ever meet.

Probably the first performer poached by Channel 9 from Seven, his partnerships have been the most successful and enduring in Australian television history. With Graham Kennedy, they lit up the small screen and would then do an encore performance the very next day on the radio. Bert, the perfect foil for the genius of Kennedy, never there to upstage, always to deliver. Later it would be Don Lane, live crosses to the world, Bert's Wheel, always there was this sense of adventure. As Shaun Micallef said, waiting for the Bert moment that would be the talk of the schoolyard and the workplace the next day, that sense of danger, excitement in a suburban Australia.

But also for us, that sense of pride as we watched "our Bert" match it with the best.

To watch Bert with the likes of Sammy Davis Jr and Debbie Reynolds was to watch kindred spirits riffing out live on TV, unrehearsed, unrestricted and hilarious. In a business known for its enenity and jealousies it was no fluke Graham was best man at Bert and Patti’s wedding, that Don on winning his Gold Logie said, ‘six months at your house, six months at mine pal.’ To watch Bert in his natural habitat at the Logies was a television highlight of the year. How he'd glide onto the stage moving like a dancer, his newly cut suit as he would describe, his patent leather pumps with that air of "I know you've seen all the stars and acts tonight but get ready for this." That mildly amused grin on his face as he readied himself to bring the house down again.

Alongside Bob Hope, John Wayne or an inebriated foreign star it made no difference, Bert either made a performance great or saved the day. As we saw a moment ago, his celebrated sparring with Mohammed Ali was made even more memorable in hindsight by not the so-called faux pas, but by the way Ali realised there was nothing sinister, that Bert was a good man. The Greatest knew greatness when he saw it.

But it wasn’t just the superstars that inspired Bert’s work. He never missed an opportunity. Ali was one thing, Belvedere and Moira, they became household names. Max Morrison, Peter Win, his great friends Pete Smith and Phil Brady, when you were part of Bert's crew, you were there forever.

Bert encouraged so many.

Hugh Jackman said, "By watching Bert I learned how to handle the spotlight with grace, dignity, honour and class."

Rove McManus said, "I lost a mentor and a friend. Our country lost an icon. But most importantly, a family lost their hero and soul mate."

Rhonda Burchmore spoke of Bert being there always with encouragement.

Paul Hogan said he was Mr Television, never took himself seriously but took his job seriously.

Phillip Adams wrote: "Bert is the electronic friend, he is there when you want or need him. Bert is company."

Russell Crowe: "Bert is not about fashion or trends, he's watched them all come and go. He is about intellect, he’s about wisdom born of experience. My life is richer having him as a mate."
Channel 9's Michael Healy said, "Bert was a star."
And Jane Kennedy: "Bert would always support new talent, was up for the gag, he wanted you to succeed."

New Faces' may have been his show, but behind the scenes, Bert lived its ethos.

So Vale, Our Bert, who turned a piano factory in Richmond into television city. The first Melburnian to become the king of Moomba. When the marquees dimmed it was Bert who helped relaunch theatre in this town. He was a star on the wireless and ran the first sports-based radio station. He loved his footy and his beloved Fitzroy and his horses, fittingly passing on Derby Day, the day of the champions.

He sang "It's Time", he looked forward not back. In passing, he has been recognised by the Prime Minister, afforded a state funeral by his beloved Victoria with a flag of his country draped on his coffin, which Patti said he would have loved.

The other constant in his life is the Catholic faith, his funeral here at St Patrick's Cathedral. Last night, the theatres of Melbourne dimmed their lights in Bert Newton's honour.

Seventy years ago, could that young boy have dreamt of what was in front of him? And while there was Bert and Graham, and Bert and Don there was nothing like Bert and Patti.
What a combination. Patti, you shared your husband with us all. Your highs and your lows, your family, Matthew and Lauren, your grandchildren who filled Bert's last few years with love and joy.
There would always have been a Bert, but he was enhanced so much by his Patti. Whether the Gold Logie becomes the Bert Newton award or a theatre, or similar be named in his honour, show business and this city will never be the same.

The young boy from Fitzroy who became a star, then a legend, then an institution and now our greatest memory of the golden years of television. Forever, our Bert.

For Jack Benny: 'He was stingy to the end. He only gave us eighty years', by Bob Hope - 1975

January 1975, Hillside Memorial Park, California, USA

When Benny Kubelsky was born, who in their wildest dreams would imagine that eighty years later, at the event of his passing, every television program, every radio show would stop, and that every magazine and newspaper would headline it on their front pages.

To millions of people who had never met him, who had only seen him or heard him would feel the pain of a very personal loss. For a man who is the undisputed master of comedy timing, you'd have to say this was only time when Jack Benny's timing was all wrong. He left us much too soon. He was stingy to the end. He only gave us eighty years and it wasn't enough.

Jack Benny long ago ceased to be merely a personality and became an institution. If there's a Mount Rushmore for humanitarians, the first stone face might easily resemble him, and if stone could talk it would say, 'Well.'

Perhaps what made Jack Benny such a great laugh maker was that he himself loved to laugh. He was the greatest audience a comedian could ever want. George Burns will attest to that. And of all of use would play jokes on him just to bring him up and hear him laugh. I know it might sound a little corny but there'll be times from now on when the lightening will crackle with a special type of sound or thunder will peal with a special roar, and I'll think to myself that # Fields or Fred Allen must have told Jack a joke.

In his beautiful full lifetime Jack succeeded gloriously. Jack found a great joy in the joy he brought to others. I cannot say it better than these words, his life was gentle and the elements so mixed in him that nature might stand up and say to all the world 'this was a man.'

God keep him, and enjoy him. We did for eighty years.

for Jack Benny: 'Without Jack Benny, the show will go on, but there will be a big hole in it', by George Burns

16 January, 1975, Hollywood, California, USA

George Burns was too upset to complete this eulogy at the funeral. He said it again to a reporter the next day. There is no video or audio of the speech.

Good, honest jokes live forever. Look at Jack Benny. Nobody knew how great he was until he passed away. I knew him for 55 years but even I didn't know how great he was until he was gone.

There was something magic about Jack. Everything he created—the old Maxwell car, the 'stingy' jokes, 'Jell-o Again,'—all that lived for all of us as though it were real.

The pauses. The look. The nerve he had when he used to go next door to the Colmans to borrow a cup of sugar.

Even if he told a bad joke, he made it work for him. I remember one show when he told a bad joke and he said it couldn't be a bad joke because a great writer, Norman Krasna, had written it. So he told it again. And the next week he repeated the whole thing and, within a few weeks, he had a whole thing going about that bad joke.

When Jack Benny got on the stage, he owned it—and he did. When I met him, he was already a great monologist. His opening joke was this. He'd come out holding his violin and he'd just stand there. A long pause. Already he was a master of the long pause. Then he'd say to the orchestra leader, 'How is the show up to now?' And the orchestra leader would say, 'Fine.' 'Well,' Jack would say, 'I'll stop that.'

He was a gentle man. And his humor was as gentle as he was.

He used to use his violin the way I use this cigar—as a prop, as a kind of comedian's security blanket. But he tried to get rid of it. He wanted to be able to stand up on the stage without it. I remember the first time he tried to go on without it. It was in Schenectady, New York. He told two jokes. Nobody laughed. So he quick borrowed a violin from the orchestra and he was all right after that.

He never said a mean thing. Jack's idea of being mean was this. Once we saw a certain comic work. I asked him what he thought of the comic. Jack said, 'Well, he's great but I just can't laugh at him.'

Without Jack Benny, the show will go on, but there will be a big hole in it. It just won't be as good. There's one good thing, though—Jack Benny will stay alive as long as any of us live.

 

For Beau: 'I'll always love a dog named Beau', by Jimmy Stewart - 1981

27 July, 1981, New York, USA

He never came to me when I would call

Unless I had a tennis ball,

Or he felt like it,

But mostly he didn't come at all.

When he was young

He never learned to heel

Or sit or stay,

He did things his way.

Discipline was not his bag

But when you were with him things sure didn't drag.

He'd dig up a rosebush just to spite me,

And when I'd grab him, he'd turn and bite me.

He bit lots of folks from day to day,

The delivery boy was his favorite prey.

The gas man wouldn't read our meter,

He said we owned a real man-eater.

He set the house on fire

But the story's long to tell.

Suffice it to say that he survived

And the house survived as well.

On the evening walks, and Gloria took him,

He was always first out the door.

The Old One and I brought up the rear

Because our bones were sore.

He would charge up the street with Mom hanging on,

What a beautiful pair they were!

And if it was still light and the tourists were out,

They created a bit of a stir.

But every once in a while, he would stop in his tracks

And with a frown on his face look around.

It was just to make sure that the Old One was there

And would follow him where he was bound.

We are early-to-bedders at our house -- I guess I'm the first to retire.

And as I'd leave the room he'd look at me

And get up from his place by the fire.

He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs,

And I'd give him one for a while.

He would push it under the bed with his nose

And I'd fish it out with a smile.

And before very long He'd tire of the ball

And be asleep in his corner In no time at all.

And there were nights when I'd feel him Climb upon our bed

And lie between us,

And I'd pat his head.

And there were nights when I'd feel this stare

And I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there

And I reach out my hand and stroke his hair.

And sometimes I'd feel him sigh and I think I know the reason why.

He would wake up at night

And he would have this fear

Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,

And he'd be glad to have me near.

And now he's dead.

And there are nights when I think I feel him

Climb upon our bed and lie between us,

And I pat his head.

And there are nights when I think I feel that stare

And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,

But he's not there.

Oh, how I wish that wasn't so,

I'll always love a dog named Beau.

For Jim Stynes: 'I love you Jim', by Garry Lyon - 2012

22 March, 2012, Channel 9, Melbourne, Australia

Jimmy Stynes was a giant in every sense of the word right from the very first moment I laid eyes on him.

It would be wrong to suggest we were close from Day 1, he was a novelty and for a 16-year-old kid from country Victoria he fulfilled all of my pre-conceived notions of what an Irishman should be - pale, lean and with an accent that was perfect for telling Irish jokes.

Beyond that I didn’t give him too much thought, my mind was captivated by the real footballers at our club, most notably the legendary Melbourne footy club figure Robbie Flower. He was the man I aspire to be.

How did it come to pass then that 27 years down the track, with the greatest respect to Robbie, that the Irish curiosity that I first encountered in the carpark outside of the MCG was to become, and will remain, the person that I judge and measure myself by?

With time and age or some form and degree of maturity comes perspective and I realize that life is more than just football and I now see the irony in that I was to become the leader of the football club and help set a standard for others to follow, all the while it was Jim who was doing the real leading and setting the real standard.

I see that with such clarity now. I didn’t then and it led to doubts about Jimmy.

Why was he not fanatical and obsessed like I was? Why did it appear that football was just a game to him when it was much more to me? Why could he smile an hour after a losing game whereas it took me a whole weekend to get over it?

Why did he not embrace the so-called 'manly elements’ of our game as enthusiastically as the next bloke where drinking beer and attracting girls was a badge of honour, worn as proudly as anything achieved on the playing field? Why could he be as passionate about the welfare of others outside of the club when I was predominantly obsessed with what happened solely within?

Jimmy refused to let the game define who he was. It was just a part of him and it allowed us to marvel at his determination, unwavering self-belief, resilience, strength, skill, endurance and courage.

Why was he so prepared to buck the system and explore an alternative path when the rest of us were so aligned to the one that had trod so rigidly for decades? Why did he not shy away from displaying his emotions where I saw it as a weakness to do so?

Why was he so fervently proud of his Irish heritage when I had barely given mine a second thought? Why was he so sensitive to issues of racial and religious tolerance, ahead of his time, while I was ignorantly part of the problem?

I thought he had it all wrong. What I now know to be true is that those doubts were less about Jim and more about myself, and I say that not self-consciously but with some degree of pride because it means that I’ve truly come to appreciate the man that Jim Stynes was and if that paints me in a lesser light then I’m fine with that because there are few that can compare to him.

Quite simply Jimmy refused to let the game define who he was. It was just a part of him and it allowed us to marvel at his determination, unwavering self-belief, resilience, strength, skill, endurance and courage. But he never let the game compromise what else he had going on in his life.

He showed me that you could be committed but not obsessive, the need to separate the playing field from the field of life, that you can gain satisfaction out of the contest regardless of the result, that you could enjoy the environment and male bonding that footy provided but always maintain a sensitivity to what is right and wrong, that you never get so tunnel visioned that you don’t recognise the needs of others, that you can be both passionate and ruthless in the pursuit of excellence.

He was secure enough to know that displaying vulnerability can be a strength and not a weakness.

So now he’s left us and it doesn’t feel right or fair in any way. I was honoured to have been able to spend some intimate time with him in the past few months and I’ll never forget those moments. We laughed more than we cried which as I’ve written about was consistent throughout our relationship.

I took a photo on one of the last occasions I sat with him and had the chance to say goodbye. It was deeply personal and highly symbolic of our 27-year friendship and it will serve as a constant reminder of him, what he stood for and how profound an impact he had on me, of just how right he got his 45 years.

The photo will sit on my wall at home and every time I look at it, I will think of the man that he was and the one I can only ever hope to be.

I love you Jim.

For Cilla Black: 'Ta-ra girl, I'll see you on life's highway', by Paul O'Grady - 2015

20 August, 2015, St. Mary's Church, Woolton, Liverpool, UK

I’ve been asked to speak about Cilla on numerous occasions but I never thought I’d be doing it now, at a time like this because I firmly believed that Cilla was indestructible, and I’d most definitely go first, the state of my heart – we discussed my funeral at length, and she had a major role in it that involved a mantilla and lilies so I’m going to have to rethink that aren’t I?

I’ve got fabulous Cilla stories ‘cos we had such a great time together – whenever we went on holiday together, or even if we just went for a simple meal – something always happened – usually to me.

I first met her on Parkinson’s chat show, and we just clicked, we were soul mates. After Bobby died, I went round for dinner to the house, and sat up to 5 in the morning, and we decided to go and stay with Peter Brown in New York, which we did. I introduced her to the finer things of New York – like bars, burlesque shows and nightclubs with such a reputation that taxi drivers were always reticen  to drop us off.

But I always used to say to her, give us your jewellery Cilla, so I’d have the ring, the necklace in my pockets, permanently with my hand in my pockets, terrified in case I lost it.

But she loved life, if you said to me, what do you think about Cilla?’ One word, ‘laughter’. Because that’s all we did. We got up to a lot of trouble but we laughed while we were doing it.

I remember her losing her keys and getting wedged in the window in Barbados, with me holding her ankles.  And when the neighbours came out, she shouted, ‘surprise, surprise!’

I remember the time I broke my nose in her Jacuzzi in Barbados. Pat will tell you about this. Pat come rushing up the stairs, she couldn’t find any ice, she had the bag of frozen sprouts and she smacked it on my face. I think she broke it even more. And Cilla had been sunbathing, she had no makeup on, and her hair was on end, and we all rushed out into the street, and I don’t know where she got it from, she had a denim skirt on, and a sort of terrible black nylon slip. Hat was in the bathing suit, a sort of chiffon ... she looked like Tessie [?]. And I had the frozen sprouts and a toilet roll. And we all rushed off to the hospital. And it was a packed waiting room, and you can imagine the fuss as we got in, and Cilla had taken the water tablets ... and she had a bad cold as well, and so she was in and out of the toilets, and coming out and going [sniffs and wipes nose] We looked like something out of Shameless.

But these are the memories I have of her. I loved this lady, you have no idea. She was one of my closest friends, I absolutely adored her. And even if I hadn’t spoken to her for some time, we always used to pick up where we left off, whenever we got together. And I always found that quite remarkable.

One of things she always used to say to me was, 'Don't tell our Robert.' She said that quite a lot. She also said, 'Don't tell Pat and don't tell Peter Brown,’ so I’m afraid you three, that’s a promise I’m going to fulfil, and I’m not going to sing like a canary today.

She said after Bobby died that I taught her to laugh again and I never knew that until I read it in the papers. But on the other hand she said, 'He sent a guardian angel, only this one had hooves, horn and a tail.'

It’s so good that she’s come home today, because as Robbie said, she was a true girl of Lond- , [horrified] of Liverpool! Because Scottie Rd was never too far away. Neither was Paddy’s Markets. I don’t forget the humiliation of being # on Madison Avenue in New York, and Cilla haggling over the price of the coats. Which I desperately wanted. I don’t know why, it was a sheepskin, full length, and I looked like some geriatric dressed up at an ABBA convention, but Cilla said, 'If you want it Paul, we’ll get it,' and she said to the guy, ‘there’s a mark on this,’ – ‘yeah there’s a big mark on that’, he said, ‘well we’ve got one in our ... ‘

She said, ‘No we’re going home tonight. And then she said the classic line, ‘what will you do if it red ease?]’

She was just - I don’t know - she taught me lots of things. Mainly, never to turn left, no right on a plane! She was a great friend; She was full of fun. She was a wonderful woman, She was talented. She was so witty. She adored her family. She loved her sons, She loved her grandchildren. She was so proud that she came from Scotty Road.; and I’m just so grateful that she allowed me into her whirlwind of a life. And we spent nearly two decades together hellbent, [to priest] if you’ll pardon the expression, through London, New York, Barbados, Spain and the Maldives, and she was just, she was such a great friend, andso I don’t know what I’m going to do really. The light went off a couple of weeks ago and it hasn’t come back on yet. And then – I’m just going to miss her so much, really.

So Cilla, I’d just like to say, thanks for all the fun, thanks for all the laughs, and as I always used to say to yer, ‘Ta-ra girl, I’ll see you on life’s highway.’

Thank you.