28 May 2012, New South Wales, Australia
Terry Wogan: 'I'm going to miss you', farewell to Wake Up to Wogan - 2009
18 December 2009, BBC Radio 2 studios, London, United Kingdom
Wake Up to Wogan was the most listened to radio show in the UK, and the flagship program on BBC Radio 2. Wogan first presented the breakfast program in 1972.
This is it, then. This is the day I have been dreading – the inevitable morning when you and I come to the parting of the ways, the last Wake Up To Wogan.
It wasn’t always thus. For the first 12 years it was the plain old Terry Wogan Show and you were all Twits, the Terry Wogan is Tops Society.
When I returned to the bosom of our family, it became Wake Up To Wogan and you all became TOGs, Terry’s Old Geezers and Gals.
It’s always been a source of enormous pride to me that you have come together in my name, that you are proud to call yourself my listeners, that you think of me as a friend, someone that you are close enough to laugh with, to poke fun at and occasionally, when the world seemed just a little too cruel, to shed a tear with.
And the years together with you have not only been a pleasure but a privilege. You have allowed me to share your lives with you. When you tell me how important I have been in your lives it’s very moving. You have been every bit as important in mine.
We have been though at least a couple of generations together, for many of you – your children, like mine, now have children of their own. And your support for Children In Need has been consistent and magnificent. You’ve baked the bakes, you’ve held the quizzes, you’ve sold the calendars, you’ve packed the CDs and the DVDs. You’ve answered the phones – always there when we’ve called on you, unheralded and unsung. And if anybody embodies the generous, warm spirit of this country it’s you, my listeners.
I am not going to pretend that this is not a sad day – you can probably hear it in my voice. I am going to miss the laughter and the fun of our mornings together. I know you are going to welcome Chris Evans with the same generosity of spirit that you have always shown me.
So, I am going to miss you, until we are together again in February, have a happy Christmas.
Thank you, thank you for being my friend.
Tony Wilson: 'This is the job of my life' farewell to Breakfasters - 2007
14 December 2007, Blue Diamond, Melbourne, Australia
After six years of reading the news, and contributing generally to Triple R's Breakfasters show, Tony Wilson said goodbye to himself through song, just as he had sung off previous team members. His farewell speech is on Soundcloud below.
I read the news today, oh boy
About a conference called on climate change
And though the news was rather bad,
Well I just had to laugh
Cos Johnny's stuck in Wolstencraft
I loved my time at Triple R
I bitched and moaned until the government changed
I shared my time with Fee B Squiared
We chose Sam Pang before
Nobody was really sure if he was any good at allllll
They call me Tinseltone oh boy
The English tabloids hold me up in awe
I'm part of Lindsay Lohan's day
All the time it took, should have plugged my boooook!
Each time you turned us on.
Woke up, got out of bed
No need for combs across my head
Foudn my way on air
Pang made a cup
The mikes were on
Fee noticed I was late
6.15, hello and that
Made a pun that fell quite flat
Told Fee B Squared I liked the track
Sam made a crack about playing more Nelly ...
Ahhhhhh-ahhh-ahhh ...
I read the news today oh boy
My final show with Fee and Sam is here
Amd through the years I've had a ball
The show survives us all
Love to Fee and Sam and my apologies to John and Paul
And you who turned us on.
Ktoret's Batmi Drasha: 'Not in my house. We live in a feminist age' - 2013
September 2013, Melbourne, Australia
Shabbat shalom. Thank you all for coming from far and near, up and down, from around Australia and the world, from Barcelona and Jerusalem. Today is my batmitzvah, it’s the day I have been preparing for, for a long time and I am very excited. I have a few thoughts about my parashah that I want to share with you.
After all of creation, Hashem says it is good but after the creation of humans God says it is very good. Maybe Hashem was the happiest with people out of all of creation. Humans are going to be the beings that can be trusted because they are in the image of God. Each human is completely different but all humans have a part of God inside them. Every human, from every county and every religion. This means that all humans can connect to each other from that little part that is the same. Whether they are enemies or not, we are still the same and belong to each other.
Allowing Adam to name the animals is a way of giving humans the opportunity to practise their leadership of the world as helpers of Hashem. Hashem also didn’t name all the creatures because humanity is going to have to interact with them. But maybe Hashem keeps a unique way of addressing the animals that humanity doesn’t understand.
It’s not fair that God gave humanity its name, but man gave the woman her name. When I started learning for my batmitzvah, a lot of kids in my grade started asking me why I was reading from the Torah, and that girls are not allowed to read from the Torah and that it is a zilzul, like to mess around with the Torah, and I kept on telling them, “In my shule, a lot of women read from the Torah, they participate in services. Just because you are not used to that in your tradition and your family, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist in other traditions.” It was very hurtful. I learnt to stand up for my values, and that if people expect things from you that conflict with your values, you don’t have to do them and you don’t have to listen to them. I am very proud to be part of this community, this family, that is there to support me in so many ways. I have all these role models that encourage me to do the unexpected. Over the past years I have learnt that if someone has a big influence on you, and encourages you, you can change yourself, you can change anything if people believe in you. People believing in you is a very big thing in life. I may only be 12 but I have courage and if I believe I can do amazing things.
After Adam and Eve eat the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, Hashem comes looking for them and asks “Where are you?” ?איכה Hashem used to be the only one who knew things and now humans also know things, maybe things that would be easier not to know. But that is part of being human.
Even though they have just done a huge sin, he says “?איכה” where are you? And I read it softly as I imagined Hashem’s voice- Hashem is angry but so powerful, there is no need to yell. Even just softly saying “Where are you?” will get the message across. It might even get your attention more when someone is talking seriously than when someone is screaming at you without a meaning.
Although Adam and Chava are holy and the first children of Hashem, they can behave immaturely by blaming one another. I personally think that what Adam says is the most hurtful and disloyal because he not only blames Chava for her sin, but for her being – and he also blames Hashem for creating her הָאִשָּׁה אֲשֶׁר נָתַתָּה עִמָּדִי, הִוא נָתְנָה-לִּי מִן-הָעֵץ וָאֹכֵל. He doesn’t only blame one but he has to blame two. He doesn’t only blame his wife he blames his” father” too.
After the sin of the forbidden eating, Adam, Chava and the snake all get cursed.
For those who noticed when it comes to the woman’s curse it says
אֶל-הָאִשָּׁה אָמַר, הַרְבָּה אַרְבֶּה עִצְּבוֹנֵךְ וְהֵרֹנֵךְ--בְּעֶצֶב, תֵּלְדִי בָנִים; וְאֶל-אִישֵׁךְ, תְּשׁוּקָתֵךְ, וְהוּא, יִמְשָׁל-בָּךְ. “To the woman he said: a lot of pain in your pregnancy, in sadness you will have children. And your desire will be for your husband and he will rule over you”
The first time I read this verse I said to myself “Not in my house. We live in a feminist age. This curse has been broken because we are living in a time now where some women are free from, and others are fighting for all women to be free.“
Also, about pain and suffering in childbirth. I know women who enjoy childbirth. Not every hard thing is a bad thing. You have to let life teach you and as long as you live the more you learn. Two years ago my great grandmother Nana Trude passed away on this day. From the stories I have heard and know, her death was quite magical. She was close with family and friends. Before she died a nurse said to her “Enjoy the journey, love” . That line has spoken to me in a lot of different ways. It’s made me think that death can be wonderful in its right way and at the right time. It also made me see that people can be important to you even if you have just met them- or heard about them- and that stories change the way you see the life you have. I am sure that she is enjoying the journey and I want her to enjoy it forever as we should be blessed to enjoy ours in its right time.
After Cain- Kayin kills Hevel- Abel, God asks Ayeh Hevel Achiha, Where is Hevel you brother? And Cain answers לֹא יָדַעְתִּי, הֲשֹׁמֵר אָחִי אָנֹכִי. I didn’t know, am I supposed to look after my brother?
And God says: “What did you do, your brother’s blood is screaming to me from the ground” מֶה עָשִׂיתָ; קוֹל דְּמֵי אָחִיךָ, צֹעֲקִים אֵלַי מִן-הָאֲדָמָה.
Cain killed his brother because of jealousy, since God accepted Hevel’s offering and not Cain’s. That made Cain angry, so angry to the point of killing his own brother. Jealousy always leads somewhere. On the one hand, jealousy means that you like something so much you also want it. But on the other hand, someone else has the thing that you want and you don’t have it. This second point leads to something bad because you are holding a grudge against the person. But on the first way of looking at it we can use the other person as an inspiration for us to help us understand what we want, as opposed to leading to a destructive result such as damage to people or things.
Everyone, siblings or not, we all each other’s keepers. Even if you always fight, if one falls you will help him or her get up. If one cries, you will give him or her a shoulder to cry on. No matter what happens you always need to nurture the other. That’s what it is to be human. You always have care. It just depends how much you show you have care. Even when we fight, at the end of the day we’re family, and we care about each other and look after each other. There’s still love between us.
To be my sibling’s keeper in the wider communal sense means that we extend our care and concern beyond our family for emotional and physical support for others.
You may have noticed that in the sixth aliyah there is a long list of names. At first I wondered why read this long list year after year. But it is important to know where you are coming from in order to understand how you got here and where you are going. Family history is a very important thing in life. If your father had heart disease, then genetically chances are that you will too. Genetics are the main reasons why you look the way you do. I have red hair, that means that someone in my family must have had red hair even though I am not sure who that is. To understand your past it gives you a hint of the future. Now it’s the present, and I am inspired by my ancestors. From good and bad stories I learn about life, how it used to be, how my ancestors lived and that inspires me to live life. You have one chance at life and I have learnt to make the most of it and so far I have.
I want to thank my batmitzvah teacher Ronit Prawer, and Idan Deshowitz who helped with my haftorah, for helping me learn and discover my parsha and open the whole world of reading from the Torah for me with much patience and lots of chocolate.
My vision for the future is that I want to make a change. Spiderman once said “I was born normal, and decided to make a change in the world, now living a normal life isn’t an option anymore”. I want everyone in this room to live an abnormal life, to explore, to dream, to make a change.
Thank you for being here. Shabbat shalom.
Clare Wright: 'Mazel Tov, and welcome to this wild ride called womanhood', for Ruby Sless-McDermott - 2011
16 October, 2011, Melbourne, Australia
Firstly, thank you to Justine and James for the honour of asking me to speak today, and heart-felt congratulations to Ruby on this very special occasion.
Now, I’m a girly swot from way back, so I took the opportunity to do some research. I’ve been consulting a wonderful book about the Jewish coming-of-age ritual called Putting God on the Guest List. I know how much thought and preparation Justine has put into this event, with not a stone unturned, so I’ve been waiting for God to walk through the door over there. Then I worried that I might not recognize her when she arrived. Or that she’d already arrived before the rest of us, and was lurking somewhere over by the bar. Or that she’d forgotten to check her iPhone calendar and was at home in her tracky daks watching reruns of Seinfeld on Go! But having listened to the rest of today’s speeches, I am now certain that she’s been here all along, safely ensconced where she always is – in our hearts.
Now, back to my research…
You might be interested to know that becoming bar or bat mitzvah happens automatically when a Jewish boy or girl reaches the age of 13. (It used to be 12 for girls, as this was the time she was considered marriageable, but the push for equality has leveled the ages.) The ceremonial aspects of today’s bar mitzvah – learning Torah portions and being publicly called to the Torah - is actually comparatively recent, only being observed from sometime around the 15th century.
For a girl, the coming-of-age rituals were slower to develop (unlike her reproductive organs, presumably). There is evidence of some Jewish families in France and Germany holding special meals for their nubile daughters around 200 years ago, but it wasn’t until the 1950s that Jewish girls began having their entry to womanhood formally consecrated in a synagogue.
Jewish scholars have speculated that because the bat mitzvah is still a relatively new idea, there is huge variation in the way that bat mitzvahs are celebrated around the globe. Young Jewish women, it’s argued, thus have more freedom to express themselves than their brothers. Their public mitzvot tend to be more creative and innovative, more personaland free.
But despite the variety, many bat mitzvah celebrations are characterized by a fundamental element in Jewish tradition: the idea that we deepen our own happiness when we share that which we are privileged enough to enjoy with those who are in need. It’s said that this comes from the custom of chesed, the loving-kindness displayed by the Jewish foremothers who shaped the course of Jewish history. Sharing your blessings and gifts with others is also a mark of accepting adult responsibilities in the world, especially if you believe in using your gifts to make the world a better place.
Ruby, I think, is ideally placed to assume this responsibility of sharing loving-kindness around, as she has so many gifts. She is energetic, high-spirited, compassionate (especially towards those smaller and less powerful than her, like her little sister), optimistic, humble and courageous. She knows her own mind, follows her own dreams and kicks her own goals. You gotta love that in a girl. Ruby, you definitely have what it takes to make a difference in this world.
As the history of the bat mitzvah shows, you don’t need to conform to convention to have meaningful and creative relationships: with your parents, your friends, your community or your god. Because she knows you care and are cared for, beloved Ruby, god will always be at your party.
So on behalf of myself, and my family, MAZEL TOV, and welcome to this wild ride called womanhood.
Trevor Henley: retirement speech, OCGA Dinner - 2015
31 July, 2015, The Pullman (Hilton on the Park), Melbourne, Australia
Trevor Henley is ending a celebrated career as a music teacher and Director of Music at Camberwell Grammar School. He made this speech at the Old Boys (OCGA) annual dinner.
Ladies and gentlemen,
To see so many past Camberwell Grammarians; former students;(I am disinclined to use the word “old” these days!) and staff, is testament to the strength of the School, the OCGA and its network administered and encouraged so much by Liz Board and her team in the Development Office. Thank you Liz.
Tonight is one for us all to mix and reconnect with each other sharing times past.
Quite recently whilst lying in the sun; as I am wont to do!; on a green, grassy verge next to a babbling brook in the French countryside, I fell into reflective mood.
Should tonight be about my times at school, or your times at school, or perhaps our times at school? And then I began to realize all I was leaving behind once this school year concludes.
Perhaps it is times shared that is best to recall.
1965 is when it all began for me, in the old Memorial Hall at the first Junior School House Music Competition. It was the beginning of my time at CGS and a time of change for my family.
And this is how it began …
Play flute accomp by JWM
Change! It affects us all. Sometimes it happens very often, sometimes regularly, and sometimes only occasionally. All of us here have had changes of various kinds, from the most basic and simplest to the most complicated. Sometimes the change can be happy and sometimes it can be traumatic.
The Headmaster will not really believe that I am actually using this word “change,” as he is not used to me changing anything-with the exception of my wardrobe!
In fact he has said that next year he might actually be allowed a word or two about some new ideas or possibly “change”!
The big change for me was when my family moved from country Victoria to Rubens Grove Canterbury, in December 1964, as my younger brother David and I were enrolled at Camberwell Grammar School.
Though we only attended the school for a very short time, we never really left its physical precincts. Joining St Mark’s Choir maintained the links with friends made at the school, and especially with John Mallinson.
Change is what I am looking towards in the very near future, but as CGS has been a constant my entire working life I will reflect upon the past 45 years teaching at CGS and my 50 year association with the school.
What memories do you have from “the happy days at school”…even though the school no longer “looks down t’wards the golden west”! But instead to the windy, and at the present time, very icy north!
A few of my memories from 1965: teachers such as Kyn Craig liked to say he single handedly fought the Japanese.
French teacher, “Dr” Harry Iverson lasted one year, and gave me ZZ minus 100 for my end of year mark!!!
Rod Lamborn driving his VW beetle which he was still driving 20 ye]ars later.
Ian Mason and his baby Austin always parked at the front of Roystead.
Roy McDonald upstairs in roystead with his cats and his cello. Ron Wootton in his art room, Harry Rice in his pottery room, John Mallinson in “Tara.” John Stafford and Bruce Doery sharing a small portable room between Roystead and the Memorial Hall.
The Pirates of Penzance was staged in the Memorial Hall in 1965 and all the first and second formers in the choir formed the girls chorus, tripping our way merrily and gaily across the stage.
To quote Ian Hansen’s 1986 book to celebrate the School’s Centenary; “By Their Deeds;” one of Major General Stanley’s daughters was a very young; and I would like to think, fetching; “yours truly! ” playing the role of Isabelle.
Memories of the “Highton Highway” across the JTO. Hymn singing and massed singing assemblies in the Centenary Quadrangle during the 1995-’96 building of the PAC and Music School… the neighbours loved it at 8.30 in the morning hearing the 23rd psalm and the Pilgrim hymn to name but two.
Paul Hicks and especially Chris Bence moving furniture at concerts.
Prior to 1988, Andrew Cox used to say that apart from the music, the most entertainingsection of school concerts was to see how fast Trevor could swing the furniture into place for the next item. He was a bit disappointed when others took over from me in 1988!
The senior boys in the choir at the large Sunday Choir rehs would take bets as to how long it would be before I would sling a poor middle school boy out for not paying attention… and you boys would whisper to each other
“ooohh….. I love it when he does that”!!!
I always apologised and allowed the crest fallen child back for the performance.
My first Hamer Hall concert as Dir of Music where the pipe organ was not loud enough. So I called out (with apologies to the ladies here)
“Can you give me more organ Mr Joyner”
Sport was not my favourite activity! I just didn’t turn up! And got away with it! A bit like the 1995 Captain of Music!
How many of you were ragged or teased for what ever reason at school as boys, let alone as a teacher! Looking younger than many of the senior boys, I often felt intimidated walking across to the Common Room, always up to date in my not exactly “un-colourful clothes,” but feeling rather self conscious.
Carrying a musical instrument in the 60’s and early 70’s took some grit and determination. What may have been odd then is now very much the norm, with over 400 boys playing instruments in many ensembles and as skilled soloists. CGS is also now a ‘singing school’.
Those who did not wish to join the choirs enjoy massed singing at weekly assemblies and during our annual concerts.
These singing experiences regularly display the healthy soul of the school of which the annual Senior House Music Competition is the perfect example.
Thank goodness those days of discrimination and teasing for both boys and staff have well and truly gone at CGS. It is now a place where any person can feel secure in themselves, where a boy can be himself, participate in any activity and feel comfortable, supported and, we hope, happy at school
Whilst I have many vivid and happy memories of my association with you all, to recall only a few memories of some of you here tonight would be doing an injustice to all the others.
Buildings have come down and gone up,
real-estate has been acquired and is still being acquired. So the physical School is not what it was in 1965.
But a school in not really about buildings, rules and regulations, as necessary as they are.
It is about the people who go to it; teaching and learning day in day out, acquiring the necessary tools or building blocks for their future.
Contributing to the fabric of its day to day goings on and to its history. This is the essence of a school, a sense of community, receiving and contributing, winning and losing with good grace, doing something good for others as well as yourself.
Teachers and Headmasters come and go.
The uniform changes, the standard of academic excellence rises, and the enrolments increase.
The increased range of sporting opportunities is not always reflected in the weekend results but makes sport much more palatable to a wider range of students.. Overseas cultural, language and sporting tours continue to enrich the lives of our students.
But it is the development of “The Arts” within the total school programme that I see as one of the biggest changes. The performing arts in music and drama, and the creative arts in painting, sculpture, ceramics, visual communication and design have expanded beyond all measure since those early days.
I have been told that the development of the arts within the school has changed the culture of the school.
I think I can say that Music is now core and central to the life of CGS. Every boy is now a performer at some time in his school life. Instituted in 1986 by John Mallinson and Graham Morey-Nase with David Dyer’s support,
the Biennial Concert in Hamer Hall continues to be the platform for this to happen where so many of you have been a part. The “Hamer Hall” concert has grown to include everyone in the school community.
There would be few, if any schools, where the boys and their teachers perform as one unit which is eagerly anticipated by the whole school every two years. The sense of pride in themselves, their achievement, and in their school that this concert engenders, is priceless.
I wonder what you have taken away from your school days? Perhaps some of my recollections might ring true for you.
How much do you wish to recall and how much would you prefer to forget?
But with the passing of time I hope that we are all able to look back with fondness upon many or some of our days at school.
In conclusion if I may be a little self indulgent.
During my teaching career I have been supported by wonderful teaching colleagues, by very fine specialist Music Staff and by three very tolerant and encouraging Headmasters.
A truly supportive school environment encompassing Staff in all areas, Parents, Friends and especially wonderful giving, forgiving and enthusiastic students who have really cared for me and supported me in my work.
I leave behind a very special place, after 45 years working in this community, which has embraced me and I have embraced it.
A place where I have been accepted for all that I am, and all that I do both musically, and in other areas.
To be able to achieve more than I could ever have hoped or dreamed, to experience so much that I wanted to be a part and to have had the chance to accomplish so much and beyond what I thought possible, has made for a very happy and fulfilling career.
This is something that many people aspire, but few attain, and I feel so fortunate to be one of those rare people who have had that experience.
The old saying “ that in giving you receive” is so very true.
I have received far more than I could ever have asked or hoped, from my colleagues, from parents and friends but most especially from thousands of boys.
Quite simply, I could ask for nothing more.
May I ask you to be upstanding for a toast to The School……
Anthony Atkinson: 'Out towards the Melbourne Airport there’s a place where champion racehorses are retired', for principal Dionne Wright - 2014
27 June, 2014, Merri Creek Primary, Melbourne, Australia
It's a pleasure for me on behalf of the staff here at Merri Creek Primary School to say a few words about our retiring principal and school leader Dionne Wright.
Dionne has committed her working life to the education of children and over the last 30 years she's worked tirelessly to guide and gently fashion Merri Creek into an environment that reflects her social views of acceptance, equality and sustainability while valuing creativity and rigorous learning.
Dionne has been a proud member of her union throughout her career and always understood the importance of consultation with and respect for her work force. Trusting teachers and always backing their judgement was a strength of her management style. She was comfortable embracing diverse approaches to teaching and respectful of different personalities. Her willingness to trust her staff and be flexible whenever there was scope to do so has made this place a hard one to leave.
Dionne shared in her teacher’s triumphs and listened to their challenges, she was always willing to advise and support along the way. I experienced in my first year of teaching a moment of encouragement from Dionne that undoubtedly bolstered my self belief in the fledgling months of a new career. Can you just imagine for a second the sheer terror that comes with writing your first reports and handing them to your principal to be proofread? First year graduate teachers are only provisionally registered with the Victorian Institute of Teaching and as she returned my reports she quietly commented “any teacher who can write reports of this quality deserves to be fully registered immediately”. Far from being a report writing prodigy I suspect that the experienced teacher in Dionne saw positive reinforcement as the most appropriate approach. Needless to say her strategy worked and I soared home that evening.
A friend who is a criminal lawyer once gave me some insight into the process of jury selection and spoke about sections of the public regularly dismissed when considering potential jurors. Teachers, nurses and social workers he said were usually seen as too invested in people, too empathetic and too instinctive to be considered reliably unaffected.
Dionne wore these instincts proudly to work every day. The procession of children getting extra learning support in her office of a morning, conversations with staff and parents about travel, architecture, art, cinema, food and politics as well as discussions about new approaches to teaching and learning, she was a leader who was interested and interesting.
Out towards the Melbourne Airport there’s a place where champion racehorses are retired. Melbourne Cup winners such as Might & Power and Rogan Josh are two of the thoroughbreds spending their long days in those quiet paddocks.
I wish for you Dionne the staff room equivalent where the temperature control is perfectly set all year round, the wireless connection is never interrupted and the prep students only come to the door to tell you how they’ve used self regulation and their negotiation skills to extinguish simmering conflicts… and of course there’s an endless supply of chocolate and Degani cakes.
Good luck Dionne for what lies ahead and a sincere thank you for what has come before.
Anson Cameron: 'Shortly after this, the fathers assembled here today will begin to die', Father-Daughter Breakfast - 2015
A PACT.
Just before I begin can we make a pact that nothing I say here this morning is to leave this room? In particular I don’t want anything I say to be leaked to your mothers. Tell them I gave an enlightening speech about race relations in Outer Mongolia or something. Because I know mothers are easily insulted and I’d hate anything I said to be taken out of context. Recently I’ve been having nasty nightmares in which I’m chased through the streets of the better suburbs of this town by a baying pack of menopausal blondes.
WISDOM OF FATHERS.
Mothers are everywhere. They stick their noses into everything. By now you girls will have realized you will have very few moments in life away from their bewildering and all-intrusive presence of mothers. But this, happily, is one such moment. A brief opportunity for the timeless wisdom of fathers to sprinkle down upon you like angel dust. I fully expect you to come away from this breakfast enlightened… and maybe a little pissed off.
MY MOTHER.
I’m fifty and my mother still annoys the crap out of me. When she heard I was going to give a talk to a gross of girls and their confused fathers? She said, “What on earth would you have to say to a room full of teenage girls? You might as well sing Lady GaGa tunes to a village of Eskimos. They won’t understand a word you say. You’re an alien. A grey-haired, red-faced old fart from a planet where Mick Jagger was sexy.”
I said, “Mum, as a writer of fiction I like to think I can empathise with other people, put myself in their shoes, as it were, and see the world through their eyes. A teenage girl isn’t a goddamned Unicorn. I once wrote a whole novel in the first-person voice of a teenager.”
‘Ohh…’ she said. ‘A disgusting book full of foul language and half-baked erotica. For Godsakes, don’t tell them you’re a writer. As if Freya’s reputation at school isn’t rock bottom already. And certainly don’t read anything out loud that you’ve written. They’ll stampede out the door as if Catherine Misson was doing a pole dance.”
Now, my mother’s just a cantankerous old hag made bitter by Herman Goering’s Luftwaffe and St Agnes Brandy. And normally I wouldn’t take her advice. But she was correct. It’s a strange way to conduct a life; being a writer. And it’s a hard thing for others to understand: that you just... make shit up.
OTHER DADS.
I remember when Freya was even younger and more clueless than she is now and she first became aware that other Dads did other things, serious things; some fathers made sick people well, some fathers sold houses, some fathers wore horsehair wigs in court in order to bamboozle juries into believing their lies so that they could free criminal scum onto our streets; some baked bread, some taught schoolkids, some grew crops. And these fathers dressed in all sorts of uniforms, suits and gowns, and they had meetings and workmates, and actual offices to go to and tractors to sit.
FEEL HEADS… COMPOSE LIES
But writers just sit around at home dressed in their undies staring at a screen with their heads in their hands wondering if that lump behind their left ear was there yesterday or not. Then, at some stage during the day, a writer will burst into in a brief flurry of activity, for half an hour or so their fingers will attack the keyboard, and they’ll compose a few outrageous lies. Then they’ll go back to exploring their skulls with their fingertips while staring at the lies they’ve made and wondering whether people will buy them. Luckily people are gullible and the world is full of fools who love to be lied to... so they do buy them.
SHITE AND FOOK.
But it’s a strange life and one that’s hard for kids to understand. I remember when Freya was at Morris Hall I eavesdropped a conversation she was having with a friend. From memory it was sweet, shy, eternally confused Natalie Sudlow. And Nat asked Freya what her dad did. Freya was, quite frankly, bamboozled. She said, “Well... he stares at a computer... and every now and then he says “Shit” and every now and then he says “Fuck”. As usual, Freya, in her own psychologically shambolic way, stumbled upon the essence of the creative process. Oscar Wilde I’m sure, did much the same. Though he would have stared at a blank page and said “shite” and “fook”.
LESBIAN DETECTIVES.
But Freya’s simple explanations of the writer’s life couldn’t have been enough for her schoolmates. Because next day she came home from school and I asked her what she’d learnt that day and in a time-honored ritual that continues to this day, she explained, ‘Er. Er..err.’
Then she stared at me sneakily out of the corner of her eye and said, “Saoirse’s dad fed sushi to a thousand executives today. “ I think Frey had an idea that Saoirse’s dad was a type of aid-worker and Rowlands Catering was a sort of soup-kitchen for emaciated millionaires. But anyway, having mentioned Saoirse’s dad’s charitable works, she asked me, “What did you do?”
I replied, quite truthfully, “In the morning I killed a man in a knife fight and this afternoon I stole a Picasso from the National Gallery.” Her little eyes filled with tears and she went off to her room and hogged down a packet of Skittles and skanked herself up to look like Brittany Spears and sang a few hits to her adoring fans in the mirror. And she was comforted by knowing that even though her dad was a dropkick, she was adored by millions.
Next day I was dropping her at school and as I kissed her goodbye she said, “Please, Daddy... don’t kill anyone today.”
I said, “Frey, it’s such a lovely day I don’t think I will.”
But being a suspicious type, always willing to think the worst of people, she fixed me with a malicious glare and said, “And Dad, don’t make up any more lesbian detectives.’
I had, in fact, been hoping to spend some time with my lesbian detectives that day. So I said, ‘Why not, Frey?’
She said, ‘ Mum says your lesbian detectives spend too much time being lesbians and not enough time being detectives.”
So I could see Freya was troubled that other kids’ fathers were heading out into the world and doing useful things like curing cancer and convicting Hells Angels. While I was sitting at home, like Doctor Frankenstein, slowly constructing lesbian detectives who weren’t much interested in solving crime.
POLLY NICE.
So. Not many people understand the writer’s life. But some people get it. One night I was giving a talk at the launch of my second novel. And after I’d finished I was standing there in a crowd of dumbstruck bibliophiles when a tiny old hunchbacked lady with transparent skin stepped up to me and grasped me by the elbow. She must have been ninety-nine years old. A frail, sweet old dame. She was wearing her shoes on the wrong feet. And she introduced herself as Polly Nice. I promise you that’s true. Polly Nice. Anyway, it was apparent she had a secret to tell me. I was expecting her to alert me to a grammatical error on page 223 of my novel or some such thing. So I bent down and she whispered into my ear, she said “Anson…”
I said, “Yes Polly.”
She said, “Anson…”
I said, “Yes, Polly.”
She said, “Anson… your shit really gets to me.”
She died next year… Polly Nice. Which was a large dent in my readership. I hope they buried her with her shoes on the right feet. It makes me sad to think of her facing eternity with her shoes on the wrong feet. You think it’s a long day when you’ve put your little sister’s bra on by mistake, girls? Try having your shoes on the wrong feet until God gets done sorting out the Middle East.
But, anyway, every now and then when I’m at my desk feeling the lumps on my head and trying to come up with ideas I think of Polly Nice… and I’m uplifted by knowing my shit got to her. That anything’s possible.
DO SOMETHING YOU LOVE.
Because… quite frankly… Writing’s a pain in the arse a lot of the time. Most things are. Except when it’s working. When the ideas and sentences and scenes are flowing… then nothing else matters and it’s the most elementally important and wonderful thing in the world. Which is just a roundabout way of saying, “I love writing.” And though I know you girls get given way too much advice, and for most of you it’s just water off a duck’s back, and for some of you it’s water off a dork’s back. And I vowed I wouldn’t offer any goddamned advice here this morning, I am in fact going to offer some advice dressed up as observation… it is this… life’s too short not to do something you love.
If you can do something you love you’ve got the game shot to pieces. Figures I’m making up as I go along suggest that eight out of ten people go to work each day trying to work out how they got were they are and cursing the fact they have.
So, don’t get locked in, girls. Don’t believe the hype about all this setting you on a path of no return. Never do anything you don’t love for too long. Change. Quit. Start again. Move professions. Move countries. Don’t be a slave to the choices you make this year and next year. Surround yourself with lesbian detectives. Now that last piece of advice was a metaphor. Some of you will get what it means and some won’t… but for Godsakes don’t leave here today telling people, “Freya’s dad said we should hook up with a posse of lesbian detectives.” Because I didn’t.
FATHERS CONTACT ME… TELL THEM HOW MUCH WE LOVE THEM.
But enough of writing. Let’s talk of fathers and daughters.
I was gratified and uplifted by the response of fathers who came up to me when they found out I’d be giving this little talk and said to me, “Anson, above all let them know what little angels we think they are. Make sure you tell them how much we love them and how proud we are of them and what wonderful people they have become.”
TINY MINORITY.
Sadly, those fathers were a tiny minority. The vast bulk of the fathers who contacted me with suggestions about what to say about their daughters wanted the world to know that their daughters were deluded little narcissists who live in a world of mirrors and hair-straighteners , as orange as oompa-lumpas and as self-important as Benito Mussolini.
The vast bulk of fathers here wanted me to say that their daughters treated them like chauffeurs and butlers and were too embarrassed to be seen with them in public, unless on an outing to buy a three-hundred-dollar pair of True Religion jeans.
REFUSE TO SAY.
But I refuse to say these things, gentlemen. I refuse to mention how mind-blowingly self-obsessed your daughters are. I will not defame them by saying they’re little mirror-junkies who spend far too much time in Facebookland bitching about their periods and blathering on about what pathetic dick they’re taking to the formal. I will not repeat the insults and slanders you urged me to broadcast, gentlemen
But, men, I will acknowledge your frustration. I know how you feel.
FATHERS TRAPPED.
The terrible secret of fatherhood is that we are locked into an unequal love affair. Fathers love their daughters more than daughters love their fathers: we love you girls more than you love us. We don’t choose to do it. But we are trapped by the ineluctable, indefatigable, undeniable force of evolution that demands a father love and protect his daughter so that his genes might live on.
TO GIRLS NOW. Your father’s won’t appreciate me telling you this. They’ll be furious with me. They’d rather you didn’t know what a weakened position we are in. That it’s a totally lopsided relationship, in which we are still dependent on you, but you have broken free... a sort of lapsed partnership in which only one of the partners is still in love.
You no longer need us to give you horsey-rides to bed and read you stories of Piglet and Pooh. And our jokes, which once took flight from our lips like butterflies to delight you, now fall from our mouths like dead ferrets. Our wisdom is now much reduced alongside your own vast learning. We know nothing of Nicky Devarge or Gnarls Barkly. Shortly you won’t even need us to give you a lift anywhere because you’ll have your own licenses and cars.
One day not too long from now after the tertiary education is finished you’ll have your own jobs... and your own money... you’ll link up with snotty-nosed little punks from Melbourne Grammar or Scotch, who aren’t ever going to be half the men we are... and you’ll be able to kiss us off completely. Arivaderci, doofus.
LOSE TOUCH.
And we’ll lose touch with you. You’ll disappear into a cool new country called The Future, and our only news of your existence will come through your mothers, those insidious stickybeaks, when they say, “Frey, rang today.” And when we ask, “Did you send her my love?”
Your mother will reply, “I did.”
And we’ll ask, “Well, what did she say?”
She said, “Whatevs” Dear.
“Did you ask her if she’s coming home at Easter?”
‘Yes dear.”
“Well what did she say?”
“She said ROFL, dear.”
You heartless little creeps!!
FATHERS DIE.
Shortly after this the fathers assembled here today will begin to die. The boozers will go first. Jumbo Johannson and Pod Muldoon and Weeksey. Then the farmers like Brad McPherson, who’ve sprayed all those deadly chemicals around. Then the workaholics’ hearts will explode: JimJepson, Paul Ainsworth and David Gibney. Then the coke heads and nightclubbers like Dave Fisher and Tom Howcroft will expire surrounded by psychedelic flashbacks in nursing homes.
Chaps like myself with no vices who have spent their lives in wholesome pursuits like inventing lesbian detectives will last longest. But one day we’ll all be gone.
And only then, when we are gone, and our names are etched in headstones: Here lies Anson Cameron neglected father of Freya; Here Lies Marcus South, Much Abused Father of Ruby... only then will you realize how one-sided this whole love affair has been.
And I’m sad to say, girls, you’ll be wracked by guilt. Shaken by remorse. You’ll be haunted by your inexcusable treatment of us. But it will be too late then, girls.
By that stage you’ll be trapped in new relationships with sweet, sweet little kiddies… who don’t love you quite as much as you love them. But girls we want you to know this… WE FORGIVE YOU… and you want to know why we forgive you… because we know you’re going to get yours.
So always remember, girls, as you lie in your beds at night kept awake by a new and horrific music booming from the bedrooms of your sons or daughters… a music you can neither understand nor enjoy… a music that speaks of the alienation and discord that exists between you and your child, that music won’t actually be new… and it won’t actually be music… Listen to it more closely, it will be the laughter of the ghosts of the men in this room.
Anson Cameron has a brilliant launch speech, also on Speakola. If you need a speech about death a lesbian detectives at your next event, Anson is availalbe for hire.
Buy Anson Cameron's latest novel, The Last Pulse. It's fantastic.
Margot Foster: 'A Toast to the Pioneering women of 1974', Trinity College, University of Melbourne - 2014
12 September, 2014, Trinity College, University of Melbourne
Men and Women of Trinity: A Toast.
January 1976. Hot. Damned hot. Google reminded me recently of how hot that summer really was. I’d endured, as had we all in those days, the wait from the end of school to Christmas and then to early January when HSC results were dispatched. By mail. I was at Anglesea, as usual, and had to endure one extra day of pain and torture as my results were redirected from Camberwell whilst the landline rang hot with other people’s news. Relief. I got enough marks to get into law at Melbourne Uni no thanks to the parents who thought doing biology would keep my options open despite the fact science was never my strong suit, as the marks proved. The Web of Life textbook and I never understood each other very well. A toast to me for getting this far.
Mail came from PLC inviting me to join the old collegians association. I remember Dad writing a cheque for the princely sum of $17.00 for life membership. At the same time he asked me if’ I’d like to go to Trinity College – after all uni was going to be the best years of my life. This was a little out of the blue because he’d refused to let me go to Geelong Grammar when it went coed – he hadn’t enjoyed it one bit and his few memories of his years there included weeding the oval with John Landy when the gardeners had all gone off to war and being in class with Rupert Murdoch, apparently a declared communist. As an aside he said he had been a non resident here when doing medicine but I declined his offer. I didn’t tell him the prospect was too scary for a shy girl from PLC, an outpost in suburbia.
For first term I schlepped to uni on tram and train but soon enough met a whole lot of Trinity people doing law and moved in in second term as there were vacancies aplenty. The rest is history. A toast to Dad for a good idea, albeit with delayed execution.
For 5 years I enjoyed what we have all enjoyed and shared:
- new friends, late nights,
- a spot of drinking here and there,
- no smoking,
- college balls and uni balls, college sport,
- sharing a study in Cowan or Jeopardy which proved a shortlived bad idea for most people;
- moving up the room hierarchy to a Behan suite with fireplace, via Cowan and Upper Clarke, the pinnacle,
- sharing showers and loos,
- running late to lectures albeit they were 5 minutes from bed,
- gossiping with a little bit of bitching but we didn’t know much about bullying,
- Juttodie with wet sacks and heavy bricks on the Bulpadok as it is properly called,
- Elliott Fours on Albert Park Lake,
- early morning swims in the Beaurepaire,
- the redoubtable Artie, Arthur Hills, and his sidekick the gardener Frank Henagan long before Frank became iconic,
- academic gowns over shorts and tshirts,
- the greasy chef Don Grilli and the chicken supreme springing from his condemned kitchen,
- High Church fish and chips on Friday nights and huge steaks and endless chips on Saturday nights;
- students on bursaries;
- queuing for the phone booth, now but a relic of days of yore,
- taking the washing home,
- squeezing a spot in the car park,
- the KKK and the silly, seemingly never washed, green uniform that always magically fitted everyone who wore it,
- the luxury of a neighbour to chop my wood and haul it up the stairs ( you young people might not know there was a woodheap with wood and an axe where the Woodheap Building is),
- the Behan suite bedroom where the bed never had to be made ,
- Moscow Olympics jaffle nights watching the derring do of our team on a tiny black and white telly in 1980;
- intercollege and intervarsity sport and the major party event that was the Intercollegiate Sports Council dinner;
- TCAC elections - for me being general rep for a couple of years and the first woman,
- the wine society; the drama society; the art society;
- the annual galah night after the annual play;
- house parties in neighbouring suburbs where you could gleefully leave your mates to clean up the day after,
- the car rallies via circuitous routes to country destinations and the clown who crashed into the college gates on the way out;
- the inaugural intercollegiate women’s footy match: Peter Hudson I was not;
- winning the rowing in my first year in the crew;
- advocaat and lemonade to sweet excess at Naughts when I was still 17,
- too many masalas and cokes at too many balls;
- mini spring rolls at the Royal Oak; the stygian gloom at The Clyde; late night trips to Twins and the Canary for a dimmy or a souvlaki; fabulous pasta at Café Paradiso and Café Sport, long gone,
- formal dinners in hall and the awarding of pewters,
- spooning in the victorious sports teams with the cox from the winning crew aloft the Mervyn Bournes Higgins shield now sadly banished to the Billiard Room – in the words of the Coodabeens Bring it Back to its rightful spot in this room!;
- gathering for college photos arms crossed and knees together,
- services in the Horsfall chapel incense swinging, the choir singing;
- 21st birthday parties; weddings; some very sad suicides;
- being made, forced and dragooned to go rowing and loving it;
- walking to the Exhibition Building for exams wishing that it wasn’t daylight saving because if it wasn’t the exam would still be an hour off;
- having exams on Cup Day;
- the Trike Race from Portsea;
- the quiet quiet of College during the holidays;
- crowding into the coal cellar up close and oh so personal with the Warden at bosom height too many wines on board after a big dinner;
- Senior Student elections – he or she who delivers the most cups of tea wins – I delivered one too few;
- 5 female Senior Students in 40 years – well done girls but perhaps there coulda shoulda have been more of you by now;
- the 30 year anniversary of women in college lunch that takes the cake for the worst college event ever – and those of you who were there will never forget it!;
- jogging around Princes Park; having a hit of tennis; playing bowls;
- holding the best ever college ball, and the first ever at Melb Town Hall, charging a massive $20 per head (up from the usual $6) with Skyhooks setting a trend the other colleges followed;
- being at the Ormond ball when the St Kilda town hall was trashed;
- tutes with people who are now Supreme Court judges;
- being lifelong friends with people who have shone and led and been brilliant in their spheres never knowing what lay ahead for them or for any of us; being part of a community, a fraternity like no other;
- having no sense at all in 1976 or since that women were not part of the 100 year history of the place so easy were the relationships amongst us all then as now.
A toast to the pioneering women of 1974 and since who have graced this place, to the men of Trinity who decided to be modern and admit them. Among them Robin Sharwood warden at the time and here tonight: a toast to you and your vision; to his successors Evan Burge, Don Markwell and Andrew McGowan for their roles in continuing to pave the way and ensure college is a great place to be (could be a number plate slogan!) for Women and Men of the College alike; to the small dramas, the big dramas, the small dreams, the big dreams and all things in between.
A toast to all of this and to all that you’ve been thinking about as your minds cast back to the time when you were here.
A toast to the College and to the many women and men who will follow in our footsteps and revel in their experiences had and relationships forged. And a toast to us because we’re here a testament to the very wonderful ties and memories and friendships that bind through one simple decision: to come to Trinity. To Us.
