Monday, April 12, 2010
CORRECTION
In the Godforsaken Gunnedah story, the price of my Triumph car should have read 750 pounds (i.e. $1500) in those pre-decimal currency days. Still a bargain, though.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
GODFORSAKEN GUNNEDAH
Rodney Hatcher was the most beautiful boy in Gunnedah in 1961. A limited claim to fame, I’ll agree, but true nonetheless. I know, because I was there. Unlike the other Rodney H, Rod “the Prod Bod” Hoad, my flatmate at Teachers’ College, he was soft and angelic. Rod Hoad had a muscular, footballer’s body, well-defined pecs and a six-pack. Rodney Hatcher was a 17 year old with the face of a choir boy and a swimmer’s physique.
But I digress.
In 1961 I began my career as a school teacher. Having graduated (Teacher’s Certificate) after a two-year course at Armidale Teachers’ College, I was a qualified primary teacher. The then NSW Department of Education appointed all teachers in public schools. You could apply for a particular place, but as a first-timer, fat chance. So where was I sent? Kelvin Public School, 12 miles north of Gunnedah, a wheat and sheep town of a few thousand inhabitants, in north-west NSW, about five hours’ drive from Sydney. I was put in charge of a one-teacher school in the middle of the wheatfields. I was just 18.
There was a shortage of rural teachers in those days, so I and other students had wisely taken the rural option in our course, knowing we were most likely to end up in the bush. But, hey, all on my own in the wilderness?
I was designated Teacher-in-Charge. My charges were twelve children ranging from 5 years (kindergarten) to 11 (sixth class). There was one boy in sixth class, no one in fifth class and only one girl. Of course, they were the sons and daughter of local wheat farmers. (When I left 2-and-a-half years later, enrolment had soared to 20 – no thanks to me.)
I had almost no idea what to do with them.
I had travelled by train to Gunnedah and then, as advised by my employers, got a lift in the mail van to my new accommodation. There was no school teacher’s house. Instead, I was billeted, term about, with one of the families whose kids I was attempting to teach – a not at all satisfactory arrangement, but there you go.
My first term was to be spent with the Jeffries family. Jeff and Mrs Jeffries had three sons. Peter and Paul were my pupils, Peter being the one sixth class boy. The other son was Robert, 16 years old and very handsome in a suntanned blokey sort of a way. I had bumped Rob out of his bedroom and for all of that term he slept on the veranda, just outside my window. I had a number of sleepless nights.
(Some time later I discovered Rob’s nickname among the town girls was ‘Snake” Jeffries. I never got the chance to find out why – perhaps a mercy.)
The school house had been built in 1899. It was a weatherboard building consisting of one room and a veranda. It had developed a decided list to port. There were also a weather shed, where the kids could eat lunch whilst sheltered from the sun (it hardly ever rained) and two cesspit “dunnies”. Boys’ and Girls’. There was a farmhouse across the dirt road. Other than that the only sign of human habitation was the telephone line strung along the roadside.
Before I go on, another digression. In 1971, while I was living in London, the film Outback was released. It starred Gary Bond as an outback teacher in Australia. The book was called Wake in Fright, as was the movie in Australia, a far more appropriate title. I saw it in London and was both enthralled and horrified. Somebody had made a movie of my life in Gunnedah. With its accurate depiction of drunken pub brawls and ruthless nights of kangaroo-slaughtering, it was not well received in Australia, but was a hit in England. Subsequently all prints of the film were thought lost, until one good copy turned up in 2004. So you could now well rent it from your favourite DVD store and skip the rest of this ramble. The choice is yours.
However, I’ll continue. With only 12 pupils, you’d think I could give them all daily individual tuition. Well, yes, I was OK with the older ones: “Do the sums on page 14 and then learn your spelling list. Write each word five times in your spelling book.” But with the infants – kindy and first class – I had no idea how to start to teach reading and writing. There was no pre-school in those days. I was miserable and frustrated, with no one to turn to.
Mr Johnson was the local school inspector. He was, I discovered, a Freemason and not at all disposed to us Catholics. I never established a helpful relationship with him. One Friday he arrived unannounced – not the proper protocol – and was pleasantly surprised to find me administering the weekly spelling test, with a blackboard full of sums for later. I was trying my best.
Ah yes, the blackboard - just remember that there were no photocopiers; I had no phone, no fridge, no television (a radio, yes, for the lifesaving school programs) and twice a week the mail arrived. And I wore a collar and tie every day, as required.
I was a very unhappy boy. So I took solace in what the local community had to offer, starting with the church. I got a lift into town most Sundays – some of the parents were Catholics – and soon made friends among the younger set after Mass. There was a bunch of guys my age who had formed a dance band. They called themselves The Zodiacs and by good fortune had recently lost their piano player. Hello? So soon Bernie Foster (trumpet), George Speed (sax), Les Fuller (drums) and I found ourselves to be the town’s major dance band, in popular demand. One of our regular gigs was on Saturday night at the Golf Club. In those days teachers weren’t allowed to have second jobs – could lower the tone – but Mr Inspector Johnson’s wife loved her Saturday night dancing to our music, so that was overlooked.
During this time, the highly-disorganised Catholic Youth group, no doubt with Father’s encouragement, decided to stage a Sunday night concert in the church hall after Mass. A good idea, but in retrospect, with no director and a singular lack of talent, a bit of a disaster. Until I sat down at the piano.
I started off with my own arrangement of “Jealousy”, followed it with Winifred Atwell’s “Black and White Rag” (a staple in my repertoire), and finished with an overdramatic rendition of “The Man I Love”. The crowd went wild – possibly with great relief that at last someone had done something remotely entertaining. But who cares? My performance was received with a standing ovation. For the first time in my life, as I stood there acknowledging the applause, I realised I could stand there just as long as they wanted to continue to clap and shout. It was a moment I will never forget.
Now I had begun a network of friends and contacts. I got a few runs on the board. I could stay in town over the weekend, mostly at Bernie Foster’s. He lived with his parents and we slept innocently top-to-toe in his single bed – I was very skinny then.
And I got my first car. I was saving up to buy a second-hand Beetle, something that wouldn’t mind the corrugations in the gravel road too much and didn’t need much looking after. But then came the Credit Squeeze of 1961.
There was a federal election in December 1961. The result was and is still the closest ever. The Menzies Liberals defeated Arthur Calwell’s Labour Party by only one seat. This had been brought about by a credit squeeze which had banks lending less money, firms closing and jobs being lost. The direct effect of this on me was that the Triumph Motor Company had reduced the price of its Herald range to cost price: $750. For a new car. My brother John had latched on to this and suggested it would be a much better buy than a second-hand VW. So I became the proud owner of a Triumph Herald Coupe, a sporty looking thing, but built for English lanes, not the outback cattle tracks of Australia.
However, I was now independently mobile and this improved my social life no end. Amongst new friends was Robin Baxter. She taught at Gunnedah High and was a lot of fun. Her father was the local lawyer and had a property called Gunnible, just a mile or so out of the town. They were very much local nobility, such as it was, and I assume she is an ancestor of Erica Baxter, who married Jamie Packer, then Australia’s richest man, as Erica is a Gunnedah girl.
Another was a local radio station announcer whose name, happily, escapes me. I occasionally stayed in the guest room in his flat. If I hadn’t suspected he was gay, the pile of muscle-builder magazines under my bed would have alerted me. Nothing happened, nor did I want it to.
But I do remember Brian Wallace (not his real name). He too led a dance band (The Limelighters?) and I occasionally filled in on piano at dances. He was also the local shoe shop proprietor, married, no children and his wife was frequently away.
One night after an out-of-town gig he suggested I stay at his place (wifey was away). Perhaps, he said, there was no use making up the spare bed, there was plenty of room in the double bed. I suspected what was coming. When he moved his feet over to tickle mine, I said, “Go to sleep, Brian,” and he did. Well, at least, I did.
So I got through Gunnedah with my virginity intact. (Question: What constitutes losing one’s virginity in the homosexual world? To be discussed at a later date.)
By now I was the regular Friday night pianist at the Regal Hotel. Formerly the Royal, it had a burnt down a few years before and been rebuilt in grand red brick style and re-named. It was by far the smartest hotel in town – as well as a Saloon Bar, (where the local stock-and-station agents drank with the bank managers), it had a Lounge, where my grand piano was to be found. The Mayor of Gunnedah and also the State Parliamentary member (Country Party) was Frank O’Keefe. He always referred to me as his nephew, and I called him Uncle Frank, though we were not related. Every year he hosted a cricket game, the Mayor’s XI against the best of the locals.
One year Frank’s team consisted of Australian Test cricketers Jim Burke, Warren Saunders and Norm O’Neill and other big names. It promised to be a big weekend. I have virtually no interest in cricket, but remember this gang fondly, as they turned up at the Regal on the Friday night. When I discovered both Jim and Warren were very adept on the keyboard, a night of what might be called Duelling Pianos ensued. We took it in turns to upstage each other and I remember I played a Latin-flavoured piece called “Cumana”, full of flourishes and runs I could sort of manage in those days and I like to think it may have won the night. Anyway, it was another memorable night and I’m glad it wasn’t me striding out to the crease the next morning.
But all of this speaks of only the happy weekends. There were still miserable stretches from Monday to Friday of trying to teach and knowing I wasn’t doing well enough. In the evenings after meat and two veg, I’d retire to my room with a book or my new portable record player, alone and bored. By now, understandably, some of the parents were concerned. Little Helen wasn’t reading as well as might be expected, little Timmy was having a hard time with basic maths. Something had to happen.
Meanwhile, in my second year there, the Department decided to build a new school house, no doubt worried that the old one might actually fall down and hurt someone. It was a much grander affair. Besides the classroom there were a store room and an office for me, as well as a wide veranda. They even dug a third dunny, labelled, somewhat grandly, I thought, ‘Staff’. The builder was a Dutchman, a post-war immigrant and at least provided some friendly company during the day.
Two years later, after I’d left, the authorities decided it was cheaper to close the school and bus the kids into town each day. Wonder if it’s still there?
But as my second year at Kelvin was drawing to a close, I begged the Inspector for a transfer. A delegation of concerned parents had also visited him and finally it was announced that this would be my final term at Kelvin P. S.
The parents were never aggressive towards me and now, possibly with some relief, happily organised a farewell in the local hall. I made my goodbyes to friends and the boys in the band, had a last beer at the Regal and packed my bags. I headed home for the long Christmas holidays with my family, no longer on the farm, but living in suburban Strathfield, a rather gentrified Sydney suburb.
You can imagine everyone’s concern when at the end of January I turned up back in Kelvin, this time in my own car, the transfer having been refused, indeed, probably never even considered by the authorities. It was a most embarrassing moment for everyone, me especially. There was nothing to do but submit my resignation. I was still under a bond: in return for two year’s allowance while at Teachers’ College, I pledged to work for the Department for the first three years. I was two terms short, but the financial sacrifice was worth it. And I had decided I hated school teaching.
And Rodney Hatcher? Well, though he never knew it, he had helped me keep my sanity during that time. Often we would lay our towels out on the grass beside the Council swimming pool, in those delicious days before they invented board shorts, and chat about nothing. He had a prominent place in my dreams and fantasies. Remember, we were only twelve months apart in age, though our positions in the local community were quite disparate. The latter didn’t seem to bother either of us and although he wasn’t the brightest kid on the block, neither was I.
But I digress.
In 1961 I began my career as a school teacher. Having graduated (Teacher’s Certificate) after a two-year course at Armidale Teachers’ College, I was a qualified primary teacher. The then NSW Department of Education appointed all teachers in public schools. You could apply for a particular place, but as a first-timer, fat chance. So where was I sent? Kelvin Public School, 12 miles north of Gunnedah, a wheat and sheep town of a few thousand inhabitants, in north-west NSW, about five hours’ drive from Sydney. I was put in charge of a one-teacher school in the middle of the wheatfields. I was just 18.
There was a shortage of rural teachers in those days, so I and other students had wisely taken the rural option in our course, knowing we were most likely to end up in the bush. But, hey, all on my own in the wilderness?
I was designated Teacher-in-Charge. My charges were twelve children ranging from 5 years (kindergarten) to 11 (sixth class). There was one boy in sixth class, no one in fifth class and only one girl. Of course, they were the sons and daughter of local wheat farmers. (When I left 2-and-a-half years later, enrolment had soared to 20 – no thanks to me.)
I had almost no idea what to do with them.
I had travelled by train to Gunnedah and then, as advised by my employers, got a lift in the mail van to my new accommodation. There was no school teacher’s house. Instead, I was billeted, term about, with one of the families whose kids I was attempting to teach – a not at all satisfactory arrangement, but there you go.
My first term was to be spent with the Jeffries family. Jeff and Mrs Jeffries had three sons. Peter and Paul were my pupils, Peter being the one sixth class boy. The other son was Robert, 16 years old and very handsome in a suntanned blokey sort of a way. I had bumped Rob out of his bedroom and for all of that term he slept on the veranda, just outside my window. I had a number of sleepless nights.
(Some time later I discovered Rob’s nickname among the town girls was ‘Snake” Jeffries. I never got the chance to find out why – perhaps a mercy.)
The school house had been built in 1899. It was a weatherboard building consisting of one room and a veranda. It had developed a decided list to port. There were also a weather shed, where the kids could eat lunch whilst sheltered from the sun (it hardly ever rained) and two cesspit “dunnies”. Boys’ and Girls’. There was a farmhouse across the dirt road. Other than that the only sign of human habitation was the telephone line strung along the roadside.
Before I go on, another digression. In 1971, while I was living in London, the film Outback was released. It starred Gary Bond as an outback teacher in Australia. The book was called Wake in Fright, as was the movie in Australia, a far more appropriate title. I saw it in London and was both enthralled and horrified. Somebody had made a movie of my life in Gunnedah. With its accurate depiction of drunken pub brawls and ruthless nights of kangaroo-slaughtering, it was not well received in Australia, but was a hit in England. Subsequently all prints of the film were thought lost, until one good copy turned up in 2004. So you could now well rent it from your favourite DVD store and skip the rest of this ramble. The choice is yours.
However, I’ll continue. With only 12 pupils, you’d think I could give them all daily individual tuition. Well, yes, I was OK with the older ones: “Do the sums on page 14 and then learn your spelling list. Write each word five times in your spelling book.” But with the infants – kindy and first class – I had no idea how to start to teach reading and writing. There was no pre-school in those days. I was miserable and frustrated, with no one to turn to.
Mr Johnson was the local school inspector. He was, I discovered, a Freemason and not at all disposed to us Catholics. I never established a helpful relationship with him. One Friday he arrived unannounced – not the proper protocol – and was pleasantly surprised to find me administering the weekly spelling test, with a blackboard full of sums for later. I was trying my best.
Ah yes, the blackboard - just remember that there were no photocopiers; I had no phone, no fridge, no television (a radio, yes, for the lifesaving school programs) and twice a week the mail arrived. And I wore a collar and tie every day, as required.
I was a very unhappy boy. So I took solace in what the local community had to offer, starting with the church. I got a lift into town most Sundays – some of the parents were Catholics – and soon made friends among the younger set after Mass. There was a bunch of guys my age who had formed a dance band. They called themselves The Zodiacs and by good fortune had recently lost their piano player. Hello? So soon Bernie Foster (trumpet), George Speed (sax), Les Fuller (drums) and I found ourselves to be the town’s major dance band, in popular demand. One of our regular gigs was on Saturday night at the Golf Club. In those days teachers weren’t allowed to have second jobs – could lower the tone – but Mr Inspector Johnson’s wife loved her Saturday night dancing to our music, so that was overlooked.
During this time, the highly-disorganised Catholic Youth group, no doubt with Father’s encouragement, decided to stage a Sunday night concert in the church hall after Mass. A good idea, but in retrospect, with no director and a singular lack of talent, a bit of a disaster. Until I sat down at the piano.
I started off with my own arrangement of “Jealousy”, followed it with Winifred Atwell’s “Black and White Rag” (a staple in my repertoire), and finished with an overdramatic rendition of “The Man I Love”. The crowd went wild – possibly with great relief that at last someone had done something remotely entertaining. But who cares? My performance was received with a standing ovation. For the first time in my life, as I stood there acknowledging the applause, I realised I could stand there just as long as they wanted to continue to clap and shout. It was a moment I will never forget.
Now I had begun a network of friends and contacts. I got a few runs on the board. I could stay in town over the weekend, mostly at Bernie Foster’s. He lived with his parents and we slept innocently top-to-toe in his single bed – I was very skinny then.
And I got my first car. I was saving up to buy a second-hand Beetle, something that wouldn’t mind the corrugations in the gravel road too much and didn’t need much looking after. But then came the Credit Squeeze of 1961.
There was a federal election in December 1961. The result was and is still the closest ever. The Menzies Liberals defeated Arthur Calwell’s Labour Party by only one seat. This had been brought about by a credit squeeze which had banks lending less money, firms closing and jobs being lost. The direct effect of this on me was that the Triumph Motor Company had reduced the price of its Herald range to cost price: $750. For a new car. My brother John had latched on to this and suggested it would be a much better buy than a second-hand VW. So I became the proud owner of a Triumph Herald Coupe, a sporty looking thing, but built for English lanes, not the outback cattle tracks of Australia.
However, I was now independently mobile and this improved my social life no end. Amongst new friends was Robin Baxter. She taught at Gunnedah High and was a lot of fun. Her father was the local lawyer and had a property called Gunnible, just a mile or so out of the town. They were very much local nobility, such as it was, and I assume she is an ancestor of Erica Baxter, who married Jamie Packer, then Australia’s richest man, as Erica is a Gunnedah girl.
Another was a local radio station announcer whose name, happily, escapes me. I occasionally stayed in the guest room in his flat. If I hadn’t suspected he was gay, the pile of muscle-builder magazines under my bed would have alerted me. Nothing happened, nor did I want it to.
But I do remember Brian Wallace (not his real name). He too led a dance band (The Limelighters?) and I occasionally filled in on piano at dances. He was also the local shoe shop proprietor, married, no children and his wife was frequently away.
One night after an out-of-town gig he suggested I stay at his place (wifey was away). Perhaps, he said, there was no use making up the spare bed, there was plenty of room in the double bed. I suspected what was coming. When he moved his feet over to tickle mine, I said, “Go to sleep, Brian,” and he did. Well, at least, I did.
So I got through Gunnedah with my virginity intact. (Question: What constitutes losing one’s virginity in the homosexual world? To be discussed at a later date.)
By now I was the regular Friday night pianist at the Regal Hotel. Formerly the Royal, it had a burnt down a few years before and been rebuilt in grand red brick style and re-named. It was by far the smartest hotel in town – as well as a Saloon Bar, (where the local stock-and-station agents drank with the bank managers), it had a Lounge, where my grand piano was to be found. The Mayor of Gunnedah and also the State Parliamentary member (Country Party) was Frank O’Keefe. He always referred to me as his nephew, and I called him Uncle Frank, though we were not related. Every year he hosted a cricket game, the Mayor’s XI against the best of the locals.
One year Frank’s team consisted of Australian Test cricketers Jim Burke, Warren Saunders and Norm O’Neill and other big names. It promised to be a big weekend. I have virtually no interest in cricket, but remember this gang fondly, as they turned up at the Regal on the Friday night. When I discovered both Jim and Warren were very adept on the keyboard, a night of what might be called Duelling Pianos ensued. We took it in turns to upstage each other and I remember I played a Latin-flavoured piece called “Cumana”, full of flourishes and runs I could sort of manage in those days and I like to think it may have won the night. Anyway, it was another memorable night and I’m glad it wasn’t me striding out to the crease the next morning.
But all of this speaks of only the happy weekends. There were still miserable stretches from Monday to Friday of trying to teach and knowing I wasn’t doing well enough. In the evenings after meat and two veg, I’d retire to my room with a book or my new portable record player, alone and bored. By now, understandably, some of the parents were concerned. Little Helen wasn’t reading as well as might be expected, little Timmy was having a hard time with basic maths. Something had to happen.
Meanwhile, in my second year there, the Department decided to build a new school house, no doubt worried that the old one might actually fall down and hurt someone. It was a much grander affair. Besides the classroom there were a store room and an office for me, as well as a wide veranda. They even dug a third dunny, labelled, somewhat grandly, I thought, ‘Staff’. The builder was a Dutchman, a post-war immigrant and at least provided some friendly company during the day.
Two years later, after I’d left, the authorities decided it was cheaper to close the school and bus the kids into town each day. Wonder if it’s still there?
But as my second year at Kelvin was drawing to a close, I begged the Inspector for a transfer. A delegation of concerned parents had also visited him and finally it was announced that this would be my final term at Kelvin P. S.
The parents were never aggressive towards me and now, possibly with some relief, happily organised a farewell in the local hall. I made my goodbyes to friends and the boys in the band, had a last beer at the Regal and packed my bags. I headed home for the long Christmas holidays with my family, no longer on the farm, but living in suburban Strathfield, a rather gentrified Sydney suburb.
You can imagine everyone’s concern when at the end of January I turned up back in Kelvin, this time in my own car, the transfer having been refused, indeed, probably never even considered by the authorities. It was a most embarrassing moment for everyone, me especially. There was nothing to do but submit my resignation. I was still under a bond: in return for two year’s allowance while at Teachers’ College, I pledged to work for the Department for the first three years. I was two terms short, but the financial sacrifice was worth it. And I had decided I hated school teaching.
And Rodney Hatcher? Well, though he never knew it, he had helped me keep my sanity during that time. Often we would lay our towels out on the grass beside the Council swimming pool, in those delicious days before they invented board shorts, and chat about nothing. He had a prominent place in my dreams and fantasies. Remember, we were only twelve months apart in age, though our positions in the local community were quite disparate. The latter didn’t seem to bother either of us and although he wasn’t the brightest kid on the block, neither was I.
Monday, February 8, 2010
GETTING THE PENSION
(NB: I wrote this up a few years ago, before I set up my blogspot and before I had my own computer. Having retrieved it, I think it’s worth blogging. I hope you do.)
CHAPTER ONE
Having recently turned 65, I naively assumed that our gracious government would be contacting me along the lines of, "Congratulations, Hugh, old boy, you've reached retirement age at last. After a lifetime of dutiful payment of tax, you are now entitled to your reward." Well, that was silly of me, wasn't it? So I decided to take the matter into my own hands.
Despite rapidly approaching dinosaur status, I felt I am modern enough to apply online and duly found the appropriate site. I began filling in the required information until I found a question I couldn't answer (my superannuation commencement date) without further research. As I use the library's computer, this meant logging out and starting over.
On my second attempt I did a lot better and eventually was given a reference number and informed that I had successfully applied and would receive the relevant papers in the mail soon. So much for the paperless society.
To my surprise, the papers duly arrived. Now among other things, I had to prove I was born. So on to another website to apply for a birth certificate from the Victorian government. This meant more waiting, which is a concern, because the pension will be paid from the date of application (not one's actual birthday) BUT ONLY IF ALL THE PAPERWORK IS DONE AND PRESENTED WITHIN A FORTNIGHT. Fat chance.
Finally, I'd filled in everything, had all the relevant documents - passport, birth certificate, driver's licence, bank statement, etc - so now there was a phone number to ring for an appointment.
"Yes, Mr O'Keefe, your relevant Centrelink is at Darlinghurst, but there are no appointments available for three months - but that's not unusual." This last comment would surely not endear him to his employers? "However, you can have a walk-in appointment."
"Oh, what's that?"
"You just turn up and information will put you in the queue."
"That doesn't sound like an appointment to me." None the less, that's what I did, yesterday.
I got to Information after only ten minutes and explained I was applying for the Old Age Pension (oops, in these politically correct times, the Age Pension). He promptly gave me forms but I pointed out that I had already filled in the relevant form.
"Oh, where did you get that?" he asked with some surprise.
"In the mail," I said, which seemed to confuse him somewhat. However, he told me to take a seat and someone would be with me shortly.
Forty minutes later (I'd brought a good book) a voice said "Mr O'Keefe?" and Phil took me to his work station. He was charming, helpful and apologetic, but that wasn't much help. I informed him I'd applied online and here was my application and supporting documents. "But you haven't filled in an application," he said. I found this somewhat confusing, but now that I had access to a real person at a real computer, I wasn't of a mind to argue. So he got me an application form. In the course of filling it in, I realised that this was all the stuff I'd entered on the online application. He said, "Well, it's safer to have it in writing." Again, I wasn't arguing.
Meanwhile, as I reapplied, he looked at the first form I'd filled in and said, "They've sent you the wrong form." Well, it didn't say Dole, it didn't say Job Seeker, it said Age Pension Application, but there you go. So he went off again to get the RIGHT FORM.
Have you ever been to Centrelink? They do a great show. While all this was going on, a very short, very irate Aboriginal woman stormed into the interview area demanding money, using buckets of foul language, including frequent references to having conjugal relations with one's maternal parent. No one but me seemed to find this unusual, so I stayed Mum. Also, when one of the other interviewers left her station to ask some question of my Phil, the two rather grubby applicants at her station went into a deep and serious pash session which wasn't abandoned until their interviewer returned. I'd rate the whole place MA.
So now, after an hour with Phil, we had abandoned the online original application and done a written one. We had also torn up the original written application and filled in the right one. Now to enter it into the computer - hah!
Would Mister Computer accept this stuff? No way. So a phone call to the hot line, a ten minute wait, and eventually all was duly entered - I think.
But one last thing. I hadn't brought my employer's payslips (I work casually). Nowhere on any form, electronic or otherwise had these been asked for. So tomorrow I will have to turn up with these, and, as instructed, march straight through the office (much like my indigenous sister, but more discreetly) and slip these on to Phil's desk. And wait to see what happens next.
CHAPTER TWO
Well, dear readers, when I closed Part One of this odyssey/ordeal, I was in the last stages of applying for my Age Pension, very much a stop/start operation. I was asked by my now very close and personal friend Phil at Centrelink to provide recent payslips from my university employment to finalize operations. Now read on...
On the appointed Friday I again went to Centrelink and followed Phil's instructions. I waltzed straight up to his desk to present said papers. If he was with a client, he'd acknowledge me. I did so... NO PHIL! EMPTY DESK!... so I reported to enquiries and they assured me he was on the premises, probably "on a break". I took a seat and waited. Indeed he finally appeared, calling for another client, and I accosted him. "Oh, yes", he said, "have you registered?" But, I thought, you said just to come straight to you - so I went and registered.
I took another seat (I was beginning to amass quite a collection of them by now) and in due course Phil saw me, processed the final papers and that was that. Or was it?
On 31 October I received a letter from Centrelink – the first of many - rejecting my claim because my income was "above the allowable limit". They then listed two sets of figures:
Annual Income: $2,498.85
Regular Fortnightly Income: $3,090.93
Can even the most numerically-challenged among you spot the anomaly here? I should think so. It seems my fortnightly income was almost one and a half times my annual income - a somewhat TARDIS-like situation, devoutly to be wished. (Mind you, were I earning $3,000ish a fortnight, why would I want the pension?)
Back to the drawing board and back to Centrelink. I submitted a written statement explaining that the $3,090.93 payment was made in one fortnight pay period for work done over almost three months. I had submitted my previous payslip for $2,000.45, for work done three months earlier. I had even submitted my tax return, which showed annual earnings of $8,764.00. (Where they got the $2,498.85 figure from, I'll never know.)
Well, in due course (11 December, almost six weeks later) Mr Hugh Marsh from Centrelink wrote to inform me that my application had been approved (no apologies or explanations, of course) and that I qualified for the full $543.50 a fortnight, duly backdated. Hooray! End of story! Don't you kid yourself...
There's more.
I have a pension from "old" NSW State Superannuation of around $500 a fortnight. I had been informed that it would "never" affect my Age Pension. However, during my myriad enquiries I had learned that this might not be the case. So being the devout Marist Brothers boy that I am (?!) I wrote to Centrelink (3 January) and informed them of this pension. They wrote back lickety-split the next day requesting I supply a letter from State Super with the details. This I did, with a covering note.
Some days later I received an SMS asking me to access mail at their website. I tried, but found I had no password. I phoned Centrelink on 31 January and a very pleasant operator (they all are, God knows they’d have to be) provided me with a password (for computer) and PIN (for phone). Yippee! So back to the library and on to the website, but to no avail.
Yet another phone call, only to be informed that my pension had been SUSPENDED. That's why I couldn't access the website. No one had advised me of this action. Centrelink had requested I access my mail, but prevented me from doing so. The officer who supplied the password had not mentioned this, nor could anyone give me a reason.
I explained that I had provided the (original) letter from State Super, but the claimed not to have received it. The operator blithely explained that they might have lost it... or maybe the Post Office had!
(During this phone call I was also informed that Centrelink was investigating my British pension - this was a big surprise to me. I had informed them that I worked in England from 1969 to 1974. They said their records showed I was there from 1968 to 1979 - a period of over ten years, entitling me, if I had worked all this time, to a British pension. We sorted that one.)
So, I obtained another original from State Super and sent it Registered Mail in early February. Wait. No response. Ring again on 27 February to be informed they haven't received that letter either. Call Australia Post. "Yes, Mr O'Keefe, you posted it on 14 February, we delivered it on 15 February."
Telephone officer suggests I go to Centrelink, have the letter faxed and get confirmation of its being sent. I do so. Wait a few days and get an SMS. You have mail. Try to access, but am told "account suspended". Another phone call. "Oh, but Mr O'Keefe, your pension has been restored, retroactive to 25 December." (Hey, how about that, they had cut it off on Christmas Day - how touching.) "And I'll free up your password so you can access the site." (I still can't.)
At my request, the charming girl printed off the letter and posted it to me. It informed me that on the basis of new information I had provided they had restored my pension, readjusted to $423.09 a fortnight. No apology, no explanation. And that's where things stand.
POSTSCRIPT: During the following week I received two separate hand-addressed letters from Centrelink, containing the two original State Super letters, the ones they claimed never to have received. Two denials. One more and they'd be up there with St Peter.
So if you're planning to turn 65 and you're poor, keep this instructive missive in a safe place.
UPDATE – Feb 2010
In mid-January I received a letter from Centrelink informing me that my pension had been cut off on 8 December as I HAD NOT REPORTED! Reported what? I am now completely unemployed, have no income, therefore have nothing to report I phoned immediately, got the usual charming woman who got my details up on her screen and said, “But Mr O’Keefe, that’s silly – you don’t have to report and there’s a note on your file saying so.” Well, darling, could you tell someone?
There and then she restored my pension, retrospective to 8 December, and duly marked my file. A week later, I got a letter saying that as I had now supplied the information they had requested (?!), my pension had been restarted. No apology, of course.
I don’t think the war is over yet.
CHAPTER ONE
Having recently turned 65, I naively assumed that our gracious government would be contacting me along the lines of, "Congratulations, Hugh, old boy, you've reached retirement age at last. After a lifetime of dutiful payment of tax, you are now entitled to your reward." Well, that was silly of me, wasn't it? So I decided to take the matter into my own hands.
Despite rapidly approaching dinosaur status, I felt I am modern enough to apply online and duly found the appropriate site. I began filling in the required information until I found a question I couldn't answer (my superannuation commencement date) without further research. As I use the library's computer, this meant logging out and starting over.
On my second attempt I did a lot better and eventually was given a reference number and informed that I had successfully applied and would receive the relevant papers in the mail soon. So much for the paperless society.
To my surprise, the papers duly arrived. Now among other things, I had to prove I was born. So on to another website to apply for a birth certificate from the Victorian government. This meant more waiting, which is a concern, because the pension will be paid from the date of application (not one's actual birthday) BUT ONLY IF ALL THE PAPERWORK IS DONE AND PRESENTED WITHIN A FORTNIGHT. Fat chance.
Finally, I'd filled in everything, had all the relevant documents - passport, birth certificate, driver's licence, bank statement, etc - so now there was a phone number to ring for an appointment.
"Yes, Mr O'Keefe, your relevant Centrelink is at Darlinghurst, but there are no appointments available for three months - but that's not unusual." This last comment would surely not endear him to his employers? "However, you can have a walk-in appointment."
"Oh, what's that?"
"You just turn up and information will put you in the queue."
"That doesn't sound like an appointment to me." None the less, that's what I did, yesterday.
I got to Information after only ten minutes and explained I was applying for the Old Age Pension (oops, in these politically correct times, the Age Pension). He promptly gave me forms but I pointed out that I had already filled in the relevant form.
"Oh, where did you get that?" he asked with some surprise.
"In the mail," I said, which seemed to confuse him somewhat. However, he told me to take a seat and someone would be with me shortly.
Forty minutes later (I'd brought a good book) a voice said "Mr O'Keefe?" and Phil took me to his work station. He was charming, helpful and apologetic, but that wasn't much help. I informed him I'd applied online and here was my application and supporting documents. "But you haven't filled in an application," he said. I found this somewhat confusing, but now that I had access to a real person at a real computer, I wasn't of a mind to argue. So he got me an application form. In the course of filling it in, I realised that this was all the stuff I'd entered on the online application. He said, "Well, it's safer to have it in writing." Again, I wasn't arguing.
Meanwhile, as I reapplied, he looked at the first form I'd filled in and said, "They've sent you the wrong form." Well, it didn't say Dole, it didn't say Job Seeker, it said Age Pension Application, but there you go. So he went off again to get the RIGHT FORM.
Have you ever been to Centrelink? They do a great show. While all this was going on, a very short, very irate Aboriginal woman stormed into the interview area demanding money, using buckets of foul language, including frequent references to having conjugal relations with one's maternal parent. No one but me seemed to find this unusual, so I stayed Mum. Also, when one of the other interviewers left her station to ask some question of my Phil, the two rather grubby applicants at her station went into a deep and serious pash session which wasn't abandoned until their interviewer returned. I'd rate the whole place MA.
So now, after an hour with Phil, we had abandoned the online original application and done a written one. We had also torn up the original written application and filled in the right one. Now to enter it into the computer - hah!
Would Mister Computer accept this stuff? No way. So a phone call to the hot line, a ten minute wait, and eventually all was duly entered - I think.
But one last thing. I hadn't brought my employer's payslips (I work casually). Nowhere on any form, electronic or otherwise had these been asked for. So tomorrow I will have to turn up with these, and, as instructed, march straight through the office (much like my indigenous sister, but more discreetly) and slip these on to Phil's desk. And wait to see what happens next.
CHAPTER TWO
Well, dear readers, when I closed Part One of this odyssey/ordeal, I was in the last stages of applying for my Age Pension, very much a stop/start operation. I was asked by my now very close and personal friend Phil at Centrelink to provide recent payslips from my university employment to finalize operations. Now read on...
On the appointed Friday I again went to Centrelink and followed Phil's instructions. I waltzed straight up to his desk to present said papers. If he was with a client, he'd acknowledge me. I did so... NO PHIL! EMPTY DESK!... so I reported to enquiries and they assured me he was on the premises, probably "on a break". I took a seat and waited. Indeed he finally appeared, calling for another client, and I accosted him. "Oh, yes", he said, "have you registered?" But, I thought, you said just to come straight to you - so I went and registered.
I took another seat (I was beginning to amass quite a collection of them by now) and in due course Phil saw me, processed the final papers and that was that. Or was it?
On 31 October I received a letter from Centrelink – the first of many - rejecting my claim because my income was "above the allowable limit". They then listed two sets of figures:
Annual Income: $2,498.85
Regular Fortnightly Income: $3,090.93
Can even the most numerically-challenged among you spot the anomaly here? I should think so. It seems my fortnightly income was almost one and a half times my annual income - a somewhat TARDIS-like situation, devoutly to be wished. (Mind you, were I earning $3,000ish a fortnight, why would I want the pension?)
Back to the drawing board and back to Centrelink. I submitted a written statement explaining that the $3,090.93 payment was made in one fortnight pay period for work done over almost three months. I had submitted my previous payslip for $2,000.45, for work done three months earlier. I had even submitted my tax return, which showed annual earnings of $8,764.00. (Where they got the $2,498.85 figure from, I'll never know.)
Well, in due course (11 December, almost six weeks later) Mr Hugh Marsh from Centrelink wrote to inform me that my application had been approved (no apologies or explanations, of course) and that I qualified for the full $543.50 a fortnight, duly backdated. Hooray! End of story! Don't you kid yourself...
There's more.
I have a pension from "old" NSW State Superannuation of around $500 a fortnight. I had been informed that it would "never" affect my Age Pension. However, during my myriad enquiries I had learned that this might not be the case. So being the devout Marist Brothers boy that I am (?!) I wrote to Centrelink (3 January) and informed them of this pension. They wrote back lickety-split the next day requesting I supply a letter from State Super with the details. This I did, with a covering note.
Some days later I received an SMS asking me to access mail at their website. I tried, but found I had no password. I phoned Centrelink on 31 January and a very pleasant operator (they all are, God knows they’d have to be) provided me with a password (for computer) and PIN (for phone). Yippee! So back to the library and on to the website, but to no avail.
Yet another phone call, only to be informed that my pension had been SUSPENDED. That's why I couldn't access the website. No one had advised me of this action. Centrelink had requested I access my mail, but prevented me from doing so. The officer who supplied the password had not mentioned this, nor could anyone give me a reason.
I explained that I had provided the (original) letter from State Super, but the claimed not to have received it. The operator blithely explained that they might have lost it... or maybe the Post Office had!
(During this phone call I was also informed that Centrelink was investigating my British pension - this was a big surprise to me. I had informed them that I worked in England from 1969 to 1974. They said their records showed I was there from 1968 to 1979 - a period of over ten years, entitling me, if I had worked all this time, to a British pension. We sorted that one.)
So, I obtained another original from State Super and sent it Registered Mail in early February. Wait. No response. Ring again on 27 February to be informed they haven't received that letter either. Call Australia Post. "Yes, Mr O'Keefe, you posted it on 14 February, we delivered it on 15 February."
Telephone officer suggests I go to Centrelink, have the letter faxed and get confirmation of its being sent. I do so. Wait a few days and get an SMS. You have mail. Try to access, but am told "account suspended". Another phone call. "Oh, but Mr O'Keefe, your pension has been restored, retroactive to 25 December." (Hey, how about that, they had cut it off on Christmas Day - how touching.) "And I'll free up your password so you can access the site." (I still can't.)
At my request, the charming girl printed off the letter and posted it to me. It informed me that on the basis of new information I had provided they had restored my pension, readjusted to $423.09 a fortnight. No apology, no explanation. And that's where things stand.
POSTSCRIPT: During the following week I received two separate hand-addressed letters from Centrelink, containing the two original State Super letters, the ones they claimed never to have received. Two denials. One more and they'd be up there with St Peter.
So if you're planning to turn 65 and you're poor, keep this instructive missive in a safe place.
UPDATE – Feb 2010
In mid-January I received a letter from Centrelink informing me that my pension had been cut off on 8 December as I HAD NOT REPORTED! Reported what? I am now completely unemployed, have no income, therefore have nothing to report I phoned immediately, got the usual charming woman who got my details up on her screen and said, “But Mr O’Keefe, that’s silly – you don’t have to report and there’s a note on your file saying so.” Well, darling, could you tell someone?
There and then she restored my pension, retrospective to 8 December, and duly marked my file. A week later, I got a letter saying that as I had now supplied the information they had requested (?!), my pension had been restarted. No apology, of course.
I don’t think the war is over yet.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
KINGS CROSS - A TALE OF TWO DIFFERENT WORLDS
12 May 2009
I’m sitting on the first floor balcony of the Bourbon (Hotel: this word appears no where on their livery) in Kings Cross, sipping a glass of red wine. It is Happy Hour in more than one sense. Yes, the drinks are half price, but it is also that time when the worries of the day are drifting off and the evening’s promises are to come.
It’s 6.00pm on an autumn evening and down Macleay St the plane trees are dropping their leaves and the ambient street lighting is strangely seductive. It’s very easy just to gaze at the scene and watch the traffic pass by. Occasionally a 311 bus goes by, but only very occasionally.
I’m a local. I live in the building next door. My northerly aspect takes in Fitzroy Gardens and the El Alamein Fountain – my favourite Sydney fountain. I’ve been here for eighteen years. I have no desire to live anywhere else.
When I finish my drink I’ll go home to the ABC News, maybe grill a chop or whip up some pasta, settle in to some TV or reading (and another red wine) and it will be lights-out around 10.30pm. Tomorrow morning I’ll wake about 7.00am, collect my morning paper, make a coffee and take both back to bed.
During my sleeping hours, the night creatures will descend on the scene. Bods in their twenties and thirties – IT experts, bankers, football players – in their post-office Calvins and Hilfigers and long-legged stilettoed girls in black dresses that look like underwear will brave the bouncers at the Sugar Mill, the Elk, Madame De Biers, the aforementioned Bourbon, or any one of a dozen nightspots in the area. Having already popped some pills, they’ll sink a few drinks, bop to the head-banging noise they call music and maybe get lucky with the opposite sex.
All this while I sleep soundly – their world is not mine, though we share the same physical space.
When I moved here in 1991, Fitzroy Gardens at night was populated by rent boys. The nearby Rex Hotel had a gay bar (the Bottoms Up Bar, would you believe), hence the late-night presence of the hopeful lads. I studiously avoided them.
After the euphoria of the 2000 Sydney Olympics, virtually all of the area’s tourist hotels – the Landmark, the Hyatt Kingsgate, the Rex, even the singular Sebel Town House – were converted to trendy apartment blocks and gentrification began.
Around this time, a group, indeed, tribe, of aborigines moved into the Gardens and set up camp under the Moreton Bay fig trees. The occasional noise of smashing bottles in the middle of the night was a nuisance. A local police officer told me that several of them had Housing Commission flats in Waterloo, but they preferred to live under the stars. Eventually, I don’t know how, they were moved on.
Nowadays the gardens are populated by locals walking their dogs (pooper scooper is de rigueur) and new mums with strollers and toddlers romping in the local playground. What a different world it is.
Well really, there are two different worlds. In the world of the night creatures, an eccy is dropped, drink is taken, birds and lads are chatted up, a night is raged away.
In my world, cappuccinos are taken in the morning sunshine, the boutiques and bookshops are visited, shopping is done at Woolies or Fratelli Fresh, lunch with friends is at Café Sopra or Zinc. If it’s a sunny day, I might take my book down to Beare Park on the shores of Elizabeth Bay in the afternoon. And this rolls into Happy Hour at the Bourbon, where this story began.
I’m sitting on the first floor balcony of the Bourbon (Hotel: this word appears no where on their livery) in Kings Cross, sipping a glass of red wine. It is Happy Hour in more than one sense. Yes, the drinks are half price, but it is also that time when the worries of the day are drifting off and the evening’s promises are to come.
It’s 6.00pm on an autumn evening and down Macleay St the plane trees are dropping their leaves and the ambient street lighting is strangely seductive. It’s very easy just to gaze at the scene and watch the traffic pass by. Occasionally a 311 bus goes by, but only very occasionally.
I’m a local. I live in the building next door. My northerly aspect takes in Fitzroy Gardens and the El Alamein Fountain – my favourite Sydney fountain. I’ve been here for eighteen years. I have no desire to live anywhere else.
When I finish my drink I’ll go home to the ABC News, maybe grill a chop or whip up some pasta, settle in to some TV or reading (and another red wine) and it will be lights-out around 10.30pm. Tomorrow morning I’ll wake about 7.00am, collect my morning paper, make a coffee and take both back to bed.
During my sleeping hours, the night creatures will descend on the scene. Bods in their twenties and thirties – IT experts, bankers, football players – in their post-office Calvins and Hilfigers and long-legged stilettoed girls in black dresses that look like underwear will brave the bouncers at the Sugar Mill, the Elk, Madame De Biers, the aforementioned Bourbon, or any one of a dozen nightspots in the area. Having already popped some pills, they’ll sink a few drinks, bop to the head-banging noise they call music and maybe get lucky with the opposite sex.
All this while I sleep soundly – their world is not mine, though we share the same physical space.
When I moved here in 1991, Fitzroy Gardens at night was populated by rent boys. The nearby Rex Hotel had a gay bar (the Bottoms Up Bar, would you believe), hence the late-night presence of the hopeful lads. I studiously avoided them.
After the euphoria of the 2000 Sydney Olympics, virtually all of the area’s tourist hotels – the Landmark, the Hyatt Kingsgate, the Rex, even the singular Sebel Town House – were converted to trendy apartment blocks and gentrification began.
Around this time, a group, indeed, tribe, of aborigines moved into the Gardens and set up camp under the Moreton Bay fig trees. The occasional noise of smashing bottles in the middle of the night was a nuisance. A local police officer told me that several of them had Housing Commission flats in Waterloo, but they preferred to live under the stars. Eventually, I don’t know how, they were moved on.
Nowadays the gardens are populated by locals walking their dogs (pooper scooper is de rigueur) and new mums with strollers and toddlers romping in the local playground. What a different world it is.
Well really, there are two different worlds. In the world of the night creatures, an eccy is dropped, drink is taken, birds and lads are chatted up, a night is raged away.
In my world, cappuccinos are taken in the morning sunshine, the boutiques and bookshops are visited, shopping is done at Woolies or Fratelli Fresh, lunch with friends is at Café Sopra or Zinc. If it’s a sunny day, I might take my book down to Beare Park on the shores of Elizabeth Bay in the afternoon. And this rolls into Happy Hour at the Bourbon, where this story began.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
ME AND MY BIG MOUTH
“My tongue has a mind of its own, which is more than I can say for my mind.”
An aphorism must be witty, but must also contain a grain of truth. I like to think that the above, which is all my own work, contains more than a grain – perhaps a peck or even a bushel. Of course, I shall expand.
I have, from time to time, come out with the odd zinger (he says modestly), many of which I have become quite proud, some of which still bring shame and a blush to my cheeks – we’ll come to them.
For starters: “Life’s too long to have enemies”. I’ve never understood the “too short” of the original. If life were indeed too short, then a few enemies would not be too much to bear. But having enemies takes some effort and having them for a lifetime is too much hard work.
Next: “I’ve stopped going to nudist beaches; I can’t stand those slimy, sidelong glances I keep giving everyone.’ Enough said. (The Nudist Beach Rule: the uglier the body, the more clothes it removes.)
OK, so maybe I have been a witty young thing from time to time but the following modest examples come from the years after I had left our girt-by-sea shores.
A bit of a set-up is needed here.
In 1969, along with several other poofs, I stayed over Easter in a hotel in Tangier, Morocco. We’d gone for sunshine, it rained for twelve days. Our downmarket hotel was run by two rather fey Englishmen, Tony and Michael, who passed themselves off as uncle and nephew. Sure, sure. Michael, the “nephew” was charming enough, but “uncle” Tony was a stuffy old quean, very up himself.
One wet Friday evening it was agreed we’d go to the local French restaurant, La Grenoille. We’d meet in the hotel bar for an aperitif, then make our way under umbrellas to the restaurant.
We were tardy. We were on holidays. All dressed up, arriving late in the bar, we found a testy Tony finishing his martini, chiding us for our lateness. We ordered drinks and things only got worse when Tony announced that he was off to the restaurant to be on time and we could please ourselves. Mike thought the whole thing too silly and we had more drinks.
Finally we arrived at the restaurant. Tony sat at the head of the table, steam, it would seem, emanating from his ears. Menus were distributed. Tony finally broke the silence.
“I take it you all read French”, he said.
“Correct”, I replied, “on both counts.”
There was an intake of breath, then someone laughed, then Tony laughed. The ice was broken and a good time was had by all.
Moving on…
In Knightsbridge, London, there was a very camp restaurant called La Popotte , very popular with the gay crowd, especially on Sundays when the pubs were open only from noon to 2.00pm, reopening at 5.00pm. I dined there often. Though the food was generally ghastly, the atmosphere was great. One Sunday I was there and at the next table were an obviously straight couple. Having had a litre or two of Moroccan plonk, I leaned across to the male of the pair and said, for no discernable reason, “May I borrow your mascara?”
“I’m not wearing mascara,” he replied, not unreasonably.
My brain was on autopilot as I said, “Oh, sorry. It must be your nose that’s running”.
What a stupid thing to say to a total stranger. However, again everyone broke into laughter, including the straight couple and more drink was taken.
The next one wasn’t funny, just downright bitchy. I was dating a good-looking boy called Simon. He had a swarthy, rather Spanish complexion and a broken nose which actually made his face look more interesting. We arranged to meet up at a friend’s party.
“Guess what,” he announced excitedly, “I’m having my nose fixed.”
“Well,” I replied, again on autopilot, “if it worked for Shirley Bassey, it will work for any black woman.”
He, understandably, slapped my face and a budding relationship died. He walked out. How silly. How cruel. But I was the centre of attention for the rest of the party, everyone wanting to know what I had said, what I had done. Certainly brightened up an otherwise dull afternoon.
OK, better redeem myself, if possible.
Many years later, back in Sydney, I was having dinner with my mate Tim in Potts Point at the Barrel Inn (formerly Vadim’s, for those of you in the know). I regularly played piano there but this was my night off. A cold stormy night it was and as a result there were only two other diners in the place – father and daughter, as it turned out. We could hardly ignore each other, said hello and agreed to join them for coffee.
When we did so the father introduced his daughter and I shook her hand.
Time became suspended. As I held her hand, I realised that all her fingers ended at the first joint. In what were no more than three seconds I had all of these thoughts: What do I do? How do I react? Do I just say nothing? But I felt that would be dishonest. I can hardly say, “What happened to your fingers?” Time resumed its inevitable progress.
“Well,” I said, releasing her hand, “you must save a fortune on nail polish.”
She laughed like a drain. So did her father. Of course she was a thalidomide baby and of course she played classical guitar and could touch type. She was so relieved with my reaction to something she’d lived with for a lifetime. They told us stories of embarrassing moments and I was pretty proud of myself.
Now I’m going to finish with the downer. All the more down because the night was so up. Christmas Eve in the Tilbury Hotel, Woolloomooloo in Sydney, then owned by my great friends Geoffrey and Michael. The tradition was that after the cabaret, I appeared at the piano in my Santa suit, song sheets were distributed and carols were sung. They were a lively crowd, well fuelled and watered and a great time was being had. After finishing one carol, a young girl in the audience asked if I could play her grandmother’s favourite carol.
“And what is it?” I asked.
“Away in a Manger,” she replied.
“Oh, I said, “that’s one of my favourites. How old is your grandmother?”
“Oh, she died three days ago,” was the reply.
“Gee,” I said, ever tactless, “I hope you hadn’t bought her a Christmas present.”
“No,” she said, and she laughed and I smiled smugly.
And the entire room fell into the iciest silence…
“All together now, away in a manger…” I sang, in a desperate attempt to revive spirits. But it wasn’t easy. It had become one tough room.
I think this is the first time I’ve got up the courage to tell that story, but I did promise you previously that this is a warts and all thing.
An aphorism must be witty, but must also contain a grain of truth. I like to think that the above, which is all my own work, contains more than a grain – perhaps a peck or even a bushel. Of course, I shall expand.
I have, from time to time, come out with the odd zinger (he says modestly), many of which I have become quite proud, some of which still bring shame and a blush to my cheeks – we’ll come to them.
For starters: “Life’s too long to have enemies”. I’ve never understood the “too short” of the original. If life were indeed too short, then a few enemies would not be too much to bear. But having enemies takes some effort and having them for a lifetime is too much hard work.
Next: “I’ve stopped going to nudist beaches; I can’t stand those slimy, sidelong glances I keep giving everyone.’ Enough said. (The Nudist Beach Rule: the uglier the body, the more clothes it removes.)
OK, so maybe I have been a witty young thing from time to time but the following modest examples come from the years after I had left our girt-by-sea shores.
A bit of a set-up is needed here.
In 1969, along with several other poofs, I stayed over Easter in a hotel in Tangier, Morocco. We’d gone for sunshine, it rained for twelve days. Our downmarket hotel was run by two rather fey Englishmen, Tony and Michael, who passed themselves off as uncle and nephew. Sure, sure. Michael, the “nephew” was charming enough, but “uncle” Tony was a stuffy old quean, very up himself.
One wet Friday evening it was agreed we’d go to the local French restaurant, La Grenoille. We’d meet in the hotel bar for an aperitif, then make our way under umbrellas to the restaurant.
We were tardy. We were on holidays. All dressed up, arriving late in the bar, we found a testy Tony finishing his martini, chiding us for our lateness. We ordered drinks and things only got worse when Tony announced that he was off to the restaurant to be on time and we could please ourselves. Mike thought the whole thing too silly and we had more drinks.
Finally we arrived at the restaurant. Tony sat at the head of the table, steam, it would seem, emanating from his ears. Menus were distributed. Tony finally broke the silence.
“I take it you all read French”, he said.
“Correct”, I replied, “on both counts.”
There was an intake of breath, then someone laughed, then Tony laughed. The ice was broken and a good time was had by all.
Moving on…
In Knightsbridge, London, there was a very camp restaurant called La Popotte , very popular with the gay crowd, especially on Sundays when the pubs were open only from noon to 2.00pm, reopening at 5.00pm. I dined there often. Though the food was generally ghastly, the atmosphere was great. One Sunday I was there and at the next table were an obviously straight couple. Having had a litre or two of Moroccan plonk, I leaned across to the male of the pair and said, for no discernable reason, “May I borrow your mascara?”
“I’m not wearing mascara,” he replied, not unreasonably.
My brain was on autopilot as I said, “Oh, sorry. It must be your nose that’s running”.
What a stupid thing to say to a total stranger. However, again everyone broke into laughter, including the straight couple and more drink was taken.
The next one wasn’t funny, just downright bitchy. I was dating a good-looking boy called Simon. He had a swarthy, rather Spanish complexion and a broken nose which actually made his face look more interesting. We arranged to meet up at a friend’s party.
“Guess what,” he announced excitedly, “I’m having my nose fixed.”
“Well,” I replied, again on autopilot, “if it worked for Shirley Bassey, it will work for any black woman.”
He, understandably, slapped my face and a budding relationship died. He walked out. How silly. How cruel. But I was the centre of attention for the rest of the party, everyone wanting to know what I had said, what I had done. Certainly brightened up an otherwise dull afternoon.
OK, better redeem myself, if possible.
Many years later, back in Sydney, I was having dinner with my mate Tim in Potts Point at the Barrel Inn (formerly Vadim’s, for those of you in the know). I regularly played piano there but this was my night off. A cold stormy night it was and as a result there were only two other diners in the place – father and daughter, as it turned out. We could hardly ignore each other, said hello and agreed to join them for coffee.
When we did so the father introduced his daughter and I shook her hand.
Time became suspended. As I held her hand, I realised that all her fingers ended at the first joint. In what were no more than three seconds I had all of these thoughts: What do I do? How do I react? Do I just say nothing? But I felt that would be dishonest. I can hardly say, “What happened to your fingers?” Time resumed its inevitable progress.
“Well,” I said, releasing her hand, “you must save a fortune on nail polish.”
She laughed like a drain. So did her father. Of course she was a thalidomide baby and of course she played classical guitar and could touch type. She was so relieved with my reaction to something she’d lived with for a lifetime. They told us stories of embarrassing moments and I was pretty proud of myself.
Now I’m going to finish with the downer. All the more down because the night was so up. Christmas Eve in the Tilbury Hotel, Woolloomooloo in Sydney, then owned by my great friends Geoffrey and Michael. The tradition was that after the cabaret, I appeared at the piano in my Santa suit, song sheets were distributed and carols were sung. They were a lively crowd, well fuelled and watered and a great time was being had. After finishing one carol, a young girl in the audience asked if I could play her grandmother’s favourite carol.
“And what is it?” I asked.
“Away in a Manger,” she replied.
“Oh, I said, “that’s one of my favourites. How old is your grandmother?”
“Oh, she died three days ago,” was the reply.
“Gee,” I said, ever tactless, “I hope you hadn’t bought her a Christmas present.”
“No,” she said, and she laughed and I smiled smugly.
And the entire room fell into the iciest silence…
“All together now, away in a manger…” I sang, in a desperate attempt to revive spirits. But it wasn’t easy. It had become one tough room.
I think this is the first time I’ve got up the courage to tell that story, but I did promise you previously that this is a warts and all thing.
Monday, November 9, 2009
"LOSING" MY RELIGION
WHOA! As a result of announcing to my friends and family that I have survived the Big C, I have received an email from a very dear, very lovely friend telling me I’m about to Find Religion (her caps). Thank God she was being ironic. But it set me thinking.
It took a long time to slough off my Catholicism, as a snake does its old, unwanted skin, and I’m not about to slide it back on again.
From a personal perspective, I, like my fellow generation of 50s/60s Catholic kids, was indoctrinated from birth in my faith. In my cot, before I could talk, I’d been taught how to make the sign of the cross. (I know this because I watched my younger siblings get taken through the same procedure.)
When I was much older, watching the evening news on TV, there might be scenes of some protest rally. It was Vietnam War time. Some women might have young children with them. Mum would say, “How awful, indoctrinating kiddies who aren’t old enough to understand.” Hello?
Then came adolescence. As if it weren’t enough to cope with being a closet queen, every time I had a wank I was condemned straight to Hell, mortal sin blotted my soul from the sight of God and if the bus was on target I was doomed for all eternity. Quick, get to confession – and start all over again. What a way to grow up. Nowadays we would call it child abuse, not self-abuse.
Despite this, I was a devout Catholic into my early 20s, thoroughly believing my God was the true God. It was as my homosexual urges grew stronger and mild experiments with girls were getting me nowhere, that I began to see there was no place for me in the church. But I still believed I was the one at fault. Gradually as I moved out of home and spent more time in gay bars, I stopped going to church and didn’t feel too bad about it.
By the time I got to England, aged 25, I was happily agnostic and religion had dropped out of my life – perhaps by a process of reverse osmosis.
Then one wonderful night I watched a debate on BBC TV on the existence of God. The opponents were Oxford philosopher Prof. A. J. (later Sir Albert) Ayer and a Jesuit bishop. The bishop kept starting with, “Let’s just suppose there is a God”. “No,” Ayer would reply, “you must prove to me that there is a God. I am under no obligation to prove otherwise.” Indeed, as we know, it is impossible to prove the non-existence of something. He wiped the floor with the bishop and I had my Road to Damascus moment – yet again in reverse, I guess.
This cathartic moment cleared all doubts from my mind. I became quite comfortable with my sexuality and my lack of religion and began to build some self-respect and personal confidence. I realised the world didn’t need a creator, no more that the creator needed a creator of his/her own. The years of Catholic guilt fell away like that snakeskin.
LESSON ONE.
FOR today’s lesson I’d like to address the concept of the Sin of Arrogance…
Science tells us that there are more stars in the Universe than there are grains of sand on all the beaches of the world (or grains in the Sahara, if you prefer). Even the Vatican accepts this truth. Note, I said stars, not planets. The Sun is our star. In this analogy the Solar System is less than one grain of sand. The Earth, its third planet, is infinitesimal in size compared to the Sun.
The highest life form on Earth, we may assume, is Man (oops, Humankind – is that better?). Yet there are educated, otherwise intelligent grown-ups who sincerely believe that they have been created in God’s image (Arrogance alert) and that this Old Grey Guy in the Sky (OK, OK…) listens to the prayers and supplications of one individual and can answer and direct him/her to a better life.
Hey, this is one human being out of several billion, on this infinitesimal planet in a Solar System that is less than a grain of sand in the scheme of things. If this isn’t arrogance, what is? (For less intelligent beings this might understandably be sheer desperation, but I’m talking about the so-called brainy ones.)
LESSON TWO.
CHILDREN open your catechisms at Question One.
Q. 1 Who made the world?
A. 1 God made the world.
Q. 2 Who is God?
A. 2 God is the Supreme Being, omnipotent and omniscient, who always was and always will be – eternal in being and infinite in wisdom. (Hey, I made all that up, but it’s not bad is it?)
Now hang on here. The Christians and Jews can’t believe in a Universe that has always existed –in one form or another – but a Supreme Being, that’s OK? It’s OK for one thing to have always existed, but not the other?
I’m looking out the window at solid forms in the universe – birds, trees, etc – and I accept that they exist. But I see no evidence of the existence our friend the S.B. (Some would say I’m looking at His/Her handiwork, but that’s something else altogether). Bring on the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. I can’t tell how the birds and trees came into being, so for an answer I turn to Science. The wonderful thing about scientists is that they never say, “This is a fact, this is true, this is what happened.” They come up with a theory, they test it, then they say, “We think this is the situation so far.” Think of Galileo, think of Newton, think of Einstein. Each of these geniuses took his field of science to a higher level, but scientists know there’s more where that came from, folks, and little-by-little we’re getting a clearer and better picture. Surely that’s Humility, not Arrogance. (Cue irony button here.)
ENOUGH of my preaching awready (yes, I’m confining my remarks to the Judeo/Christian faith, I don’t know much of the others).
To return to the personal, I don’t have to prove there is no God – you can’t prove a negative, reasoning teaches us. But I firmly believe there’s no God, no Heaven, no Hell, no afterlife. It’s up to someone else to prove otherwise to me.
(Digression here: religious friends talk of an afterlife in Heaven and most assume we’ll all meet up there. But if there’s a Heaven, there must be a Hell. If not, Hitler’s in Heaven, along with Mussolini, Stalin, your ex-husband and that guy in menswear who diddled my doodle when I was 13 years old – God (sic) forbid!)
So is it more arrogance to assume you’re on your way to Heaven? Will you arrive there Alzheimitic and crippled, as on the day you died, or mewling and puking at a much earlier age, or a little later, covered in pimples?
So are my convictions set in stone, like those of many I criticise? Do I have a closed mind? Absolutely not. Whilst I cannot respect the blind faith of others, I accept it. If you tell me you can’t do work on a Saturday, can’t eat certain unclean foods, or firmly believe that if you consume a wafer of bread and a glass of wine you are consuming the body and blood of Christ (touch of cannibalism there?) because of your religion, I think you are crazy, or at the best misinformed. Nevertheless, I am totally open to someone, some day, somewhere convincing me that God exists. Then I’ll believe.
But here’s what I call the Catholic Catch-22. Belief in a God, as I understand, requires an act of faith not dependant on concrete evidence – i.e., blind faith. If someone convinces me, I’ll have evidence which negates blind faith, destroying the very thing necessary for my belief in the first place.
I need a drink. You need a drink.
CODA: Just twenty years ago, the Berlin Wall came down – a thrilling event. A few weeks later, David Barenboim and the Berlin Philharmonic played a free concert to celebrate its fall, specifically for the East Berliners who had never heard their orchestra live, if at all. They played Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, which just happens to be my favourite piece of classical music. I heard a recording of this performance recently on ABC Classic FM. I have two recordings of it already, but listening to this performance, I could feel excitement and enthusiasm coming out of my speakers. When they got to the final movement it felt as if Barenboim had said, “Right, fellers, every man for himself and I’ll meet you at the end.” I was almost in tears, sitting alone in my room, as Sally Bowles said.
And my point is? I do believe in the spirit – I see it in a garden of flowers, I see it in a great work of art, I hear it when Ella sings “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye”. I can be moved to tears, I can find myself lost in the universe. I can’t explain it and nor, so far, can science. Maybe they will one day – the brain is the great unexplored inner space – maybe they won’t. But it doesn’t need a God.
Here endeth the lesson.
It took a long time to slough off my Catholicism, as a snake does its old, unwanted skin, and I’m not about to slide it back on again.
From a personal perspective, I, like my fellow generation of 50s/60s Catholic kids, was indoctrinated from birth in my faith. In my cot, before I could talk, I’d been taught how to make the sign of the cross. (I know this because I watched my younger siblings get taken through the same procedure.)
When I was much older, watching the evening news on TV, there might be scenes of some protest rally. It was Vietnam War time. Some women might have young children with them. Mum would say, “How awful, indoctrinating kiddies who aren’t old enough to understand.” Hello?
Then came adolescence. As if it weren’t enough to cope with being a closet queen, every time I had a wank I was condemned straight to Hell, mortal sin blotted my soul from the sight of God and if the bus was on target I was doomed for all eternity. Quick, get to confession – and start all over again. What a way to grow up. Nowadays we would call it child abuse, not self-abuse.
Despite this, I was a devout Catholic into my early 20s, thoroughly believing my God was the true God. It was as my homosexual urges grew stronger and mild experiments with girls were getting me nowhere, that I began to see there was no place for me in the church. But I still believed I was the one at fault. Gradually as I moved out of home and spent more time in gay bars, I stopped going to church and didn’t feel too bad about it.
By the time I got to England, aged 25, I was happily agnostic and religion had dropped out of my life – perhaps by a process of reverse osmosis.
Then one wonderful night I watched a debate on BBC TV on the existence of God. The opponents were Oxford philosopher Prof. A. J. (later Sir Albert) Ayer and a Jesuit bishop. The bishop kept starting with, “Let’s just suppose there is a God”. “No,” Ayer would reply, “you must prove to me that there is a God. I am under no obligation to prove otherwise.” Indeed, as we know, it is impossible to prove the non-existence of something. He wiped the floor with the bishop and I had my Road to Damascus moment – yet again in reverse, I guess.
This cathartic moment cleared all doubts from my mind. I became quite comfortable with my sexuality and my lack of religion and began to build some self-respect and personal confidence. I realised the world didn’t need a creator, no more that the creator needed a creator of his/her own. The years of Catholic guilt fell away like that snakeskin.
LESSON ONE.
FOR today’s lesson I’d like to address the concept of the Sin of Arrogance…
Science tells us that there are more stars in the Universe than there are grains of sand on all the beaches of the world (or grains in the Sahara, if you prefer). Even the Vatican accepts this truth. Note, I said stars, not planets. The Sun is our star. In this analogy the Solar System is less than one grain of sand. The Earth, its third planet, is infinitesimal in size compared to the Sun.
The highest life form on Earth, we may assume, is Man (oops, Humankind – is that better?). Yet there are educated, otherwise intelligent grown-ups who sincerely believe that they have been created in God’s image (Arrogance alert) and that this Old Grey Guy in the Sky (OK, OK…) listens to the prayers and supplications of one individual and can answer and direct him/her to a better life.
Hey, this is one human being out of several billion, on this infinitesimal planet in a Solar System that is less than a grain of sand in the scheme of things. If this isn’t arrogance, what is? (For less intelligent beings this might understandably be sheer desperation, but I’m talking about the so-called brainy ones.)
LESSON TWO.
CHILDREN open your catechisms at Question One.
Q. 1 Who made the world?
A. 1 God made the world.
Q. 2 Who is God?
A. 2 God is the Supreme Being, omnipotent and omniscient, who always was and always will be – eternal in being and infinite in wisdom. (Hey, I made all that up, but it’s not bad is it?)
Now hang on here. The Christians and Jews can’t believe in a Universe that has always existed –in one form or another – but a Supreme Being, that’s OK? It’s OK for one thing to have always existed, but not the other?
I’m looking out the window at solid forms in the universe – birds, trees, etc – and I accept that they exist. But I see no evidence of the existence our friend the S.B. (Some would say I’m looking at His/Her handiwork, but that’s something else altogether). Bring on the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. I can’t tell how the birds and trees came into being, so for an answer I turn to Science. The wonderful thing about scientists is that they never say, “This is a fact, this is true, this is what happened.” They come up with a theory, they test it, then they say, “We think this is the situation so far.” Think of Galileo, think of Newton, think of Einstein. Each of these geniuses took his field of science to a higher level, but scientists know there’s more where that came from, folks, and little-by-little we’re getting a clearer and better picture. Surely that’s Humility, not Arrogance. (Cue irony button here.)
ENOUGH of my preaching awready (yes, I’m confining my remarks to the Judeo/Christian faith, I don’t know much of the others).
To return to the personal, I don’t have to prove there is no God – you can’t prove a negative, reasoning teaches us. But I firmly believe there’s no God, no Heaven, no Hell, no afterlife. It’s up to someone else to prove otherwise to me.
(Digression here: religious friends talk of an afterlife in Heaven and most assume we’ll all meet up there. But if there’s a Heaven, there must be a Hell. If not, Hitler’s in Heaven, along with Mussolini, Stalin, your ex-husband and that guy in menswear who diddled my doodle when I was 13 years old – God (sic) forbid!)
So is it more arrogance to assume you’re on your way to Heaven? Will you arrive there Alzheimitic and crippled, as on the day you died, or mewling and puking at a much earlier age, or a little later, covered in pimples?
So are my convictions set in stone, like those of many I criticise? Do I have a closed mind? Absolutely not. Whilst I cannot respect the blind faith of others, I accept it. If you tell me you can’t do work on a Saturday, can’t eat certain unclean foods, or firmly believe that if you consume a wafer of bread and a glass of wine you are consuming the body and blood of Christ (touch of cannibalism there?) because of your religion, I think you are crazy, or at the best misinformed. Nevertheless, I am totally open to someone, some day, somewhere convincing me that God exists. Then I’ll believe.
But here’s what I call the Catholic Catch-22. Belief in a God, as I understand, requires an act of faith not dependant on concrete evidence – i.e., blind faith. If someone convinces me, I’ll have evidence which negates blind faith, destroying the very thing necessary for my belief in the first place.
I need a drink. You need a drink.
CODA: Just twenty years ago, the Berlin Wall came down – a thrilling event. A few weeks later, David Barenboim and the Berlin Philharmonic played a free concert to celebrate its fall, specifically for the East Berliners who had never heard their orchestra live, if at all. They played Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, which just happens to be my favourite piece of classical music. I heard a recording of this performance recently on ABC Classic FM. I have two recordings of it already, but listening to this performance, I could feel excitement and enthusiasm coming out of my speakers. When they got to the final movement it felt as if Barenboim had said, “Right, fellers, every man for himself and I’ll meet you at the end.” I was almost in tears, sitting alone in my room, as Sally Bowles said.
And my point is? I do believe in the spirit – I see it in a garden of flowers, I see it in a great work of art, I hear it when Ella sings “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye”. I can be moved to tears, I can find myself lost in the universe. I can’t explain it and nor, so far, can science. Maybe they will one day – the brain is the great unexplored inner space – maybe they won’t. But it doesn’t need a God.
Here endeth the lesson.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
JURY DUTY
Early in 2006 I received a letter summonsing me for jury duty. As I was unemployed I had no excuse to avoid it. What’s more, it pays reasonably well if you’re out of work. I reported to the Downing Centre District Court on the appointed morning and found myself waiting with over a hundred other prospective jurors. As names were called, some submitted reasons for being exempted, sometimes successfully, sometimes not.
Finally about twenty of us were led into a courtroom and seated in the visitors’ chairs. The judge, a dear old duck, the Crown Prosecutor and two barristers (one for each of the accused) were present, but not the accused. The prosecutor explained the facts of the case in some detail. The case involved two brothers and was in effect, two parallel trials as they were each charged with the same offence – hence the two barristers. We were read a list of names of people who might or might not be called as witnesses and told that if we knew any of these people we could be excused. This was not an escape from duty, as you merely returned to the main pool and would be selected for some other trial.
Finally we entered the jury box and in turn stood up. The barristers could reject up to three potential jurors each, merely by looking us over. This they did, until we were reduced to twelve in number, including myself. We never spoke a word in court, except for the foreman who delivered the verdict. We remained totally anonymous.
I found myself empanelled with eleven others on a case of intent to murder. Two brothers in their early twenties were accused of luring a friend into the bush south of Sydney (supposedly to harvest some cannabis) where they shot him in the back of the head and cut his throat. Strangely, he lived! The .22 bullet didn't even pierce his skull. The motive was revenge, as the victim had broken into the brothers' house and stolen money and pot.
Day One is spooky when twelve of you sit down in the jury room, never having met before. First you have to choose a foreman. We introduced ourselves by first name and Paul offered to be foreman. No one else wanted to do it, and he turned out to be an excellent choice. Amazing how we all got along - 7 men, 5 women, me the oldest, then ranging all the way down to a bright young 19 or 20 year old lad named Rhys. We didn't have any smart arse or show off and all maintained our sense of humour right to the end. Thank God, as it went on for seven weeks (minus Easter, Anzac Day and a few hitches caused by legal matters).
The accused were very handsome in a second-row scrum sort of way - boxing, footy, weights, etc - but we got an eyeful into their background. They were from housing commission (that is, Government provided) families from around Beverley Hills, a suburb in Sydney’s south, and my first experience of second generation druggies - all the parents were divorced, remarried or having children all over the place and no doubt sharing a joint or five - very sad.
Each day started at ten o’clock. Sometimes we had to leave the courtroom whilst the heavies discussed some legal point. Our court clerk was a most pleasant man. He would lead us in and out like schoolkids and deliver our notes to the judge when we raised some question. Before we entered the court from our own special corridor (we were always last to enter, first to leave) he would rap three times on the door. Later in the trial he handed this duty over to a very excited Rhys.
Lunch time was an hour. At first we got sandwiches, fruit and soft drinks, as the trial went into week three we graduated to a hot meal (and the daily allowance went up). We could get out at lunch time and I was grateful for this – otherwise it was somewhat claustrophobic. I would take my crossword to the Crown Hotel and have one glass of white wine. One afternoon Louise, a twenty-something juror with hopes of becoming a policewoman announced that she was sure the fat barrister was a drinker as she had a very sensitive nose for alcohol and regularly smelt it after lunch. I bought some breath mints.
As the trial dragged on, witness after witness, including the victim, was taken through the same story, over and over again until we knew it backwards. Two stories actually: the crown’s allegations and the accused boys’ alibi. Some professional experts and police were called.
The funniest witness of all was a teenage boy from New Zealand, a mate of the accused. When he was dismissed from the stand he thanked the Judge, shook hands with the startled Crown Prosecutor (a female), gave a thumbs-up to the barristers and profusely thanked the jury. We all held our breath until he had left the court and then the whole place went into uproar, judge and all.
The accused brothers sat silently in the dock each day, wearing suits and ties that they had obviously never worn before in their lives. They were never called to the stand and never spoke, though we did hear one of them on a police video on the day of arrest. At least one of their parents was there every day – we knew, because they looked like peas in a pod, even the Mum and Dad. (Incest? – it’s possible.)
One obviously under-age girl, a one-time girlfriend of one brother, gave evidence via a live video link-up. It was abruptly terminated when she told us we could all “fuck off”. Of course in the court you get actual, uncensored transcripts and it’s odd at first to hear the very pretty female prosecutor reading the “c-word” so matter-of-factly.
Oh, I almost forgot. On the first morning of the trial I could feel that this prosecutor was staring intently at me. I put it down to imagination, but she continued each day. It was a “Do you really think you should be here?” look. But in about the second week young Louise remarked, “That prosecutor spends half her time staring at you”, so it wasn’t just me. Magnetic charm? We’ll never know.
With the evidence over, we deliberated for two days and were by no means in agreement at the start. The two South Africans, the Bangladeshi woman and the New Guinea housewife (all Australian citizens, of course,) were all for guilty straight off, but we Anglos held out for quite a while. (The accused and witnesses were all Anglo, with some New Zealanders thrown in.) The trouble was that there was absolutely no collaborative evidence - no weapons, fingerprints, DNA, gunpowder residue, etc - and some pretty sloppy police work. But some rather dodgy alibis. It boiled down to one word against another –which story did we think more likely? Well, finally, I was the only one holding out, until the Bangladeshi woman beside me (we always sat in the same seats) reminded me, “Hugh, you only need reasonable grounds, not one hundred percent.” So we all agreed finally on guilty of intent to murder for both of them, and I'm convinced that was right. We probably won't know the sentence, which is handed down at a later date. Her Honour dismissed us after telling us that the barristers and herself agreed we had been most conscientious and that they were impressed with the way we had responded to the job. Some jurors had made copious notes. I just sat and listened. But it was quite stressful, and I took it very seriously, as did we all.
But at $100 or so a day, free hot lunch and travel allowance, it's just the ticket for the unemployed. (We could get out at lunchtime and went home each night - promising not to talk about the case to anyone, of course). And we can't be called for duty again for three years. The twelve of us left the court and went our separate ways and haven’t seen each other since. I’m extremely proud of having done my civic duty and put great faith in our jury system.
PS: I have a friend who is a judge and via him was able to discover that Her Honour had sent both the boys up the river for eight years. I feel that vindicated our verdict.
Finally about twenty of us were led into a courtroom and seated in the visitors’ chairs. The judge, a dear old duck, the Crown Prosecutor and two barristers (one for each of the accused) were present, but not the accused. The prosecutor explained the facts of the case in some detail. The case involved two brothers and was in effect, two parallel trials as they were each charged with the same offence – hence the two barristers. We were read a list of names of people who might or might not be called as witnesses and told that if we knew any of these people we could be excused. This was not an escape from duty, as you merely returned to the main pool and would be selected for some other trial.
Finally we entered the jury box and in turn stood up. The barristers could reject up to three potential jurors each, merely by looking us over. This they did, until we were reduced to twelve in number, including myself. We never spoke a word in court, except for the foreman who delivered the verdict. We remained totally anonymous.
I found myself empanelled with eleven others on a case of intent to murder. Two brothers in their early twenties were accused of luring a friend into the bush south of Sydney (supposedly to harvest some cannabis) where they shot him in the back of the head and cut his throat. Strangely, he lived! The .22 bullet didn't even pierce his skull. The motive was revenge, as the victim had broken into the brothers' house and stolen money and pot.
Day One is spooky when twelve of you sit down in the jury room, never having met before. First you have to choose a foreman. We introduced ourselves by first name and Paul offered to be foreman. No one else wanted to do it, and he turned out to be an excellent choice. Amazing how we all got along - 7 men, 5 women, me the oldest, then ranging all the way down to a bright young 19 or 20 year old lad named Rhys. We didn't have any smart arse or show off and all maintained our sense of humour right to the end. Thank God, as it went on for seven weeks (minus Easter, Anzac Day and a few hitches caused by legal matters).
The accused were very handsome in a second-row scrum sort of way - boxing, footy, weights, etc - but we got an eyeful into their background. They were from housing commission (that is, Government provided) families from around Beverley Hills, a suburb in Sydney’s south, and my first experience of second generation druggies - all the parents were divorced, remarried or having children all over the place and no doubt sharing a joint or five - very sad.
Each day started at ten o’clock. Sometimes we had to leave the courtroom whilst the heavies discussed some legal point. Our court clerk was a most pleasant man. He would lead us in and out like schoolkids and deliver our notes to the judge when we raised some question. Before we entered the court from our own special corridor (we were always last to enter, first to leave) he would rap three times on the door. Later in the trial he handed this duty over to a very excited Rhys.
Lunch time was an hour. At first we got sandwiches, fruit and soft drinks, as the trial went into week three we graduated to a hot meal (and the daily allowance went up). We could get out at lunch time and I was grateful for this – otherwise it was somewhat claustrophobic. I would take my crossword to the Crown Hotel and have one glass of white wine. One afternoon Louise, a twenty-something juror with hopes of becoming a policewoman announced that she was sure the fat barrister was a drinker as she had a very sensitive nose for alcohol and regularly smelt it after lunch. I bought some breath mints.
As the trial dragged on, witness after witness, including the victim, was taken through the same story, over and over again until we knew it backwards. Two stories actually: the crown’s allegations and the accused boys’ alibi. Some professional experts and police were called.
The funniest witness of all was a teenage boy from New Zealand, a mate of the accused. When he was dismissed from the stand he thanked the Judge, shook hands with the startled Crown Prosecutor (a female), gave a thumbs-up to the barristers and profusely thanked the jury. We all held our breath until he had left the court and then the whole place went into uproar, judge and all.
The accused brothers sat silently in the dock each day, wearing suits and ties that they had obviously never worn before in their lives. They were never called to the stand and never spoke, though we did hear one of them on a police video on the day of arrest. At least one of their parents was there every day – we knew, because they looked like peas in a pod, even the Mum and Dad. (Incest? – it’s possible.)
One obviously under-age girl, a one-time girlfriend of one brother, gave evidence via a live video link-up. It was abruptly terminated when she told us we could all “fuck off”. Of course in the court you get actual, uncensored transcripts and it’s odd at first to hear the very pretty female prosecutor reading the “c-word” so matter-of-factly.
Oh, I almost forgot. On the first morning of the trial I could feel that this prosecutor was staring intently at me. I put it down to imagination, but she continued each day. It was a “Do you really think you should be here?” look. But in about the second week young Louise remarked, “That prosecutor spends half her time staring at you”, so it wasn’t just me. Magnetic charm? We’ll never know.
With the evidence over, we deliberated for two days and were by no means in agreement at the start. The two South Africans, the Bangladeshi woman and the New Guinea housewife (all Australian citizens, of course,) were all for guilty straight off, but we Anglos held out for quite a while. (The accused and witnesses were all Anglo, with some New Zealanders thrown in.) The trouble was that there was absolutely no collaborative evidence - no weapons, fingerprints, DNA, gunpowder residue, etc - and some pretty sloppy police work. But some rather dodgy alibis. It boiled down to one word against another –which story did we think more likely? Well, finally, I was the only one holding out, until the Bangladeshi woman beside me (we always sat in the same seats) reminded me, “Hugh, you only need reasonable grounds, not one hundred percent.” So we all agreed finally on guilty of intent to murder for both of them, and I'm convinced that was right. We probably won't know the sentence, which is handed down at a later date. Her Honour dismissed us after telling us that the barristers and herself agreed we had been most conscientious and that they were impressed with the way we had responded to the job. Some jurors had made copious notes. I just sat and listened. But it was quite stressful, and I took it very seriously, as did we all.
But at $100 or so a day, free hot lunch and travel allowance, it's just the ticket for the unemployed. (We could get out at lunchtime and went home each night - promising not to talk about the case to anyone, of course). And we can't be called for duty again for three years. The twelve of us left the court and went our separate ways and haven’t seen each other since. I’m extremely proud of having done my civic duty and put great faith in our jury system.
PS: I have a friend who is a judge and via him was able to discover that Her Honour had sent both the boys up the river for eight years. I feel that vindicated our verdict.
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