Initially I thought I may attempt a poem to parallel the Passenger song ‘I Hate’, one of my favourite ditties from the hit album ‘All The Little Lights’. I am addicted to music – always have been – always will be. In my very early years I was listening to country and western on my father’s old 78s; in my teens the addiction was vinyl and now, of course, it’s CDs – they being where I draw the line in the sand. I haven’t gone beyond and I will not until that format dies a death. Hopefully they’ll outlast me. Many music tragics my age are stuck in the past – hanging on to the geriatric heroes from when they were also in their pomp – and there’s nothing wrong with that. I do a bit of it as well. My wonderful BTD – Beautiful Talented Daughter – ensures that I am kept up to date. But when my mates state something like, ‘Modern music is all crap.’ – thanks to her, I can roll out a list of names from her generation that are the bee’s knees – Josh Ritter, Megan Washington, Dan Sultan, Eskimo Joe, the Panics, Busby Marou, Sarah Blasko, Lanie Lane – and on and on I could go, but you get the idea. And no, I am not trying to be hip. You couldn’t get further away from a hipster than this old codger – I just like them. I wouldn’t waste my hard earned on something just to big note! And, as with BTD, I am also addicted to lists. Each year – sort of like the J’s OzDay musiclistfest – I compile a rank order of my favourite albums of the past twelve months. It’s too early for 2013’s – I can’t tell you how much I am looking forward to ruminating over that – but if you’re interested in 2012’s, please click on
http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2012/12/the-blue-rooms-top-albums-2012.html

But I digress – back to Mr Passenger – yes, it’s a person, not a group – a la Pink, Cat Power, Sting etc. His collection is terrific and surely will be a candidate for the above. There are many singalongworthy tracks – but it is the ‘afterthought’ of the album that really struck a chord (pun intended). On it he musically riffs about racism, drugs, Facebook, fussy eaters, festival toilets, X-Factor and the evils of fashion magazines. Take a peek at the YouTube and hear for yourself

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kh2XKDj_eD0

But then I thought, ‘Nah! Life’s pretty good for this old bloke at the moment. I want to focus on the positive; be glass half full – not the reverse.’ So with apologies to Jane – the muse and inspiration for the band named in her honour – see, that’s the music coming out in me – here are my Top 10 addictions. It is taken as given that my DLP (Darling Loving Partner), BTD, a wonderful son and my wondrous granddaughter float way above this list, as do other family members and my mates. And, as always, feel free to throw your addictions back at me.

1. Music – I’ve rabbited on enough on that topic. See above.

2. The Superior Gender – Women. Again I have said enough on that score in other places on my blog. Here is just one take on that
http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2013/07/women-with-allure.html

And my world receives such a fillip when a beautiful lady – and ninety-nine percent of all women are beautiful – gives me an eye-smile. What’s an eye-smile?
http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2012/11/the-girl-in-jbs.html

3. West Wing – Most are aware that my prime television addiction is ‘Mad Men’
http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2013/01/mad-manlove.html

However, after watching the luscious Sidse Babett Knudsen do her ice cool schtick as a Danish equivalent to Julia in ‘Borgen’, I decided to check out the first season of the above when I spied it on special in JBs. Evidently the Scandipol drama is heavily influenced by its US predecessor. And of course, now I am hooked. There are seven, yes seven, series of it to get through, but I am in for the long haul. I know it is hokey in parts. Yes, I know it disses out lamentably on every other country in the world that does not share the Yanks’ high moral ground as the ‘good guys’ and yes, tanks could be driven through some of the holes in its plot-lines. This political junkie finds it engrossing and is rivetted. I am looking forward to seeing if ‘House of Cards’ has the same effect. At the present time the first season of ‘Homeland’ is the DVD DLP and I are working our way through. It’s not bad – anything with Mandy Patikin in it must have legs – but some of it seems to me to be stretching the bounds of belief somewhat – surely he/she/they could see what would happen if they did that? And happen it does!

4. Football – specifically Aussie Rules – more specifically, the Hawthorn Football Club. You know, I actually look forward to this time of year now footy is off our television screens as now I can do other stuff on Friday and Saturday eves. And Yay! Yay! The brown and gold are premiers for 2013, just in case you didn’t know. A decade or so ago test cricket would have had this spot, but I am dark on cricket at the moment – and not just because lady luck has gone dark on our test team either. Here is another list – a very AFL unbiased one!
http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2013/03/a-blue-room-list-our-top-ten-favourite.html

5. Taking Baths – I am in the firm belief that the rise in stress levels in the Western world is down to two factors – on-lineism (don’t get me started) and our penchant for taking showers. Or, I should say – your penchant, for I don’t if can possibly help it. Me? Each morning I am a like a big grampus wallowing in my warm, manly fragranced bath for at least half an hour! There’s no spending the inordinate amount of time finely tuning the balance between hot and cold before placing my shivering body under a feeble spittle of moisture emanating from a shower head for me. There’s no sissy squealing from me if someone else turns on a tap in one’s abode. No, I am perfectly languorous in my steaming blanket of soapy water – perfectly at ease with the world. There are no frantic gyrations for me to ensure as much of my anatomy as possible has a warm jet of liquid aimed at it – it simply is. And, of course one can ruminate in the tub. It’s where I do my best thinking – some would say my only thinking. It is the location where my blogs are germinated, including this one; in another life, where my lessons were planned. Ban showers, I say; the world would be a calmer, more serene place. Politicians wouldn’t yell at each other, road ragers would cease to rage and the bottom would drop out of the coffee market. Copious caffeine to get one through the day would not be required!

6. Bill – There are some actors who, with their manner and mannerisms, tics, even – in some cases – their gormlessness – I could sit, transfixed, through any old dross as long as they were on screen. Several examples come to mind – Hugh Grant in anything he gets to play Hugh Grant; Daniel Auteuil in anything; John Hamm in ‘Mad Men’; David Duchovny in ‘Californication’; Richard Roxburgh in ‘Rake’; David Wenham when in Sea Change persona. Towering over them all, though, is Bill. I first became infatuated with Mr Nighy back in 1991 when he played an amoral university academic in the BBC adaptation of Anne Oakey’s ‘The Men’s Room’. It was a fine series from a fine source. Then he seemed to disappear off the radar for a while. He returned with a shambolic turn – in the best sense of the word – as a member of the reforming band in ‘Still Crazy’. Of course his star moment is and always will be, as Billy Mack in ‘Love Actually’. His taking the piss out of every dirgeful Christmas opus is a classic – be reminded, dear reader, be reminded!

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x8261_christmas-is-all-around_music

To my mind, he is masterful in such lesser known roles as ‘The Girl in the Cafe’, ‘Gideon’s Daughter’ – both made for television – and ‘Wild Target. I eschewed the ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ franchise forever after what they did to poor Bill’s lovely face in the second instalment.

7. The State Cinema, Brunswick Hotel, Fullers Book Shop – aka my favourite Hobart watering holes. They obviously provide me with more than just flat whites, ales and ciders. In the former I can slake my desire for quality art house productions; in the second my desire for quality craft beer and in the latter, for quality literature. And the staff at each venue are noted for their eye smiles.

8. Books – adore reading, adore indie bookshops, adore launches, adore reviewing them on this blog and yes, I adore working out my top reads for any given year. See last year’s for tomes (and films)
http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2012/12/the-blue-rooms-best-reads-and-movies.html

9. Beaches and Buffett – The two go hand in hand. My days of disporting myself on Mangoland, and other, beaches are now gone – but they are still marvellous for perambulating, camera in hand. Here’s one take
http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2013/04/the-white-bikini.html

BTD marrying her lovely man was one of the happiest days of my life. I gave my gorgeous Kate away to the parrothead lyrics of Jimmy. There can be no greater tribute to the man’s music.
http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2013/02/jimmy-and-josh-my-sunny-companions.html

10. Life – Yes, life is too blissful to waste time concentrating on one’s hates. I reckon my beloved DLP could list them well enough – starting with showers, ‘Minuscule’, SUVs in the city – and so on. But I won’t dwell. With she by my side, with her wonderful optimism, I am smiling with joy every day. Grandfathering makes it all magic too. My Poppet is only very small at the moment, as is the other mite who has come into our lives – LFM (Little Ford Man). I like to look at the small things – maybe even capture them with my camera, for in those small things great beauty and wonder exist. It’s all too marvellous for downers. There’s stuff I’ve missed. – photography, art exhibitions, Mangoland, mangoes, cooking, whiskey, and so on – maybe there’ll be a Steve’s Addictions Part 2!All in all, I am a lucky old bugger.

Just fragments. There are only a few fragments of memory that I have of him all these years on. It was so long ago. – back when I was the age of Craig, Harry, Avery, Ryan, Peter, Neil and Cooper. These were the leads in Levithan’s offering, ‘Two Boys Kissing’. I’ll call the character in my tale George – just in case I am wrong. I don’t think I am – and in any case there is no right or wrong in all this, despite the homophobic neolith we now have running this country.

George was a friend I kept in a separate box. He was a ‘me’ friend – someone to be with away from my matey mates – the guys I mucked around with most of the time. The ones I went to the footy with, played tennis with and later, shared a university hall of residence with.

I have no recall of how George an I came to be pals – it is lost in the ether of time. Did he attend the high school on the hill where I completed Years 9 and 10, or the secondary institution by the sea through my two matriculation years? He had a surfie hair cut – although I cannot remember him being one of the set that lived on West Beach during the summer months. He may have been there, waxing down his surfboard and ‘hangin’ ten’. He had an eagle’s beak of a nose, was thin and scrawy with acne but, nonetheless, was strangely handsome. There was a sheen to him – his skin seemed softer, shinier than that of the bronzed/ruddy lads who were my ‘other’ cobbers. All this seemed to set him apart and made him somewhat attractive to me – no, I don’t mean in that sense. Whilst my friendship with him was happening, I was also discovering the wonders of the opposite gender. He lived down the hill from me, in a small house in the same street as the fire station. I remember his father – he seemed to me to be unusually old – of George’s stature, but bald. I have no recollection of a mother.

He told me he was gay – at least I think he did. I laughed it off – thought he was just joking around. It may have been a big thing for him to admit that to me, but I immediately changed the subject. I am sorry I did that – even now. I had no experience of what he was trying to tell me. In my world there was nothing of boys liking boys. ‘Faggots’ – disgusting term, but that was their collective noun in the parlance of the times – just did not exist for my other mates and I. I just assumed, with hormones exploding through our capillaries at that time, that sex, when it came time to attain it, would be between myself and a girl.

My ‘usual’ friends and I went to university down south, spreading ourselves through the dorms of the three men’s colleges. I can’t remember if George actually went to the university as well – he may have done for a while, then dropped out. He shared a house with two older guys and I was invited to come to stay for a while during a uni vac, The house smelt odd – not unpleasantly so – a bit like a curry, I seem to recall. Perhaps that is what it was – as curries, apart from those made with Keen’s, were alien to me then. I remember George and one of the older residents of the abode – a very dapper, well groomed guy – being intimate in some minor way or other, that again, the exact nature of which has been deleted from my synapses. It made me think back then that I should have been more ‘humane’ with his ‘coming out’ to me, if that is what it was. After that, I have no knowledge if our paths ever crossed again. Shame that. I would like the opportunity to apologise to him.

My daughter encouraged me to read this book. She said she shed tears at the end. I didn’t. That is unusual for she and I as we are generally symbiotic in that regard. It is a well written and beautifully structured tome – a given. After all, it is by Levithan! My beautiful daughter will possibly be shocked with what I am about to write from here on in. She does know me well enough to know I am a strong supporter of equal rights – especially the right for any person to be able to marry the one he/she loves. If my island’s Legislative Assembly hadn’t been so jelly-livered my state may have been the first in the country to grant what I regard to be long overdue. I have had wonderful gay friends and taught students who, if not gay, were very confused about their sexuality. I had always beseeched my classes to have tolerance of those who differ from the white bread heterosexual majority – easier said that done when so many of their parents were Deliverance style red-necks. Whereas sex between two women is the stuff of male fantasy; that between two men, I find, is something I’d rather not think about – although I support their right to have it – just not anywhere near where I can see it. Even if I espy men kissing on the tele, or on film, I have to look the other way. I know – it’s pathetic – but there you are. A publication based on the premise of two young men openly trying to break the world record for continuous kissing, of my own volition, is something I would not choose to read about – but I gave it a go. And, of course, the novel is about far more than just that. Sadly, because of their sexual persuasion, I found it difficult to care about the aforementioned characters as much as I knew I should; as my talented offspring obviously did – and I love her for that.

That being said, I am sad that I cannot imagine the school I taught in for twenty years prior to retirement would have tolerated being the venue for such an attempt to change the record books – despite working under some very broad-minded, but nonetheless community conscious, principals. I supported the right of two openly gay women to have a relationship and continuing to work in that school. I like to think that would have been no different had they been men.

No,’Two Boys Kissing’ is a fine book and should be in every high school library. Levithan is to be commended for tackling the subject of boys in love with each other, even if in saying that, it indicates that in many schools relationships of that hue are still not regarded as mainstream – as they so should be. That it is ‘not my cup of tea’ should not diminish the novel’s worth.

David Levithan’s web-site = http://www.davidlevithan.com/

Sunshine. No matter how many times, that’s a given. So many sunshiny days. You know the overworked adage – ‘perfect one day, even better the next.’ Day after day of clear blue skies, temperatures hovering around the thirty degree mark. Sure, the old man’s planned Coolangatta trek to photograph the surfers at Snapper Rocks was a wash out, but that was only one day out of seventeen. The next day, at Mount Tambourine, he encountered hailstones as big as Tom Thumb marbles pinging down – but the sudden deluge was short lived before the heavens returned to default position. ‘And that hail – that’s nothing,’ the locals informed. ‘You should be here when Old Hughie really turns it on – then the hailstones are as big as cannonballs!’ It thundered a few times before the Mexican was due to return home, as if to acclimatise him to what was waiting for him back on his southern island. Apart from that, it was all as per the adage – has always been through his dozen or so times of exercising ‘a little further north each year.’ Few are the times he has made it closer to the Equator than the south-eastern coastal rim though. It’d be great to think he had a dozen or more visits left in him. He adores his riverside home on the island, but walking along a Mangoland beach, sans footwear, is where he feels the most free in the world. He potters along in shallowest of shallows, with the azure Pacific on one side, golden strand on the other. He’s never in a hurry, keeping a weather eye out for a shapely figure in a bikini to remind him of youthful times, of what once was. The best bit – he knows he can do it all over again the next day, for as many days he has left. Yes the sunshine – forever the sunshine of his Mangoland days.

And then there’s the bliss the old man feels in travelling north with his DLP. There’s the joy he feels seeing his Darling Loving Partner reconnect with her oldest mate, his and her hostess for the first week under Queensland skies. The devoted friends were up early each morning to a pool to commune with the glory that is the promise of a new day, to go over old times and to catch up with what has happened to whom. Their swim rejuvenates them, makes them feel that life has still plenty to give and, as is expected from their mutual vocation, they both have plenty to give back. DLP and Neasy recalled that wondrous year they had criss-crossed this wide brown land of ours; of all the adventures they had; of all the connections they made. On completion, back then, it left both unsettled, reluctant to return to provincial mundanity; causing them both to strike out in new directions. They reflected on what had occurred as a result of the shifting of their lives – that despite all life had thrown at them in the meantime, they were still smiling and laughing – still keeping on keeping on these two feisty, resilient glass half full, magnificent women.

Neasy, raising three wonderful and unique children to engaging, fulfilling adulthoods; guiding them through the grief of the loss of a beloved father, giving comfort and shelter to the ageing tourist’s beloved DLP during her own dark times and then turning around and introducing a new brood of exotic young people to the promise of a new homeland. Neasy and DLP have always been there for each other. The unfettered regard they have for the other can remain dormant at times due to the tyranny of distance, but blooms anew as soon as the effort is made within an instant of being together again. Their bond only strengthens as the years march on.

Whilst his DLP and her great friend had their ‘girl time’, the old sun seeker was perfectly at ease in the small shelter of his hostess’ sun drenched, sub-tropical back yard. Here he marvelled to the alien birdsong; the flittering of brightly hued parrots in the foliage on their way to and from Currumbin feed times. He was a pure bliss-ball with a book to read, a newspaper to peruse or with journal on which to construct ponderings. Cavill Avenue had nothing on that outdoor table under cloudless skies.

Then the grey-haired photography tragic was taken to an esplanade by the local surf club where charming organising lasses were setting up the annual Swell Sculpture Festival. His camera shutter went into overdrive. He attempted to give some form of justice to the installations that was worthy of their creators’ talents. Maybe there will even be one or two images he’ll feel confident enough of their specialness to enlarge, tuck into an envelope and send to the various people he cares most about in the world.

The old fellow also enjoyed trips with a generous host to a Southport tucker market full of tempting foodstuffs, as well as a giddy drive up and down a tricky road to the Artists’ Walk. He also met new friends who hailed from and regaled him with the yarns of two continents over an Indian banquet. He delighted in the purchase of a pair of melon shorts for the ridiculous price of two dollars (reduced from seventy). He’d look nifty in them back home – ‘nifty’ being the best one can hope for when well into one’s sixties.

A rail trip on air took the doughty one and his DLP to the glamour of Brisvegas. As panoramas go, this brash northern capital produces only a smidgeon compared to the excess of the Emerald City to the south, or even his own little wonder under Wellington. Still, he was gobsmacked to receive an upgrade at the North Quay hostelry he had booked to a spacious unit with a river view on the seventeenth floor. From these spacious chambers he could look straight down the brown watery thoroughfare from on high towards the Story Bridge, marvelling at the river traffic, as well as skyscrapers piercing the skyline ever higher. He was especially entranced as night moved into day; as day faded into the dusk. Reacquaintance was made with haunts of past journeys; with a laser light and sound show, viewed from a crowded South Bank, promising to remain entrapped in the old man’s synapses for years to come. He visited the twin homes of art on that side of the river whilst his DLP found luck in the Treasury Building on the other. He discovered the cafe at the State Library was to his liking. There he enjoyed the passing parade and the pages of a newspaper as he supped on flat whites and partook of ice cream drenched banana bread. The river breezes ruffled his thinning hair and again he felt very, very content with life.

On a city cat the venerable Taswegian proceeded up river, towards the city’s iconic crossing, to sample Teutonic delights at the Bavarian Bier Haus. Next day there was breakfast fare in the faded charm of the Valley. His camera received another workout in the fecund surrounds of the Roma Street Parklands, after he had waved his adored travelling companion off on a return journey to the little abode by a southern river.

The old man loves his sister, now a long term Mangolander, sharing her years with a brother-in-law he respects immensely. He was looking forward to settling in with their company for the final days of his sojourn. He was not let down – they treated him royally, with him renewing his envy of the cruisiness of their existence in these northern climes. His sister’s hubby is a Vietnam vet, that being in part reason for the old man holding the ex-navy man in such esteem. As his own father had done, his brother-in-law had been prepared to put his life on the line for his country in a time of war. He was told that he was now known as ‘Seaweed’ around the traps, but the honoured guest preferred to stay true to the birth-name. Glen has always had a salty turn of phrase and that was well in evidence during the visit. When his scatter-gun approach to humour hit the mark, as it did on more that one occasion, the old man laughed and laughed. Both he and brother-in-law are addicted to newsprint, a coquettish shiraz or two and each a game involving an oval leather ball. The Hawthorn supporter of yore learnt to be a Rabbitoh all over again (see image of the old fellow attired in the accoutrements of said Bunnies) whilst they sipped on their respective nightcaps. Glen prefers the juice of the cane whilst the temporary resident of their home across from one of Maroochydore’s best beaches adores juice extracted from a Scottish peat bog. Sadly South Sydney could not replicate the mighty Hawks by making it into a grand final, despite the best urgings from the comfort of the La-Z-Boys.

Then came by far the best part of the journeyed Mexican’s time in the north. In all his dotage the man had not felt more humbled than with the news his sister entrusted to him. She told him a tale so new and wonderful that it made his old heart zing with the joyfulness of it all. For her a lingering question had been answered; a life circle had become whole in the best way imaginable. For him something forgotten had been re-remembered and he felt proud to be party to such a stirring revelation.

His beautiful sister also gave him another gift. On a sunny day she took him to Point Cartwright and as they stood high above the Pacific, the wait was not long. They soon espied it – the tell-tale spout of water. They watched in awe as two whales passed them by on their way south for the winter. The brother wondered if they would also put a call in to the Derwent en route. Seeing these once persecuted behemoths of the deep always leaves the ageing journeyman in awe – he’d been really blessed on this Sunshine Coast visit.

Shopping in Mangoland, for a man bypassed for decades by fashionable trends – apart from melon shorts – is somewhat tiresome, with its emphasis on bright, gaudy resort wear. Mount Tambourine along with, to a greater extent, Montville are exceptions and he always enjoys excursions into the hinterland to these villages that have reinvented themselves. The latter location, on the rim of the Blackall Ranges, rates in his mind with Yarra City’s Brunswick and Smith Streets for an eclectic retail experience. ‘Six Things’, a tiny shop almost hidden away on a humdrum Burleigh Heads strip was an exception to the rule down on the coast. With two delightful proprietors and a classy range of ephemera, the ageing vagabond was impressed. He could have happily purchased half the enchanting stock.

The wayfarer also indulged in some excellent dining, mostly produced by hosts rather than the Sunshine State’s eateries. Two minor taste sensations he came across are worthy of report in case others may be in that part of the world. There was the sensational range of tangly soft drinks, bearing the label ‘Cafe Earth’, hailing from Noosa. Equally tart and more-ish were the organic, hand-crafted, all-natural Ice Blocks made by a family concern from the Northern Rivers District of NSW. The lemon flavour was fulsome and laced with peel, but the coconut variety tempted his taste-buds the most. Utterly delicious at $3.50 a pop.

Matching the dazzle of the Mangoland warmth were the smiles of many sun-kissed maidens the old Taswegian encountered during his sojourn. There was the transit centre lovely in Brisbane with whom he discussed the pros and cons of youth versus age as he purchased his bus ticket for further north. There was the comely lass who served breakfast with a liberal dollop of gossip at a Fortitude Valle cafe. There was the loveliness of a bevy of beauties employed by the Park Regis, North Quay welcoming and assisting guests, including he and his DLP. By far, though, the most joyously beaming grin belonged to a young checkout girl for Maroochydore Plaza’s Target store. The curious one asked of her the reason for his glorious reception and she simply stated it was the sheer pleasure of being employed, meeting customers and having an aim in life – to accrue money for an European adventure. She was a superb example of what an asset we have in this country in our vibrant youth. She, as well as the other radiant examples he met in his travels, caused the traveller to feel half his age, to hum a happy tune and place a spring in his step. Such little instances for him reinforce his view that the world is mainly good, despite the outrages occurring in Syria and Kenya.

Looking over the words he has etched on paper, the ageing scribe, again comfy back in his sunny nook on a gorgeous Tasmanian spring day, is content. He has had a memorable holiday, his beloved Hawks have won the 2013 premiership and he has just received a visit from his precious, braveheart granddaughter whose smiles put even those of Queensland in the shade. Life is so good.

My DLP – Darling Loving Partner – and I adore a good chat show – the sparkle of ‘Chatty Man’ Alan Carr; the gently lisping, floppy haired Jonathan Ross and the wicked charm of Graeme Norton. These three are not to be missed, except when the latter went over to the dark side. Yes, to his horror and ours, his programme went commercial and was thus eviscerated with inane ads. As good and these guys are though, the icons of the genre still remain the big three of television past – Frost, James and Parky. These are the innovators, the doyens, the benchmarks by which all pretenders are measured. They are the masters.

The umpire gave David Frost out earlier this past week and he’s gone now to that great pavilion of darkness. It is too long ago for me to adequately do justice to him in his pomp, but I know I religiously watched the various incarnations of his television offerings. I know him best these days through the great re-enactment of his major coup in the mesmeric cinematic double-hander ‘Frost/Nixon’. This was his comeback, after his star had started to wane, when his expertise cajoled a President into admitting that he had betrayed the trust of a nation. There is much more that could be said, but Roy Bremner’s print obituary says it better than I ever could, as he tell yarns of the first of the golden three so glorious the reader aches for more; lamenting that a legend’s light firstly dimmed with age and then was snuffed out. ‘When asked if was nervous before the Nixon interviews, Frost did not seem to be able to comprehend the question.’

Parkinson has now retired from the crease, although he’ll play a valedictory innings for a special request, as when Adam Hills partnered him for a stand recently. This cricket tragic was always welcome in my lounge room, loving Australia as we loved him. We’re sad he is no longer a permanent fixture and we miss him dearly.

Looming above even these two, though, is Clive – in part due to the fact that he has/had such a number of strings to his bow. He was Renaissance Man to their being One Trick Ponies. Sadly his dotage has been ruined through ill-health and a scandal only marginally less debilitating than that afflicting Rolf. The Kid from Koongarah has been given out by the umpire and now only needs confirmation from the third referee that his innings is at an end. He knows there will be no reprieve. He’s dying before our eyes. He just wants the time to tie up the loose ends before he tucks his bat under his wing. We know that time will not be given.

If Frost and Parky dabbled in print – Clive James obliterates it. Poet, memoirist, critic and essayist – the wanderings of his mind know/knew no bounds. Why, he’s even translated Dante and improved on the inventor of Italian’s versifying.

It was remarkable television the timely interview that another more than adequate extractor of information had with him in the days after Frost’s departure. I’ve read it was a difficult programme to make – James requiring many breaks to intake the necessary forced air required to continue on gamely. Big Red, although probing, went gently with him and despite the wheezes, Clive James was at his voluble best. If you watched the eyes through Kerry O’Brien’s questions and his responses, they often said more than his lips did. He is afraid – he is very afraid of what is ahead of him – but, as he says, at least he has had warning.

I feel akin to James in two ways. Firstly I share his views on the opposite gender, on their exquisite beauty that he claims is the major evidence that there is a god. He has tried to live to the adage, as I do, that the pleasure has to be in the observing, never in the taking. With my wonderful DLP, for me that is easy to do, but with James, even being married to his intellectual match in Prue Shaw, it obviously has not been the case for him. His long standing affair with a former Eddelsten – Leanne – was outed in the most public and embarrassing of ways when some execrable tabloid television current affairs reporter – pun intended – entrapped him with the seemingly vacuous Leanne in tow. His illness was acutely apparent, but no sympathy was given to the great man in a cringe-worthy play for ratings. The result – his missus kicked him out. Now there has been something of a reconciliation, but still not an invite to move back home.

The second point of akinship is that he produced one of my favourite books – his ‘Unreliable Memoirs’. I had tears of mirth streaming when I first read it; I’ve had tears of mirth streaming when I’ve read extracts of it to my students over forty years of teaching. The book is my childhood, his book is Australia’s childhood – or at least for those of us of a certain vintage. It is magnificent. He cracked Big Red up with the recount of ‘The Great Billycart Train Disaster’ – the piece I used most with the kids – and I suspect it was not the first time the interviewer had encountered it either. It simply is a pricelessly hilarious piece no matter how many occasions it is read as is, I might add, his description of Barbara Cartland at Charles’/Di’s wedding in another work.

Some of his interviews are legendary – Katie Hepburn, Roman Polanski – but his greatest ‘gift’ to popular culture is the discovery of extreme Japanese Television game shows. Of course these days inflicting cruelty and indignities on contestants for entertainment is mainstream, but back then, when Clive ruled the airwaves, it was novel; even if many, like myself, found it excruciating to watch. Clive reveled in it.

Yes, as we watch this great man of letters walk slowly to the pavilion, reluctantly trailing his bat behind him, we know we’ll ‘…not see his like again.’

Roy Bremner’s print obituary = http://www.smh.com.au/world/frost-tv-legend-and-friend-to-the-famous-20130902-2t0z1.html

Last evening she came to visit
Lighting up my Mangoland sojourn
A coffee skinned little warrior child
Daughter of a Kikuyu/Masai dark beauty
She charmed and chortled
Tested her new words, and
Proudly fed herself fruity fare
Lil’ Marie gave me pause to think
To realise, how much I was
Missing
My own braveheart, mini-valkyrie
My glorious, glorious granddaughter
Soon, soon to Hobart,
She’ll return
To brightly illuminate my life
Add sheen to my days
It won’t be long, she’ll reach up
Place her tiny hand in
My hoary old one
And we’ll go off together
Explore curiosities
Examine the ticking of the world
I will see it all anew
Through the sparkling azure eyes
Of Tessa Tiger Poppet Gordon