Grandad

As I lay in bed late last night, slowly drifting off to sleep, I suddenly realised something had passed me by - the 20th anniversary of my paternal grandfather's death.

It came to me due to a convergence of thoughts. I had been reading up on the Hillsborough disaster, which was 20 years ago today. 96 Liverpool fans were crushed to death due to over-crowding during an FA Cup semi-final. I had memories as a kid of watching people crammed against metal fences, or desperately trying to pull themselves out by hanging onto proferred hands from seating terraces above them. A terrible tragedy that still hurts deep in Liverpool to this day.

Earlier in the day, due to a John Birmingham Blunt Instrument column, I'd been thinking about my old backyard at Albany Creek. I'd suffered a nasty gash to the back of the head in that backyard when I'd accidentally pulled the trampoline down on my head (I have not gained any grace in the intervening years). Then I remembered why my Mum was so panicked when I presented my bleeding noggin to her - my Dad wasn't there. He was in Vanuatu for Grandad's funeral.

I can't remember the date for certain, but something about April 9th sounded right. This means the 20th anniversary of his death passed last week, and I didn't mark it. I felt sorry for this, so am resolved to write a little about Maceij Tadeusz Bochenski. I say a little, because when I think about it - I don't really know that much for certain about him. Except that he had the most interesting and wonderful life.

He was born in 1917. His family was Polish, and he was the latest in a long line of seamen. As I understand, his family came from a part of Poland nearer the border with the Ukraine. Of course, Poland had had somewhat permeable borders for a few hundred years. I understand my great-grandfather was some sort of ambassador to Russia, and I believe my Grandad was born in Vladivostok - a port city. He had two older sisters, Irina and Soska. My Grandad was only a few months old at the time the shot was fired from the cruiser Aurora, signalling the start of the October Revolution. But I believe the family remained in Russia until the mid-1920s, when Stalin's crushing Five Year Plans prompted them to take a train back to Poland.

I am not sure of the family's financial situation at this time - I understand my Grandad had a reasonably privileged education, as he was proficient in mathematics and spoke five languages (English, German and French, as well as Polish and Russian). But I know they had a certain amount of land somewhere, and possibly even a heraldic title equivalent to something like "Count". Now, titles and things like that were scrapped for good by the good ol' Pinko Bolshie Ruskis, but that doesn't stop me referring to myself as a "Countess" whenever I'd like to seem more mysterious and exotic than I really am. Pairing it with a Russian tweak of my name works best: "I am the Countess Natalya! Bring me smoked fish, and rubies!"

By the age of 17, my Grandad had joined the Polish Navy. On the wall of my apartment, I have a copy of a famed print of the dancer spy Josephine Baker. My Grandad actually saw her perform live in Paris. My grandmother said "All he could remember was Josephine and her bananas".

When the Germans invaded Poland in 1939, my Grandad was an officer onboard one of the navy ships that immediately got the hell outta the Baltic and put themselves under British control. Between the Germans and the Russians, most of the Polish educated and elite who were left were rounded up and shot around this time - all part of ensuring no rebellion against the armed masses of Nazism on one side and Communism on the other. Poor Poland was to be carved up once more.

I don't know the extent of my Grandad's experiences in the war. I am determined now to learn more. I do know that he was onboard a ship torpedoed by Germans during the Battle of Narvik in 1940; I believe it must have been a British ship. He was in the freezing water for an hour before being plucked at; my Gran recounted the story of him swimming back into consciousness and attacking people for trying to take his lifejacket off him - which they were doing, but only to get him warm!

My Gran had served in the WRNS during the war, and they met while stationed in the same port (which I cannot recall right now) not long after it finished. Gran has said he used to call her every night at 7 o'clock. This would ensure she stayed on the phone talking to him, instead of racing out with her fellow WRNS to party away with submariners or whatever other depraved company a young girl of 20-odd might keep. My Gran - whose amply bosomy form has passed down to me - also once declared to me that "if your Grandad had been a leg man, we never would have married."

Whatever it was, they married in 1947 in Southhampton, and set off for a honeymoon in India, where they trekked through Kashmir and other crazy places. My Grandad refused to return to Poland (most likely due to the ongoing risk of death-by-Russians), and so they found themselves in Basra, Iraq, where Grandad worked piloting ships up the Shatt al-Arab. This was, of course, before Saddam Hussein and the B'ath Party, a time when being an expatriate Brit (or in this case, Pole) meant the world was your oyster. My father was born there in the hot August summer in 1951; he took three days to pilot his way out of the birth canal, and my Gran says Grandad promptly fainted when he saw my Dad's elongated freaky head.

By 1956, the family had shifted across the world to New Zealand, where my uncle Jan was born. Helena followed in 1963. By then, my Grandad had begun sailing trade ships up into Pacific, and in the early 60s they bought land for about 30 cents and a bottle of Pernod off the British/French condominium government of New Hebrides, and set up child-raising in the tropics. My Grandad's language skills were often called on, as ships from all manner of countries would stop by Port Vila to drop off powdered milk and other supplies. He and my Gran also set up one of the country's first tourism companies, which my Gran would run with an iron first while my Grandad slipped back away to sea.

My Dad followed in his footsteps, joining the merchant navy at 17 after high school in New Zealand. He married my Mum on the island of Espiritu Santo in 1979 - the same place I spent the first two years of my life. Gran and Grandad were still based in Vila, and I was too young to remember their visits. There are photos of me with Grandad though - mostly swimming. I sadly didn't inherit the love of boats from Grandad or my Dad - I get easily seasick. But I did get the love of water. Shallow, calm, warm water.

We still saw my grandparents every year when we moved to Australia, eventually settling in Brisbane. But by the mid-80s, he had developed Alzheimer's disease, and his memory was going. I remember him as a kind man with clear blue eyes.

I remember, on that April morning, my Mum telling my brother and I that "Grandad had passed away". I was eight years old, and didn't much have the cranial capacity to understand much more than "that's really sad". He was buried at sea, just outside the entry to Vila Harbour, which is one of the most beautiful harbours in the world.

Ten years later, my Gran went to Buckingham Palace to receive an MBE from the Queen, for over 30 years of dedicated service to the Red Cross. We celebrated with a lunch onboard a boat moored on the Thames, and I remember how happy my Gran was - her only regret that my Grandad wasn't there with her. But I'm absolutely sure he would have been very proud.

Maciej Tadeusz Bochenski was a Pole, a sailor, a traveller, an explorer, an adventurer and a survivor. Above all, he was my Grandad, and I'm very grateful for the childhood moments I had with him. I would like to hope he'd be proud of me too.

Prepare for take-off

Planes. They're happening places these days, aren't they?

"Welcome aboard FU Flight 2 to Back of Beyond.

Please observe our ridiculously attractive cabin crew as they present this air safety demonstration for you.

Your tray tables and seat backs are to remain in the upright position for take-off and landing. Our cabin crew’s breasts are to remain in the upright position at all times. Failure to do so will result in immediate dismissal. That, and if we find out any of them are over 25.

We would like to remind you that no smoking is permitted in the onboard toilets. Please reserve these for mid-air trysts with Hollywood actors, and, if you must, doing number twos just to watch them get vacuum-sucked away at 75 kilometres an hour. In all cases, please leave the cubicles in a presentable condition. Particularly after any encounters with Ralph Fiennes or the chicken cacciatore. Both are equally nasty.

If you are secretly pregnant and need a place to give birth, please contact one of our friendly cabin crew. They will assist you with breathing techniques, refresher towlettes - and provide a FU Air Children’s Fun Activity Pack for the newborn.

In the event of an emergency, oxygen masks will drop from the overheard compartments. Place these over your mouth and nose and breathe normally. Please refrain from Christopher Skase impressions, as it is out-of-date material and our Gen-Y crew won’t understand what you’re doing.

A life-jacket is contained in a bag under your seat. In the event we pull off a super-impressive water landing like that dude on the Hudson River a few months’ back, please place over your head, and tie around your waist. Please refrain from making cracks about the light and whistle being ineffective. The over-sized lady behind you believes in shit like this. (She’s also the one we’ll be tossing out of the life-raft first, OK?)

Any references to Snakes on a Plane will be punishable by death. Any references to Alive will be punishable by forcing you to watch both Steve Martin Pink Panther remakes non-stop from Dubai to Singapore. Choose wisely.

This air safety announcement can be re-delivered in numerous styles. Please go to your inflight entertainment screen and select from the following options: rap, jazz, William Shatner-style spoken word, interminably dull Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, shadow puppetry, Holocaust drama or WWE cage match.

Thank you for flying FU Air. Remember, with us, it's about the destination, not the journey. And on behalf of the captain and crew - a big “FU” to you too!"

Ahh. I can't wait for my next vacation.

Byline!

Today marked my first day back at work after my rather wonderful break. It was a nice start back - a quick jaunt to the Magistrates Court to see Jayant Patel's committal hearing adjourned for two weeks, then out to the station to sift through approximately 300 emails (mostly Police Media round-ups, to be fair).

I then headed down to Logan Central police station to attend a media conference about a young lad who's been missing for over a week. His poor parents were speaking out, urging him to phone home.

I did up some stories for the radio, then had a bit of an idea. I bashed out a few pars for print, then sent it through to the Brisbane Times, which is our "sister" media outlet. They didn't have a journo there, so I thought it might be of use.

And they published it!

That's the one thing that's so wonderful about print media - the byline. You just don't really get that sense of "ownership" of a story in radio. They're such fleeting, transparent things, lost in soundwaves as soon as the words are uttered.

And yes, I know it's fairly callous to be patting myself on the back while a family waits for their son to come home. Welcome to the cynical, moral-compass-confused life of a journo.

Greg of North Maclean

Poor Greg of North Maclean. I worry I may have made his life a misery.

Backstory: Greg of North Maclean was the home reviewer Spencer Howson on 612 ABC breakfast very kindly sent along to the second night of He Died with a Felafel in His Hand. He subsequently gave his honest opinions of the show on the radio. The best line being "A Show You Wouldn't Take Your Wife To" (my commemorative badges stating just that are on their way).

Now there's been a great response to Greg's review - it's garnered a lot of attention, and it's been a fun little poker that's helped keep the Felafel fires burning.

What I didn't expect is for the controversy to hit the street press. A few of my wonderfully talented and rather attractive cast members did a photoshoot with mX last week, and it landed in news-stands this afternoon. Somehow, they found out about Greg of North Maclean:

I must admit to being tickled pink at this - it's rare to get an article accompanying a promo shot in mX, so I'm glad they picked up on the story. But a part of me does somewhat hope that they don't have high-speed broadband or mX distribution in North Maclean.

I Don't Understand Fashion

I know shop store mannequins are supposed to be oddly dressed. But surely this is insanity:

It looks like someone ate seven different types of gelati, then threw up in a clothes dryer.

The slogan of the new range is "Romance Was Born".

Romance was born? Where? In court jester's convention?

In other fashion news, I recently bought a great pair of dark blue denim jeans from Target. They were just $40.

I f***ing love Target.

Yesterday, I saw the same pair of jeans on special for $28. I contemplated getting a lighter wash. Then I thought "Stuff it. I'm a darkwash girl."

So now, I have two pairs of the exact same type of jeans. They fit well, improve the general appearance of my legs, and match all my tops.

This is why I suspect I will never be fashionable.

April Fool in Melbourne

I have a love/hate relationship with Melbourne, I really do.

I mean, on paper, it's my kind of city. A sense of ye-olde-worlde-ness, full of neat architecture, an arts & cultural hub, and most of all - flat (Ah! Bless Melbourne's "slight inclines". I could wander around all day). But I just find something really off-putting about the city's airs about itself as the Centre of the Freaking Universe. Oh yes, Melbourne. You have Wicked. Aren't you great. You have the Australian Open and the Grand Prix and the Boxing Day Test and Rove Live. La di da. And I don't know whether its all Melbournites themselves creating this, or people who move there and declare everywhere else is more desolate than Gary Coleman's future in acting.

I confess I'm probably being a bit too Brisbane-based paraochial. But I've been to London, and Paris, and Rome, and  Madrid, and Vienna, and St Petersburg and several other classy European cities, and I've never felt the same sense of "If you're not here, you're not anywhere" that I get in Melbourne.

But anyway.

I landed at Tullamarine around half-eight after catching the 0500 Virgin Blue red-eye out of Brisbane. I caught the glamourous SkyBus into town, before wandering up Bourke Street to the mall, then around to Flinders Street Station.

They have these, like, train/bus things that drive on the roads there.
They're called trams, apparently.

It was a very pleasant morning, with blue skies, a warm sun and a slight breeze. I hung out in Federation Square, where I wasted 55 cents sending a text message to the Optus "Text Wall" or whatever they call it. I sat and waited for over 45 minutes for my message to appear in scrolling electronic letters. But - nada. So sadly, I could not tell Melbourne that...

Nat directed "A Show You Wouldn't Take Your Wife To"

...which is a pity, really, because the Wives of Melbourne really should have been warned. You know, in case they were planning a trip north of Albury-Wondonga before May 2.

I was picked up by my ex-colleague and good buddy Gail, otherwise known as G-Watt, who shifted down to Melbs last November, and was kindly letting me crash on her fold-out couch overnight. We did lunch before checking out some op shops. Then G-Watt went for a nap (like me, she's all too familiar with those 4am starts), and I grabbed a tram down Lygon Street to the fancy "shops and restaurants" area. I strolled about until it was roughly 6pm, and time to meet Deborah Frances-White and see her Comedy Festival show.

The Trades Hall in Carlton is a lovely old building, with the names of Unions like the Saddlemakers & Leatherworkers still in black lettering on marbled glass over the doors, and flyers for political meetings and literary discussions taped up over every wall. The stone staircases are so worn from millions of footsteps, there are ten centimetre deep trenches near the curve of the bannisters (I know this, because being true to my name, I tripped over one). One staircase is dominated by a giant black-and-white photo portrait of Gough Whitlam, in profile and all statesman-like.

I had an interesting read in one of the ladies' toilet cubicles. One on wall was written the phrase "It's nearly midnight, and all I want with my life is to be your housewife". I was thinking to myself how the author of said phrase should have popped out to one of the Wymmyn's Collective Meetings, when I noticed that on the facing wall was written the charming phrase "F*** my c***". So the shallow might say that toilet booth contained the full gamut of the female emotional and sexual experience. But they might not want to say it to the Wymmyn's Collective.

Deborah arrived about half-six, and it was great to see her. She practiced a part of her show with me, and cross-checked some of the local references. We were sitting in the Bella Union bar, and it slowly started to fill up around us. Other comedians drifted in and said hello to Deborah - including Lawrence Leung, who now has a big show on the ABC. He and another comedian called Andrew McClelland are doing a show called Time Ninjas at the festival - another show I couldn't see because it was on at the same time as Deborah's. I said to them if they were proper time travellers, they'd arrange for me to travel back after Deb's show so I could see theirs. They ummed and ahhed a bit. Ha! I wound up telling Lawrence Leung that in a way, he'd already time travelled, because while I waited for Deborah, I'd been listening to a three-year-old Get This podcast in which he had been the guest announcer. He seemed a little impressed, possibly a little freaked out, I'm not sure.

G-Watt and her lovely partner Jason arrived around 8pm, and not long after we filed in to the Meeting Room to see Deb's show, How Almost Anyone can Become an Overnight Celebrity. It was fantastic - Deborah is just a top-class storyteller, and the way she goes about achieving the challenge of instant celebrity-hood is just hysterical. I highly recommend it to anyone in Melbourne, or planning to visit during the festival.

We celebrated with a few drinks afterwards, and I also got to say hello to a few other Edinburgh buddies - Deb's producer Jeremy, marketing guru Sonal, and conman and witch Philip Escoffey. His show, Six Impossible Things Before Dinner, was also on at the same time as Deborah's, so I missed it. But having seen it in Edinburgh last year, I can highly recommend it. He does fantastic "magic" tricks - if you like Derren Brown, you'll get a real kick out of Philip. You'll leave thinking "How the hell did he DO that....?"

Philip, Deborah & I in the Bella Union bar. I had a Coke. But then, don't I always?

G-Watt, Jason & I got a tram home about midnight, and I slept like a baby on their fold-out. This morning I grabbed a tram into the city with Jason (G-Watt having gone to work while I was unconscious), then grabbed the Skybus back out to the airport. Melbourne had been sunny and warm, but when I arrived home around 11:20am, it was pouring rain. It seemed a bizarre reversal somehow, but very pleasant nonetheless.

And do you know - I managed to escape any April 1st tomfoolery entirely!