Meeting Milligan


A younger debonair Milligan

The frail figure clutching a blanket around him emerged from the house blinking, and crept towards me. A pink face surmounted by sparse grey hair looked like a deflated balloon. He held something delicately in his right hand, cupping it.

I’d driven across the Tramuntuna mountain range in north-eastern Majorca, from Fornalutx, where I lived, to Pollensa, where Spike Milligan and his wife Sheila often summered. He had described C’an Tatoli, where I was now standing by the pool, as a  “paradise of silence…..”

Not the night before. There had been one of those storms that sweeps in from the north, across the Mediterranean, knocking over pine trees and ripping terracotta tiles from rooves. The wind that accompanies such a storm shares the name of the mountain range, tramuntana. As I  point out later, all the winds that  shriek across the island are named.

So violent had been the wind and the storm that before I left that morning, the friend who had brokered  this interview with Spike, Pauline Scudamore, his biographer, rang to tell me to expect that he might not be up to seeing me. The storm had disturbed his sleep and he was extremely fragile. He was, after all,  71 years old and had suffered, since the second world war, from manic depression.

Pauline met me when I arrived and asked me to wait by the pool, which I did, for quite some time, with increasing trepidation. If he decided he was too frail, I would have to drive back across the mountains, without my story and worse, without having met my hero. The irony of meeting the creator of the quintessentially English characters, Eccles, Moriarty, Min and Henry, Bluebottle  and Major Bloodnok on an island in the Mediterranean had not been lost on me.


I’d first heard The Goon Show at the age of eleven,  in the old Double Bay Sailing Club, a ramshackle boatshed on Double Bay beach. After the Sunday race, we’d huddle around the steam radio, still in our wet sailing clothes and laugh maniacally at the surreal idiocy of the Goon Show. I still love it, but then, in the anodyne age of Menzies, it was a whack across the cerebellum, it seemed, somehow, subversive to be listening. Later, I bracketed Milligan with Charlie Parker as the two who broke the mould after that war that wreaked so much havoc on the world and on Terence Alan Patrick Seán Milligan KBE.

He held out the cupped right hand and said something to me in so soft a voice that I had to lean forward and ask him to repeat it. “I saved it” he said and opened his hand. In it was a beetle, dripping wet but still  moving. “It was in the pool and would have drowned, but I scooped it up and saved it”. He crept over to the garden, laid it gently in a flower plot, and turned back to me. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

We went on to talk for three hours, three of the most exhilarating hours of my life. I’d been warned, by Pauline, not to ask him  about the Goon Show – but you could no sooner meet Milligan and not talk about the Goon Show than meet Nixon and not talk about Watergate or  John Cleese and not mention Fawlty Towers. Talk about the environment, she said, and indeed, that was how we started – but we ended with the Goons.

During that three hours he transformed from a fragile deflated old man of  71 who looked like the next puff of wind might blow him over to a vigorous artist in full flight, in full control of his comic genius. It was as if he had been pumped, with a bicycle pump, full of life again.

I think it was partly because I was Australian. “My Mum lives in Woy Woy you know.” I did. He called it Woy –  a town twinned with Woy, and God’s Waiting Room. Yet he did much for Woy Woy, and they responded by naming a bridge that spans Woy Woy Bay Inlet the Spike Milligan Bridge – a decision that was the subject of a fight amongst the councillors which would have made Spike gleeful.


We went on to speak of over-population, the spread of mankind over the earth as ‘the human plague’, who was greener, Jesus or Buddha (Spike opted for Buddha), humour and, finally, I broached the topic of the Goons – at his suggestion.

He spoke of the genesis of Bluebottle. “… a boy scout. This tall thin chap turned up with a ginger beard and knobbly knees to see Sellers. He said (Bluebottle voice) Hello Mr Sellers, can you go out for tea. Sellers thought – I don’t believe this. And I met him afterwards. Eccles and Bluebottle became friends.”

I asked him about Grytpype-Thynne. “He’s one of those johnnies (Grytpype-Thynne voice ) Parkinson the politician. Jeffrey Archer. One of those.”

And finally, I asked him what he would teach my two year old daughter about the world she’s growing up in. “Oh, only have one child. And tell her the reason for it. Give her a sense of the divine, a sense of beauty, a sense of love, a sense of wonder. Never hit her; otherwise she’ll think that violence is justice. And that wonderful free commodity love – bestow that upon her. And don’t smoke in front of her.”

Well we did have another child.  Shamefully, I did hit my first child (and the second one), but I also love them both dearly – and I did give up smoking. As for the divine, that, Spike, is hard to bestow.


Rivers on the Brink

Kim Harris

Kim Harris

We went to see Rivers on the Brink: Inside the Murray-Darling Basin at the SH Ervin Gallery. It was an interesting counterpoint to ‘Songlines: tracking the Seven Sisters’at the National Museum of Australia

Whereas Songlines presented an absorbing, beautiful and powerful vision from an Indigenous viewpoint, Rivers offered the story of the tragic and reprehensible destruction of the Murray-Darling river system – a microcosm of the destruction of the entire eco-system of the continent – from the viewpoint of European and Indigenous Australian artists.

It was a powerful and disturbing show. But you’ll see a lot more than beautiful and poignant works of art from such artists as Badger Bates, Eddy Harris, Kim Harris , Euan McLeod Ian Marr and many others. You’ll see two distinct and telling views of this country. In many, the anger and sorrow are palpable

As we got to the end of the exhibition, and having re-visited some of the most compelling images, I found myself asking the question: what’s the difference between the whitefella and blackfella artist in this show? I asked that question of my perceptive wife. She answered that the Indigenous art is a connection to place, and the European artists’ work is an observation of place. Nailed it.

As confronted and angered as the whitefella artists showed themselves to be at this wilful destruction, they were looking at it from the outside.

And this was corroborated by my reading the review of the show by Christopher Allen in the Weekend Australian Review. Now as much as you can damn and excoriate The Oz, it has always been excellent on Indigenous matters. Not this time.

Allen’s insensitive and unseeing review is illustrated by three paintings by whitefellas: not his choice I’m sure but certainly reflective of the content. The Indigenous artists in the show are covered, or rather dismissed, in two paragraphs.

His perspective is shown when he writes, gratuitously of having known one of the European artists (Ian Marr, one of the best European contributors) and his brother Ted since school, and having helped castrate lambs at the Marr Mount Murchison property: this without connecting the grazing of lambs or other livestock to the degradation of the river system.

Brian Harris

Brian Harris


Below, two statements, one form a blackfella artist and one from a whitefella, which summarise the issues






Inveterate talker to strange people

So Ruth Park describes herself and found it very useful in writing a guide book to Sydney, a city with which she has had “a long love affair”

My mother, Gloria Newton, was a journalist, working at various times for The Daily Mirror, The Daily Telegraph (Packer’s not Murdoch’s) and until she died in 1976, The Australian Women’s Weekly.

Because she covered royal visits, I tended to dismiss her as a light journalist – never to her face but in my own mind

And then a friend found and sent me this wonderful and gently  nuanced interview with one of my favourite writers, Ruth Park, about on of my favourite books, Park’s Companion Guide to Sydney

So  in order to pay penance for under-valuing my mother’s writing, I am re-publishing it (it was first in the AWW) on a platform she would never have dreamed of.

My apologies for the cheesy photo, but it is the best I have, the brown marks on it are foxing. What it does do is to illustrate my mother’s one of my mother’s beautifully tailored suits, how I remember her best. And probably where I got my love of good cloth from.



RUTH PARK, a gentle softly-spoken woman, roamed the streets of Sydney dressed in a shabby pantsuit or simple dress clutching a dilapidated shopping bag from which protruded the crest of a bunch of celery.

Thus blending into the background, she would stop a passer-by to inquire, with genuine interest in her voice, about a certain street, a certain name.

She always used the excuse of trying to find her “grandad’s” old house.

Mostly she stopped elderly men who were only too happy to recall the history of their particular district, to ask if her “grandad” had told her of the eviction riots of such and such a time, or when the town hall burned down.

For this was the best approach, this celebrated author decided, to garner the information she needed for the book she had been asked to compile, “The Companion Guide to Sydney.”

“I don’t blame myself for telling a big whopper. I found the old gentlemen enjoyed chatting about their districts.

“I didn’t use a notebook; that would have made them stiff and suspicious. The whole natural flow, the spontaneity would have been lost. No. I’d listen and then hurry to the nearest bus seat to record it all.”


Hers is an unusual guide book. In some 200,000 words, it describes not only the interesting places that make up the city of Sydney, but tells their history, right back to 1778 “when Captain Phillip raised the flag for England.”

To get the necessary information Ruth Park traversed the 670 square miles that is Sydney, mostly by foot. “I found this was the only way. Of course I took a train to, say, Bankstown, and occasionally I’d pick up a taxi. The drivers were most helpful.  “One pointed out a patch of green near Sydney Technical College where the gallows once stood. He told me some hair-raising tales about that spot.

“I’m an inveterate talker to strange people. I find they give me the most interesting conversations of all.”

Ruth Park, who made up a famous writing team with her late husband, D’Arcy Niland. said she had been overjoyed when given the opportunity to write the guide book.

“But faced with it. I knew I hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about it.

“I think I solved it when I went down to the Blackwattle Bay area, which is full of shipyards, where the men are dressed in pants and singlets. I had on a smart pantsuit and I didn’t fit in. I was a curiosity and stood out.

“I went home, changed into a simple frock, put a bunch of celery in a shopping bag and, so armed, went back where I found a wonderful place and so many interesting things to write about.

“It was all part of the Lyndhurst estate.  Surgeon Bowman lived in that beautiful old home. He married one of John Macarthur’s daughters.

“Oh, there I go again. The children won’t go out with me any more. When they did there were continual yelps of ‘Oh, Mum, not again!’”

Ruth Park’s gentle manner is deceptive.  When you notice the penetrating, intelligent eyes, you sense the sharp mind behind them.  And there is her wonderful ability to bring even the simplest anecdote so alive that it forms a picture in your mind.

This she attributes to a solitary childhood in New Zealand, and to her father.  She doesn’t remember other children until she was eight and sent to school.  She and her mother accompanied her father, an engineer who planned roads and bridges, into the most desolate parts of New Zealand.

“We must have returned to civilisation now and then, but I don’t recall it. All I remember is millions of trees. My father was a natural story-teller and any inclination I ever had towards writing, or how to tell a successful anecdote, I owe to him.  “Such a childhood sometimes creates a certain temperament.

“You are left alone and you have to develop your imagination. I remember I used to play out all those old stories my father told me, and I had to make them real.”

The guide book, which took 12 months to research and nearly the same time to write, is Ruth Park’s farewell to Sydney.

Ruth, who has five children, including talented twins, Kilmeny and Deborah Niland, who combine writing and illustrating children’s books and travel stories, is leaving in February to live in a house she is building on Norfolk Island.

“It will be a squatty little house in about five acres of native bush and I’ll be able to write things I haven’t been able to afford to write for years.

“I want to go back to novels. I haven’t written one for ten years. One can live on the smell of an oily rag on Norfolk, so my work won’t have to be popular fiction.

“What did the children say about my decision?

“At first there was general shock — ‘But, Mum, children are supposed to leave home, not mothers.” Eventually they became keen and have been wonderfully helpful. I suppose they have recognised the marvellous thing of having Mum out of their hair permanently.”

Apart from the twins, the youngest of the family, there is Patrick, “married to a lovely English girl, Margaret, and working with the ABC music department, Anne, a librarian, with whom I’m now living, and Rory, who works with plasma physics.”

In 1968, a year after her husband died, Ruth took the twins, then 16, and Patrick to London. “He had to do his musical training and I thought I’d let the girls finish their art education there”

London proved to be therapeutic for me. We arrived with about $400 in the kitty, but it all turned out very well.

“Having little money kept me on my toes, I had a couple of plays to do with the BBC and I sub-edited the last novel my husband wrote. It was a huge manuscript, about a foot high, and a period story which had to be thoroughly checked.

“When I saw the girls were doing well, I left them there with Patrick and came back to sell our old family home, a Gothic brick mansion at Balgowlah.

“It doesn’t mean that I didn’t have lots of panics when I came back. I even used to wake at night and think, what have I done?  But it worked out very well.

“I used to worry once because as a mother I didn’t have that coo-nesty feeling. When my children were babies, I would have fought for them like a tigress. But when they grew up, they became so interesting.

“The house seemed always full of lovely young people, giving out their sorrows, their happiness, stories, games. To me, my children were young friends who happened to be living with me.

“I remember I asked them not so long ago if they felt they might have done better with a different sort of mother. I had a wonderful answer — ‘Have you lost your marbles?’

“Looking at them at a birthday party the other night, I thought how lucky I was to have such an intelligent group, eager to face life. D’Arcy would have enjoyed them so much. He got so much pleasure out of them, but then, he was accustomed to children, having had brothers and sisters.”

“D’Arcy and I were a team”

Ruth met D’Arcy Niland when she was on a holiday in Sydney. She corresponded with him for two years before coming back to marry him.

She led a wandering life with her young husband for a while, working in opal mines, cooking for shearers. D’Arcy loved the outback, and later, when they settled in Balgowlah, he would often take off to the bush for a period.

His book “The Shiralee,” about a swagman and his four-year-old daughter.  was based on his experiences as a wanderer.  Ruth also used the experiences of their early years of poverty writing the award-winning novel, “The Harp in the South,” and its sequel, “Poor Man’s Orange,” about an Irish-descended family.

“It was after the war. We were terribly poor, trying to earn a living by freelancing, and there was a housing shortage. We went to Surry Hills which was then not at all a smart place to live in. There were grog shops, brothels.

“I went there full of prejudices, a stiff-necked New Zealander. And it was there that I began to grow up.

“I am still happy I had that experience.  There you were up against a lot of hardship and forced to face the fact that the people who lived there, poor and ragged, were better humans than you.

“We were there two years. Anne was born there. Later, when we left and I found myself becoming too academic-minded, I’d go back for a while.”

Ruth said she and her husband were just about to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary when he died suddenly.

“We had bought the champagne,” she said softly. “I am so glad I knew him.  D’Arcy and I were a team. We lived in each other’s pockets. We were mutual encouragers, critics, stimulators. I miss an old, intimate friend.

“I didn’t regret his going because he had the blessing of not being ill. We were always worried about being incapacitated. He was active, loved life, and was always lots of fun.

“We worked together in the same room, but we had a firm agreement that neither of us looked at each other’s work until it was in print.

“If D’Arcy had read one of my manuscripts before I had finished and said such and such a character hadn’t come through, I would have lost faith in that character and wouldn’t have finished the book.

“Even today I don’t really feel satisfied until I receive some accolade, some good review.”

When Ruth, who, for the past few years, has been writing articles, writing and reviewing children’s books, leaves for Norfolk Island she will be taking her three poodles, “old” Milo, “little” Prisca and “a sad little person,” Edward Bear.

“I have had a long love affair with Sydney.



Ruth Park, from an obituary that described her has “Sydney’s Dickens.