This page written circa 9 May, 1999.
Towards redressing the national bias of my quotation from the
US newspaper about HP's split, the articles at the end of this
Soapbox come from the Sydney Morning Herald's web site.
They make good reading even if you don't know the parties, and it says
volumes about how emotional matters are handled in Australia
compared to the US.
Americans aren't cool about sex, at least not compared to Australians.
Witness the relative handling in each country
of the prospect that the head honcho
had committed adultery, had sex in his office, etc.
Barely rates a mention in Aus.
As for spurious reproduction, it seems harder to convince an American
that it is more important for a child to have no parental angst
than for it to have any particular combination of parents or
to live in any particular stratum of society.
Being loved and acquiring a sense of humour beat having the latest
toy or knowing who is your dad, but this line isn't the first that
springs into the press.
Some politicians only hate one thing more than abortion and that is
unmarried mothers.
Since writing the above paragraph, I have become privvy to the
machinations of a marital breakup that ran along the lines
I would have expected had Toni and I had children.
The children in question will be victims of the ex-wife's
"intense outpouring of hate", as the judge summed it up.
A classic lose-lose situation.
Amelia has a proclivity to take things for granted, but then she
is high up in the food chain and has two parents, even if one is
"disssed". I recall my mother telling me the
same thing and that was from lower in the chain.
We neither of us have had to cope with serious nastiness.
Dishevelled, inaccurate,
vitriolic. Bob Ellis is all over the
place, in more ways than one.
Sydney journalist Susan
Anthony explains what a smart
woman could possibly see in
Australia's most shambolic
playwright.
WELL, Bob Ellis is at it again,
washing his dirty linen in public,
and this time he is definitely not
looking his best.
As more damning details emerge about his daytime
dalliance in the Devere Hotel last year, his profile is
looking increasingly unappetising.
One woman I know now calls him simply "that revolting
creature". Another asks, in genuine perplexity, "What on
earth do women see in this man?" Well, plenty, actually,
believe it or not.
Shabby, stooped, pot-bellied, mumbling with a double-bass
growl that sounds like Satchmo on sleeping pills, grubby,
rumpled, testy, and frequently unwashed and smelly, Ellis
nonetheless has a certain very definite charm.
Laugh if you will, but the man can cast a spell.
It's the spell of words, the sheer innocent outlaw eroticism
of them, and of the human imagination at play, of dreams
being woven and stories being told. There's a seductive
sorcery in words, and in the arts that give them life, and
Ellis knows it. He is obsessed with words, and he has built
a brilliant career and a colourful reputation based on that
obsession. Not to mention quite a following.
When I met Bob in 1977 we were both younger and thinner,
sizzling with youth and possibility and ideas. But compared
with Bob, I was tragically culturally illiterate.
Bob introduced me to the essays of Gore Vidal and Kenneth
Tynan, the films of Orson Welles and the poetry of John
Donne. Amid sighs and whispers he read to me, in the
rounded vowels of his deep Richard Burton voice, love
poems and pieces of prose, Shakespeare and Yeats.
Together we railed against the wickedness of the Federal
coalition parties and celebrated the brilliance of Whitlam.
He took me to see the first Star Wars, and Singin' in the
Rain.
He wrote generous, tormented love letters to me, all in his
small spidery longhand, and often delivered them by hand,
sometimes spending the dawn hours slouched on the floor
outside my door, scribbling, and waiting while I slept. On
every letter he wrote "cc Mitchell Library". He told me the
letters would be worth something some day. He told me to
be a writer. He said nothing could match it.
A gifted and prolific writer himself, Ellis has since done the
literary equivalent of streaking (running naked) across the
Australian cultural landscape, forging for himself, in the
process, a reputation as an outrageous but lovable eccentric.
He has long been known as a blatant womaniser, a
shameless self-publicist, an extravagant exaggerator and a
tenacious squabbler, parading himself, full frontal, through
everything from the letters columns of newspapers, to plays,
films, newspaper articles and books.
The film-maker David Puttnam has apparently called Ellis a
genius. Many Australians, however, would see him more as
having a genius for making trouble. His verbal and legal
stoushes have been going on for years. They litter his life
like the left-over ticker tape of a one-man parade, endless
squabbles in newspaper columns with people such as the
journalist John Pilger, the playwright David Williamson,
and anyone else willing to challenge the Ellis version of
events. And many, of course, do.
It was Ellis, for instance, who wrote the impressive but
controversial book Goodbye Jerusalem, the subject of the
recent Abbott and Costello court case.
And Ellis has made a legend of his love affair with Penny
McNicoll, the daughter of the Bulletin journalist David
McNicoll, when the couple met at university. According to
Ellis, he kidnapped Penny, spiriting her off to the Blue
Mountains to save them both from what he predicted was
certain nuclear catastrophe. Penny, however, has written
that she drove, they got bored, and returned to Sydney a few
hours later. Nonetheless, Ellis made the story a convincing
and entertaining linchpin for his popular film, The
Nostradamus Kid, his own coming-of-age story as a
Seventh Day Adventist boy on the NSW North Coast.
The subject of his current controversy, pregnancy, is not
new to Ellis, in life or in his work. When I first knew him,
in the biblical sense, it was one of many subjects up for
discussion. Then Ellis married, and I went to America to
work as a journalist.
Future scholars of the Ellis oeuvre will note that not only
has he written extensively about his wife's pregnancies, but
also that his 1980 play, A Very Good Year, and his 1985
film, Unfinished Business, are about pregnancy.
In The Sun-Herald, the reviewer Harry Robinson said the
plot of the play involved a male writer and a male poet.
"The poet comes to drink and talk. Then home from New
York comes a glamorous girl journalist. She and the writer
become maudlin because she had had his baby aborted.
Now he has a wife and won't leave her so she, the
glamorous girl journalist, is walking out forever with a sad
heart. He, the writer, has the bad taste to suggest an act of
love before she goes. She declines this one for the road.
Fini."
In the film Unfinished Business, which Ellis both wrote and
directed, the story, as a Bulletin reviewer saw it, went like
this: "Geoff (John Clayton) a journalist in his mid-forties,
accidentally meets Maureen (Michele Fawdon), the girl he
loved before he went overseas. They are still very attracted
to each other, and Maureen, now married to an older, sterile
man, asks Geoff to impregnate her."
If I'd thought these fictional works were meant to be about
me, the song about my hometown, Murwillumbah, would
have left me in no doubt. ("In Murwillumbah, in
Murwillumbah, in Murwillumbah you know exactly who
you are...") But as it was, Ellis told me they were about me.
It became very clear that Ellis's life is his art, and vice
versa, and that I had now become a character in his ongoing
play. As Ellis observed more than once: "Whatever
happens, it doesn't matter - when you're a writer, it's all
material."
Now he has a whole new plot to play with.
When it comes to his own sex life, Bob Ellis changes the
rules on freedom of speech, writes Kate McClymont.
"I MYSELF would not humiliate my wife in public for even
$1 million. But tastes vary."
So said Bob Ellis in September last year when his
paramour, Alexandra Long, was three months' pregnant
with, as she claims, his child.
At that time Ellis was writing an article defending himself
after a week of unflattering publicity due to the defamation
action brought against the publishers of his book Goodbye
Jerusalem.
In it Ellis had written, incorrectly, about the premarital sex
life of Tanya Costello, wife of the Federal Treasurer.
Unlike many, Mrs Costello did not have a sex life before
marriage.
Indignantly, Ellis wrote in this same article that he would
never sue because "I do not believe in it". What he did
believe in, he said, was that "freedom of speech is
indivisible, and defamation suits are the hobby of the
mediocre and the superannuated and the instinctively
authoritarian."
However, last Friday when the Herald contacted Ellis to
ask him if the claims being made by Long and her husband,
Wayne Cooper, were true, freedom of sperm rather than
speech appeared uppermost on his mind.
In between denying the child, Juliet, was his and admitting
to the affair, the spectre of suing arose. "I can possibly sue
you individually, too, and I might choose to do that instead
of [suing] the Herald," he seethed. By the end of the
conversation, Ellis was wondering "if there is a law under
which I can get you now for harassment".
However, as the week unfolded, talk of defamation
disappeared along with any semblance of taste. TV stations
clammered to sign up the parties; photographers leapt out of
bushes trying to snap the baby; the airwaves were awash
with the prospective fathers trading insults - with both
referring to the baby as "it".
Farcical situations were aplenty. "I like Juliet and don't like
Wayne, who still refers to her as 'it'," Ellis told the 2GB
audience on Tuesday, seemingly oblivious to his previous
sentence in which he professed to a concern that if the child
was proved to be his, "I might be denied all access to it".
As soon as it was his turn, Cooper managed a hurried
"G'day" before launching into: "Could I just first say that the
most ringing endorsement of anyone in my life was Bob
Ellis saying he doesn't like me; I feel like cracking open the
Moet."
The following day on radio 2BL Ellis, claiming to be
speaking at his wife's urging, revealed the baby could not be
his because of the following (a summary only): "Penetration
was briefly achieved ... bout of impotence ... concluded by
oral sex."
As if all that wasn't enough, one newspaper resorted to a
photograph of the actual room where the actual sexual
liaison (the form of which is in dispute) actually happened.
Bring on the paternity test and put us out of our misery.
NOSTRADAMUS KIDDING
A Bob each way
A Romeo and a Juliet