Gough Whitlam would always cross out one of my l’s on personal or official correspondence, insisting that Philip was suitable only as a prenom, and Phillip was for surnames. But I’m not to blame.
Though I’m deaf, it’s a long time since I’ve heard utter, total, restful silence. Silence in which to think. Or not to. In a world of endless noise and relentless racket, humans seem afraid of it.
‘All politicians, irrespective of place or time in history, come in one of three categories: Straights, Fixers or Maddies,’ once quipped Tony Benn. To which group does a new generation of world leaders belong?
Thinking back over the perils of a long life, I recall many near-death experiences. All in all my continued survival is a tad, well, miraculous. Odd for an atheist. Thanks, God.
With the help of two truly raving geniuses, I was able to give Australians ‘Life. Be In It’, with its antihero Norm, and, soon after, ‘Slip! Slop! Slap!’. But one campaign was closest to my heart.
Ray Lawler’s death should have been a day of national mourning as many in the know regard Summer of the Seventeenth Doll as one of the 20th century’s finest plays.
Like bowerbirds decorating their sex dens, like squirrels gathering nuts for winter, humans are natural-born collectors. For some of us, the impulse becomes an addiction. I am one of them.
It must have been tricky to pen an inspiring anthem when the only words that rhyme with Australia are regalia, genitalia and failure. But who the hell is this Gert who lives by sea?
I remain free to write whatever I like. The question – perhaps you could call it a mystery – remains: Why do they keep me on? Perhaps it’s just that they haven’t noticed I’m still here.
We slaughter Australian trees in their millions. In Tasmania, a horror story is unfolding.
Original URL: https://www.theaustralian.com.au/author/phillip-adams