Strewth: Departing James Jeffrey parties like it’s 1999

Farewell to my adopted family of eccentrics, geniuses, stirrers and ratbags. I’m leaving, again.

James Jeffrey wins Specialist Writer of the Year at the 2015 News Awards. We can confirm the length of his acceptance speech left even the mighty Rob Oakeshott cowering in shame. Picture: Mark Stewart

Party like it’s 1999

My memory’s a little fuzzy now on what year it was that The Australian moved downstairs to its new home in News Limited’s Sydney HQ. Perhaps 1999? I could check, but why spoil the romance of fuzzy numbers? As it was, the staff of the national broadsheet — me included — wandered about the freshly refurbished second floor in a daze. After the rabbit warren of our old home upstairs — an enchanting mix of charmingly ramshackle and probable fire trap populated by more than a few clandestine office smokers — this seemed so extravagantly spread out, a glossy savanna of desks, of bright lights and unexposed wiring and carpet that didn’t cling to your feet. We probably looked a bit like MPs let loose in the new Parliament House in 1988. There were even wild rumours that one day, we might even get the internet on our desktop computers. They were wild times.

The Office

Fancy dress ... James Jeffrey’s dual citizen politician costume idea.

There were a lot of us then, and more than a few of my colleagues helped boost the sense of population density even further by being at least twice as loud as a regular human being. I’m tempted to cite Elisabeth Wynhausen here as Exhibit A, if only in the thin hope it will provoke her ghost into materialising next to me with a correction: “Four (redacted) times louder. Pay attention!” Then there was Frank Devine. I would later wonder if he insisted on sitting as far from lunching companions as possible because he wanted to save up his conversation for the table, or simply because he loved bellowing to them when the dining hour was approaching. Father James Murray was always paged with a particular zest: “Priest! PRIEST! I say, has anyone seen a short, fat PRIEST?” Eventually you’d hear Father James rasping in reply from the other direction, “I’m in a state of mild fury”, or some such.

Then there was the laughter of Michelle Gunn and Amanda Meade; I was always amazed this never became a local tourist attraction, with people hanging around Holt Street like visitors to Old Faithful, patiently awaiting the next eruption. (Michelle’s laugh is still one of the local highlights. It is a beautiful experience; just don’t stand right under the window.) There’d be chortles from Bill Leak’s studio, Glaswegian rumbles from Iain Shedden, streams of elegantly polished vowels floating up from Jane Fraser like perfect, glistening bubbles, and streams of enigma from the enchantingly Dickensian figure that was (and resolutely is) Errol Simper. And still those decibels kept coming from Wynhausen corner. During those stretches when he was here, Nicolas Rothwell would navigate this space with an elegant, feline silence, sparkling with the magic of a dozen other worlds and tongues and moments in history.

“Back to you Barrie” ... you’ve probably forgotten this moment from Talking Pictures on Insiders, but now it’s firmly back in your mind. You’re welcome. ***shudders***

Hello, I must be going

So anyway, you’ll have to forgive me for nostalgia. I’ve walked out the door here once before — way, way back in 2001, haunted by what was meant as a friendly sentiment from my then managing editor, Martin Beesley. Leaning back into his seat, he smiled the gentle smile of a man slipping into a reverie and said: “I’ve resigned from here dozens of times.” Shaken by the thought the building might be packing a tractor beam like the Death Star, I nevertheless quit and wandered the world with my magnificent wife (and former colleague) Annabel McGilvray in a fuzz of newlywed bliss, but eventually grew to miss The Oz and my adopted family of eccentrics and geniuses and stirrers and ratbags and good eggs and regular pay packets and returned in 2003. I’m about to walk out again.

STOP. LOOKING. AT. ME. Okay, don’t stop looking at me.

In 1999, two years before Zoolander was released, James Jeffrey perfected Blue Steel.

Sixteen years after I returned to The Oz (oh, all right, one more “this august organ” for regular Strewth readers) and 10 years since I took the reins of Strewth, I’m about to pack up my official Ruth Dunn-supplied gin-and-tonic kit I’ve kept in my desk drawer in case of emergency and depart. (Apologies to Tom Dusevic, Sam Leckie, Milanda Rout, Caroline Overington, Alister McMillan, Georgina Windsor, Mahir Ali, James Madden, Zoe Samios, Sandy Bresic, Glynis Traill-Nash, Tim Douglas, Richard Ferguson and anyone else hoping I’d forget it.) It’s been an adventure with you all; without you there wouldn’t have been a thing. Thanks for your correspondence, and thank you for bearing with me as I steered Strewth towards its true destiny: to be a platform for appreciating the fashions of Communications Minister Paul Fletcher. And other important stuff like that. No job too small, and, well, no job too small!

No job too small, no phone too small. It’s a little known fact that most of Ben Stiller's best material comes courtesy of James Jeffrey.

I’ve been blessed to have had one of the most fun jobs in the country, and I’ve been blessed to work here. Before Wynhausen materialises with a short, sharp directive to wrap it up, I’ll say three last things: (a) welcome Alice Workman to this space; (b) continue your adoration of Jon Kudelka; (c) cheerio ’til next time! ~ Fin ~

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