Graham Kennedy's letters reveal true artist

GRAHAM Kennedy's letters to his 'oldest living friend' reveal the anxieties and wit of an introspective artist and a natural writer.

DURING his long career, there were millions of words written about the great TV star Graham Kennedy. But, of all those published few were written by him, his personal words.

Now a 76-year-old pensioner, Henry Gay, has released a carefully hoarded correspondence, with the man known as the King revealing the private and personal side that he went to great pains to keep from the public.

Kennedy's sexual and social life was a closed book and for more than 40 years he was sphinx-like and teasingly evasive, protected by courtier-like journalists.

Kennedy in his letters often calls Gay "Dear Oldest Living Friend" and they corresponded until just before Kennedy's death in 2005. They first met in 1950 when the fragile Kennedy, with his distinctive high-pitched voice and respectful manner, joined Radio 3UZ in Melbourne, where Gay worked in the record library.

"On first meeting Graham I could hardly believe this very pale, thin bloke was capable of running," Gay says in his covering letter to the bag of documents sent to this newspaper in a slightly battered postal bag with a stamp bearing a photograph of Melbourne's Luna Park.

"In fact, I was surprised at the way he walked, with his feet sticking out at 45 degree angles; he waddled like a drunken penguin."

The letters are remarkably revealing, a kind of beautifully written trip through the thoughts, anxieties and wit of an unusually private and introspective artist.

Kennedy speaks of his family, something he rarely did even with close friends, of whom there were never many.

"My father didn't want to know me until I was making a mark in the biz. (People are horrified when I say that I didn't care all that much for my parents - but I didn't I'm afraid.)"

On another occasion Kennedy writes: "Parents are always to blame, Henry. My father and mother were always fighting in front of me when I was a little boy - wouldn't you think they'd know that was damaging?"

Occasionally frank with selected journalists during his long career, Kennedy did admit he had often wished his parents had never married and that he felt betrayed when they divorced when he was only nine. Something he discusses with Gay:

"Why is it, I wonder, that it always appears worse if the mother is an adulterer but not so much if the father is?"

And in another letter Kennedy delivers an almost Henry Lawson-like sketch of family gatherings at his childhood home.

"As a little boy I used to dread the Christmas dinner at the Kennedys," he writes. "Five minutes after arrival, there would be a terrible row between Dad and Pop and Uncle Eddy, and Grandma Kennedy trying to get the dinner on time: before pudding, no one, absolutely no one was talking."

Later in Kennedy's life, he writes constantly of his increasing health problems, nearly all of them couched in his distinctive self-deprecating tone.

"When I hear from people who have problems, I like to write to them about others who are much worse off," Kennedy says. "The trouble here, Henry, is that I can't think of anyone who is worse off."

For all Kennedy's mordant documentation of his failing health toward the end of the correspondence, much of the correspondence is funny and jokey. And Kennedy and Gay constantly sent each other books and records featuring authors and artists they enjoyed.

"Thank you for the book which came to me direct from your lavatory; did you have to tell me?" Kennedy says.

"That's one of the things I don't like about unit living: I'm constantly aware that just a few yards away from me strangers are defecating, breaking wind and rooting. It's like living permanently in a hotel."

Across the years they discuss recording artists, many of whom had been favourites since their days together in the record library at Melbourne radio station 3UZ.

"Your mention of Peggy Lee reminded me of her last tour here (she's about 98, you know)," Kennedy writes. "I asked Patty Moyston (who was handling the press for Ms Lee) how the show was going and she said, 'Well, I'll put it this way - last night she remembered nearly all of Fever'."

On another occasion: "Thanks so much for the Sinatra - what a wonderful feast. And all those carefully rehearsed screams-swoons (which I'd forgotten) brought back many fond memories."

He also sent Gay cooking tips and recipes. "Tell the little woman that broken pavs can be easily fixed - just dump more fruit or cream on the breach and confidently pretend that that's the way you meant it to be," he writes sounding like a TV chef, which he might have been in a different era.

"I've done this more than once: one memorable meringue not only collapsed but broke into a million pieces when a plate fell on it. I simply put it back together like a jigsaw puzzle and fashioned whipped cream all over it, sides and top, and it looked fine. In any case, the f..kers taste the same no matter what you do to them. A mousse that fails to set becomes a 'rich chocolate sauce' in this house."

Kennedy appears fascinated with making ice cream, constantly telling Gay about his kitchen triumphs through the late 1980s in Sydney, before he retired and moved to the Southern Highlands of NSW.

Gay says that Kennedy actually sent him an ice cream-making machine, as well as a "stereo outfit" and his extensive record collection.

"Ansett delivered the cartons a few days ago: I will pack them, myself and mark the boxes that contain cast albums in alphabetical order," Kennedy writes. Later he informs Gay that one of the records was actually worth more than $4000 because of the packaging. Gay had it framed and sent back to Kennedy for Christmas with the legend, "In case of being broke, break glass".

Kennedy speaks at length of the innovative and controversial Graham Kennedy's News Show for the Nine Network which he hosted with sports presenter Ken Sutcliffe, just back from the 1988 winter Olympics in Calgary. Kennedy made news - with its conventions of seriousness and urgency - confront the traditions of vaudeville, transforming each.

The deal to pull Kennedy into such a format had been brokered by Sam Chisholm, managing director of Nine through the office of Kennedy's then agent Harry M. Miller.

"I was trying to save them money and they only want to lavish it on me and the program," Kennedy wrote. "I don't want three telephone lines, nor a fax machine, nor an office at the station, nor eight producers but I have all this apparently."

Kennedy tells Gay he thought five jackets would be enough for the show ("Anchormen don't wear trousers, of course") but Nine insisted he have 50 suits, shirts, and ties all handmade by a Double Bay tailor.

"The best part (my suggestion) is the unlimited account with Astra Hire Cars, which means I can use a limo for anything, not just going to and from work each night."

This part of the deal caused Kennedy great merriment, as any chance to take advantage of Nine always did. "When I won this I caused Sam Chisholm to go white when I said, 'Oh boy, I've always wanted to do the Nullarbor in a chauffeur-driven limousine'."

Then there was the famous Ray Martin Presents Graham Kennedy's Sixtieth in February 1994, an interview program with archival film sequences that bitterly displeased the King, who was by then happily ensconced at his property in the Southern Highlands.

"I didn't watch the show nor did I have any input in the selection of the clips," he wrote. "They sent the chopper for me at 10am; we went to tape at noon and after 90 minutes I stood up and shouted 'lunch', and went to the boardroom. Ray didn't ask any of the questions he faxed so I lost interest and said f...k a lot so they couldn't use any of the bits I didn't care for. If this is what it feels like at 60, I don't think I want to be 70."

Kennedy also ventured into film acting in the '70s, going "first class" he called it, pushing towards what he felt were greater things. After the nightly rough house of television, he sought greater status in cinema and a more genteel pedigree. But this never stopped him whingeing to Gay about how hard it was.

"Learning lines is hell; every time I do a movie, it's agony," he tells Gay. "Many believe that only a few lines are shot at a time so you don't need to know it all; that's not true: the actor must know the whole screenplay right from the beginning of the shoot because they might swap scenes around without notice."

Kennedy liked to say said what he did couldn't really be defined: "I don't classify myself as a comedian, though sometimes I'm funny. I can't interview anyone. I can't sing and I can't dance - but I can talk."

But as this strange bundle of correspondence, covering almost five decades, reveals, he could write.