Hanging out at the Sebel Townhouse

Those were the days. general manager Michael Hall outside the Sebel Townhouse

The Sebel Townhouse in Sydney, like the Chelsea Hotel in New York, had a long association with there’s-no-business-like-showbusiness. Of modest size and unpretentious appearance, the Elizabeth Bay hotel, built in 1963, became the preferred address of touring rock bands, thespians and some resident eccentrics in the ’70s and ’80s.

Coming up from Melbourne for work, I made the Sebel my Sydney home, and I took it for granted you’d share a lift with the likes of John Cleese. Or, in the event of a (false) fire alarm at 3am, find yourself in a foyer full of yawning celebrities in their nighties (Danny La Rue, Marianne Faithfull) or pyjamas (the cast of a Broadway musical). The Sebel was the Tussaud’s of Elizabeth Bay, with mobile waxworks.

There was forever a group of kids on the footpath, holding autograph books in the hope of a celebrity encounter. So when the owners were pondering a new name for their restaurant, I suggested Signatures.

Eventually I moved north and worked at 2UE, with such distinguished alumni as John Laws, Alan Jones and Stan Zemanek. After my late shift I’d go to Signatures to wind down, as would visiting rockers fatigued from filling a stadium. They’d drift in from the legendary Terry’s Bar, hidden behind reception, and by midnight the restaurant would be getting interesting. Brett Whiteley, wearing his little flowerpot hat, was often ensconced in the hope of a conversation with someone famous.

Peter, Paul and Mary. Picture: AP

One night Brett and I were mumbling to each other when we noticed a large blonde lady sitting alone across the room and waving at us. She invited us to join her, and Brett was enraptured to discover that she was Mary, previously of “Peter, Paul and Mary” fame. Her former self a shadow of this post-trio Mary, she was a very hearty, funny lady. Lots of laughs.

Sir Robert Helpmann

Not so funny was Sir Robert Helpmann who, prior to Nureyev’s defection, had been Dame Margot Fonteyn’s favourite partner. Bobby would sit alone in his window seat staring sadly into the night wearing full stage make-up, although he hadn’t pas-de-deux’d for decades. One night he had exciting news. “I’ve got an acting part in a film in New Zealand.” “Good money?” “A thousand!” “A day?” “A week.” A great dancer on the dole. Whereas Nureyev died worth millions.

Long before Hugh Jackman would immortalise him in The Boy from Oz, I spent hours talking – no, listening – to Peter Allen, who was on his way back to the US to be “between the moon and New York City”. Peter was about to premiere his new musical, Legs Diamond, and insisted I sit there as he gave me a preview. Of the entire show. From the overture to final curtain. He sang all the parts for all the songs while conducting an imaginary orchestra, confident he’d be filling his mantelpiece with Tony awards – for his words, his music, his starring role. Sadly, the show was a flop. One of the only failures he suffered, if you exclude a surreal marriage to Liza Minnelli.

Sometimes I didn’t know who I was talking to. I once had a great yarn about all sorts of non-musical things with a highly intelligent bloke from a rock band I hadn’t heard of. Dire something. Told my daughters. “Dad! You idiot!!” they said. “That was Dire Straits!! That was Mark Knopfler!!”

Signatures, which was also where I met the marvellous Magda Szubanski for the first time, is long gone, the Sebel Townhouse converted into luxury apartments. Should have been protected by a Green Ban or the National Trust. While fully occupied.