11.3 C
Wednesday, June 20, 2018



We gathered in the street. There was acceptance of difference all around, small children danced spontaneously, an indigenous smoking ceremony gave us hope as we were reminded about the owners of the land where we were standing or sitting, while a film was projected on the wall. It said it all:

“There are two sides for every one-sided story – yours and yours.”

Throughout the night, the entertainment mixed elements of love and respect with an underpinning of sadness.

Philippa Armstrong, the editor of the “Roomers” magazine organized the evening. It celebrated the magazine’s 21st birthday, along with honouring the work that the Gatwick have done for the community, and the talents of its residents. It was opened by the Deputy Mayor, Katherine Copsey.

Maurya Bourandanis read her poem, noting that the Gatwick had been ‘somewhere meant for me – somewhere where there was respect for me.” A respect not readily found in today’s communities that tend to judge worth by material success. The Gatwick was a place where all are accepted as fellow humans – no questions asked.

Jem Buckley told of the six years of his life spent there. The people he met who helped him through a difficult time “blew my mind.” He added that he even had his toenails cut. This latter is no small gift.

Anna Brandt spoke of the importance of the warmth and safety of the writers group as they shared stories. Tim Rodgers sang for all and Wendy Butler, poet, artist and performer extraordinaire told of the Indian Ladies and their food van, from which they regularly dispensed meals and other necessities for the vulnerable members of the community. Most importantly, they did it without ‘preaching or judgemental crap,” just with love.

The twin sisters, Rose Banks and Yvette Kelly who have given 46 years of their life providing this important service, were lauded by all. The sisters and the Gatwick have acted as a scapegoat for societal problems for too long. Which says more about us than them. They’ve stopped more problems than they’ve caused.

Yes, Fitzroy Street has problems. They have not been fixed by turning a once beautiful four-lane boulevard into one lane each way, a mess of concrete ridges that adversely affects older pedestrians, huge tram stops which hinder more people than they assist, a confusing bike path, and the removal of parking. Combine these changes with commercial ones, such as the high rents that lead to shop closures, and you might have some answers.

The technological changes in society where more people are daily being forced into vulnerable situations are an added complication. Changing the Gatwick to high priced apartments may have short term benefits, but after that, the situation will deteriorate. And then, who are you going to blame?

Wendy wrote the following, in 2006, to the rhythm of ‘Blame it on the Kellys’ which Shel Silverstein wrote for the Ned Kelly movie, starring Mick Jagger. She said she was inspired by the Gatwick being wrongfully blamed for a mess left by backpackers in a nearby street.


Homeless camp in Fitzroy Street, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Rubbish thrown in Jackson Street, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Keith Richards fall down from a tree, Football fans go on a spree,

St. Kilda player hurts his knee, Blame it on the Gatwick.


Hoons in heat drive round the street, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Local girls work their beat, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Public transport running late, Howard’s reached his ‘use by date,’                                                

Mary Kehoe’s waits its fate, Blame it on the Gatwick.


Parking attendant beaten up, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Beggar holding out his cup, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Woman dies on PO cruise, Italians beat the Socceroos,

Local drunks are on the booze, Blame it on the Gatwick.


Nightclub revellers urinate, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Drunken hoons regurgitate, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Hewie’s restaurant closing down, Burrito’s Café leaving town,

St. Kilda’s score is going down, Blame it on the Gatwick.


Local milk bar losing trade, Blame it on the Gatwick

Tourist chased a man with blade, Blame it on the Gatwick

Police assaulted on the beat, an accident at Arthur’s Seat,

St. Kilda suffers new defeat, Blame it on the Gatwick.


Frasier’s dog has passed away, Blame it on the Gatwick

Computer virus holding sway, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Superman takes off again, Naomi Campbell chucks her phone,

Hungry Lions on the prowl, Blame it on the Gatwick


Wendy’s poem highlights the powerful effect the Gatwick has had on the St. Kilda scene. I thought of another rendition of the poem that could apply:


“Homeless girl has a place at last, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Sad man’s suicidal thoughts are past, Blame it on the Gatwick.

Hunger’s gone, I needn’t steal, a comfy bed, the cold I don’t feel,

There’s finally hope that this time I’ll cope,

Blame it on the Gatwick.”


But what will we do now that we’ve killed the scapegoat? It’s one of our major coping mechanisms. Maybe it’s always been so. Kris Kristofferson sang about it when he performed at the Palais.

“Everybody needs someone to look down on,

Someone doing something dirty, decent folks can frown on”

He finished with:

“If you ain’t got nobody else, just help yourself to me.”

Kris is in another hemisphere at the moment, but he’s given me a good idea. I’m here. You can “Blame it on Brenda”


Brenda.      With help from Wendy Butler.



It was a pleasant afternoon. We imbibed the odd glass of something and reminisced over past adventures, like falling in a canal in Venice, waltzing in the Vienna Stadtpark (well one of us was waltzing, the tall one was getting pushed around) staying in a youth hostel in the black District in New Orleans, and catching crabs in Karachi. The years stripped away and we were taming the world again.

Still glowing with the warmth of the memories, or something, I decided I could climb up the two steps to the front door without hanging onto anything except a large bag of shopping. Big mistake.

Somehow I went into a backflip with half twist, forget the Pike, and speared into a brick wall. The Olympic diving team would have been proud of me. Unfortunately, the recovery left something to be desired. Shopping went one way, handbag containing mobile another, and I was flat on my back going nowhere. It was just after dusk and Melbourne was having a cold spell. I was the only one home for the next two days.

I laid there for a while, doing nothing but checking for broken bones, flowing blood, and slowly freezing to death. This is not a good look. Some sort of action was required, and best were done while the mishap adrenalin was still providing some anaesthetic.

With one mighty struggle, I made it onto my front, and from there managed to get up with the aid of the cat’s chair. After collecting the scattered bags, I got inside and flopped onto the bed, clothes groceries and etcetera. Eureka, I was still alive.

The injured bits made themselves felt over the next few days. It was interesting times. I learnt how often I used the fingers on the non preferred hand, particularly the ones that were obviously entangled in the load of shopping while I was flinging things around, and there was probably a reason we’re born with two legs, as they nicely balance each other. One part of the skull which had become corrugated, kept warning me not to lie on it.

But someone or something, came to my rescue. It was the cat. I woke up in the middle of the night to find him draped around my head like a Davy Crocket hat. Did he know that I was hurt and he was keeping the damaged bit warm? What a thoughtful cat, even if his tail did go into windscreen wiper mode across my face whenever he thought I should feed him.

Then the situation got worse. A few nights ago I woke to find him licking my head as if I was a kitten he needed to groom. Waking up to a head full of saliva is not the most pleasant way to start the day, so I insisted he desist, but the damage was already done. Or was it undone?

Later, reading a paper over coffee, I came across an article “Kissing it Better Does Work.” (No writer was acknowledged) It claimed that saliva has properties that can boost recovery. It contains a protein, Histalin 1, which reputedly boosts the formation of blood vessels. This is why injuries in the mouth heal quicker than on any other part of the body. Did Dr. Fred Cat know about that when he decided to bathe my head in the treacly substance? Whatever, the head is healing nicely.

Now I’ve got a great idea. If I could just get someone to hold him while I collect his saliva, I could sell it for a fortune. There would be a rush for this new medicine. Cat Spit (Patent Pending) would be flying out the window.

I have discussed the matter with Fred. He told me not to even think about it or he’d give me something requiring more than saliva to fix it.” That cat just has no financial sense. 

 Brenda Richards


“Often away and believed uneducable.”

I stared at the words. This was Phil’s last school report, hand written on a sheet of paper. There was no other information. He had not completed primary school. He had now turned 14, six foot tall, and wanting to live at my place, which was then an open house. Of course he could, but as he was under the school leaving age, he would have to go to school.

I had briefly met Phil as a small boy, not long before he returned to Tasmania. I looked again at the school report. What did it mean? Then Phil told me a bit about his life in Tasmania. The last of his school years saw him living with a relative who was more often alcoholically affected than not. Often he did not have a proper bed, but slept in a chair. Phil, of Maori heritage, found acceptance in the indigenous community. A fun night out was joining his new friends in the game of ‘stoning’ street lights. Phillip always had good hand eye co-ordination, and unfortunately ‘blacked out’ a number of streets.

Then the welfare got to hear about his situation – and Phil got to hear about their interest in him. He moved himself to the local tip, “so the welfare wouldn’t get me.” He lived there for some months, eating pumpkin, and whatever else he could scrounge.

What was I doing, sending this young man back into a system that had completely failed him? Was the report an accurate assessment? Maybe he was ‘uneducable.’ How would he possibly cope? Was I setting up another failure in a life that had been marked by abuse? The questions swirled around in my head.

Then Phil described how he got a job in the local foundry when he was thirteen, putting his age up to match his height.

“People look down on us for working in the foundry,” he told me, “But they don’t know that we look down on them because they can’t work hard.”
This was not the observation of an unintelligent boy. But how would he handle the school environment. He couldn’t go back into a primary situation or even the first years of high school. He was too large, and had lived beyond his years.

A friend heard of my dilemma.

“What you need is Speed.’ 

“I’m not really into drugs, although a glass of wine wouldn’t go astray.”
“No,” he informed me. ‘You need Harold Speed. He’s a teacher.”

Teachers hadn’t played a positive part in Phil’s life up to now, in fact few adults had. I was dubious.

“Speed’s different. He lives in Elwood, so he knows life. Where education concerned, he’s your man. He’s at the Prahran Tech.”

I had nothing to lose, so I made an appointment. A snowy haired older man met me. I barely had time to present the problem. Harold was off and running.

“He needs to go into Form Three at his age and height. It’s best if the other kids don’t know his history. The same goes for the teachers – except for his class teacher. I’ve got a good one in mind. I’ll word her up.”

I wondered how Phil would fit in, with his extraordinary experiences.

“How’s he off for clothes? Appearances shouldn’t count, but they do.”
“He’s basically got what he’s standing up in.”
“What’s his size? I know some people who can help.”

The ‘people’ Harold knew, were the cast of Jesus Christ Superstar, then playing at the Palais.

I discovered that when the gentle Harold spoke, people tended to obey. The members of the group were pleased, or coerced, to donate from their wardrobe. Phil was lining up to be the best dressed kid in the school.

Then Harold sorted me out. “You’d better go on the parent / teacher committee as his parent. That’ll give him a boost.”

How could I say no?

“And what about money?”
“There’s no way he’d go near welfare for assistance.”
“Wise boy. He’s a worker. I think I can arrange a small grant for him. Tell him it’s because going to school, after being away for so long, is really hard work. That’ll give him some dignity.”

How Harold managed it, I don’t know, but he did. Phil received a small fortnightly income. On top of that, tutoring from a Fitzroy community centre was arranged. A young woman arrived weekly on Thursday after school. Phil was thrilled when he explained fractions to me, using her voice. “What you do to the bums, you do to the tops. Simple.” Phil was on his way.

How did Phil go? He got a pass halfway through the year, although not being quite up to the Form standard. It was explained that the pass was because he had achieved so much in a short time. He passed in his own right at the end of the year.

Eventually, Phil went on to do a business course at the Australian Institute of Management, which was then in St. Leonards Avenue. He ended up running his own cleaning business, and as a respected member of his community, is a lasting memorial to Harold.

Harold lived through two world wars and the Depression. He had a vast knowledge of the world and a fierce intelligence. There were no teachers’ colleges when he started out. He trained through the apprenticeship system, working with experienced teachers. At times he dealt with up to 70 children in a class, yet to him, each student was important. He saw courage and strength in people where others were blind. Harold brought out the best in people.

He was part of the push to have a library in St. Kilda and was politically active in the Labor movement.

Harold Speed lived in Elwood for some 70 years. He died this year, aged 98. He was a Port Phillip man with extra-ordinary vision.

We should all aspire to ‘live up to Speed.’

*Harold’s son, Professor Terry Speed, proved that Ronald Ryan, the last man hanged in Victoria, was innocent. The trajectory of the bullet showed that it could not have been fired by Ryan.