came up close. âITâS AFLAME.â That was the Sun News Pictorial banner headline, with the rest of the front page showing the runner Ron Clarke squinting into the sparks and smoke as he carried the Olympic torch into the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Despite the concerns of the Olympic supremo Avery Brundage, Melbourne had made it on time and was famous for the Warholian number of days.
A huge inflated kangaroo floated above the city, with a giant pink Aspro packet sticking up from the pouch. When the wind blew it moved in rhythmic thrusts, as if mythically engendering the spectacle beneath.
Tickets had gone quickly, and I could only manage one to the heavyweight boxing, in which a fair-haired, fast-moving Russian danced around an acromegalic Bulgarian giant for four rounds before he did a King Kong collapse onto the canvas. It was the exact opposite of what was going on in Europe, where the Russians had invaded Hungary to put down a revolt against Communist rule.
The revolt was crushed, but the battle continued when the two countries met in the water polo. There was blood in the water when the game was halted by the referee. Hungary was leading, and was credited with a victory, and went on to win the gold medal. Half the Hungarian delegation refused to go back.
Until November 1956, a Berlin Wall of provincialism surrounded Melbourne. The Games broke it open, and television, which had just arrived, poured through the gap. We stood at electrical shop windows to watch Bruce Gyngell usher it in. He was in a dinner suit, and behind him were packets of Vincentâs Aspirin Powders arranged to form the letters TV. The symbolism was perfect.
The findings of the Royal Commission set up before television was introduced sound like something from the Dead Sea Scrolls. âThe objective from the outset must be to provide programmes that would have the effect of raising standards of public taste. The danger is that success depends on an appeal to numbers, and it is difficult to escape mediocrity and vulgar sensationalism .â âVulgarâ now sounds dated and snobbish, but thatâs what most television now is: the V in TV.
Funny eyes
In December 1956, with the school year closing and me secretly planning to join Desmond OâGrady in Rome, the teachers had a wind-up dinner. I managed the stairs quite well afterwards, opened my door, and Carmel Hartâs sitting in the shabby armchair by the windowâthe girl who wouldnât ring, the girl who sailed past in the main street in her red-haired boyfriendâs car (acknowledging me with a wave).
âWhat were you wearing?â I ask her, fifty-four years later. I couldnât remember, and she couldnât either. And why was she there? (Even now I canât really figure it out.) She was back from Bendigo Teachersâ College, had had a row with her parents, and since sheâd broken up with her boyfriend, when she walked out of her house she had nowhere to go.
So I was visited, it seemed, by default. Though what had attracted her, she later told me, was her fatherâs opinion of me after heâd done some repairs at Wandsworth. He had heard me talking to myself on the landing: âHeâs mad.â
After some awkward groping-for-common-ground talk, Carmel Hart said sheâd better be going. But where? That was okayâshe could climb back through a window. âIâll walk you home then.â (Confidence at last!) Instead of farewells at her front gate on the outskirts of town, we agreed they could be better done beside the fenced paddock opposite. It was a summerâs night, the moon was up, we looked, we gazed, and in the words of one of Joseph Hellerâs novels, Something Happened. Falling in love is not only corny, but wrong. Itâs a soaring, with each responding to the other the way birds do, when they court in the air.
When weâd come down to earth I saw her to her gate, said goodbye and, feeling as
A huge inflated kangaroo floated above the city, with a giant pink Aspro packet sticking up from the pouch. When the wind blew it moved in rhythmic thrusts, as if mythically engendering the spectacle beneath.
Tickets had gone quickly, and I could only manage one to the heavyweight boxing, in which a fair-haired, fast-moving Russian danced around an acromegalic Bulgarian giant for four rounds before he did a King Kong collapse onto the canvas. It was the exact opposite of what was going on in Europe, where the Russians had invaded Hungary to put down a revolt against Communist rule.
The revolt was crushed, but the battle continued when the two countries met in the water polo. There was blood in the water when the game was halted by the referee. Hungary was leading, and was credited with a victory, and went on to win the gold medal. Half the Hungarian delegation refused to go back.
Until November 1956, a Berlin Wall of provincialism surrounded Melbourne. The Games broke it open, and television, which had just arrived, poured through the gap. We stood at electrical shop windows to watch Bruce Gyngell usher it in. He was in a dinner suit, and behind him were packets of Vincentâs Aspirin Powders arranged to form the letters TV. The symbolism was perfect.
The findings of the Royal Commission set up before television was introduced sound like something from the Dead Sea Scrolls. âThe objective from the outset must be to provide programmes that would have the effect of raising standards of public taste. The danger is that success depends on an appeal to numbers, and it is difficult to escape mediocrity and vulgar sensationalism .â âVulgarâ now sounds dated and snobbish, but thatâs what most television now is: the V in TV.
Funny eyes
In December 1956, with the school year closing and me secretly planning to join Desmond OâGrady in Rome, the teachers had a wind-up dinner. I managed the stairs quite well afterwards, opened my door, and Carmel Hartâs sitting in the shabby armchair by the windowâthe girl who wouldnât ring, the girl who sailed past in the main street in her red-haired boyfriendâs car (acknowledging me with a wave).
âWhat were you wearing?â I ask her, fifty-four years later. I couldnât remember, and she couldnât either. And why was she there? (Even now I canât really figure it out.) She was back from Bendigo Teachersâ College, had had a row with her parents, and since sheâd broken up with her boyfriend, when she walked out of her house she had nowhere to go.
So I was visited, it seemed, by default. Though what had attracted her, she later told me, was her fatherâs opinion of me after heâd done some repairs at Wandsworth. He had heard me talking to myself on the landing: âHeâs mad.â
After some awkward groping-for-common-ground talk, Carmel Hart said sheâd better be going. But where? That was okayâshe could climb back through a window. âIâll walk you home then.â (Confidence at last!) Instead of farewells at her front gate on the outskirts of town, we agreed they could be better done beside the fenced paddock opposite. It was a summerâs night, the moon was up, we looked, we gazed, and in the words of one of Joseph Hellerâs novels, Something Happened. Falling in love is not only corny, but wrong. Itâs a soaring, with each responding to the other the way birds do, when they court in the air.
When weâd come down to earth I saw her to her gate, said goodbye and, feeling as
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