Birthdays are only as good as the last Adele song you’ve listened to recently. Eating crispy skin chicken with vegetables (perfect ketones dinner) a week before I declare my last year over and done with, I ponder my journey from my home town to now over a Sav Blanc, served in a cheap glass at the China Bar on Brunswick street, comforted by the fact that the chicken is bloody tasty.
The last decade has gone fast, just like a good pop song I decide, over in 3 minutes. Adele’s voice on radio fills the Chinese kitchen, smoke billowing towards the ceiling, spilling into the restaurant. If this is to be, I think to myself, my last birthday before I set fire to it, would I be happy with the songs I’ve sung? Would I be satisfied with those I have loved ? And the art I’ve left behind? No I would not be happy, or fulfilled I believe, tugging the crispy skin clean off the chicken leg with my teeth just as Adele finishes Rolling in the Deep. This realisation of my scars draws my attention to two young hipsters seated on the table beside me, the boy wearing a Nervo T-Shirt and the girl wearing a flowered jacket. Seated together in total silence, they finish off a large plate of sizzling beef just as the waitress snatches my bones away…chicken bones that is, removing my plate from the table.
As I leave, pulling my hoodie over my head, I notice all the people in the restaurant on Friday at 9.30pm are… coupled. I am the only one alone? How’d that happen? But, is this what I want? Silence over sizzling beef, coupledom over cheap Chinese chop sticks? Is this what I dream of? Nervo, flower power jackets served up on a hot bed of white boiled rice? I decide there and then it’s too early in night to answer my eternal questioning, so I cowardly push all thoughts aside. I pay my bill and I leave, thankful for the cheap wine, Adele songs, tasty meal and full tummy.
‘Baby don’t let the lights go out’
Outside in the fresh winter air, I walk by crowded music joints, nightclubs, and more young hipsters. I examine my fading smile, reflected back at me in a book shop window, I could have had it all, I think? Looking up I notice the street peppered with large black and white posters that announce with drum roll – ‘You Are All The Same.’
Am I the same as everyone else? Are we all the same as each other?
I pray this is not true and turn the corner, making my way to a drag club on Johnston Street just as it starts to rain. Inside I order a skinny bitch in a short glass and sit watching the 10.30pm show. ‘It’s a week before your next birthday’ pops-up in my head, much like a TV news flash or a storm warning. Hurricane Andy! Who stole my time? Where’s it gone? It won’t be coming back anytime soon I conclude and quickly down my drink and order another. Hurricane Skinny Bitch!
My thoughts are interrupted by someone who knows me, a crew member who worked on a play I wrote and directed for Midsumma called ‘Andy Warhol’s 15 Minutes of Fame’ back in 2013.
“Hello. It’s me?” I didn’t recognise her, she’d changed.
Noel? Is that you?” she asked, her voice breaking my constant internal dialogue. “How are you?”
Is it me? I must wake up.
“How is your mother?” I ask her.
I am the sum of the songs I’ve sung, parts I’ve played. The damage I’ve caused.
“Mum is well” she answered, adjusting her blonde hair.
I am my losses. My loves. My doubts. My past, not perfect. But, it’s mine? I am not the same. Let it burn I think.
Back to reality, I chatted for a bit to my friend, watched the next show, downed my final skinny bitch and left the club, comfortable in my hoodie and the damp cold air.
As birthdays go, I’m not sure yet if this next one will be memorable but it is a good time to put the house in order I realise, rearrange old values, toss out those old clothes and set fresh challenges.
As I pass Naked for Satan I hear Adele singing somewhere in the distance, her English accent reminding me of when I was young. Album 19, 21, 25 … then, 27, 32, 42, 47, the years I recall as memorable… to me. Turning points, turning tables, songs and albums, tracks of unequalled pain and bittersweet romance. Somewhere, someday, I know there will be a new fire starting in my heart. I have at least one album left inside of me, I think, maybe two?…I am not counting.
Adele singing Skyfall fades away as I turn into Smith Street, make my way along the road, chasing pavements. I button up my jacket and I disappear under the glow of the street lights, neon signs and boutique beer. Nothing matters, old friends and rumours lost in the dance of life, memories like lovers, ‘water under the bridge.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR – Noel has directed over 50 theatrical productions and worked in film and TV. He completed NIDA’s Playwright Studio in 1996. Noel’s written work includes the play Andy Warhol’s Fifteen Minutes of Fame and the musical Audrey Hepburn and I Consider Our Assets. Learn more: Noel Anderson Website
R is for Rear Window – based on a short story by Cornel Woolrich…believe it or not, I didn’t see Rear Window until I was in my mid 20’s as Rear Window disappeared from public view after its initial run. Hitchcock had withdrawn it from circulation, and held the copyright. My first viewing of Rear Window was at the Sydney Film Festival in the State Theatre and the event was hosted by no other than, James Stewart. Hitchcock had passed away sometime earlier. I remember watching it with my partner at the time. My relationship sadly didn’t go the distance but Rear Window certainly has stood the test of time. I love it! My rating 5 stars – Murder delivered perfectly, with a touch of class.
I is for Ingrid Pitt – Mum and dad often dropped me out front of the Capital Theatre in the city. One Saturday arvo I went to see an M rated movie (kids must be accompanied by an adult) on my own called the Vampire Lovers, with Hammer Horror’s leading scream queen, Ingrid Pitt. The Vampire Lovers is a film full of…well, saucy lesbian vampires and lots of tits. Mum had no idea what the movie was about, I didn’t tell her. God knows what I made of all the heavy breathing and girl-on-vampire-dyke-action. But, to this day The Vampire Lovers is one of my favourite lesbian thriller/horror films. My rating 5 stars – See it with someone you want to have sex with 😀
L is for The Last Wave – I can’t pass up mentioning this great Aussie thriller directed by Peter Weir. The Last Wave was made by South Australian Film Corporation at a time when Australians loved hearing the Aussie accents on screen and cinema chains invested heavily in Australian movies with a Hollywood star, in this case Richard Chamberlain. Australian films at the time were billed as an event. The Last Wave started my interest in aboriginal culture, and the ‘dreamtime.’ I even have a pair of message sticks in my home, a gift from the Festival of Dreaming which I worked on in Sydney, a year before the Olympic Games. My rating for The Last Wave is 5 stars – Thought provoking, alarming, spiritual stuff.
S is for Suspiria – Where do I start? An adult fairytale handled with flair and grandeur by one of the worlds great auteurs. Suspiria was released with a pounding soundtrack by Italian pop group the Goblins. I remember sitting alone in a cinema on George Street in Sydney and being bowled over by its brilliance. Suspiria introduced me to another idol, the Italian Hitchcock, Dario Argento. In fact I became obsessed with Italian thrillers, particularly ‘giallo.’ You know, where the murder is seen from the perspective of the killer, often a gloved hand holding a big bloody knife. My rating 5 stars – Unforgettable
Liz meets her therapist Rod, who has the looks of a movie star. During her first therapy session, Liz is constantly interrupted by voices in her head, one of them is Audrey Hepburn, who behaves like one of the characters from famous movies – ‘My Fair Lady, A Roman Holiday and Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’ Rod wonders just how many voices are actually inside Liz’s mind.
At her Catholic school, Liz is given the lead role of Eliza Doolittle, a role made famous by her Audrey Hepburn in Hollywood film ‘My Fair Lady’. At rehearsals, Liz starts behaving more like a diva every minute, insisting on changing the lines from the play, which makes her unpopular with the teachers.
Mum hurries to dress, she’s late for a date with a young man she met on the internet. Audrey Hepburn sits watching the scene unfold like a 1940’s screwball comedy, excited that mum had the guts to cruise the internet. Things spiral out of control when Caroline declares she is pregnant to Liz’s father and Emad gate crashes the house, proudly announces he is in fact mum’s internet date…and they’re off to see Now Voyager at the Astor Cinema. On hearing this, Liz fears she’ll fall apart and reminds Emad that Now Voyager is one of their favourite Bette Davis films. Liz is left alone with her imaginary friend Audrey Hepburn, together they ponder the meaning of love. Audrey Hepburn tells Liz to just accept life, unconditionally. 
Expecting a battle of the minds, Liz is surprised to find Audrey Hepburn is packed and ready to go. The two old friends hug and say their goodbyes. Audrey disappears as if by magic, back into the world of movie marathons and Hollywood make believe. Audrey’s parting words are as Eliza Doolittle, “Now common drover move ya bloody rear, ya got a train to catch.” Dad arrives to take Liz to the train station. He notices she has grown into a strong independent woman and believes now, without Audrey and in a good mindset, she can do anything her heart desires. Dad is proud of her, even of what she wears. 
Flinders Street Station under the Clocks – Liz waits for a train to Perth. Just as she is about to board Len arrives with a suitcase. Liz tells him that Audrey Hepburn is gone for good! They kiss in the busy train station as millions of people walk by. 
Revisiting a murder, in this case my father’s murder, is not an easy thing to do. There must be something deep inside of me that wants to set the record straight. Usually when a loved one dies their secrets are buried in the ground with them, never to resurface. We want to remember the dead fondly in coloured portraits or grainy black and white photographs of yesterday. Imagine years later, standing in your sister’s kitchen and being handed something as simple as a faded letter, about the death of your father, dark memories come floating back. How do you deal with pain hidden-away since a child about a winter’s nightmare, in a hotel car park, a long time ago? It’s a mystery, like a classic crime novel only with the final chapter ripped from the book. This is my father’s story and also mine. Because believe it or not I was there, just a kid drinking raspberry lemonade.
CHILDHOOD DREAMS – They say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I believe this to be true. You see there’s a twist in the story I’m telling about my dad’s final moments and it’s that I was there, just a kid in the car, drinking lemonade with raspberry cordial, watching safely at a distance. Waiting with a friend for mum and dad to drive us home. ‘Stay here, I was told, and wait for mum. I won’t be long.’ On that night, as I sat chatting, I remember thinking ‘what’s that shouting about’, and started looking around to see where the male voices were coming from. I saw the brawl but had no idea dad was involved. I remember punches flying, and seeing three men (bouncers) in a circle, on the their hands large rings or maybe a knuckle busters. Then suddenly, everything fell deathly quite. The fight ended. I only found out dad had been involved in the fight when mum came running back to the car, her face white as a ghost, screaming ‘Oh, God. Your father been bashed. Move over Noel. Jesus there’s blood everywhere. We’ve got to get him to hospital’ On that cold winter night, I remember dad being carried to the car, blood dripping freely onto his shirt. ‘I can’t hear. I can’t hear’. I remember seeing his face cut, bruised and bleeding through the car window, the car door opening and him falling in. I shuffled across the back seat of the car, scared…dad slumped forward, his eyes lifeless, and we drove off.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR – Noel has directed over 50 theatrical productions and worked in film and TV. He completed NIDA’s Playwright Studio in 1996 and studied directing in London and New York. Noel’s written work includes the play Andy Warhol’s Fifteen Minutes of Fame and the musical Audrey Hepburn and I Consider Our Assets. Noel believes in the power of music, pop art and Campbell’s Soup (thanks to Mr Warhol). Learn more: 
I’m on a Jetstar plane travelling to Sydney for the 40th anniversary of the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. So, naturally I’m thinking queer history and the evolution of LGBTQ community in Australia. It has been colourful and at times a painful journey, from persecution to liberation. Recently of course, Australians turned out in their thousands and voted ‘YES’ to marriage equality, reminding the ‘NO’ voters including ex-PM Tony Abbott, leading ‘NO’ vote supporter, what a ‘fair go’ really means, and possibly also redefining exactly what it means to be a ‘dinkum Aussie’ in modern terms. It was also a joy to lean, so many heterosexual Aussies believed in the power of love.
Having grown up a Sydneysider, the history of that 78ERS is well known to me. In fact, I can’t think of the Sydney Mardi Gras without remembering the efforts of the men and women that paved the way for the liberal minded country we live in today. I believe that message of love started way back in 1978 at that very first protest march. So, I thought I’d take a moment ‘Before the parade passes by’ to reflect on that single great event in queer history, the one that started the whole damn ‘Mardi Gras Parade’ thing.
Saturday 24 June, 1978 – A buzz was in the chilly night air, as a small group of men and women gathered at Taylor Square to celebrate the anniversary of the Stonewall riots in New York. The bars on Oxford Street were bustling with late night crowds waiting to see what the night would bring. Often that meant heading to one of three key openly gay venues, in particular Cappriccio’s, which was nearby. However, this Saturday night was very different. 
As 11pm approached, a throng of people – some walking, some dancing, a few even skipping – marched down towards Hyde Park. Chants of “Out of the bars and into the streets” joined the sound of gay liberation anthems ‘Glad to be Gay’ and ‘Ode to a Gym Teacher’ emanating from the small sound system on the back of a single flat-bed truck, driven by Lance Gowland.
The NSW Police, however, were not in such a joyous mood. Despite the issuing of a permit for the march, the police began to usher the revellers down the street. When the marchers reached Hyde Park, the police confiscated the truck and sound system. The crowd began to move towards Kings Cross. Once there the police swooped in, blocking the dispersing crowd and throwing people into paddy-wagons. The crowd fought back and 53 were subsequently charged at Darlinghurst police station.
Although most charges were eventually dropped, The Sydney Morning Herald published the names, occupations and addresses of those arrested in full, outing many and causing some to lose their jobs. This was the authorities’ attempt to keep the community in line, but Sydney’s gays and lesbians would not get back in line. Little did those witnessing and partaking in the march know, this was to be the start of Mardi Gras and would become a defining moment not only in Australia’s LGBTQI rights history, but a defining moment in the cultural heritage of Australia.
Wandering through the miles of fabric and dresses, outfits, hats and sequins, I am reminded of the hours of love and creativity it takes to be part of the parade. And, I’m also reminded of the many friends lost to HIV back in the 1980’s and 90’s.
For me, Mardi Gras is part of my DNA, I own it. Like my birth place, Sydney, it will always be in my soul. Wherever I roam, I will draw strength from the 78ERS, the men and women who fought the good fight, so generations of LGBTQ Australians could live and prosper in a better world.
THE FACTS OF LIFE – To say my father was good man would be a lie. In my mind, I remember him in a series of flashbacks, moments of violent domestic mayhem and flashes of toothy smiles and kindness, followed by a gentle pat on the head. To say when he died of massive brain injuries to the head in Sydney, I wasn’t relieved, would be untrue. I was relieved, and so was mum probably. But, also to say that I didn’t feel the loss of my father’s love, would be a lie. I clearly recall my mother sitting beside me in the car outside Canterbury Hospital and announcing dad’s death. “Your father passed away. He’s dead, son” she said, plain and simple. “They killed him. The bastards.” We sat huddled together in the car a long time, mum crying. Years later when I thought about dad, and his temperament, I thought he was just probably very unhappy with his lot in life.
