December 24th 2015 – It’s been 38 years since the full moon last appeared on Christmas Day, 1977 in fact.
The young waitress drops a fork, kicks it under a nearby table and totally breaks my train of thought. I look up from my cup and I think. The restaurant is full and the day warmish. I’m sipping coffee dressed in shorts and T-shirt, Melbourne colours of black and grey, while happy Queenslanders all around me dressed in flowery clothing, chat away over large serves of pancakes, bacon and eggs.
I flick through the Courier Mail, a terrorist arrested in Sydney, another mindless shooting in Melbourne, is it really Christmas Eve 2015 I wonder? I’m not sure judging by the headlines so I check the date on front of the paper, wishing the toothache that’s troubled me since arriving at Brisbane airport several days ago would just bugger off. But, the toothache is not going anywhere despite the antibiotics I swallowed an hour ago.
Back to my thoughts…
I bet everyone in this restaurant has their own idea of what makes ‘A Perfect Christmas’ I casually think to myself! Christmas – A time spent with loved ones, family, friends or whomever. I think a little bit more, stirring an extra sugar into my coffee as I run my tongue over my sore tooth. I’m not sure I ever really thought about Christmas in a perfect way before or any event for that matter, I mean what is perfect? I’ve always been attracted to things less than perfect I recall. I remember birthday parties I’ve had only because of what’s gone wrong during the night, dinners that I have totally burnt and ruined beyond salvation, and of course blind dates that I’ve had that have gone horribly pear-shaped.
In fact, thinking way too much once again, it’s these imperfect events and days have ruled my life, invaded my memories and (I swear I believe this) have made me a much better person, stronger man. I mean you can’t enjoy a perfect Christmas without first experiencing several imperfect ones, right?
Yes, it’s the imperfect days and events that rule us, teach us valuable life lessons, help us grow and that we talk endlessly about years later, and will continue to do so until the end of time probably, or the end of the last Christmas drink. Whatever comes first!
I shuffle in my chair, someone with bleached blonde hair orders a hot chocolate and I shift back to thoughts of ‘imperfection’ and Christmas.
One imperfect Christmas I clearly remember was when I was living in Docklands and I got a very bad gastric bug and spent almost three days sitting on the toilet, alone. I remember the only thing I wanted was Kentucky Fried Chicken while I squatted, God knows why but I had a mad craving for a juicy fried leg or thigh, I didn’t care really what piece of chicken I ate, I just wanted it. I sat in the bathroom for hours daydreaming about bloody fried chicken, and those eleven special herbs and spices. Once I was feeling better, I bolted from my flat, crossed the Yarra River and headed straight to the Kentucky Fried Chicken shop in Crown Casino and I ordered the biggest bucket of fried chicken I could buy. I found a nice place in the sun and I spent all Boxing Day by the Yarra snuggled up to my bucket of fried chicken, daydreaming.
It turned out to be the one Christmas I’d never forget! Why? Because it was imperfect and you just can’t plan Christmas days like that.
I close the newspaper and put it back on the magazine stand and make my way down the street to my sister’s house listening to the song Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas on my iPhone. 
As I walk up the driveway I think to myself this will be the first full moon in 38 years, fancy that, and I open the front door…then I think really fast, I should go inside and write something.
About the author – Noel Anderson has worked in film and theatre and is currently adapting his play Sammy & Dave into a film. Noel has directed over 50 theatrical productions. Checkout Noel’s new Podcast ‘Email To My 17-Year-Old Self‘ on Podbean and on iTunes Channel ‘Noel Anderson’s 15 Minutes of Fame‘
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 their hand’s, large rings or maybe knuckle busters. Then suddenly, everything fell deathly quiet. 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.
