Bringing the House Down

Barry Cohen AM served as the Member for Robertson from 1969-1990. During his time in parliament, he was Minister for Home Affairs (1983-84) and Minister for Arts, Heritage and the Environment (1984-87). Since leaving politics, Barry Cohen has taken to writing, with columns in The Bulletin, The Australian and The Spectator and as the author of political books, including My Life With Gough, From Whitlam to Winston, The Almost Complete Gough and The Life of the Party – Political Anecdotes. On Tuesday 31 January 2012, Barry Cohen addressed The Sydney Institute to discuss political anecdotes from his most recent book – Bringing the House Down.

BRINGING THE HOUSE DOWN

BARRY COHEN

Firstly let me thank Gerard for inviting me to address The Sydney Institute. When you get that invitation you know you’ve arrived. The Institute does a fabulous job providing a forum for politicians, academics and the commentariat to put their views – safely. Tonight I hope to amuse you with the lighter side of politics.

This is my ninth book, all but one of which has been anecdotal. I’m often asked what promoted me to do it. The simple answer is that it was fun. I didn’t start off to put together a book of political humour but I heard and witnessed so many hilarious stories and brilliant wit from the day I arrived in Canberra that I started to collect them and file them away.

The idea for a book came about when Kim Williams and his then wife, Kathy Lette were staying with us at our home on the Central Coast. At the time I was Minister for the Arts and Kim was the head of the Australian Film Commission. After I had entertained them with some stories, Kathy said, “You must write a book.” She nagged me for about a year before I put pen to paper. Six months later, in late 1987, thanks to Kathy and Jill Wran Life of The Party was launched. It was that first book that led me to become a columnist with firstly The Bulletin and, since 1990, The Australian. My only regret is that I didn’t start earlier.

Now, a little personal background. I joined the Labor Party in 1963, when all you had to be was a worker. I developed a bit of an inferiority complex because all my colleagues were coming in with BAs and LLBs and PhDs. I had one degree in men’s fashion – I owned a menswear shop in St Ives. My brother Paul was an associate professor at Macquarie University. In 1972, I ran for the ministry and narrowly missed out by 48 votes. So I decided to get a university education. I got a mature age matriculation and I went to see the whip. I told him I needed time off to go to lectures. He told me to ask my PM who was Gough Whitlam, a snob on matters academic. If you didn’t have a PhD you didn’t get in. Gough said to me, “Comrade, this is very good of you. But why are you doing it?” I said, “You’re the cause of it.”

In 1969, a new breed of Labor politician was emerging. Gone were the days of the soup stained tie, the dirty fingernails and the cloth cap. All these people with law degrees were coming in. Gough stood in front of 2000 people at the Sydney Town Hall and you said, “Men and women of Australia, never before in the history of the Australian Labor Movement have so many men of academic qualification cast aside their private role to serve the nation. We’ve got Peter Young, 2IC of the Vietnam Intelligence Movement. We’ve got Vince Martin, a senior taxation consultant. We’ve got Doctor Klugman, a medico. And we’ve got Barry Cohen. From the north shore.”

You can imagine the colour I blushed. More so when a few weeks after that happened, Gough and I were walking toward the airport terminal at Canberra, and Gough said to me, “I met your brother Paul the other day. I understand he’s the cerebral one in the family.”

Gough and the shirts

When you’re in opposition, it’s difficult to see the leader. When you’re in government it’s impossible. But one day, while I was on the back bench, suddenly the great man loomed up in front of me. “Comrade,” he said, “I need your advice.” I thought, at last the great man needs me. What could he want my advice on? Areas where I was known nationally and internationally; road safety, sport, tourism, immigration? I said, “Yes, Prime Minister?”

“I need some shirts,” said Gough. He was six foot five, with arms like an orangutan – he was the only man I knew who could scratch his knee without bending his back. The standard sleeve length then was thirty-two or thirty-three. Long was thirty-four, extra long was thirty-five.  Gough had thirty-eight inch sleeves. I said, “How do you like your sleeves, Gough? Single or double cuffs? “Comrade,” he said, “What do you prefer?” “Single cuffs,”  I replied. “Good,” he said, “I’ll have double.”

Three weeks passed, and down came the shirts. I took them along to the Prime Minister’s Office.  “Thank you, comrade.” And I left him there. About an hour later I was eating in the dining room and noticed the PM walking along looking uncomfortable. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “They’re too short!” he said. I rang up the factory and it turned out the factory manager wouldn’t believe that anyone had arms that long. We got them remade. A few weeks later I saw him wandering around the dining hall looking uncomfortable again. “What’s wrong now?” I asked. “They’re single cuffs!” He said.

Gough and Monks

Gough had his likes and dislikes.  He didn’t like little people. We called it his Gulliver complex. There was this one journalist he couldn’t stand; his name was John Monks. One day Gough was doing an interview with Monks and he stopped him to ask, “Monks, Monks, are you by any chance related to Lou Monks who was a great author before the war?” “Yes,” said Monks, “He was my father.” “Oh,” said Gough, “He must have influenced you in your choice of career.” “No, as a matter of fact he didn’t,” said Monks. “He once said, ‘No son of mine will ever be a journalist’.” “Well,” answered Gough, “he was right.”

Up there Cazaly

I was very close friends with the late Jim “Diamond” McClelland. One of the blokes Jim had working for him was Howard Nathan, a brilliant man who was with us when we got sacked in the Dismissal of 1975. Nathan went on to become a Supreme Court judge in Victoria. His specialty was Worker’s Compensation. Nathan was once counsel for an applicant who believed injuries to his back meant he would never walk again. The case was going well, until the lawyers for the defence, the Insurance Company, showed a video of our hero standing on the back of a truck, while someone threw up bags of wheat. The guy had jumped up, caught the bags and stacked it like Cazaly.

Suddenly there was a hush in the court, and the lawyer turned and said, “That’s you, isn’t it?” “No, it’s me brother,” was the reply. The court sent for the man’s brother, and they brought back a bloke who looked remarkably like the applicant. They replayed the video for the court and it was indeed the brother. Nathan’s client was awarded megabucks.

Walking out of the court, Nathan said to his client, “That was a good result, wasn’t it?”  “Yes it was, Mister Nafan, but I’m pretty pleased about one fing,” came the reply. “What’s that?” asked Howard Nathan. “That camera didn’t pan back to show who was throwing the bags.”

Moraji Desai

Moraji Desai was the Prime Minister of India in the late 1970s, and his great claim to fame was that he was 85. That’s ten years older than I am now. Asked, when he came to Australia about the secret to his longevity, Desai said he drank a glass of his own urine every morning. Gough was asked to comment on this. “Well I’ve heard of people getting on the piss early,” he said, “but this is a bit much.”

Generation gap

I once overheard my secretary and youngest son answering the telephone. “Oh Jesus mate, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was you.” Adam appeared at the doorway of my office. “It’s Gough,” he said. I was staggered. “Mate!” I said, “Mate! You called our great leader mate?” Picking up the phone, I adopted the most grovelling tone possible. “Prime Minister, I’m so sorry. I thought I’d brought him up to know better than that.” “I don’t mind him calling me mate,” said Gough, “but he doesn’t even recognise the voice!”

Legless in Alice

Deficient by two in the leg department, having lost both when blown up by a mine in Vietnam, Graham Edwards, the Member for Cowan for nine years, was perhaps a surprise appointment as Minister for Sport and Recreation. Edwards’ disability did not in any way stop him from pursuing an active life. Attending a sports minister’s conference in Alice Springs in the late 1980s, he found himself in the company of the federal Minister for Sport, John Brown. After dinner, they headed down to the casino to try their luck. Brown, always dapper, attempted to enter the casino but was stopped by the bouncer who objected to his shoes – what Edwards described as “track” shoes.

Brown was taken aback, “Do you know who I am?” “I don’t care who you are, mate, but you’re not going in with those shoes,” repeated the bouncer. At this point, Edwards got fed up and pushed past the arguing pair with his wheelchair. This was too much for John Brown. “You won’t let me in wearing $300 shoes, but you’ll let this bastard in with no shoes at all!”

The main bill

The phone rang once, and I recognised the number. “I’ve just received an invitation to Anthony Mundine’s next fight,” said Gough, “Do you think I should go? What will it do for my image?” It was not often he sought my advice, though he always gave me plenty. “I ask myself,” he continued to ponder aloud, “Would Churchill, Roosevelt or De Gaulle have gone?” “Definitely not,” I said emphatically, “But Caesar would have.” There was a long pause. He finally replied “Comrade, I think you’ve convinced me.”

The sheltered workshop

Jim Cope, the Labor MP for Watson and Sydney (1955-75) and Speaker of the House of Representatives during the Whitlam Government was once asked by one of his colleagues what advice he could give to a constituent who was nearly blind, almost deaf, had little mobility in his hands, suffered from cardiac disease, was practically immobile and couldn’t get the disability pension. Cope replied, “Tell him to run for the Senate.”

The perfect candidate

Having written a manual for candidates titled A Winning Campaign and been successful in holding a marginal seat for 20 years, through good times and bad, it was not surprising to be called upon by both the state and federal campaign headquarters to help in election campaigns.

On the eve of a very important by-election, I received a panicked call from the party organizer, asking for my help. “What’s the problem?” I asked. “Well… er.. the problem is that we haven’t got a very good candidate. He’s short and ugly and fights with everyone. We want you down here to see if you can polish him up a bit.” The organiser replied. “I must confess,” I answered, “that’s not a very good start. Can’t you just keep him out of sight?” “He doesn’t understand Labor policy,” shot back the obviously harassed official. “He just makes it up as he goes along.”

“Surely you can just go through the policies with him? He won’t listen! You can’t tell him anything!” “Well then give him the policy papers and tell him to stick to them!” “You’re not going to believe this,” the voice croaked. “Try me,” I said. “He can’t read.”

There was a pause. “I’ll be right down.”