No-one in Particular

Chapter 1

The ‘Connector’

Flight EY-460 departing Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates, had almost completed boarding all its passengers. I’m settling into my comfortable business class seat and have just been offered a chilled glass of GH Mumm champagne - my acceptance is enthusiastically endorsed by my wife Ella who is most relaxed and silently grinning from the inside out. Hors d’orves are now served with the champers and we klink flutes in celebration of yet another up-grade from ‘cattle’ class to business. Remind me never, ever, to travel without you exclaims Ella, as the tingling, golden, bubbles slide gently over her palette, washing down a confit of smoked salmon and capers.

So far this year, I have enjoyed four business class up-grades from my six international flights to and from the UAE - my gift of the gab and the use of a few, well chosen words in Arabic, seem to be working wonders at the check-in desk. My friends just reckon I’m lucky but in this life, you make your own luck. These ‘up-grades’ are not coincidental, they are a common occurrence for me and enough for Ella to become quite jealous when she is travelling alone as she does not seem to share my ‘luck’!

My Irish mate Geraldine Hurley from Abu Dhabi first alerted me to an aspect of my personality that throughout my lifetime, had never occurred to me. She insisted I read Malcolm Gladwell’s best seller the ‘Tipping Point’ and most specifically the chapters referring to his analysis of the ‘connector’ personality - she claimed Gladwell was writing about me!

I had never really thought about my personality before, and after reading the ‘Tipping Point’, I understood what Geraldine Hurley was on about. I am a ‘connector’! What followed was a period of self analysis and soul searching. It all pointed to one thing, my personality was the over-riding factor in every aspect of my life - when everything else failed, my personality came to the rescue.  It’s responsible for my family, my friends, my acquaintances, my work, my achievements, my failures and my life. It can make me cringe, it can embarrass me, and oh, the times I wanted to discard it, pleading for it to go away! But it’s mine, I own it! It’s for others to judge whether to accept it or not! I have no choice in the matter, but at the end of the day, I concede it is better to have one, than the obvious alternative! It has distanced me from the leopard, allowing me to continually re-invent my-self, over and over again, surprising those around me, not the least, myself.

Not all may agree with the self-analysis of my personality traits, but at least my ‘connector’ ability has proven to be somewhat undeniable. This has served me well in business but most of all, has connected me socially to people from all walks of life in numerous places around the globe. Many of those have become close friends, other’s mere acquaintances yet no less important in the scheme of things.

People are generally judged by their persona or perhaps by the image they wish to portray to others - this can often be a survival mechanism to help them get by in the ‘dog eat dog’ world we live in today. Few would contemplate that I fit into this category - they would be wrong!

As my character developed following those horrendous years at St. Vincent’s College in Bendigo, I realized that I was put on this earth for a particular reason - to make people laugh! I take great joy in putting a smile on other’s faces and to make people happy. I  play ‘the idiot’, regularly putting myself down to give other’s a laugh at my expense - it’s just what I do, it’s what I have always done. I am well aware of my somewhat overbearing and loud personality which often sanctions the response, even from family and friends you are such an idiot!

But beneath the gregarious persona, there is a different person lurking. You see, I suffer from what I call ‘Pagliacci syndrome’ - Pagliacci, pronounced ‘Palliachi’ is an Italian opera by Ruggero Leoncavallo and is generally referred to as Pagliacci - The Clown that Cried. The image of an ‘easy-going’ fun loving person with not a worry in the world is the persona I created after all those year’s of bullying at boarding school and living in the shadow of a more talented brother. Like Pagliacci, I put on a brave and happy face to all those around me, especially my friend’s and loved one’s, but deep inside there is an element of sadness! The Graham Jones one see’s is softer and more fragile than one could imagine.

We all love Jonesy is a catch-cry I have been fortunate enough to hear a thousand times - if only it was genuinely true. But like Pagliacci, I will keep a brave face and relish in the undeniable love bestowed upon me by my family while I continue to put a smile on those faces who have not enjoyed my good fortune.

I have never been financially well-off, but wealth is derived from a variety of sources such as family, friends and the manner in which one lives one’s life. This wealth has come my way by utilising my innate skills to connect with those around me, transporting me mentally and physically to places I could never have imagined.

My mum, Genevieve Macarthy Jones was the one most responsible for my personality - she was a bit of a show-off too, but well-loved by all who crossed her path. Her encouragement at anything I turned my hand to from the age of four, could never be underestimated, but she was always concerned for my gullibility at my thinking that every child I met at school was a good kid. I could never see anything bad in anyone, always trusting and accepting people on face value - this innocence has never waned, even when the disappointments have been many and varied. But, I always look for the good in people and perhaps judge people too quickly (in the affirmative) and that’s why my mother was always concerned. She felt I would be taken down, ripped-off, disappointed! I seemed to develop a knack for ‘connecting’ with people at a young age and brought home new friends from school like the RSPCA brings stray cats to its sanctuaries.

I’m also quick to forgive - I can remember when I was in the 5th grade at St. Josephs convent at Numurkah, founded by Saint Mary McKillop, I had the living daylights beaten out of me by my ‘best’ friend and ‘good kid’ John Edwards at the beginning of lunchtime recess, and promptly invited him around to our home for lunch while I changed my bloodied school shirt - mum was mortified! But mum and dad had always encouraged us to bring friends to the house and as we lived close to the school, there was barely a day that didn’t have kids running around the Joneses back yard seeking some kind of innocent mischief - just like the strife we got into with poor Bernie O’Kane.

The O’Kane brothers, Peter and Bernie came around after school to play ‘cowboys and Indians’ - the older brothers were the Indians and Bernie and I suffered at the hands of their treacherous tactics, especially Bernie. After being captured, he was spared from being burned at the stake but instead, tied to the ‘Hills Hoist’ washing line and pelted with rotten eggs -  when remorsefully released by the older siblings, Bernie bolted for home in tears. A visit from the O’Kane parents that night was not a welcoming site for mum and dad, but within a few days all had been forgiven and we were up to our friendly antics once again.

My personality didn’t really begin to blossom until I was around sixteen, when the new and more confident ‘me’, seemed to appear out of nowhere, after a change of boarding schools. My older brother Damien had always been at the same school and to a certain degree, I had him to fall back on, to make my decisions for me. But he had now left school and I was on my own. At around 16, I was forced to stand up for myself which gave me the confidence I needed to engage more with people, to ‘connect’. I could still count my true friends on one hand, but the tentacles were spread far and wide and I had entre into many of the cliques within the boarding school society structure during my final years. I was becoming a ‘connector’ as Malcolm Gladwell puts it so eloquently. But of course I was also going through normal teenage adolescent development and had no idea that this fundamental aspect of my being would have such a profound effect on who I was, or more importantly, who I would become.

Since Geraldine Hurley pointed out to me that I was a ‘connector’, I have consciously made an effort to develop this trait to a higher level in recent years. I have become more aware of my social surroundings and due to my sincerity in always wanting to help other people, I have taken this ability to a new level, especially from a business perspective. There are many who seek ‘spotter’s fees’ or ‘commissions’ for assisting others to ‘connect’ with business prospects - I could never do that! I have ‘connected’ tens of business’ together simply to help my friends further their opportunities, often creating my own ‘out of pocket’ expenses but expecting nothing more than a simple ‘thank you’ in return. It gives me enormous joy when these ‘connections’ pay off for my friends and associates

This ‘connector’ aspect to my personality has also linked me to quite a network of people and potential friends over the years as the ‘6 degrees of separation’ phenomenon becomes quickly evident almost every time I meet someone for the first time - in fact, almost every time I open my mouth! First proposed in 1967 by Sociologist  Stanley Milgram ‘The 6 Degrees of Separation’, has certainly opened the flood gates of how we are connected to others on this planet. Often referred to as the ‘small world syndrome’, this phenomenon also inspired the play by John Gaure which likewise inspired the trivia game ‘The 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon’ based upon a comment once made by Bacon who claimed to have worked with every actor in Hollywood.

My connections are not necessarily with people of such fame, but nevertheless to me, not any less significant. A perfect example of this was in September 2009, Ella and I were travelling with good friends Anil and Rama Hira on a 3 star cruise with Katerina Lines through the islands scattered along the Dalmatian coast off Croatia. Our 30 passenger, tri-masted, wooden and steel motor cruiser, docked at the historic and simply beautiful island of Korcula, the birth place of Marco Polo.

Whilst walking the cobbled-stone paths within the walls of this former fortified town, we happ’d upon a terrace-styled building which caught both the attention of Anil and I. Of course, due to my passion and interest in architecture my head is usually spinning off its axis as I survey my surroundings whilst travelling, especially anywhere in Europe - my happy snaps are at least 90% related to architecture. Anil is a structural engineer and can lay claim to involvement in some of the world’s tallest buildings from Dubai to Tiblisi and Riyhad, as well as Melbourne’s iconic Federation Square, so basically Anil and I are pretty boring company while on holiday together, but just love anything related to architecture.

Opposite the terrace building, an outdoor cafe beckoned and I could almost smell the scent of brewing hops. Nothing better than a cold ale on a warm day, for the boys at least. Ella opted for a cool Sauvignon Blanc, while Rama purchased an Italian Gelato - Rama is a teetotaler and every time we stopped to imbibe, it gave her a brilliant excuse to indulge in her love for Italian ice cream.

Anil and I studied the soft, cream-coloured terrace opposite - a rough rendered facade above a four meter foundation of local stone, typical of most buildings in the town which were light in colour, and such a contrast to most central European buildings. The contemporary architecture was subtle in its execution so as not to stun passers-by with its indifference to the ancient structures surrounding it, although not everyone would agree with this notion. An English couple from our motor cruiser were downing a couple of pints at the next table and commented at what a travesty it was for the Korcula Municipality to allow such a building be approved, in such an historic town.

Our waiter had overheard the conversation with our neighbours and being politically correct, waited for them to leave before approaching us. The building had been bombed to the ground during the Bosnian war, and as Municipality regulation would have it, any new building could not copy or mimic in an historic way, the ancient buildings of the region. It was recommended however, that local materials and the use of an already established colour palette, would be most appropriate and in keeping with the theme of other buildings in the town. It turns out the building is now a series of hotel apartments, which also extend into some of the original buildings on either side of a narrow lane way opposite our cafe. The girls are keen to explore the building, so our waiter recommends we journey up the lane way to a tiny reception in an historical building on the right. Three people filled the reception room while three others cluttered-up the lane way - but I digress, my ‘connector’ personality trait!

Not content with just hanging in the lane-way while the three Americans beside us chatted amongst themselves, I opened up, where are you guys from? The United States was the reply - yeah, I guessed that much, but what part? California, was the short response. Ok, what part of California? Southern California came the answer almost like the respondent had realised I was ‘pulling at teeth’. Lovely part of the world I said. What part of Southern California? Oh, just a small town on the coast, you probably wouldn’t know it. Try me I replied! - It’s called Laguna Beach said the spokesperson. Great place I said we will be visiting friends there next March. Oh, really said the big guy, now showing a little more interest in the conversation who are you visiting? Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t know them I replied. Try me came the quick response. Oh it’s just these friends who are Yoga instructors, and run a Health Retreat up in Laguna Canyon says I. You mean Geo and Katresha, said all three in unison!!

Katresha, formally Helen ‘Sunny’ Gilliland from Perth, had made her name as an international model in the late 60’s and 70’s, spending a great deal of her time working in London, plus a few short interludes in movies with Clint Eastwood and Telly Savalas while studying nutrition, skin care, and other associated interests, especially Yoga. Katresha and I had become friends in Sydney in 1970 and soon after, Ella had relocated from Melbourne and moved in with Katresha at her Glenmore Road, Paddington terrace, prior to our wedding in 1971. Katresha met Geo Tacoma Moskios at a Yoga teacher’s camp in Mexico and they married in Perth in 1978. Geo, a former US Marine and Vietnam vet, and restaurateur, came to everyone’s attention as head Yoga instructor at the most famous Yoga institution, the L.A. Ashram in Hollywood. His private clients included super models Cindy Crawford and Cheryl Tiegs, actress Selma Hayekk, Las Vegas casino giant Steve Wynn and singer Paul Anka among numerous other celebrities. A high point for Geo was when Oprah Winfrey sung his praises on her television show, for helping her to lose weight and return to a much healthier lifestyle.

Geo and Katresha opened their Health Retreat ‘The Pearl Laguna’  in July 2009 however our new friends holidaying in Croatia, have known and trained under Geo and Katresha for many years. One of the guys happened to be a founding director of PIMCO, an investment firm with its headquarters in Newport Beach a short distance from Laguna Beach. PIMCO is considered one of the largest active global fixed income investment managers in the world

I’m writing this presently from my suite on the 4th floor of the Crowne Plaza ‘Staybridge Suites’ on Yas Island, overlooking the brand new Abu Dhabi Formula 1 race circuit, a twenty-five minute drive into central Abu Dhabi. I arrived back in the UAE a little over two weeks ago, but this time Emirates Airlines, who have also provided me with many an upgrade in the past, wasn’t so kind (heaven forbid!) - yeah, I’m down the back of the bus with the other naughty kids. I always prefer an isle seat though, as I would rather have other passengers climb over me, than me be the climber. Actually, I drink a considerable amount of water and therefore I need to pee a lot and just hate disturbing people, which means if I don’t have an isle seat, my expressions  resemble Mr. Bean as I painfully twist and moan whilst attempting to hang on for grim death until I have to eject them from their seat, and go charging down the isle towards the WC. But as luck would have it, no isle seat this time either!

I take my seat, one in from the aisle next to an Australian couple who are quite cheerful and friendly - within five minutes, we have established that their son Tim is the best mate of one of my most outstanding designer’s Adrian, who worked for me for almost eight years. Tim, a former member of the Australian ‘Hockey Roos’ national hockey team, played A grade hockey with Adrian in Melbourne and have been mates since junior hockey - I had met Tim a few times myself!  Tim’s parents are heading to London via Dubai, where they have a stopover to stay with their good friends, Adrian’s parents Klaus and Jillian in Abu Dhabi - just happens to be that Klaus and Jillian have become our close friends also and we meet up for dinner every time we travel to the UAE.

On another ‘business class’ upgrade to the UAE via Singapore, I begin a conversation with some other Aussies who had also been bumped up from economy. They were heading to London to be present at the opening of the stage show ‘Priscilla, Queen of the Desert’ at London’s West End - their son was the musical’s Director. They had driven to Melbourne airport from their home town of Shepparton, a mere 30 kilometres from Numurkah where I had grown up. As my greying hair gave away the decade I was most likely born in, and also the mention of my former home town, the fellow asked if I knew a friend of his, Denis Gastin?

That question almost opened the flood gates - Tom & Joan Gastin had been close friends of my parents from as long as I could remember, that is, until their untimely deaths in an horrific car crash close to Numurkah around 1987. The Jones boys were mates with Denis and Peter Gastin, having shared the same dormitories at St. Vincent’s College boarding school in country Bendigo in the early ’60’s. We had a lot in common, especially music - Peter had a successful singing career in Melbourne and recently at the 60th birthday of former Australian ‘pop’ idol and legend Normie Rowe, Peter was invited on stage where Normie attributed his singing success to Peter, whom he had modelled himself on as an up and coming ‘pop’ singer. Younger sister Annie Gastin also had a promising career as a folk singer and now hosts a ‘talk-back’ radio program on ABC radio in Darwin.

Denis was undoubtedly the most successful of the Gastin siblings. One of the brightest, and nicest people I have ever met, Denis was chief economical advisor to the Australian Government and due to a keen interest in wine and especially in the commercial aspect of Australia’s burgeoning wine industry, he set up and managed the Australian Wine Promotion Program in Japan in the mid 1980s, when he was Senior Trade Commissioner and Minister (Commercial) at the Australian Embassy in Tokyo. Denis is a highly considered writer not only in his home country, but also in the international wine industries of China, Korea and Japan. He travels extensively to these countries each year as a Wine Judge at their most prestigious wine events. The ‘connector’ in me has also linked numerous people to Denis since my arrival in the UAE, especially in the international trade arena, such as former Trade Commissioner to Dubai, Peter Linford and former Australian Consul-General to the UAE, Kym Hewett.

So yes, I know Denis Gastin very well was my response! I introduced myself as Graham Jones from Numurkah and was quite surprised by my new cabin-mate’s memory - surely you are not one of the Jones brother’s from Numurkah that we used to watch as singers and entertainers on national Television in the late 1960’s are you? I could only be honest, so Yes again, was my reply. We used to watch you on ‘Bandstand’ and ‘In Melbourne Tonight’ and were so proud that a couple of our local boys had found such success in the big smoke was my new friend’s comment!

Of course, their son was achieving accolades in London for his production of ‘Priscilla’, and Denis Gastin had enjoyed such success in his field, both at home and overseas, so as country boys we were immensely proud of the talent that had emerged and had been rewarded from such humble beginnings.

In February 2010 the Australian V8 SUPERCAR Series extended its international coverage by holding its opening race at the Yas Marina Circuit at Yas Island, Abu Dhabi UAE. My apartment at the Crowne Plaza, Staybridge Suites overlooks this magnificent track built specifically for the Abu Dhabi Formula 1 Grand Prix in 2009.

Dining alone on the terrace of ‘Stills’ bar at the Crowne Plaza, a few days before the V8 series kicked off, a rowdy group of Australian guys were into their third round of drinks when they picked up my accent and invited me to join them. I soon discovered they were the technical crew from Australia’s Channel Seven network preparing for the television broadcast of the race series.

As many of my friends are from the television industry, I enquired if they knew Tony Vuat, an old friend of mine who had directed Bert Newton and also the Steve Vizard Tonight Show some years prior on the Seven network. We had sadly lost Tony suddenly in 2000 from a massive stroke. Some knew Tony well, other’s knew of him - more importantly to them, they worked with Tony’s son Nick Vuat who is a specialist sports cameraman and a close colleague to many who were present at that table. Ella and I had attended Nick’s wedding just a few years back and happened to be close friends with his mum Kate. This would not be the first coincidence of the evening.

During the discussion, I had mentioned that Tony Vuat and I had attended school at St. Bede’s College Mentone during the mid 1960’s. At the far end of the long table, and amid other side discussions, one of the ‘crew’ jerked his head up suddenly at hearing the reference to my old school St. Bede’s. My dad was a teacher at St. Bede’s college around that time, his name was Derek Counsel, to which I replied, then you must be Paul Counsel! There was stunned momentary silence, as Paul Counsel computed this information which came like a bullet from a high powered rifle, just three meters from his brain.

I continued - you were born in mid to late October 1971 and your mother’s name is Mandy, right? His confirmation came quickly but reservedly, with a thousand questions begging to be answered. My wife and I spent our wedding night in your Toorak home while you lay sleeping in your nursery - you were the reason your parents didn’t attend our wedding!

Paul moved from the comfort of his drinking mates, to pull up a chair beside me. I felt his apprehension as he shook my hand and entered a discussion he was not expecting to be taking part in, just three long minutes earlier. I explained how his father was not just my art teacher, but after I had left St. Bede’s, my best mate Geoff Hines and I had become good friends with Derek Counsel, and used to frequent his ‘pad’ in Elwood, playing music, drinking wine and talking all things art.

I had introduced Ella to Derek probably around 1968 and soon after, he had met Mandy, a very pretty girl less than half his age. After a short and steamy courtship, they were married, Paul was born and in no time, Derek was gone. We had lost contact with Derek soon after, never setting eyes on him again.

Paul spent the next half hour filling in the blanks for me about his father and the despise held by his mother right up until Derek’s death just a few months earlier than our meeting. Paul had been reunited with his father a few years earlier, much to his mother’s disdain, but a son’s need to know his father for better or worse, was a compelling reason for reconciliation. Paul was at his father’s side when he passed.

These stories are just the ‘tip of the iceberg’ when it comes to the  examples unleashed when my ‘connector’ personality gets to work - if you are like me and love to ‘have a chat’, by simply being interested in other people and opening up to them, the results can often be quite surprising. Mind you, I never intentionally set out to discover the ‘six degrees of separation’ when I meet people for the first time, it just happens by being friendly. The best example of the ‘connector’ personality type can be discovered by reading Malcolm Gladwell’s best seller, where he talks about Paul Revere and the astonishing effect this personality type had in creating and changing the course of history.

My developing personality and ‘connector’ tendency, will have a profound influence over the way I live my life as I mature into middle age and beyond. It has been pointed out to me by other’s that I have been blessed with a wonderful gift - how I use this gift will eventually define who I really am.

Chapter 2

The early years

Dad was born in Warragul, a small town in rural Victoria, in 1912. From Welsh stock, but from when the family migrated to this country, I am not certain. I can only recall stories of a famous ancestor, David Lloyd George who served as Prime Minister of Great Britain from 1916 to 1922 and presided over WW1 - I believe he may have been the first and only Welshman to hold such high office. I imagine his aristocratic upbringing and disposition was far removed from dad’s direct family ancestors who most likely entered Australia shackled to the gunnels of tall-masted sailing ships, long before David Lloyd George’s notoriety began.

I can still remember the stories dad used to tell us as kids, of how he rode to school on horseback, with at least two of his younger siblings tucked in behind him, his other brothers and sisters trailing at the rear in similar fashion. They braved the cold harsh conditions of winter and the stifling summer heat, yet they never complained - that was life and you just got on with it!

Along with his six brothers and two sisters, the family owned a bakery in Mornington for a short period, prior to moving to Yarram where his father opened a butcher’s shop - the business stayed in the family right up until the 1980’s. His schooling finished at age thirteen and he went to work in the local ‘Drapery’, a kind of mix-use store which sold everything from car batteries to the finest of silk fabrics. His stature was small, yet his smile and demeanor made him a tall man in any company - his work ethic and charm didn’t go unnoticed either, his boss soon presenting him with the best ‘small-town’ opportunities on offer. While head of the actual Drapery department in the store, Lewis David Jones trained as a ‘ticket writer’. Hand-painted pricing ‘tickets’ adorned all items on display in the store’s windows. Dad had a beautiful hand, such flow, such flair - a forgotten art these days.

In the late 50’s when mum and dad had bought the local shoe store in country Numurkah, 132 miles north of Melbourne, dad would often sit at the kitchen table after ‘tea’ in the evenings and paint his red SALE tickets, which he would then pin to his shoes, so dramatically displayed upon twigs of ‘pussy willow’ with pink, crepe-paper blossoms, representing the Springtime SALE. His hand-written letters were also a joy to read, but non less than his beautifully crafted coffin-plates which were attached to every coffin, gently lowered into the sodden clay soil at the Numurkah Cemetery, right up until the 1970’s.

Bill Tuttle, a local building contractor, Undertaker and owner of the Numurkah Funeral Parlor, had recognised dad’s talent for hand writing when passing by the shoe store. For a small remuneration, dad saw it as an honour to write the details of the deceased, most of whom he knew personally, on a shiny, chrome plate attached to their French-polished wooden coffins which they would take with them to heaven, or wherever it was they were heading.

Damien and I were fascinated as dad retrieved his solid, crimson box from the hallway cupboard and gently laid its contents out on the kitchen table - we were forbidden to ever touch that very special box, but watched intently as he was about to weave his magic! Whenever there was a death in the town, dad would get the call and would head down to see Bill to get the details and pick up the highly polished, chrome coffin plate. What made this box so important was the precious metal it contained - pure gold-dust!

Small bottles of a thick, clear solution were placed on the kitchen table alongside dad’s array of fine hair brushes and a long, rounded wooden rod with a soft padded bulb on one end reminiscent of those used by the Grand Masters, to steady his hand as he wrote his most important words. He would draw his lines and margins precisely on the plate with a sharpened white pencil and then go to work, carefully writing the deceased’s details as per his script, with the thick solution. Upon completion, he would turn the plate over and hold it gently downward into the box, avoiding touching any of the sides - then by shaking the box, the gold-dust would grab onto the solution and the magic was complete. His sheer concentration and calm manner produced a perfect job every time - I can never remember him ever stuffing it up!

At the time of WW2, dad, along with his brothers, saw it as a duty to their country to join up in the service. All brothers joined the army except dad’s youngest brother Reece, who became an aviator, and was seconded to the RAF and sent to England. He trained in Canada with the RAF as a bombardier and flew missions over France in Lancaster bombers - this included missions with British war hero Douglas Bader whose character was brought to life in the movie the ‘Dam Busters’. Reece and his crew all lost their lives when they were shot down by the Luftwaffe over France. It was an emotional day when Ella and I took dad to see their graves at Le Mans France for the very first time, in 1974.

Dad served in several theatres of war over a five year period. His tours of the Middle East included Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Palestine and many other parts of north Africa. He was also in Sri Lanka, or Ceylon as it was called in those days and then helped with the mopping-up operations on the Changi railroad from Thailand to Burma. Once, while returning from the Middle East on leave, he was re-directed to Papua New Guinea to repel the Japanese  - what a God forsaken country that was during those days! When he finally returned home, the army shipped him up to camp at Bendigo for six weeks to feed him up, before he was allowed home to see his family - he would also meet his son Damien, who was already six months old. He never did speak much about the war, but dedicated much of his life to Legacy, an Australian foundation set up to assist widows of Australian soldiers who were killed during the war. He was such a selfless person!

Dad loved his golf and played every week, more often then not, several times a week! With his controlled slice and feet positioned nowhere in the direction he was intending to hit the ball, dad could hit a dozen balls from the same tee and they would all land within metres of each other, right in the centre of the fairway - Damien and I used to go into hysterics at his unorthodox antics.

Dad turned eighty in November 1992 and finally succumbed to his ‘mate’s’ pressure to join the local lawn bowls club. He had reckoned that ‘bowls’ was for geriatrics and conceded to his friends that he would only join their club once he turned eighty, emphasizing that under no circumstances would he be giving up his beloved golf. He purchased all the appropriate gear including a second-hand set of lawn bowls, but was still reluctant to get out onto the ‘green’.

During the week leading up to Christmas 1992, dad played three 18’s of golf at his local club and being the festive season, had attended four Christmas parties - he was almost unstoppable! The fourth party was the annual ‘break-up’ at the Lawn Bowls Club  - he returned home around midnight to my brother Damien and his wife Dot’s home, where he had lived since mum passed away in 1985. As they had also just arrived home from an outing with friends, dad joined them for a small ‘scotch’ before retiring for the evening. At eight o’clock next morning, my nephew Grant was awakened by a loud crash in the bathroom - dad had suffered a massive heart attack. He never did venture onto that bowling green!

Ella and I had been to a Christmas function with friends on that Saturday night and returned home late. Sunday morning I was drifting in and out of a dream - dad was lying in a hospital bed and I was leaning over him with my arms wrapped around his chest, telling him how much I loved him. My dream was shattered by the loud buzzing of the phone up in the mezzanine study - naked, I bolted out across the entry and up the stair to grab the phone. It was Damien - dad’s collapsed, we’ve called the ambulance, but we think he is already dead, I’ll call you back shortly. Ten minutes later, I received the heart-wrenching news. That dream is as vivid today as it was in 1992 - I’m still puzzled by the realism and the hidden meaning behind it.

Mum was born Genevieve Macarthy Ryan and was also a country girl, but was brought up far away from Warragul where dad was from. Horsham was a rich, sheep grazing and wheat growing district in those days, and mum, or Gen as she was called (she despised being called Genny), was fortunate enough to get a good education at the local catholic college. I’m not sure how true it was, but rumour has it that she attended school with Reginald Ansett for a short period, obviously well before he began his airline and became the richest man in Australia.

Among other things, music dominated mum’s time at school, passing all her exams with honours. She went on to study Dental Nursing and worked in a local Dental practice in Horsham throughout most of the war.

Mum could play anything on the piano, and play it well. Ragtime and ‘boogie woogie’ were what she loved best and every home in those day’s had a piano. After the war, and when we moved to Numurkah in 1950, mum was just 35 years of age. The main entertainment for country folk was to hold private parties where the beer was flowing, the food was plentiful and the piano was thumping. Everyone would gather around the piano in a sing-along and mum would be stuck at that piano literally for hours on end.

She was always the centre of attention, and she loved it!  This attention was noticed by a Dance Band Promoter who brought the Glenn Miller Orchestra from the USA to tour Australia during the war, inviting mum to play two gigs with the band. The stage was set with two grand pianos positioned back-to-back, and mum played dueling duets with the band’s principal pianist. What a treat this was for her and she really got into the swing of Glenn Miller’s amazing music. She would have dearly loved a life in music, but the timing, directly after the war and with two small children, just wasn’t to be her time in the sun.

Mum and dad encouraged their boys to study music, but they were supportive of everything we did, especially our sport. In summer it was cricket and tennis, while winter sports consisted of Australian rules football and golf. Our parents booked us in to every sports clinic in the region - I imagine their motivation was to keep their boys active and interested in sport which would in turn keep them out of mischief, especially from idly hanging out on street corners like many of the young ‘bodgies’ and ‘widgies’ who had gained a reputation that two good catholic boys should not emulate. Although, as an impressionable eleven year old, I was becoming interested in fashion and I loved the trend the ‘bodgies’ were into at that time - luminous coloured, stovepipe jeans with ‘winkle picker’ shoes worn with bright luminous pink or green socks.

I often helped out in the family shoe store, so after school one day, I walked directly down Melville street, the main, and only shopping street of this 3,000 populated town, to visit mum and dad at the shop. I had been begging mum for ages to buy my first ever pair of jeans and she finally relented and sent me the two doors up to McPherson’s Menswear to be fitted out. Dad’s great mate Col McPherson, WW2 veteran and prisoner of war from the Changi railway, had run the store for many years, and he was entrusted to fit me out appropriately. Well, I had other ideas and finally convinced Mr. McPherson that mum had given permission for me to purchase a pair of turquoise coloured, ‘stovepipe’ jeans - yeah right!! Even at age eleven, I could talk my way into anything!!

Upon my purchase, I left the store and headed in the opposite direction from the family’s shoe store to avoid detection - then headed home via a back street. I donned my new jeans to ‘show off’ my new look to my friends, who had joined me at the house to play cricket in the back yard. I thought I looked just sooo cool - but this would be short lived! While diving for a catch on the thick, green, buffalo grass which filled our rear garden, a huge, in-penetrable grass stain had smeared my right leg - after attempts to rub it out, it was not going anywhere. However, I viewed this in a positive light - there was no way that mum could make me take the jeans back to McPherson’s now and sure, I was really going to cop some flak but in the cause of fashion, it was worth it!

Mum hit the roof of course, as soon as she rounded the corner of the house and cast her eye on my new atire - take those off immediately and take them back to McPhersons, no son of mine is getting around like a local ‘bodgie! she had exclaimed. But then quite proudly, I pointed to the grass stain - this did not make her happy. In the mean time I had looked around just to see the backs of my mates scuttling up the  driveway heading for the front gate - I don’t blame them, I wished I could have been right behind them. Being relentless in this situation, mum still insisted I remove the offending jeans immediately - she placed them in a brown paper bag (the dreaded plastic bag had not been invented yet!!), and promptly left the house. She headed directly to Brown & Gouge, our local Dry Cleaner’s who advised her that it would be impossible to remove the stain and therefore her thought of still returning the jeans, had really dissipated. Not to be outdone, and she was not going to let me have another pair of jeans, so  promptly instructed the Dry Cleaner to die the jeans ‘navy’ blue!  I finally got used to wearing those ‘daggy’ navy jeans just as I grew out of them!!

Chapter 3

In the shadows

The sports clinics that Damien and I had been enrolled in, had had the desired effect - yes, it did keep us off the streets and no, I never did become a ‘bodgie’! But that was ok as we loved playing tennis, cricket and golf, especially. I was always above average in all sports I took on, but Damien was exceptional. Later on in our early 20’s and living in Sydney, I played a pretty handy round of golf and was proud of my 12 handicap - Damien my mentor, played off 5. With a little more work, he could certainly have made professional status, but our singing career was blossoming at the time and he had his eyes squarely set in that direction.

At boarding school in Bendigo during the early ‘60’s, I was vice-captain of the under 15 cricket team while Damien, a school prefect (of course), was captain of the school cricket team. He went on to play district cricket for St. Kilda under legendary captain Bill O’ Halloran and for many years held the bowling average record (he was a leg spinner) until Shane Warne made his first class debut at the club in 1992 and it wasn’t long before Damien’s 4 wickets for 12 runs was obliterated! When Damien returned to live in Numurkah in the mid 1970’s, he soon became captain of the cricket club and moved on to become President once he retired from playing.

During boarding school, Damien was also good at football and played in the school’s 1st 18 - he was a brilliant ‘full-forward’ but never continued in this role when he left school. However, his interest in football led him (and I) to sign up with the VFL (Victorian Football League) in 1966 as Umpires with the Reserve Grade League - Damien, of course as a Field umpire and me with the lesser role of Boundary umpire. This lasted only a couple of seasons as we moved to Sydney to become ‘professional’ entertainers.

Damien’s love of footy saw him get involved with the local club once he moved back to Numurkah around 1974 and soon took on the job of President of the club. As well as his sports prowess, Damien was also a very intelligent bloke and soon reorganised the club with his modern thinking and IT experience - he had been a most successful computer analyst with Honeywell and Mayne Nickless in Sydney prior to choosing a quieter life back in a small country town. It wasn’t long before his football administration talents were recognised, and he was head-hunted for the role of Secretary to the Murray Valley Football League, one of the strongest leagues in the state. He later became General Manager of that League and in no time, all Victorian country football leagues had followed his ground-breaking administration systems and became profitable, well run organisations.

The family home in Numurkah was squeezed between the gate-keepers house of the rail-way crossing, and the Presbyterian Church Hall. A narrow dirt lane-way ran alongside our rotting, wood-paling fence separating us from the church hall - this lead to two gravel tennis courts with broken-down wire-netted fences which, more often than not, would see our tennis balls scuttling back down the lane beside our home. The tennis nets themselves, were not in any better condition, but this is where Damien and I spent our summers, especially over the Christmas school holidays. That is, when we weren’t playing tennis at the St. Joseph’s Catholic school courts or the 22 lawn courts of the Numurkah Lawn Tennis Club where we attended numerous clinics - we loved our tennis!

Damien’s mates (and mine too, although they were Damien’s age) Kerrie O’Dwyer and Paul Gordon played tennis with us regularly and were fiercely competitive. This really came to the fore during the major tournaments our parents would take us to, all around the state. I was a good player with a massive serve, but once again, did not reach the heights my brother attained at country A grade events. At age 16, he was invited to Melbourne to join the Australian Davis Cup training squad, but unfortunately his cricket commitments got in the way - the curse of trying to balance two summer sports at the same time. Shane Warne also had to make the choice between football and cricket as he played both at such a high level, playing state cricket for Victoria whilst being an ‘up and comer’ for the St. Kilda VFL football club - history will record he probably made the right choice!

There were other sports Damien was good at too - he always won his age group in Discus and Shot-put at the annual school sports at St. Vincent’s College in Bendigo. I took up discus also, but after he had finished school, I then moved to St. Bede’s College at Mentone, a beachside suburb of Melbourne. I joined the Mentone Athletics Club where I was coached in both discus and javelin at Dolamore Oval (built as the training track for the 1956 Melbourne Olympics) and competed in the inter-schools events as well as around the Melbourne clubs every weekend. I loved watching the track and field events where I competed alongside Olympic greats such as long-distance runner Ron Clarke and high jumper Tony Peckham, who at around 6 feet 4 inches tall, could run the 100 yards in 10.2 seconds back in those days. Olympic weight-lifter Ray Rigby and I used to compete against each other regularly in the discuss and javelin - my one claim to fame was when I won the Victorian Javelin competition at Melbourne’s Olympic Park beating Ray into second place. If the truth be known, javelin was not Ray Rigby’s favourite event, but more importantly to me, Damien was very proud of my achievement, at last!!

Living in my brother’s shadow was not only related to sport - my school reports were always consistent lacks concentration - could try harder while his were the opposite, always scoring in the top 10% in his class exams. I was an also-ran! But although we were always competitive, especially when playing back-yard cricket at home, I was never, ever jealous of his achievements. I guess it is just not in my nature - I was always so proud. He was someone to look up to and emulate, and I suppose by the fact that he always got the glory, unwittingly I also needed to experience this adulation from both he and my parents. Perhaps this is where my strong and passionate work ethic came from - it certainly wasn’t there when I was in school.

Damien and Dot had their children Lisa and Grant well before we began our family and they were extremely proud of their kids, and with every reason! However, over the years after Ben and Bianca were born, Damien never seemed to show much interest in our children or in fact what we were doing with our lives in general - or at least, this is the impression he gave us. It always seemed to be about him and his family! This did annoy me greatly, but I never ever spoke to him about it - I just left it alone and suffered the disappointment in silence, although Ella had felt the same way but being a sister-in-law, didn’t take it quite to heart as I did.

Since leaving school, I had travelled extensively and had also worked in many different fields - every job I took on, I made it my own, and made it a success. Since Ella and I began our Design practice Graham Jones Design in 1988, our projects were critically acclaimed in national magazines and newspapers, winning award after award, but I didn’t seem to get the same recognition from my brother - perhaps I missed something, somewhere.

In January 1998, Ella threw a birthday party which included a live band, at our Safety Beach home on Victoria’s Mornington Peninsula, to celebrate my 50th birthday - in fact, it was a couple of weeks before, as Ella and I were heading to the U.S.A. and I got to celebrate the actual day in the amazing city of Sante Fe, New Mexico.

When it came time for the birthday speeches, Damien, who was a natural when it came to public speaking and especially ad-libbing, stood up unannounced to speak about his younger brother. His words of pride in his brother’s achievements, quite detailed in fact as he had been listening after all, took me completely by surprise and simply astounded me. Tears rolled down my face as he spoke with such passion I had never experienced from him before - for once in my life, I was speechless! Since his passing in 2000, this is one of the fondest memories I have of Damien - I felt I had finally slipped out of his shadow and was being recognised for my own success, by a brother I had looked up to my whole life. I could finally stand on the same platform as an equal, and for once in my life, Damien was looking up at me with so much pride in my achievements.

Chapter 4

Reminiscing

I have fond memories of the 1950’s - growing up in a small country town prior to the hell of my boarding school days which began in 1959. My parents rented a basic, double-fronted weatherboard home in Campbell street, at the edge of the town when we