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Champion Couple set off on Copperhead Road for Adelaide

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The hills of Araluen were alive with the sound of Steve Earle’s Copperhead Road yesterday as Peter Crossing gave the pub jukebox one last solid workout before he and his wonderful wife Deborah set off from Canberra to Adelaide. The Crossings moved here 14 years ago, initially planning to stay for just a few years before returning to South Australia. Things turned out rather differently, and in the time the Crossings were in Canberra they made many new friends, people who will cherish memories of this charming, champion couple for the rest of their lives. Peter taught physics at Radford College, continued his fervent love affair with cricket, presented jazz and blues from “Down in the Basement” on ArtSound with an undeniable passion, wrote brilliantly pithy letters to the Canberra Times and became an committed contributor to the work of the Australian Society for Sports History. Beyond her own day job, Deb was a dedicated Les Mills disciple as a Body Balance instructor and took on a leading role with the Australian Republican Movement. They both deeply enriched and enhanced the lives of Canberrans.
Perhaps one of the nicest things about the Crossings was the way in which they took an active and quite genuine interest in the interests of others. In my case, I was touched that when they travelled anywhere - whether it be to Vietnam, the United States or just visits back to Adelaide - they took the time and trouble to find old typewriters and photograph them for me. These notably included Ngo Ba Thanh's battered Voss portable at the Hanoi Women's Museum and the Sholes & Glidden at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington DC.
 The very least I could do, as a way of saying thanks, was to present both the Crossings with 60th birthday typewriters, painted in “club” colours and suitably decorated. In Peter’s case, the paper plate had the lyrics of Copperhead Road, Peter’s favourite song. But the crowning glory was their determination that I should celebrate my 2014 QWERTY Award among friends at the Crossing home in Curtin. I was unable to get to Morgantown, West Virginia, where the actual presentation took place at Herman Price’s Chestnut Ridge Typewriter Museum, but the Crossings ensured the achievement was properly recognised the next best way. They put on a night to be remembered.
I first met Peter soon after he arrived here. Back then my “One Hits Wonders” series was still running in the Panorama section of the Canberra Times and some Saturdays I included a quiz (with CDs as prizes). One poser I thought my legion of readers would find especially difficult to answer was: “Which single artist won a record six consecutive Record of the Year Granny Awards as a session musician for such diverse songs and acts as A Taste of Honey (Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass, 1966), Strangers in the Night (Frank Sinatra, 1967), Up, Up and Away and Aquarius/Let the SunshineIn (The 5th Dimension, 1968 and 1970) and Mrs Robinson and Bridge Over Troubled Water (Simon & Garfunkel, 1969 and 1971)?” To my utter astonishment, I received a correct answer (Hal Blaine) within hours of the newspaper being published – from one Peter Crossing. “I have to get to know this guy,” I said to myself. And I did get to know him. Much to my lasting delight and benefit. Positive feedback and encouragement provide the lifeblood for columnists, and over the ensuing years Peter and Deborah selflessly supplied those things in spades.

House sold, furniture moved, and many memorable farewells held, the Crossings left Canberra today. They will be very sorely missed.

The Amazing Horners

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In an irresistible flight of absolute fancy, I imagine Patricia Beddison Gray, just turned eight by a fortnight and being baby sat at home at Westridge, Canberra, on the night of March 18, 1932, quietly casting a curse on all journalists. Her parents, Australian Forestry School lecturer Hugh Richard Gray and his wife Judy, had gone out for the evening, to the Kurrajong Hotel for the first Press Gallery Ball held in the nation’s new capital, and were waltzing the night away to the music of the Roxy Dance Band. The reality, I gather, is that Patricia Gray was far too sensible, even at eight, to try to put a hex on anyone, including journalists. Yet in 1980 Patricia and her husband, Frank Benson Horner, published a book, When Words Fail:A Casebook of Language Lapses in Australia, that had every journalist in the country ducking for cover.
        "For the purposes of this book," the Horners wrote, "words fail to meet the user's needs in three ways. First, and most obviously, they fail when they do not convey the intended meaning ... Secondly, words fail when they convey the intended meaning, but at the expense of their continued usefulness … The third way in which words fail to meet the user's needs is by alienating the reader." It’s arguable whether truer words have ever been written about the grammatically indifferent traditional content of Australian newspapers.
A young Pat Horner at a Sydney University reunion in 1953
        Pat Horner began compiling When Words Fail when she was teaching at Narrabundah College in 1968, adding to examples in text books. She was initially drawn to “really exotic mixed metaphors”. Soon the Horners were leaving notepads around their Deakin home to record the howlers they heard on radio and TV. When Frank retired from the Australian Bureau of Statistics, he joined Pat in putting When Words Fail together. Happily, the project didn’t end with the publication of the book, and the Horners’ service to the English language continued for another 18 years, with a regular Saturday column appearing under the same title in The Age newspaper in Melbourne. Pat died in 2000 and Frank four years later.
        In his Canberra Timesreview of When Words Fail (“Propriety and Elegance and a Bit of the Vernacular”),  columnist Maurice Dunlevy jocularly referred to the Horners as “picking on” journalists, since “Mixing metaphors is the nearest most newspapers ever come to poetry.” Dunlevy said “the language of Australian public life is often as clumsy as a duck in a ploughed paddock”. He believed that “no attack on the press … has been so savage and yet so subtle as that by [these] two Canberrans”. Their work was “wicked and seemingly dispassionate” … “Frank Horner and Patricia Horner have attacked the freedom of the press by ridiculing the freedom with which the press uses language.” Dunlevy added, “Who … cares if the language of the news is as rough as a pig's breakfast? The Homers care, that's who. And because they care they may deprive journalists of their freedom not to care. Their documentary casebook collects examples of when words have failed professional speakers and writers in Australia today and their notes comment on the failures.”
Oh, for such a couple of guardians of the English language “as she’s writ” today. What appears online and in print from the fingers of modern journalists would require not one slim work like When Words Fail, but something of the four-volume, 510,000-word magnitude of Winston Churchill’s opus, A History of the English-Speaking Peoples. Thirty-seven years on from the appearance of When Words Fail, Dunlevy’s own words have failed and, it’s clear, nobody cares any longer.

A week or so ago I was drawn to this book by its cover, adorned with a wonderful illustration by Frank Horner’s brother, Arthur Wellesley Horner (1916-1997), creator of the Colonel Pewter cartoon strip (which sometimes featured Fleet Street reporter Wesley Upchat). Frank and Arthur were members of an extraordinarily talented family, which also included Aboriginal rights activist John Curwen (“Jack”) Horner (1922-2010). They were the sons of Arthur Horner (1883-1969), a man who rose from being a vice-telegraph messenger in his home town of Riverton in South Australia in 1902 to director of Posts and Telegraphs in the federal Postmaster-General’s Department in 1948.
Jean and Jack Horner

      The wives of the three Horner brothers were equally accomplished Australians: Pat Horner was a teacher, scholar and writer, Arthur’s wife Victoria Ethel Cowdroy (1908-97, also known as Vic Royston, illustration right) a screen artist, graphic designer, cartoonist, illustrator, sculptor and painter, and Jack’s wife Jean Leavitt Horner (1923-2006) worked closely with her husband in the cause of Aboriginal rights. While the achievements of the Horner brothers were at least in some ways recognised, it was a sign of the times that those of their partners were almost never publicised. The angel observing modern events in Arthur Horner’s satirical Uriel Reportwould, I think, be more impressed by our willingness to salute female achievers than by our ever increasing abuse of language.
Arthur Horner was said to have “had a seemingly limitless imagination and amazing dexterity of vision and technique in the comics medium”.
Born at East Malvern in Victoria on October 28, 1917, Dr Frank Horner joined the New South Wales Bureau of Statistics in 1935 and attended evening classes at Sydney University to obtain a degree in economics. He was seconded to the Commonwealth Treasury in 1940 but was eventually commissioned as a naval officer serving mainly in New Guinea waters between 1943-46. Frank's wedding day with Pat in January 1946 was put back a week because he had come down with malaria on the original date.
After post-graduate studies for his doctorate at the London School of Economics, Frank returned to the bureau as assistant statistician and rose to the position of assistant Government Statistician. In 1958 he joined the Commonwealth Bureau of Census and Statistics in Canberra and was appointed deputy Commonwealth Statistician in 1964. Frank was known for his pioneering work in the introduction of social indicators to Australia and for his professional rigour.
Following retirement from the public service, Frank abandoned figures for words and concentrated his efforts on researching early French voyages in the Pacific. He published two elegant works, French Reconnaissance: Baudin in Australia in 1987 and Looking for La Pérouse: D’Entrecasteaux in Australia and the South Pacific 1792-1793in 1995. For these two ground-breaking books Frank was decorated by the French government. On November 19, 2002, France’s Ambassador to Australia, Pierre Viaux, presented Frank with the insignia of the Palmes Académiques (see image below).

Frank was also passionate about classical music and was on the committees of the Canberra Youth Orchestra and the Canberra Symphony Orchestra.
This “Gang Gang” column about When Words Fail appeared in The Canberra Timesin September 1980. Frank and Pat Horner might have been highly amused that when the article appeared in print, it quoted Frank as using the word “badder”, which a reader quickly pointed out in a letter to the editor. Frank replied that he’d actually said “harder” and blamed the reporter’s tape recorder (personally, I’d have blamed the reporter and the sub-editor and the check sub).
Pat Horner’s father, Dick Gray (1895-1979), was born in Oxford in England and died there, but spent more than 30 years of his life in Australia. After serving in World War I, he became inspector of forests on the Nile in the Sudan and in July 1923 took up an appointment as a forester in Western Australia. In 1927 he moved to Canberra to be one of the original lecturers at the Australian Forestry School.
Dick Gray, circled, in 1935. Behind him, to his left, is one of his students, Lindsay Pryor, ironically the son of a cartoonist, Oswald Pryor, and the father of a well-known newspaper cartoonist, Geoff Pryor.
Patricia was born at Waverley Private Hospital on Adelaide Terrace in Perth on March 4, 1924. Her parents moved to Canberra three years later and Pat soon proved to be a brilliant student. She attended Telopea Park School and at age 11 passed a high school entrance examination. Pat then gained a Canberra scholarship from the Canberra High School on her leaving certificate in 1940, aged 16. She did war work at Mount Stromlo Observatory in 1941. The next year Pat produced outstanding results in her first year Arts course at Sydney University; she tied for first in English I and won the MacCullum Prize and the Maud Stiles Prize for women students. She was third in History. Pat graduated in 1946. Clearly possessed of a sharp intellect, in later life she was unafraid to speak out on an extremely diverse range of issues, from opening public libraries on Sundays to National Gallery entry fees, banning casinos in Canberra and saving the city’s trees, building a biological centre and providing better remand care.
Jack Horner, like Frank, was educated at Sydney High School. He then studied art at East Sydney Technical College before being called up to serve in the Australian Army in 1943. In 1950, Jack and his wife Jean travelled to England, where they found work designing and painting scenery for theatre productions. They returned to Australia in 1953 – when Jack started work with the Law Book Company. The couple became involved with the Workers’ Educational Association and developed an awareness of discrimination against Aborigines, which led to their involvement in campaigning for Aboriginal rights and taking an active role in organisations supporting the cause. Jack and Jean joined the newly-formed Aboriginal-Australian Fellowship in 1957 and campaigned for the repeal of the New South Wales Aborigines Protection Act 1935. As the fellowship’s secretary from 1958-66, Jack was responsible for campaigns to remove discriminating clauses relating to Aboriginal people from New South Wales laws and he was secretary of the “Vote Yes” Committee for the 1967 referendum to remove similar clauses from the Australian Constitution. Jack and Jean were executive members of the Federal Council for the Advancement of Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders, Jack as vice-president and general secretary and Jean as the treasurer. They were also members of the Australian Council of Churches Commission on Aboriginal Development. Jack’s works include Seeking Racial Justice: An Insider's Memoir for the Movement of Aboriginal Advancement, 1938-1978 and co-authorship of A Dictionary of Australian History.
* I acknowledge considerable assistance from Harriet Barry, daughter of Pat and Frank Horner.

In The Shadows of Bobby Vee and Elston Gunnn

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Calling himself Elston Gunnn, Bob Dylan unsuccessfully auditioned as a piano player with Bobby Vee's group The Shadows. Dylan is seen here typing on an Olivetti Lettera 32 portable
Hank B.Marvin's 1959 Fender Stratocaster.
A then 19-year-old Tony Meehan, left, was the original drummer (behind Hank B.Marvin) with Cliff Richard's band The Drifters, who later changed their name to The Shadows, causing Bobby Vee to change the name of his band to The Vees. Meehan, seen here with Jay and Tommy Scott and a Facit typewriter, as executive producer and chief A&R man for the Shadrich recording company, had, six months earlier, virtually dismissed The Beatles as a recording group. On January 1, 1962, The Beatles were auditioned at Decca by Meehan. Beatles manager Brian Epstein had paid Meehan to produce the recordings. Decca rejected The Beatles, instead choosing The Tremeloes, who auditioned the same day. A month later, Meehan expressed condescending comments about The Beatles’ audition and The Beatles moved on to George Martin at the Pharlphone (EMI) label.
Bobby Vee sadly fell victim to Alzheimer's disease in Rogers, Minnesota, on October 24 last year, aged 73. The last time I was talking to Bobby was in June 2006, when he told me the great story about the time he stood in for Buddy Holly. It happened the night of "The Day the Music Died". Holly, The Big Bopper and Richie Valens had died in a plane crash outside Clear Lake, Iowa, at about 1.07am on February 3, 1959, and a little more than 17 hours later Bobby and his school band were sharing the stage with the like of Dion DiMucci and Waylon Jennings in the Winter Dance Party show at Moorhead, Minnesota, determined not to perform That'll Be The Day (That I Die), Blue Days, Black Nights or even, for that matter, Rock Around With Ollie Vee.
        Bobby and his older brothers and their schoolmates had been eagerly looking forward to seeing Holly live in Moorhead for weeks before the show. Once Bobby, who earned pocket money as a newspaper boy, had got over delivering the bad news on the doorsteps of Fargo, North Dakota - that Holly was dead - he and his band answered a call to take the place of Holly and The Crickets at the rock and pop show across the Red River.  The Vee band had long since, thankfully, got rid of its wayward one-key piano player, Elston Gunnn (note, three “n’s”),  a then busboy at the Red Apple Café in Fargo who was also known as Robert Allen Zimmerman, later Bob Dylan.
Bobby Vee with The Shadows, who changed their name to The Vees after seeing the English Shadows perform.
    Already knowing most of these details, what took me by surprise in my chat with Bobby was when he told me the name of the Fargo high school band was The Shadows. Around about the time of Holly’s death, the better known (to Australians, at least) English group called The Shadows had had to change their name from The Drifters, on receiving an injunction stating that that sobriquet had already been taken by a well established (since 1954) doo wop vocal group formed by Clyde McPhatter, one which had had a string of hits on the US mainstream and R & B charts, including, notably, There Goes My Baby in 1959.
Hank B. Marvin, left, with Cliff Richard in the original English Drifters. Tony Meehan is peering out under Marvin's arm.
    I asked Bobby if he was aware of the English instrumentalists. “Oh, yes,” he said. “We changed our name the moment we saw them in a concert one night.” That was in St Paul, Minnesota, in 1960, during a rare early US tour by Cliff Richard, on which he and The Shadows shared the bill with Frankie Avalon, Bobby Rydell and none other than the injunction-toting Clyde McPhatter. Avalon, by the by, had taken the place of the Fargo high school band when the Winter Dance Party continued on from Moorhead in February 1959. “We knew as soon as the ‘real Shadows’ started playing and moving we weren’t in the same league as them, and felt embarrassed we’d even temporarily stolen their name,” said Bobby. “On the drive home to Fargo after the show that night, there was complete silence in the car for a long while, and then one of us said, ‘Well, what are we going to have to call ourselves then?’” They sensibly came up with The Vees.
The English Shadows, with Brian Bennett, left, replacing Meehan, but still with bassist Jet Harris, second left, arrive in Australia in 1961. Lead guitarist Hank B. Marvin is second from right, beside Bruce Welch. Memo Sheldon Cooper: You may think you are the smartest man alive, but a koala is NOT a bear.
    That year, 1960, was momentous for the so-called “real” Shadows. They had a monster worldwide hit with Jerry Lordan’s Apache. Worldwide, that is, as in everywhere except where it really mattered - in the US. Stateside, the version of Apache which went to the top of the charts was an intriguingly intricate one played on a Gibson guitar by the Dane Jørgen Ingmann-Pedersen. On The Shadows’ version, lead guitarist Hank B. Marvin (now 30 years resident in Western Australia, where he runs the Nivram recording studio on Tiverton Street, Perth) played a Fender Stratocaster using Joe Brown’s cast-off Italian-built Binson Echorec chamber.
Jørgen Ingmann and his wife Grethe winning the 1963 Eurovision Song Contest with Dansevise.
     Back then, as the mix-up with The Drifters name indicates, news of what was happening in rock and pop on either side of the Atlantic was far from free-flowing. The Shadows’ distinctive sound came about by mistake. They wanted to emulate the sound of Ricky Nelson’s backing group, and found out James Burton used a Fender. Richard ordered the guitars by mail order catalogue, and a Stratocaster turned up. Burton used a Telecaster. Unlike Brown with his echo chamber, however, Richard and The Shadows liked the Strat sound and kept it.
    That simple twist of fate over Ingmann's version of Apache meant The Shadows were never able to achieve the same impact in the US as they did everywhere else in the world. Marvin influenced few American guitarists the way he did English guitar heroes, like Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page, Mark Knopfler, Pete Townshend and so many more.
The original Ventures, never in the same league as The Shadows.
    Thus the decision of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame foundation in February 2008 to induct The Ventures ahead of The Shadows was perhaps understandable, if no doubt galling for the legends of Shadows fans across the world, including in Australia. The foundation mentioned The Ventures’ Walk Don't Run and their cover of the Hawaii Five-O theme tune, although, of course, the version of Hawaii Five-O which everyone and their dog identifies with is the original TV series theme written and performed by Mort Stevens. Most galling of all, however, was the foundation’s claim that The Ventures provided the “defining instrumental guitar rock in the 1960s”. The Ventures simply do not stack up in this regard against The Shadows, especially the original line-up of Marvin, Bruce Welch, Jet Harris and Tony Meehan.
      I must disclose at this point that the soundtrack of my early adolescence was provided by The Shadows, and although my passion for their music has gradually waned over the past half century, I still regard them as, tune for tune, the greatest instrumental group ever, bar none. I know, too, I am far from alone in this opinion. Yet having said all that, I must also confess the best piece of guitar rock music I’ve ever heard is the intro to Richard’s Move It, which was played not by Marvin but by session musician Ernie Shear, using a blond Hofner with a DeArmond pick-up near the bridge and a Selmer amp. Unbeatable.

Vale Colin Dexter (1930-2017)

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Colin Dexter with his Imperial Good Companion 4
portable typewriter in Oxford in 1977.
Inspector Morse creator Colin Dexter has died in Oxford, England, aged 86. Born Norman Colin Dexter at Stamford, Lincolnshire, Dexter was a crime fiction novelist who wrote the Inspector Morse series of books between 1975-99.
He began writing mysteries in 1972 during a family holiday: "We were in a little guest house halfway between Caernarfon and Pwllheli [in Wales]. It was a Saturday and it was raining - it's not unknown for it to rain in North Wales. The children were moaning ... I was sitting at the kitchen table with nothing else to do, and I wrote the first few paragraphs of a potential detective novel." Last Bus to Woodstock was published in 1975 and introduced the character of Inspector Morse, an irascible detective whose penchants for cryptic crosswords, English literature, cask ale and Wagner reflect Dexter's own enthusiasms. 
TV series: John Thaw  as Chief Inspector Morse (right)
and Kevin Whately as Detective Sergeant Lewis.

The Activist and the Valentine Typewriter

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French-Jewish author and activist Marek Halter writing on his Olivetti Valentine portable typewriter in his studio in the Marais district of Paris on September 5, 1979, following the publication of his book The Uncertain Life of Marco Mahler (La vie incertaine de Marco Mahler).
Halter is best known for his historical novels, which have been translated into English, Polish, Hebrew and many other languages. He was born in Warsaw on January 27, 1936. During World War II, he and his parents escaped from the Warsaw Ghetto and fled to the Soviet Union, spending the remainder of the war in Ukraine, Moscow and finally in Kokand, in Uzbekistan. In 1945 he was chosen to travel to Moscow to present flowers to Joseph Stalin. In 1946 the family returned to Poland and in 1950 they emigrated to France, taking up residence in Paris.
Halter studied pantomime under Marcel Marceau and was admitted to the École Nationale des beaux-arts to study painting. In 1954, he received the Deauville international prize, and was also awarded a prize at the Biennale d'Ancone. His first international exhibit was in 1955 in Buenos Aires, and he remained in there for two years, returning to France in 1957, where he engaged in political journalism and advocacy. In 1991 Halter organised the French College in Moscow.
In 1968 he and his wife Clara Halter founded the magazine Élements, which published works by Israeli, Palestinian and Arab writers. Halter's first book, the political autobiography Le Fou et les Rois (The Jester and the Kings), was awarded the Prix Aujourd'hui in 1976.
Halter's other novels include The Messiah, The Mysteries of Jerusalem, The Book of Abraham (1986) and its sequel The Children of Abraham (1990), The Wind of the Khazars (2003), Sarah (2004), Zipporah (2005), Lilah (2006), and Mary of Nazareth (2008). Non-fiction works include Stories of Deliverance: Speaking with Men And Women Who Rescued Jews from the Holocaust (1998).

Rare Typewriters For Sale

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Offered for immediate sale. Need to urgently sell these 14 very rare typewriters.  Please make fair offers on any one or all to oz.typewriter@gmail.com
Serious enquiries only. If you know typewriters you will know about the historical significance of these models and will also know what they are worth. Singapore OUT

Remington 2, first machine to have shift device. Oliver 5. Both in excellent working order.
First four-bank Bijou (Erika) portable and first model Remington portable. My two "go-to" machines.
 Two Standard Foldings.
 Two early Simplexes, first model and No 5.
Frolio 5 and Junior.
 NZTC Blick 7 and Blick 6.
Salem Hall (pointer arm missing) and Blick Featherweight.

The Way We Were: A Familiar Scene

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Artwork by Leonard Dove (1907-1972)

Famous Australian Singer's Corona Portable For Sale

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$450 ono
Contact oz.typewriter@gmail.com

World Typewriter Day 2017 Project

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World Typewriter Day 2017 project
- watch this space for the finished product!

The Paddington Bear Typewriter

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I got back on Wednesday from Bombala in south-eastern New South Wales - where the koala"bear" soft toy craze started almost 90 years ago, in 1927 - to hear the sad news that Paddington Bear creator Michael Bond had passed away in London, at the age of 91. I guess one could argue that Paddington Bear is the late 1950s British manifestation of Australia's symbolic koala soft toy, though the koala - notwithstanding the overwrought opinions of Sheldon Cooper on The Big Bang Theory - is not a bear at all.
Karen Jankel, Michael Bond’s daughter, with Bond's Olympia typewriter.
Nor is the Olympia SM9 semi-portable typewriter upon which Bond is claimed to have created Paddington Bear the typewriter Bond actually used when he wrote his first Paddington Bear story, in 1954. Bond bought the Olympia in 1965, 11 years later.
Thomas Michael Bond was born in Newbury, Berkshire, on January 13, 1926. He served in Egypt with the Middlesex Regiment of the British Army in World War Two and while based outside Cairo was offered the use of a typewriter in the orderly's office. It was with this machine that Bond wrote his first short story, in a tent in 1945. He sold the story to the magazine London Opinion, for which he was was paid seven guineas, and thought he "wouldn't mind being a writer". In 1958, after producing a number of plays and short stories and while working as a BBC television cameraman, Bond's first book, A Bear Called Paddington, was published. By 1965, Bond was able to give up his BBC job, buy his Olympia typewriter, and work full-time as a writer. Over the next 52 years more than 35 million Paddington books were sold in more than 40 languages, and have inspired pop bands, race horses, plays, hot air balloons, a movie and a television series.
Bond married Brenda Mary Johnson in 1950 and in Selfridges on Oxford Street on Christmas Eve three years later, on a whim, he bought her a hand-puppet bear as a Christmas tree stocking filler. Bond remembered, "It was the last one on the shelf and looked rather forlorn, I felt sorry for it. I called it Paddington because I'd always wanted to use the name; I think it has a nice, safe, West Country sound."A few weeks afterwards, in early 1954, Bond sat in the couple's one-room flat off the Portobello Road, west London, staring at his then typewriter (not the Olympia) and a blank piece of paper. "Glancing round in search of inspiration, my gaze came to rest on Paddington, who gave me a hard stare from the mantelpiece, and the muse struck, along with what was destined to become the equivalent of a literary catchphrase. Suppose a real live bear ended up at Paddington station? Where might it have sprung from, and why? If it had any sense it would find a quiet spot near the Lost Property Office and hope for the best. I knew exactly how my own parents would react if they saw it, particularly if it had a label round its neck, like a refugee in the last war. There are few things sadder in life than a refugee."Bond typed, "Mr and Mrs Brown first met Paddington on a railway platform." He later recalled, ''It was never intended as a book. I just wrote something to get my mind going. But it rather caught my fancy, so I carried on."
This was the start of Bond's series of books recounting the tales of Paddington Bear, a bear from "darkest Peru", whose Aunt Lucy sends him to England carrying a jar of marmalade. In the first book the Brown family find the bear at Paddington Station, and adopt him, naming the bear after the railway station. Bond gave Paddington the government-surplus duffel coat and bush hat that he himself wore. And around his neck he hung a luggage label bearing the words, "Please look after this bear. Thank you." Bond said, "Paddington was the first character-driven story I’d ever written and for some reason he came alive."

3 Million Page Views and Counting

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On one of the coldest mornings in Canberra's recorded history, this blog was running hot. At 7.28am today, its page view counter turned over to the three million mark. I haven't been all that active in blogging since March, but the page views just keep on ticking over. The blog, now almost 6½-years-old, went from two million page views to three million in 20 months, the same time it took to go from one million to two million. It contains 2300 posts and has 170 followers - comments are approaching 8800.

Vale Sam Shepard (1943-2017)

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American playwright, actor, author, screenwriter and director Sam Shepard died last week, aged 73. Samuel Shepard Rogers III was born on November 5, 1943, in Fort Sheridan, Illinois. He died on July 27, in Midway, Kentucky. He was the author of 44 plays as well as several books of short stories, essays and memoirs. New York magazine described him as "the greatest American playwright of his generation".
Shepard died of complications from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease. This November 1939 image shows Gehrig with his wife Eleanor. 

60 Typewriters Must Go - for Free, and Fast!

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After more than 10 years, during which time it featured on the ABC TV show The Collectors, the Australian Typewriter Museum in Canberra has been closed down and is in the process of being dismantled. There are 60 typewriters here that can be collected, if anyone wants one or more for free, but you'll have to be quick. And they'll have to be collected from the former museum. Anything left here at the end of the month (August 31, 2017) will be dumped. If you fancy anything, let me know ASAP and I'll hold on to it for you. Admittedly, they are mostly electrics and wedges, but some of the older typewriters might came in handy as spare parts machines. There's also a box of typing manuals and typewriter parts books, and a very large chest packed with toy typewriters. As for me, I'm off to a new home, which won't be entirely typewriter free. And this blog will be back to full flow shortly.

RIP Jerry Lewis (1926-2017)

Typewriter Doodles

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Yet another typewriter has featured in Google's doodles. Today's doodle marked what would have been the 106th birthday of British journalist Clare Hollingworth, who was the subject of an ozTypewriter blog post almost exactly a year ago, on October 11, 2016.
Hollingworth scooped the world with news of the outbreak of World War II. On August 31, 1939, the then 27-year-old Hollingworth had been working as a journalist for less than a week when London's Daily Telegraph sent her to Poland to report on worsening tensions in Europe. Terry Chapman takes up the story of what happened in the early hours of the morning of the very next day, September 1, in his book Outbreak: 1939: The World Goes to War:
Hollingworth, who went on to report on conflicts in Palestine, Algeria, Iran, Egypt, Pakistan, China, Aden and Vietnam, said she would "happily go anywhere with just a toothbrush and a typewriter". But that typewriter was most usually a Hermes Baby portable, not a standard as shown in the Google doodle.
Hollingworth was born in Knighton outside Leicester, home of the Imperial typewriter, but she generally used the Hermes. 
Hollingworth died in Hong Kong on January 10 this year, aged 105.

Fats: You Gave Me Such a Thrill

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One of my old friends, now late of this world, once told me his mother always wanted him to be a journalist, but he ended up a piano player in a New Orleans brothel anyway. Well, in the old red-light district of New Orleans at least, if not exactly in what Jeff Noble preferred to call a "knocking shop". And not before Jeff had had a very long and quite distinguished career in newspapers, one upon which he embarked as a young man in a hurry and at the cost of a chance to sprint for Australia at the 1956 Melbourne Olympic Games. Like me nine years later, Jeff had taken up an early December end-of-college year cadetship in journalism, thus denying himself the chance to compete against the legendary Bobby Joe Morrow, the Texan flyer who was dubbed "The Fastest Nice Christian Boy in the World". It might have been an interesting clash: Jeff could never have been called "nice" and wasn't especially Christian either. 
   But while his track days may have been ended, Jeff still cherished the idea of attaining the badge of honour about the journalist and the brothel piano player, of being a Jelly Roll Morton rather than a Quentin Reynolds. He reached the point in life where he could afford to spend his annual leave in Louisiana, making Rue Bourbon his Mecca and haunting the seedier streets of "The Big Easy" and, over time, befriending the people who would secure for him the job of his dreams.
   He eventually got to settle in the north-west of the French Quarter, beautifully positioned in Gretna, twixt Basin and Dauphine streets. From there he sent me a postcard, saying how thrilled he was that Leonard Cohen had described “The moon stood still on Blueberry Hill” as the one immortal line from song. “You just see that full moon suspended. You just want to gaze at it. It stops the mind spinning,” Cohen had said, in a sound opinion he was to repeat more than 20 years later. Jeff added, "It's a line I wish I'd written myself." It was actually written when Jeff was aged just one, by Larry Stock and Al Lewis.

   From left, Jerry Lee Lewis, Ray Charles, Paul Shaffer, Fats Domino and Ron Wood at the Storyville concert on June 5, 1986.
   Thursday, June 5, 1986, was my second son's first birthday in Brisbane, but I was visiting Jeff in New Orleans, and we went to the Storyville Jazz Hall at 1104 Decatur Street - right in the heart the old bordello district - and chanced upon an evening when someone fell ill and Fats Domino was joined on stage by my hero, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Ray Charles, and by the Rolling Stones' Ron Wood on guitar. Seeing such giants of popular music in the flesh - I had first heard Domino, Lewis and Charles on scratchy 78rpm shellac resin discs in the mid to late 1950s - was as wonderful as it had been unexpected. 
   Antoine Dominique Domino Jr's death in Harvey, Louisiana, on Tuesday of this week, aged 89, brought fond memories of that fantastic "Fats & Friends" concert flooding back from 31 years ago. Indeed, I hadn't thought about it much in a decade, since December 2007, when I reflected on my own then 42 years in newspapers, still convinced I'd have to be dragged out of a newsroom in a wooden box. It never came to that, happily, but it did for some of the unforgettable characters with whom I'd worked, including Jeff Noble.   
   What I remember Jeff best for was the night he commandeered the piano in the restaurant at The Metropole on Wickham Terrace in Brisbane and belted out Louis Jordan’s Let the Good Times Roll for the right royal entertainment of four-minute miler Sir Roger Bannister, among many others. We all, it seemed, loved Louis Jordan. But no more so than Fat Domino, or any of the other great "rockin' piano" players.
    The first time I saw that badge about “My mother thinks I’m a journalist but actually I’m a piano player in a brothel”, it was beside another one someone had written, one which read, “My name is Robert Messenger and I’m wearing this badge because I'm suffering from a colossal identity crisis”. I can’t recall the occasion, but I just can’t shift the image of those badges from my mind.
   If I’d known then and all that … I’d have gotten out of the crazy, family-life-killing profession of newspaper writing and become a meat packer instead. The more so if I'd ever been able to grasp that I revered the printed word far more than I did my own family. I should have taken the hint, I suppose, when I was called a "prima donna" for complaining about a change a sub-editor had made to a story I'd written at The Irish Press on Burgh Quay in Dublin in 1974. Or upon being accused, seven years on, at Cowes on the Isle of Wight, of being too "precious" about my choice of adjectives.  
   It was 10 years ago last March that my friend John Coffey, who comes from the same town as me, was sacked by The Press in Christchurch for telling his sports editor, Coen Lammers, to leave "his f...... copy alone" because "he always f...s it up".  The New Zealand Employment Relations Authority found John's dismissal had been "fair". Coffey was one of New Zealand’s leading sports writers for 44 years. Such treatment would never have been meted out to Sir Neville Cardus, who in anger over a mild rebuke about wasting words, return cabled the (then Manchester) Guardian from the Marylebone Cricket Club's tour of Australia in 1937, “I’ll send punctuation, you insert f…… words.”. We didn’t all turn out to be Carduses, sadly.
   I’m not entirely sure what my mother wanted me to be. Like Cardus’s unwed Manchester mother – a "genteel prostitute"– I fancy she desired something other than a miner or a wharfie for a son. When my mother was pregnant with me, she had her tea leaves read and was told certain things about what I’d be, none of which came within the proverbial of what I became. Let’s just say I never became the genius she was confident I'd turn into.
   I think my parents probably thought journalism was an honourable profession. I know the fathers of certain female friends made the mistake of thinking I'd be a desirable "catch". “How far will he go?” one asked my then editor in what he thought was confidence, 40 odd years ago. “How much will he earn?” Little could the editor have known what a mess it would all turn out to be. Nonetheless, that rightfully concerned father, a publican with a piano in his bar and a red light out the back, did get himself a journalist for a son-in-law. A good one, too, the offspring of a miner and a proper homemaker. One who would became editor of the New Zealand Press Association and who had the good judgement to flatten the now (as of last week) Deputy Prime Minister of New Zealand, Winston Peters, in the press bar of the "Beehive", New Zealand's Parliament House in Wellington.
   By contrast, my life seemed in December 2007 to be more reminiscent of the experience of then Australian National Party deputy leader Nigel Scullion, whose wild night out in St Petersburg was predominantly peopled by Icelandic whalers and Canadian crab fishermen. Yet nowhere on my travels, happily, was I reduced to playing piano in a brothel. For one thing, like Bob Dylan when he was washing diner dishes by day and playing in Bobby Vee’s band The Shadows by night – as Elston Gunnn (yes, three “n”s) no less – I can’t play piano.
   But one time, covering cricket in Kalgoorlie, I organised an early evening tour of the gold mining city's notorious red-light district, Hay Street. This is a little less salubrious than Bourbon Street, yet I was joined by some notable Test cricketers, Barry Richards included. When I mooted the idea, I got so many recruits so quickly that a colleague yelled out, “Geez, Messenger, you’re better than Kerry Packer at this!” As we boarded our plane that night, it was noted some of my little band of rebels were missing. No doubt they were playing piano in one of Hay Street's many seedy brothels.
   Journalism, I must confess, had its moments. With enough years and enough travel, it was bound to. But I left the profession five years ago today, wishing I had something to show for it all. Now, with Fat Domino's death, and remembering Leonard Cohen's words about the line from Blueberry Hill, I have come to realise that my disillusionment with life back then was premature. Domino's song has since turned out to be far more prophetic than I could have possibly known:


When I found you
The moon stood still
On Blueberry Hill
And lingered until
My dream came true

Hanoi Typewriters: or How I Popped in on Ho Chi Minh's Baby Typing

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At the top of a long list of things to do in Vietnam a few weeks ago was to track down H Chí Minh's Hermes Baby portable typewriter in the H Chí Minh Museum in Hanoi. That didn't take very long. And although it's ridiculously obscured in a pyramid-shaped glass display cabinet, I was still able to get a pretty good look at it. What I wasn't expecting to find was a wax figure of Uncle Ho typing on another Hermes Baby, at a desk set up just a few yards away on the same floor of the museum. This second, later model Baby has a Vietnamese keyboard, unlike the Baby that Ho actually used, which has a French keyboard. The museum has many original documents typed by Ho, and I was told by an Australian anthropologist that the accents and descenders were usually added by hand on top of or below the typed characters.
Note the care the curators have taken so that Ho's wax fingers are positioned exactly as they are in the photo below:
The Olympia Traveller we found in the Indigo store said "No touch" but the temptation just to brush off some of the surface crap was enormous. And I don't think there'd be too many takers, whatever the price. Still, it was interesting to compare the keyboard layout with Ho's later Baby.
The manufacturer's logo on the back of this seriously dilapidated model in a restaurant was vaguely familiar, but I'm still trying to work out what the brand is.
Later, on the other side of the city, in the French Quarter, we visited the Grand Hotel Metropole, where this typewriter image was at the top of a display about famous writers - Graham Greene (The Quiet American was set in Vietnam, of course) and Somerset Maugham in particular - who had stayed at and written in and about the old hotel. 
Then it was on to the Vietnamese Women's Museum, where I knew I'd find the Voss typewriter used by "The Rose of the Barbwire Forest", Bà Ngô Bá Thành, who was such a vigorous campaigner for women's rights during the Vietnam War that Nguyễn Văn Thiệu's regime had her kidnapped.
Ngô Bá Thành (centre)
We couldn't find the Olivetti Studio 42 in the traditional Vietnamese home in the Old Quarter (it had been moved), but the typewriter hunts in Hanoi were so much fun it was worth getting drenched to the skin from being caught in a sudden Monsoon thunderstorm.
And there was always plenty of coloured paper for me to type on:

My Cousin Fred Messenger, the Californian Remington Typewriter Agent

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San Bernardino County Sun, August 9, 1947
About the time Doug Nichol's much-acclaimed documentary California Typewriterwas premiering, in August this year, I was astonished to be told that my late cousin, Fred Messenger, had been a California typewriter agent. Fred, who died 70 years ago, was Remington Rand's man in Los Angeles at a time when the typewriter company was in the grip of an extremely bitter industrial dispute.
The Santa Rosa Post Democrat, July 17, 1947
The discovery of my close relationship with Californian typewriters helped ease the pain, by then becoming increasingly acute, that in Doug's change of direction and editing of his film, I had landed up on the cutting room floor. I was there when Doug started his typewriter movie project, at Herman Price's gathering at the Chestnut Ridge Typewriter Museum in West Virginia in October 2013. I was interviewed by Doug at the museum, and was there when Doug interviewed Richard Polt in his typewriter-laden office at Xavier University in Cincinnati. Later, Richard and I were filmed together at WordPlay (see my image of Doug filming Richard below):
I feel sure that if he knew Californian typewriters were in my blood, Doug might have kept in me in his doco. But, hey, I don't have the audience drawing power of Tom Hanks or the late Sam Shepard. Nor do I have the charm of a Richard Polt or Martin Howard. But I did have a cousin who was right there in the thick of the trade when the typewriter business in California was at its peak.
Los Angeles Times, January 12, 1947
I wasn't able to tell Doug that because I only found out myself last August. My cousin Noeleen Mulholland, a brilliant genealogist, messaged me saying, "According to my family tree you and Frederick are second cousins - once removed. So you aren't the only Messenger with a connection to typewriters."
Frederick was born in Port Washington, Long Island, New York, on January 2, 1908, the son of Albert Ayers Messenger and Elizabeth Morris (Bessie) Marston. Messenger Lane in Port Washington is named in Albert's honour, as he was one of the early property owners in Sands Point.
Frederick grew up in North Hempstead, Nassau County, where he started work as a bank clerk. Albert Ayers Messenger was born in New York on February 4, 1859, the son of Harry Messenger, a half-brother of my great-grandfather, William MessengerAlbert and my grandfather Robert Messenger were first cousins.
Frederick's nephew Albert Clay (Al) Messenger (1927-2003) had two great-grandfathers who fought for the Confederacy, one with the Army of Northern Virginia. Al had a passion for auto racing and established "Corner of Racing Memories" in his basement. He annually attended the Indy 500 and was honoured with a special award by the Race Car Fan Club of America for his attendance and contribution to auto racing. He was also a life member of the US Auto Racing, the Old Timers Racing Club of Lattimore Valley, Pennsylvania, and the Sons of Confederate Veterans.   
 Los Angeles Times, July 10, 1947
Hastening Fred's premature death? San Bernardino County Sun, July 24, 1947

Born on the Fourth of July: The Hunt for E.J.Brady's Typewriter

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For five months now I have been on the hunt for the typewriter once owned by the great Australian writer and poet Edwin James Brady. Imagine my delight when, early yesterday morning in Mallacoota in East Gippsland, Victoria, I managed to track down Brady's only surviving child, his youngest daughter, Edna June Brady. Yes, her father did use a typewriter, Edna told me, although it was her artist mother Flo who did most of the typing. And yes, as far as she knew the typewriter was still in existence, in the possession of a woman, a history researcher who also lived in Mallacoota.
Before I left to continue my search, Edna went to her bookshelves and handed me a copy of her book Mallacoota: A Love Affair in Poetry and Prose.  In it I came across this photo taken in 1951 of Edna, aged five, with her parents. Edna was born in Bega on the Fourth of July 1946, when her father was a month shy of 77 and her mother, Florence Jane (née Bourke) 41. Edna was an only child of this marriage, but Edwin had six children from a previous relationship, one of whom, a daughter called Norma Moya Brady (later Mrs 'Tuppy' Luckins), earned a living as a typiste.
The relevance of Edna being born on the Fourth of July, and being called Edna June, was explained by renowned columnist Gilbert Mant in the Sydney Sun in September-October 1946:
Edwin Brady had first become of interest to me back in June this year when, learning I was about to visit Mallacoota for the first time, a friend told me the story about how the great Henry Lawson had gone to Mallacoota to meet Brady in 1910. The photo of this momentous occasion, below, was taken by fellow journalist and historian Thomas Davies Mutch (1885-1958), who accompanied Lawson from Sydney to Mallacoota. Mutch's photo later became the basis of a mural at the fishing boat ramp on the foreshore at Mallacoota, an artwork which includes Brady's young son Hugh, who was aged seven at the time of the Lawson meeting.
Edwin Brady
Above, the headstone on Brady's grave in the Mallacoota cemetery and below, a marker at the spot on the headland at Mallacoota where Lawson and Brady met:
Below is the view today from the marker, and the writers' camp, and a 1951 painting by Flo Brady of the view from the Brady home across to the Mallacoota bar, which Lawson had so famously written about:
As for Brady's typewriter ... well, sad to say it has gone missing. I did make contact with the woman Edna entrusted it to, but she had given it to a nephew and there is now no trace of it. I shudder to think where it might have finished up! It's certainly not the one used below for an image to promote the annual E.J. Brady writing competition. Still, it would be wonderful to be able to find Brady's actual typewriter, especially since he gave the great New Zealand writer Katherine Mansfield her first break, he befriended the Australian writer Katharine Susannah Prichard (she also visited Brady in Mallacoota) and he inspired the great Australian writer Miles Franklin.
The reason being, we know where the typewriters used by Mansfield, Prichard and Franklin are - Mansfield's Corona is in a museum in Wellington, New Zealand, Prichard's Remington, restored by me, is at a writers' centre in Western Australia, and Franklin's Corona is with me:

As Time Goes By: Casablanca's 75th Anniversary and Screenwriter Howard E.Koch

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Yesterday marked the 75th anniversary of the release of what is unquestionably the greatest movie ever made, Casablanca.

It's therefore opportune to look at one of the film's scriptwriters, Howard Everard Koch, seen above at his typewriter. Koch not alone worked on the Casablancascript with the Epstein brothers, Julius and Philip (for which they shared an Oscar), but while working for the CBS Mercury Theatre of the Air he wrote the script for Orson Welles' famous October 30, 1938, radio version of H.G.Wells'The War of the WorldsKoch later wrote a play about the panic caused by the Welles broadcast, Invasion From Mars, which was adapted into the 1975 TV movie, The Night That Panicked America, in which actor Joshua Bryant plays Koch.
Koch was born in Kingston, Ulster, New York, on December 12, 1901. He was a graduate of St Stephen's College (later renamed Bard College) and Columbia Law School. While practising law in Hartsdale, New York, he began to write plays and moved on to the Hollywood studios. 
A year after his work on Casablanca, in 1943, Koch was asked by Jack L. Warner, of Warner Brothers, to write the screenplay for Mission to Moscow. The movie became controversial because of its positive portrayal of Joseph Stalin and the Soviet Union and Koch was fired by Warner. He was denounced as a Communist and criticised by the House Un-American Activities Committee for his outspoken leftist political views. Koch was blacklisted by Hollywood in 1951.
Koch moved Britain, where he wrote under the pseudonym Peter Howard.  He returned to the US in 1956 and settled in Woodstock, New York, where he continued to write plays and books while remaining actively committed to progressive political and social justice causes. Koch died in Kingston, New York, on August 19, 1995, aged 93.
Casablanca was based on Murray Burnett and Joan Alison's unproduced stage play Everybody Comes to Rick's. The movie was rushed into release to take advantage of publicity from the Allied invasion of North Africa a few weeks earlier. It had its premiere on November 26, 1942, in New York City and was released nationally a month later. It went on to win three Academy Awards.
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