Last Saturday reached peak harrumphing when he flipped to the back page of the magazine and found Phillip Adams had vanished from his usual spot, with an interloper in his place.
“Half a century,” he muttered, flicking back to the index as if Phillip’s column might be hiding among the recipes or wine reviews. “Gone. Just like that.”
From my strategic position under the table — excellent acoustics, terrible view — I’m baffled as to why he was upset. He’s complained about both the infuriating Adams and The Weekend Australian’s steady rightward shuffle so many times you’d think he’d be pleased to see the back of them both.
When Phillip hosted Late Night Live on the ABC, The Boss used to grizzle that he incessantly reminded everyone of his atheism and youthful brush with communism, then kept interrupting guests — but he had some excellent guests and tackled interesting subjects. As a columnist, he was prone to puns and a gushing style — but there were frequent gems among the waffle.
So there The Boss was, scouring that Twitter machine (or ‘X’, as Mr Musk now calls it, the same name as one of his 14 offspring) to find Phillip’s explanation: “Why can’t I find me in the Oz’s Weekend Magazine? Oh, that’s right, I’ve been sacked.”
Followed by a typical Adams flourish: “The order of the boot. The rough end of the pineapple. Shown the door. Made to walk the plank…”
Sacked by Rupert for the second time. Even a dog can tell Adams has had more lives than the neighbours’ elusive cat. Journalist, broadcaster, ad man, film producer, serial stirrer of prime ministers and provoker of bishops. The Boss seemed oddly comforted by his existence — perhaps he recognises a fellow grumbler.
He first read Adams when he was a uni student back in the 1960s, when the paper under editor Adrian Deamer was “a fine journal” (his words) and Adams was meant to review TV but ranged far and wide.
He moved to The Age for a spell but boomeranged back to The Australian in 1982 and has been there ever since. Despite being a harping old lefty as rare at the Oz as a vegan in a butcher’s shop, Adams pointed out that they never censored him.
Until now. After 50 years, you’d think they’d at least send a farewell bone — a gold watch, a framed column, maybe a damp card signed by the editor and anyone who might miss him.
It seems to me, though, at 84 his time was up. I, too, was once indispensable. Remember when I could catch that tennis ball mid-air, out in the paddock, defying both physics and common sense? When I could frighten a hapless fisherman with my big entry into the river, and when my mere shadow would send the hares and kangaroos scattering?
These days, I limp a little, snooze a lot, and my worn-down teeth wouldn’t scare a marshmallow. While of course I have plenty left in the tank, I do spend much of the day horizontal, listening to the breeze in the trees and the birds on the river.
I guess whether you're a columnist or a retriever, eventually the world stops throwing you the ball. The trick is knowing when to stop chasing it. Woof.
