And here's a letter I have written to the organisers of a huge night on the 16th of September.
well, they invited me to help them celebrate.
Unfortunately, I won't make it.
Dear oh dear,
We didn’t know what we were doing, but we did it.
All those names that have gone on to be, well, the same names.
And all those names we have forgotten, yet we still talk about that gig, that night, that bloke, and the women who threw the chair before public indemnity insurance was an issue.
Were they the best years of my life?
But two weeks ago when I caught up with Ray Matsen, now head writer for the ever ebullient Rove, that was all we talked about, the old days.
And we both looked like we’d had a few to talk about.
These days he lives in Melbourne and runs a pack of lean, fast talking, comedy writers.
I live in Albany and write books between beach running and body surfing.
Oh, to make money I catch planes to where it is.
Laugh Resort, 18 years old.
I’d love to be there.
Sorry I’m not.
But keep inviting me, because when we all get to 20, I’m coming up for a week.
My love to those who remember me.
To those who don’t, huh, you’re not alone.
Peace, laughs, and longevity