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Fred Dagg is dead. What a vile world. Some souls should be spared, even if the gods do love them.
The first thing to understand about John Clarke is that he was a genius. He cherished words and used them in such wonderful ways: as a big beery singer; as a sensitive poet; as a sheep shearer in wellies singing to the stock; as a playwright; as a slightly amused politician sitting with Bryan Dawe never missing a beat, never recording a bummer; and as a conversationalist.
My partner Dr Jonica Newby phoned him in Melbourne for the first time last year, a little nervously, and an hour later was still laughing happily, chatting away.
The second thing is that John's comedy and satire was as cutting as a laser beam, but it was never snide or bilious. He was there for the fun and the gentle send up — far more effective than the steel-capped boot.
The third thing to understand is his scholarship. Read his classical works rewritten. They capture the essence of every artist he emulated. He was a magnificent Dylan Thomas. "And there were the uncles, always the uncles," he boomed, in a take-off of the Young Person's Christmas in Wales.
Fourth, John was an improviser. This was useful as deadlines whooshed past him. I once met him in the old ABC studios in Melbourne, in the snug atrium of the rather cottagey building, and he was scribbling away with a biro. I saw he'd managed three lines of what was supposed to be a 10-minute soliloquy.
"How's it going?" I asked. "Atrocious," he replied.
So we sloped into the studio and winged it. The topic was the meaning of life. He was beyond brilliant. My role was to contain my boiling laughter and try not to snort. I ended up with an internal haemorrhage it was so funny. I like to think it was a trial run for Clarke and Dawe.
Fifth, he was an athlete. I once invited him to a beach in Mount Eliza, which turned out to be nude. He wore a bowler hat and nothing else and we threw frisbees. His were as accurate as Exocet missiles heading straight for one's parts. And he was built like an All Black.
John was also a science man. In 2010 he worked with top scientists on the wellbeing of Westernport Bay. He persuaded schoolkids to be involved and was delighted when teachers allowed them to play in the sloppy mud and sand, planting mangrove saplings.
He also saw the children's horror when, the next day, they found that hoons had trashed the lot. So John and his mates did a report on 7.30 to show the schoolkids that most of us care, and they replanted the baby trees the next day. John took photos as they went — he was an inspired natural history photographer.
Seventh, John was a great friend, especially with women. Jonica idolised him. He and his wife Helen, a distinguished fine arts scholar, were blissfully close.
And there are so many more categories. He was another example of that unique Aussie — a New Zealander. We claim him with pride, along with Russell Crowe and Ernest Rutherford. He was a trouper who performed with the best of our comedy teams and led them to ever greater hilarious outrages, always with that wonderfully straight face and tiny twinkle.
And he cared about the ABC, though he sent it up pitilessly. He was a hoaxer, and on the Science Show we sold the national broadcaster to Kerry Packer, broadcast the fabulous Farnarkling finals, discovered the fossil beer can and worried about the ethics of sheep (until management had breakdowns).
We have lost a real national treasure, and so have the Kiwis.
But Fred Dagg is not dead. He will delight us on the airwaves forever. And he'll be singing on the Science Show this week once again: We Don't Know How Lucky We Are.
Topics: comedy-humour, arts-and-entertainment, science-and-technology, environment, television, radio, australia
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