KEY POINTS:
That John Clarke's a funny bugger. Funny ha-ha; not funny queer - though, of course, I don't mean to be presumptuous.
Truth be told, I don't know Clarke at all. I know he did no favours to mullets or gumboots. I know his mockumentary, The Games, is one of the funniest TV series e-v-e-r, and I know he turned the big 60 last week.
I emailed the Kiwi-born/Melbourne-based satirist a belated happy birthday message - as you do - and hoped he'd reply with some salacious schleb insights from his birthday bash.
After last week's pleasantly surprising blog postings from Jeremy Corbett, Leigh Hart, Mike King and Cameron Brewer (who'd have thought they'd read the Spy blog?!), I figured why wouldn't an iconic Australasian comedian get back to me? And he did... in an anomalous way.
"Dear Rachel," his email began. "I am John Clarke's doctor. He had a lovely birthday and should be up and about again by about the 12th. His friends are being questioned by the police about a large amount of shiraz which seems to have gone missing from the Melbourne area. Mr Clarke apologises to anyone he spoke to between the 25th and the 29th of July and would the owner of the brown dog who knows all the words to 'Danny Boy' please come to the inquiries tent. Yrs, Alexander Fleming."
Speaking of funny buggers, I'm not sure what to make of the public displays of attention NewstalkZB's Barry Soper has been lavishing on fiancée Heather du Plessis-Allen lately. Colleagues in the media have been tut-tutting about Bazza's indiscriminate PDAs.
The lovebirds, with more than 30-years between them, were snogging for all to see at the 42Below Cocktail World Cup qualifiers in Shanghai last week. Here's proof. Crikey! Where were the Chinese government censors when you need them? "Grizzly" Soper, with man chest hairs visible, eyes firmly closed, planted a big one on Heather's soft lips. The fact that her chin got a gentle exfoliate at the same time was an added bonus.
Sir Bob Jones is another funny bugger. Not funny ha-ha; not funny queer; more funny unpredictable.
I was introduced to the infamous Jones at his fabulous cocktail party last Thursday night. To tell you the truth, I wasn't expecting the reception I received. For a man notoriously intolerant towards cell phones, gossip, lightweight reporters and foolishness in general, I was introduced deliberately bearing my Blackberry in hand and a cheeky gossip-girl demeanour.
I braced myself for those hawking eyes to lock onto my mobile, for the expletive sound bite, for the offending article to be biffed out the window - 21 storeys above Queen St. But no, he studied me for a nano-second, mentally comparing the real thing with my Spy photo by-line, and decided that the cleavage was missing.
Where is it, he wanted to know, reaching to pull down the front of my crew-necked cocktail dress. He stopped well short of exposing my cleavage to the roomful of swanky guests in his even swankier headquarters, but he made his point. Mental note to add to Bob's list of dislikes - along with jeans and grey shoes - gossip columnists in high-necked dresses.
As if the incident prompted a fond memory, Bob then launched into a tale about once daring tennis sex kitten Anna Kournikova $20 million to play a match starkers - televised. His payback would be the advertising rights. He reckoned men would lose interest in a few minutes but women would be glued to it to the end. Anna tossed it up, but came back with a straight hit - $20 million wasn't enough.
Interestingly, after a bit more wine and a little more time, Bob sheepishly denied all knowledge of his hand-friendly introduction to yours truly when it was brought up in conversation. Surely you remember Bob, I thought. If you can remember THAT cheque, then surely a hunting expedition for a lost cleavage would not slip your mind so quickly.
Speaking of which, former Jones buddy Winston Peters was noticeably absent from the festivities. Winnie was across town in Papatoetoe making a speech at the Pacific Development dinner. But I have no doubt, had the latest tit-for-tat squabble not ensued, Peters would have much preferred getting the nod to Jones' bash.
It was right up Peters' alley: fine wine, old friends and opulent surroundings - save for the impromptu smoking room. In a it's-my-building-I-can-do-what-I-want act of defiance, Jones-the-host allowed his guests to light up inside the party at his lavish Queen St office. There were no balconies, no open windows and it was pouring outside. It was a puff free-for-all in one corner and the punters loved it. The smoke alarms had been turned off.
Here's some photos from Sir Bob's fabulous cocktail party at his lavish Queen St offices.
Rachel Glucina
Pictured above: Comedian John Clarke poses with his Lifetime Achievement Award at the 50th Annual TV Week Logie Awards in May 2008 in Melbourne. Photo / Kristian Dowling.
