Behind the droning voice and bittersweet melancholy of the Sandman lures the comfortably immature and disheveled Stephen Abbott. By Paul Conolly

Dousing himself in beer at his 40th birthday party, Stephen Abbott paused for contemplation. It was, says the alter ego of the Sandman-the endearing loser from Radio Triple J's Breakfast Show who regularly shows his face on ABC-TV's Good News Week-a "cathartic moment." For amid the beer bath and boozy calls of "speech! speech!" Abbott looked down, beyond the horizon of his "strangely firm paunch," and met the eye of his neighbour's child. "He was staring up at me in total disbelief," says Abbott, now 42, comfortably dishevelled within the Sydney eastern suburbs terrace he shares with his wife, Angela Moore, and their ll-year-old son, Max. "I thought, 'Oh my God, I shouldn't be doing this in front of a child,' and I flashed back to my own youth and thought, 'Would I have seen my father in that state?' and I thought, resoundingly, 'no.' That's when I realised I was an immature adult." He pauses. "Then I kept pouring beer on my head."

Like the Sandman, or Sandy- best known for his droning voice and trademark "I choose to start my story now" introduction-Abbott has a knack for moulding such incidents into moments of significance, which, for good or bad, resonate in the memory and in a nicely rounded anecdote. Fittingly then, it's big moments, such as is 40th, that Abbott has contributed to the recent "toilet book" Big Man's World. The book, co-written with Abbott's long-time mates, ABC comic Mikey Robins and Sydney Morning Herald columnist Tony Squires, embraces bigness in all its guises, such as blokes (Homer Simpson, Mark Taylor), food (steak and sausages) and, yes, moments (first love, first car, first funeral). "As we get older I think we begin to give everything mock legendary status," says Abbott. "I'm a big culprit. Why do I do it? It makes you feel a little better."

You could argue that the chair in the corner of Abbott's lounge room reflects something of his character. For starters, it's the chair his father died in ("We've re-upholstered!"): Abbott admits a "leaning towards the melancholy."

The blue-and-white- striped armchair is angled nicely towards the television-and there are few things Abbott would rather be facing, particularly with sport on every channel and his mitt curled around a remote control. Finally, that chair is big, plump and comfortable and Abbott-well, let's say he looks lived in. "Deliberately shambolic," says Squires. "I tell him he looks like a skittle," says Moore.

Add to this, she continues, "a reverence for fart and physical humour," "a fear of responsibility" and a "big brother, little brother" relationship with son Max; that's Abbott in a nutshell. But importantly, says Moore, "he's nothing like Sandy." While Abbott shares Sandy's "bittersweet melancholy" and love of sauces, that's about it. "I'm much more gregarious," says Abbott. "At a party, for example," adds Moore, "Stephen wouldn't be the guy in the shadows."

The Sandman, very much a shadow kind of guy, was born of Abbott's rich imagination and a mine of remembered moments, both his and others'. "He has an amazing recollection for detail from his teenage years," says Moore, who works as a presenter for ABC children's show Playschool. As to why the Sandman has been such a hit, Abbott says it's because Sandy touches on "fears, paranoia's and disappointments, but somehow manages to find something out of all the gloom and emotional devastation." Abbott laughs: "He once got dragged along behind a car but because he happened to be wearing a tiger suit he didn't actually take any skin off his knees so he thought, 'All right! That's a win!'

Abbott, claims Robins, "knows how to tap into the awkward moments, how to mine them for significance." Underlying the funny stuff, says Squires, "you can find depth and seriousness." He is also a very good performer," adds Robins, who met Abbott 16 years ago in Newcastle, where Sandy began to evolve and where Abbott met Moore and a creatively rich group including Squires and John Doyle, aka Roy Slaven. "Steve," says Squires, "was the Godfather of the set."

Born in Broken Hill and educated in Wollongong, Abbott re-did his HSC and worked for a year at the Port Kembia Steelworks and in real estate with a friend of his father, Lori. Then he completed a diploma of education at Newcastle University, which pleased his mum, Evelyn, a librarian. Soon after, he became involved in a travelling theatre and education troupe that visited schools. Abbott and Glenn Butcher co-founded the Castanet Club, a theatre revue group that also featured Moore and Robins. He also played

guitar in a variety of rock bands, which proved fortuitous. "Because I was such a bad musician I always apologised and I started to get laughs." And Sandy was born. Later, Robins asked Abbott to bring Sandy to breakfast radio, which, in time, he did with increasing frequency. Now established on TV as well, Sandy is still going strong. I'm amazed."

While Abbott has no immediate plans to retire Sandy, he knows a future without him and his heavy heart isn't too far away. But it's not as frightening to him as you might expect. "I fear change and I tend to dwell on the negative," admits Abbott, "but somehow, magically, things get better. It's all talk. I'm actually quite happy."

Published in the Who Weekly on 2/11/98

According to Colin Lane and Frank Woodley, otherwise known as comedy duo Lano & Woodley, there was one time when their live slapstick antics went too far. 'We were doing this tennis routine and I acted like I was going for a smash," says Woodley, "but because it was hot and I was a bit sweaty, the racquet slipped out of my hand and I threw it as hard as 1 could into an audience of law students." Lucky no-one was injured, but "I had the biggest scabs all down my knees from crawling around on the carpet, saying, 'Please don't sue me."' The pair-now performing their first live shows in two years (at the Continental in Melbourne and the Sydney Comedy Festival)-claim to have since smartened up their act. There'll be "just me and him doing physical nonsense, a few songs and trying to get a few cacks, " says Woodley, 31. It is, after all, what they do best. In 1994 the Melbourne-based duo, who have performed together for 13 years, picked up the acclaimed Perrier Award for comedy at the Edinburgh Festival. They've also produced two TV series for the ABC and hope the third will soon be given the green light. As for future projects, "We have dreams of making a film," says Woodley, while Lane, 32, notes that "a chocolate-coated Lano & Woodley two-in-one ice- cream is also on the cards.' But first, it's back onstage. "We're very lucky," says Lane, "that hitting each other with blunt instruments has a universal appeal."

Published in the Who Weekly dated October 25, 1999

The Prince of Polyester......Murwillumbah's Favourite son......Bob Downe is all this and....What exactly? Mark Trevorrow, his friend, Manager and Doppelganger, finds out.

It's a lovely Sydney morning when I arrive, full photographic crew in tow, at the Gazebo Hotel to spend a day with Bob Downe. There's a whisper of spring in the air and it's a perfect day for shopping, chatting and nailing, as HQ has requested, the definitive profile of Bob. As Bob's long-term manager (we met in 1984 at the Glebe Food Fair), I have a very special insight into his proclivities. And of course, we're such unlikely partners: one of us a sophisticated, late-blooming bohemian; one a big fish in a very regional pond. Trouble is, though, we just can't agree on which description applies to whom.

When I spoke to Bob the day before on the phone, he had just flown into town for a well earned rest from hosting his show, Good Morning Murwillumboh. He enthusiastically agreed to an in-depth interview and a photo shoot. The cover! So Vanity Fair! Of course he'd do it. Did he mind if people followed him around with make-up and cameras? No, doll, not at all. So we'd be there at 9 am then...

"What time? NINE O'CLOCK!? Well, you can let yourselves in, then," he snapped, hanging up the phone. Now, catching the lift up to the penthouse suite at the Gazebo - a 1960's Kings Cross icon, it's been Bob's Sydney hideaway since a tiny incident at the Sebel Town House years ago meant that he'd needed to find lodgings elsewhere - I mull over the questions I want to ask him.

Along with the lift's Muzak version of "Anarchy in the UK", a thousand questions fill my head. Did the Bee Gees REALLY fax Bob that famed white suit? Did Georgie Fame really ring to admit that Bob's "Yeh Yeh" is the definitive one? Where did Bob's mother, Ida Downe, find the family's L-shaped caravan, and just how close to the amenities block in the Now-Or- Never Caravan Park is it parked? How does it feel to be Murwillumbah's most confirmed bachelor? And just how long is Happy Hour at the Classy Lady Bar & Grill?

Bob has thoughtfully wedged a Toblerone in the door of his room at the Gazebo, so the crew and I make our way in. We start to set up as the prince of polyester lies snoring, semi-lightly. I realise that in all the years of our professional and personal association, I have never seen him in repose. In fact, now that I think about it, I doubt that anyone has. Always moving, always single, always restless, always keen for a new old suit or song. Like Rod Stewart's "Maggie May", the morning sun when it's in his face really shows his age. Still, it has to he admitted, Bob's a pretty fresh 40, with or without his Kryolan 7W pancake.

Our crew tiptoes around at first, but when a halogen lamp blows and he merely stirs slightly, everyone relaxes. Matt the stylist gently picks the shards of glass out of Bob's hair, and still there's no movement. Believe it or not, it's only when we switch on the TV - after two hours of setting up and three test Polaroids - that the dulcet tones of Bert Newton bring our star to life.

Now, it has been said of me that I wake up unusually happy. Not so the King of Sing, especially when faced with an entire photographic crew. Beige bewilderment turns to white anger when I merely remind him that he'd told us to let ourselves in. "What are you DOING?" he screams. "What are those cameras doing in here?" His hands fly up to his head - instinctively checking and adjusting his famous, suspiciously unchanging hairdo in one deft, practised move. He clutches the covers protectively around him. Surely he was expecting us? Apparently not.

We're off to a bad start.

Bob's mood is transformed, however, after a bowl of Coco Pops with full-cream milk, and a rather lovely jazz standard by Chelsea Brown on Good Morning Australia.

BD: Now, THERE'S a pro. Chelsea told me that Bob Fosse's choreography did her back in doing the film of Sweet Charity - but does it show in the final product? Of course not. She is simply FIERCE in that Pompeii nightclub scene, and that's what we remember. Love her. Put that in - I love her.

MT. You've got good reason to admire that kind of skill. I mean it's only in recent years that you stopped getting your head kicked in by dancers in those British TV appearances.

BD: [Eating huge mouthful of cereal to block the question out] Sorry, what?

MT: How do you cover a wrong move?

BD: I just keep smiling and never look down. Then they think it's someone else's mistake.

MT. Variety's such a disappearing patch of showbiz history, can you share some of your tips?

BD . Now, let's think. Firstly, of course, if they're looking at the shoes, there's something wrong with the act. Replace all your old fillings with white ones. Don't touch anyone's hair. Ever. And no dead air! Just keep talking, especially when you're being interviewed by Kerry Ann. Grab that wheel - and don't let go! This tea's cold.

[The tea is always cold. One of Bob's endearing traits is never, ever finishing a cup, and he always leaves a mouthful or two of food on his plate. I offer the theory that the likely reason for this is that there's just too much to gossip, whine or bitch about ...]

BD: Well, if you want to Put it that way, yes! Yes, I'm interested in the world, particularly in what's going on among my peers. Yes, I have opinions and the need to express them. What's so wrong with that? All the women in my family are like that. (Bob's mobile rings, and he quickly checks the caller display.] And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a call from my mother.

Twenty-Four minutes and 42 seconds later, I remind him of our first appointment of the day, a suit-fitting at Zink & Sons, the tailors in Oxford Street. As we crawl down the gay mile in a mid-morning cab, Bob reminisces fondly about the strip: "I discovered Oxford Street quite by accident, you know. I was looking for fruit and veg."

MT: And wound up with meat and Potatoes?

BD: No, look, listen, I did! the coaches from Murwillumbah used to pull in at the back of the Koala Motor Inn.

[Incredulous silence in the taxi, broken only by Alan Jones on 2UE.]

BD: Oh, look at you all, pretending you've never been on a fucking coach!

[I make a mental note to ask him, much later in the day, about the compulsive swearing which so distresses his mother, Ida, and his 98-year-old Nana, and has surely limited his Australian elevision prospects.]

By now, we've arrived at Zink's and a scene resembling Old Home Week is unfolding. Bob introduces the whole magazine crew - by name - to Robert, the tailor, and proudly points out he's been coming here for more than 20 years. Tailor and client chat animatedly, oblivious to the attention and the fact that Robert is measuring Bob's inside leg seam.

Bob is much more concerned with the renovations at the venerable shop, and is horrified when Robert informs him that the brown flock wallpaper is going. Meanwhile, the suit being fitted can only be described as Glen Campbell meets Harlem pimp.

MT: Lime green seersucker!! Perhaps the bridesmaids could be in orange?

BD: Darling, it's for a finale. You simply wouldn't understand. Let's face it, if it's not from the sale bin at The Gap in San Francisco, you wouldn't be interested.

MT: So Bob, do you have a signature style ?

BD: [Exasperated] Look, Mark, why do you keep asking questions when you already know the answers? I found my look in the 70s and stuck to it. Is that a crime? My brother has the Posh Shoppe boutique in Mur-bah, of course, with all the imported labels - Jag, Country Road, Staggers, the lot. So that was a good start for a North Coast boy. Then, thank God, I found Robert at Zink's here in Sydney - and he was the only other Australian I ever met who didn't think Tommy Nutter was some sort of cricketer.

[I explain to the crew that Tommy Nutter is a now-deceased but legendary London tailor to the stars, from the Carnaby Street era. It's the kind of arcane reference for which Bob is famous, and which peppers his stage act.]

I will admit that it's surely true that we don't see eye to eye on fashion. His constant on- and off-stage sniping about my appearance - and lifestyle - has reached a crescendo lately, prompted by my appearances on Channel 10's Good News Week. Really, readers, can I help it if they didn't ask him? And just as I'm about to gingerly bring up the subject of our diverging careers, one of the stylists is silly enough to congratulate me on a recent trio with Marcia Hines and Paul McDermott - within earshot of Bob.

"He's stolen my vocal style - and he thinks he's so trendy!" Bob starts in, ostensibly to Robert, but with enough projection to hit the windows of Hum records, on the opposite side of the street. "I just cower if I'm at home in Murwillumbah when Mark comes on the TV. He's such a POOF! "

The venom flows, the tension rises and, suddenly, everyone has found something to do and is looking very busy. Ever the tactful tailor, Robert brandishes a deliciously old-fashioned tartan fabric book. It's a fascinating and very welcome distraction. ("Do they have a tartan for people who aren't Scottish?" asks Bob with apparent seriousness.)

It's a pity he feels such a rage about my GNW work, because when I call Paul McDermott to get his take on Bob, Paul is delighted to talk.

"I'd heard of Bob Downe in the late 8os", he tells me. "I'd received many letters from him actually, and I hadn't thought to respond. I lifted up a stamp one day and realised these letters were sequentially numbered, up to 45.

"And when we finally met at the '89 Edinburgh Fringe, it was in a very strange way - we [The Doug Anthony All Stars] were about to go on stage, but during the lull between houselights down and curtain up, Bob managed to get ahead of us, and proceeded to perform an entire opening set. He did this every night of the season, to huge acclaim, despite our best efforts to stop him."

Hmm. I ask Paul if there has been any tension in his relationship with Bob since my appearances on GNW. "Actually, I have felt compromised when you appear with me on GNW, Mark," he says, "because the next morning after a show is broadcast, my phone message bank is full of hang-ups. Now, I'M NOT saying that it's Bob, but there is a pattern. And I do regularly find severed Ken doll limbs stuffed into my letterbox. In fact, I'm about to take an AVO out on him. But don't get me wrong - please write that I love Bob. Really."

For a bit of international perspective, I place a call to entertainer Julian Clary at his Majorca hideaway. Bob attended the camp comedy star's 40th birthday party earlier this year, and is exceedingly proud of their close, personal friendship.

"Bob Dine? Who? The line is very bad," says Julian. "Oh, Bob Downe? No, sorry - never heard of him. We had a bit of security problem at the party. You're calling from Australia? Do please send my love to Bert."

It's late afternoon as we make our way back to the Gazebo. Bob has been wholly co-operative except when he forbade us to come with him to a hair appointment in a dusty Pitt Street salon. Now, he suggests a poolside drink and after a quick change of clothes he joins me on the rooftop. I try him out on some free-association-style, off-the wall questions. (Well, off-the-wall for him, anyhow.)

MT: Who do you really love? really?

BD: Oh, Christ, Mum, of course, and my mad Aunty Bev, who Mum doesn't approve of, so I expect you'll make something of that.

MT: What else do you love?

BD: Musk sticks. Upstairs on Boeing 747-400s. Old Women's Weekly's. Colour television...I know that sounds ridiculous, but I've never got over it. If you weren't around before colour, you couldn't possibly understand.

MT: Who would you be?

BD: Who would I be? That's so stupid. Me, of course! [Natch, sorry] No. let me think. Shirley MacLaine, or Clover Moore [Independent member for the NSW state electorate of Bligh]. Love her. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Jack Wild in H.R. Pufinstuf. Or Julie Andrews.

MT: Do you realise you're on your fourth can of UDL?

BD: [Darkening, suddenly and frighteningly] Oh, right. So THIS is what you've been waiting to get around to! I might just like to have a little relaxation after a long day of you lot poking and prodding and posing me around, and you're going to make a big deal of it....

MT: No, Bob, I just meant that you're had four cans of UDL - I'm intrigued, you've had a different mix each time. Rum and cola...passionfruit and vodka....gin and...

BD: Now, LOOK HERE. Whose side are you on? You're suppose to be my manager, not some Axes and Orchids, Pick and Pans HACK! Now, you know FULL WELL that I had a little problem with UDL's for those few years - from 18 to 31 to be exact - and you're determined to get the tragic angle, aren't you? They did it to Skippy, they did it to Bert, and now with your help they're going to do it to me, are they?!

MT: Bob, honestly! I never knew about your problem....

BD: [Sneering viciously] Yeah, yeah. WHAT-ever, I suppose Aunty Bev's told you about the creme de menthe incident at my confirmation, too. Well, it's all LIES! It was just lime cordial, neat...."

At this point the tirade starts to become a little repetitive, and a little slurred. I turn the tape machine off. An adoring young cocktail waitress withdraws in tears - a fan in crisis. The embarrassed crew packs up and bids an awkward adieu.

BD: [Brightening] Thank fuck they've all pissed off! Hey - have you seen I Could Go On Singing? Judy's last film. Dirk Bogarde, hilarious ad-libbed dialogue, scenes filmed in the London Palladium - where I played with Lily Savage, I've got the video; let's watch it in the room. I got Romy & Michelle's High School Renunion out again, too.

Alone, together. Again. Just the two of us, like Edward Albee's George and Martha. Well, George and Mildred, perhaps. I guess he really likes it that way.

Published in HQ Magazine  November -December 1999 no. 67

The Aussie pub is a cherished institution. One day, while in one of these great establishments and enjoying a leisurely hour or two, radio and TV personality Mikey Robins hit upon a cunning plan - a TV show about pubs!

Having explored the best in Australian pubs last year with the documentary Mikey, Pubs and Beer Nuts, Mikey has expanded his horizons and moved abroad to Ireland.

"I like old-fashioned pubs without poker machines, and Ireland has some of the most beautiful poubs in the world", explains the 40-year-old former Good News Week regular.

The pubs in the Irish countryside really took hi fancy.

"Once you get off the tourist trail and into the country, you get a real sense of community," Mikey says. "Compared with Australia, where we like to pare things down every five years and then rebuild them, it's lovely to sit in an Irish pub and know they are 150 year old with breathtaking carpentry and there are lots of kids running around"

One problem that Mikey encountered as he visited seven or eight bars a day on his journey through the Emerald Isle was trying to avoid reinforcing Irish cliches.

"The problem is that live the cliche," he says. "They really are warm, generous people and there are bands in every pub. I only got knocked back once to film in a pub, in Belfast, where I think there have been some trouble"

The other revelation for Mikey - apart from the stunning combination of Guiness and oysters ("delivious"), blood pudding ("an aquired taste") and Irish whiskey ("superb") - was the Guiness hangover.

"The Guiness really does taste different over there" he says "Its sweeter, and I drank it at the same speed I drink beer here. "You wake up the next morning and feel like there is an Irish rugby team playing in your head"

How did you get the idea for The Speed of Doubt?

I started from the assumption that failure is one of Australia's most prevalent resources, yet it's one of those resources we rarely exploit. One segment of the program shows people who are not successful how to use failure as a means to success. Another segment shows Sandy interving so-called 'successful people' in the fields where he would like tobe successful - sport, drama, relationships and music.

How can you say failure is a prevalent resource when Australians have invented the Hills hoist and cask vine?

I rest my case.

You challenge butterfly champion Geoff Huegill to a swim-off in the show. Did you do any special training for that?A little bit. I used to be a good swimmer in my day. I thought I'd chat to Geoff because, until recently, he's always been running second or just missing out. He was always in the shadow of Michael Klim, so I thought he would be an interesting person to interview, rahter than Thorpie [Ian Thorpe] or [Michael] Kilm or Susie O'Neill. So I challenged him to a swim and, sadly, he beat me.

Do we get to see Sandman in Speedos?

I wear a tiny pair of purple lycra bermudas that I actually found on the side of the road, and when you see me standing next to Geoff Huegill....well, it's quiet sad really, and a little humiliating.

And you also auditioned for a part in Neighbours. How did that go?

I did an audition with Toadie [Ryan Moloney] and Dee [Madeleine West]. I played the part of a 17-year-old surfer called Owen who was doing his HSC again. I thought I did really well.

Were there any kissing scenes?

I kissed Dee's hand and sucked her fingers....in fact, I sucked her fingers for a totally inappropriate amount of time. I still haven't heard back from them.

You also spent some time with Anthony 'The Man' Mundine researching his eating and cooking habits - and his sex life. How did that turn out?

I mainly started asking Anthony why he was in such a hurry to be world boxing champion and then we drifted on to things like, 'Did he like to finish first in sex, as well?' I'm not sure that kind of stuff is for your magazine.

Is it true Perth socialite Rose Porteous gave you a makeover?

Rose has become 'available' and Sandman's always been a littl less than successful in relationships, so I thought, well, she's available and I'll go see if there is any chance for her and I. We spent the whole day together at [Rose's mansion] Prix d'Armour and during the course of the day, as we were lying on the bed, she smelled my hair and said it was smelly. So she took me to a room off her bedroom, where she has a hairdressing salon with a basin - she shampooed and conditioned my hair and gave me a scalp massage, and then she blow-dried my hair and gave me a bob. So it was an interesting day I spent with her, and she was quite chatty.

You met some interesting people. Which segment is your favourite?

I really enjoyed interviewing Neil Finn and having a songwriting workshop. But I suppose, TV-wise, the Rose Porteous bit was the most bizarre and that challenged me as a performer because I was in character for five hours.

Which of the celebrities gave the best advice or tip for being successful

Every one of them had something pretty interesting to say. Neil Finn was quite good about living in the moment and was probably the most incisive. I also got something out of speaking with Geoff Huegill, talking about how you have to be a bit of a turd to be successful. I guess I was trying to work out, why some people have charmed lives and others miss out, and I came to the conclusion that, without losers, there would be o winners, so it's essential to have losers.

After all of your research, is Sandman a winner or a loser?

He's a loser.