More from
THE GRASS IS BROWN ON BOTH SIDES OF THE FENCE

Although this BODY BUSINESS extract took place ten years later I’m including it now because of its connection to Crawford Productions..
It is a great example of how the business was starting to lose its innocence and get indulgent and nasty.

“Body Business” PBL Productions

The show, I was to find out later, was not unlike the decision that was made when the Homicide special that revolved around the Melbourne Cup, had fallen over. The miniseries called Body Business was akin to that overnight re-written script that shifted the murder of a Melbourne Cup winner to the death of a suburban Riding Club pony.

The original script of Body Business. Two young country girls come to Sydney wanting to become models. Why that script was canned I don’t know, because it couldn’t possibly have been as bad as Body Business the hybrid. I heard that the head of PBL, Jane Deknatel, had said that as all the investor’s money had been placed into a production called Body Business, then that had to be the title of the show. Fait accompli, the title was set in stone and it didn’t matter what the show was about as long as that title remained.

So what was Body Business the hybrid about? The fashion industry. What else? Throw in crooked cops, murder, black magic, human sacrifice and plenty of the scantily clad, plus the odd witch, and it was hot to trot. My character. Nick - known to all as the Smiling Cobra. His background. Orphan found on the streets to be brought up by gangsters. Nick grows up, becomes a Vietnam War hero and is now a top fashion designer with dubious motives. When the director asked me how I was going to approach the part I said that Nick was the type of person who you could hand an AK 15 Machine gun or a Pfaff sewing machine, it didn’t matter, as he was a wizard with both. I suppose the director Colin Eggleston (1941 – 2002) could have argued against that. But with what?

I had met Colin only once before. It was a brief encounter that lasted about long as it took for him to slam a door in my face. We were both at Crawford’s at the same time and Colin had been working on a documentary about a journey in a hot air balloon across Australia. Being a bitchy industry there were rumours flying around that this doco with Colin at the helm was not going well. I paid little attention to this - my ego at this time had no vision beyond itself. I was in one of the corridors of the Crawford building when I opened the wrong door of one of its rooms. In that room was Colin, who lunged at the door and slammed it in my face. Obviously I was not welcome. But in the brief time that the door was open I had been privy to the room’s secrets. There was a camera suspended from the roof, its lens pointing down towards a large aluminium tray. The tray was full of flour with little segments of broccoli poked in it. One of the rumours about the troubled air balloon doco was that there was a shortage of footage. I gathered that Colin was working on a segment that was going to try and convince the audience that they were high above Mount Kosciuszko. The Hot Air Balloon Documentary never did go to air.

The Body Business shoot was a riot from start to finish. It was also to be my introduction to Gary Sweet. Within a minute of meeting him I was lying on the floor pissing myself. Like a bird knows how to make a nest, Gary has the instinct for knowing how far he can go with someone he has just met. This is how far he thought he could go with me. He walked into the Wardrobe caravan, walked up to me with his hand out and said ‘Gary Day, Gary Sweet’. I shook his hand and said ‘How are you doing.’ He then looked me in the eye and said conspiratorially ‘Gazza do you want to see something disgusting?’ Before I could reply he turned around, dropped his pants and bent over to reveal a small shit mark on his gleaming white budgie smuggler undies. I fell on the floor laughing it was so outrageous. The shit mark wasn’t offensive as it looked like it could have been the work of some highly sought-after Japanese artist. It may well have been - with Gary you never know.

After that meeting we got on like a house on fire and we have never failed to dissolve into laughter whenever we meet. Maura Fay said of Gary that he should have a tattoo on his forehead saying TROUBLE. I knew what she meant. Sound advice - especially when it comes to the opposite sex.

If I miss anything about show business, it’s being on a set with Gary. I attended his second marriage and later on I could see him on the cusp of inviting me to his third. I stopped that by saying ‘Why don’t you just give me a season ticket.’

At his second marriage, I asked fellow guest, the actor Richard Moir, how he had met Gary.
It was on the set of a film called An Indecent Obsession. Richard, who was playing the deranged villain, had arrived on the set early to get himself in character. By the time Gary arrived Richard had morphed completely into his villainess character - Gary took one look at him and said ‘Oh dear. Who’s going to be best in this scene?’ Richard said that his character immediately flew out the window and that he had a hell of a job trying to persuade its return.

The behind the scenes shenanigans on Body Business were many and varied. Jane Deknatel was not your usual executive. She had been brought in from overseas to run the PBL star ship.
I never saw anything on her desk and she seemed to spend most of her time helping actress Carmen Duncan select the hats that she should wear in the show. If Jane wasn’t doing that she seemed to spend her time arranging expensive dinner parties.

Along with Jane Menelaus and Maura Fay I was invited to one of these to be held at Jane Deknatel’s Point Piper home. Then Maura received a call from Jane saying that she wanted her and myself to arrive a couple of hours earlier than arranged. I put on my best, newly-acquired, free Glass Babies clobber. Maura picked me up in a taxi and we made our way to Jane’s Point Piper address, only to find that Jane was not there.

According to a tradesman - who was preoccupied with the cutting out of a circular tabletop - Jane had gone for a run. The tabletop he was working on had a deadline as it was to have ten guests seated around it in a couple of hours’ time. I could see that the diameter of the tabletop surface was such, that should the salt and pepper pots ever find themselves in the middle, they would have to be retrieved with a golf club.

Then Jane - glistening with sweat - arrived back from her run and wanted to know if Maura and I could cook. Having been to dinner parties at Maura’s in the past I knew that she was a splendid cook. I felt that Jane would have known this as well and the question, although directed to both of us, was aimed at me. I told her that I could cook but not to the extent that would threaten Margaret Fulton. Jane then informed me that this was good as it would be Maura and myself who would now be cooking for ten. She then told us that there was chicken in the fridge and as time was running out, Maura and myself had better get started. Jane then left to take a shower. Maura and I, when we recovered from our astonishment, shrugged our shoulders and headed into the kitchen. Like old Mother Hubbard, when we got there, the cupboards were bare. There were chicken pieces in the fridge that might, if we were lucky, stretch to ten. Further fossicking turned up a bag of onions and some cans of tinned potatoes and asparagus. The fridge yielded some suspect Use by Dated half jars of pesto and the bottled remains of several salad dressings. Maura and I came to the conclusion that if we whacked all these ingredients together and choked it with herbs, it might work as some sort of marinade - the only option for the chicken was going to be cover it with something and cook the shit out of it. I took off my coat, rolled up the sleeves of one of my Glass Babies shirts and, along with an equally mystified Maura, started to get things rolling. The guests arriving in an hour? Hardly any food? It was obvious that the chicken, taters, onion and asparagus stretched to ten meant the serves were going to be entrée size. Entrée? I thought what the hell could we serve up as an entrée?

Jane then appeared all dressed and attractive, and set about opening an expensive bottle of champagne that she poured into flutes then handed to us. I took that opportunity to ask what were we going to do for an entrée. Jane, throwing a large tablecloth over the new circular top - now balanced on top of the original table - told us that there was a large canister of spag shells in one of the cupboards. Maura found it and said there was enough for ten, but what were we going to put on it. According to Jane there was some spaghetti sauce somewhere and she set about finding it. Doors opened and banged shut until Jane produced several cans of sauce. These, along with a large chunk of parmesan cheese, she placed on the bench. I took one look at the so-called spaghetti sauce and saw that it was tomato paste. Her reply, when I questioned using it as a sauce, was that it would do. Knowing that Jane was the chief and Maura and I were the Indians, it was a case of tomato paste on spaghetti shells coming up. Maura and I did however demand that it was not to be disclosed that we were in any way responsible for the food that was going to be served. Jane agreed, smiling. Maura and I traded a - something is out of whack here - look.

The doorbell rang. A few moments later Jane Menelaus entered the kitchen and flashed a - why was I cooking? - look to me. I implied a don’t even ask back, at the same time noticing that my silk Italian shirt was now seer sucked with pin points of hot oil splashes.

When the other guests started to arrive, they were shown into the lounge room by head honcho Jane, who told them to help themselves to the drinks. When she came back into the kitchen I asked who the guests were. I was informed that these were people who would be working under and alongside her at PBL and, as she didn’t know them very well, this dinner party was to help break the ice. Maura, Jane Menelaus and I were then steered into the lounge room. After introductions and several glasses of champers it was now time to eat. Head Honcho Jane, with the assistance of Maura, served up the dreaded first course entrée. I was pleased about this as it removed me from being in any way responsible for what was about to be digested. I looked at mine as if I had never seen it before - after a token taste I was content to stir it around, hoping that it would appear that I had eaten some. While I was doing this, I was privy to the other guest’s reactions to this culinary masterpiece. Some took a taste and quizzically decided that they would pass on it. Some ate some of it as if hoping that it might get better. One ate it under sufferance and some ate it all without blinking. As Jane was clearing the plates at least two of the guests said ‘thank you Jane that was lovely.’ I spun a look to Jane Deknatel who had anticipated my reaction, and was already looking at me as if to say, now do you understand? I immediately did. She had exposed at least two sycophantic guest’s real colours. Jane Deknatel was one shrewd lady. I too had probably been tested as well.

By the time the rest of the meal was served everyone was light-headed with champagne. The chicken wasn’t bad and I don’t think anyone noticed how meagre his or her serves were. For dessert, limousines arrived. They then ferried us to some upper-class nightclub for superior sweets and yet more champers. What a night - I was a feather duster one moment and a rooster the next. It wasn’t that long ago when all I had for nightly company was the smell of the paste residue on my toothbrush.

There was more to come.

Click or touch here to continue this Chapter

 

 

This is a private page, so to go to the website click here.