45th Birthday Speech

Ladies and gentlemen, a brief word in your ears, please.  By the standards of self-indulgent Swainson birthday oratory I will not be long.

Firstly, thanks are in order.  Thank you to John and Lorraine for furnishing the venue, to Chris Paki for his steadfast skill and mates-rates concession on the PA, to Rochelle for venturing into a den of sin and debauchery, to Jamie and Allan for playing on regardless of necessitated line-up changes, to the Mayoress and the merry band of old 80s men in Pieces of Cod, to Janine and her burlesque alter ego Miss Bettsy for show stoppin’ brilliance, to Dick Dynamite and His Doppelgangers, for their loyal, unstinting service, and to youse fellas out there for filling out the room.  It is a flattering birthday line-up indeed.

Some of you might recall the speech I gave on this very spot five years ago.  It was a melancholy, self-pitying reflection on the first forty years, a catalogue of shortcomings not the least of which were  interpersonal and intimate.  In a nutshell, I lacked practical skills, life experience, cold hard cash and a girlfriend.

There have been a few changes for the good since.  I’m still as inept as ever in matters culinary, mechanical and geographic, still have yet to venture out of the country or ever save any money.  On the other hand, thanks to the generosity of Mr Engel I am now the part-owner of a proudly unprofitable business.  Thanks to Jeff Neems and Richard Walker and Deborah Sloan I have a journalistic sideline to help keep the wolf from the door.  And thanks to Janine I’ve discovered that a real relationship is rather better than an imaginary one.

I’d like to thank everyone present who was supportive or otherwise expressed their condolences when my father died recently.  To have the best part of 45 years with a parent is a privilege that not everyone enjoys and I’ve been particularly moved by the sympathy shown by friends who have not been so lucky.

One new acquaintance sent me a beautifully worded piece of prose on the theme of losing a father.  In closing I’d like to read part of it aloud:

“[since my father’s death] I’ve learned that much of my identity was tied up with him and it was his benchmarks I have adopted in much of my life.  It is his face I see in my mirror, his values I espouse throughout many mundane tasks of the day.  His death and life still colour my perception of the world.  It changed - or at least sharpened - my emotional definition of who I am”.

Thank you.  Enjoy the rest of the night.