Hello, David Marr here.
Barry Jones was sitting in the kitchen with his back to the garden. On the table in front of him was a pile of books — his books — and notes. Many notes. He was raring to go. For a couple of weeks I'd been telling him: "We only have an hour." Had he got the message?
I'd feared we would find him in bed. He took a tumble last September and spent over a month in hospital. "My left leg had done an Optus," he wrote. "The lines of communication were cut and I could no longer walk." In November when I checked how he was, he replied: "Very low and in pain."
But my spies told me he was fighting back, every week becoming more himself. The small nuclear reactor he calls his brain was untouched. After some weeks in rehab here he was back home — 93, gaunt and raring to go.
He peppered me with instructions, jokes, stray thoughts and fresh ideas as sound engineer Matthew Sigley set up the microphones. I was thinking to myself, "Barry, remember, only an hour." Matthew was keeping his own surprise for last.
By our count, Barry Jones has been on Late Night Live at least fifteen times. He knows the ropes. But I was more nervous before we began than I can remember being for years. I admire the man so deeply. There's so much life to cover, so much to talk about and so many rabbit holes we might get lost down.
He was superb. I did have to bell his opening spiel after a few minutes. He laughed and then showed himself to be an old pro: wise, funny, surprising, nicely indiscreet, honest about himself and the Labor world, a good man who values truth perhaps above all else.
An hour with Barry Jones helps make sense of Australia.
Late Night Live will be back for more. As we packed up, we agreed an hour was not enough. Then as he unplugged the microphones Matthew sprang his surprise. "Barry, I'm Ernie Sigley's son and he used to say we're related." Barry didn't pause. "We are. It's complex. Now the name to keep in mind is Gerring …"
All at his fingertips.
David Marr.
