All This in 60 Minutes

by Lee, Nicholas

  References in this book to 60 Minutes are made solely in the context of describing events in the life and career of Nicholas Lee and not for any other purpose, and there is no connection with or any endorsement of this book by Channel 9, which is the owner of the intellectual property rights relating to the show 60 Minutes.

  First published in 2016

  Copyright © Nicholas Lee 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 76029 300 0

  eISBN 978 1 95253 443 0

  Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  For my three girls, Sue, Jessie and Kathryn, with my love and gratitude

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  1 Bed of Nails

  2 The Packers and Me (and Phil)

  3 It Could Have Been the End

  4 Great Pubs

  5 Down and Out in Cairo

  6 I Forgot to Flush

  7 Almost a Murder on the Orient Express

  8 He’s Dead and the Moon is Blue

  9 Frequent Flying

  10 Food, Glorious Food

  11 A Few Good Men

  12 Rembrandt Had it Easy

  13 Shit Happens

  14 I Ain’t Got No Quarrels

  15 Kings and Wannabes

  16 No Apology, Anthropology

  17 The Virgin and Buddy Holly

  18 You Lose Some You Win Some

  19 To Cull or Not to Kill

  20 There’s no Business Like …

  Foreword

  Let’s be honest. This is a funny book. At this price I strongly urge you to buy it. Do yourself a favour, because Nicholas Frederick Lee—former cinematographer, formerly of Wellington NSW—is a funny fellow.

  (I’ve known him for almost 40 years, yet I can’t believe he’s actually a … ‘Frederick’. Now that’s funny. Nicholas Frederick Lee actually sounds like the sort of Anglo name that Hong Kong Chinese gave their Number-One son before the 1997 handover from Britain.) So, let’s do away with the pompous formalities. Let’s just call him ‘Fred’, for the record maybe even ‘Freddo’. It’s a name that suits his comic bent. Besides, I may have to call in the defo lawyers over some of the stories about me in this book, so I’d prefer not to refer to him as ‘Nick’, my old and dear friend.

  I guess the core question is this—is Freddo’s book accurate? Or is it a humorist’s work of fiction? Is he really Wellington’s answer to Mark Twain? We’ll come to that. At first glance, this literary masterpiece weighs in as almost epic. I managed to cover my full life’s journey from birth to epitaph in fewer pages. But let’s be blunt. Nicholas does love a chat.

  I remember once running into the former prime minister John Howard, who was penning his autobiography at the time. ‘How’s it going,’ I asked, pretending to be keenly interested. ‘Ohhh, good. I’m at 700 pages and still have the 1990s to go.’

  I suspect Nick Lee’s editor has faced much the same dilemma. This creative blockbuster suffers from ‘the tyranny of distension’,1 as iconic historian Geoffrey Blainey probably never said. Mind you, I don’t want to rush to judgement.

  Reading a couple of the earliest, unexpurgated versions of All this in 60 Minutes, I found myself laughing aloud. Often. Even on an aeroplane. Much as when I first read Clive James’ Unreliable Memoirs which, as you’ll soon see, might have been a more fitting title for Nicholas Frederick Lee’s book.

  I must confess, Freddo’s stories about George & Ian & Jennifer & Lizzie & the rest of the 60 Minutes’ mob are hilarious, well told, if occasionally piss-takes. For a smart, compassionate bloke, Nick sees the world through a comic, special-effects prism. His ‘lens-baby’ view of life always seemed to be slightly warped, even if his editorial opinion was sharp and tolerant.

  Exaggeration? Yeah maybe. To be fair, we all know that a little embellishment in one’s autobiography is expected and acceptable. (Like extra butter and a dash of chopped parsley in mashed spuds.) Look, if you want the real story of what happened in Saudi Arabia when Nick and I were offered the sheep’s eyeballs to eat (out the back of Mecca), you should read my highly amusing, beautifully written, best-selling autobiography. My version differs considerably from his. How could Freddo get the basic details so wrong—especially the role he played?

  Same with my Taiwan tale of how I manoeuvred Nick to eat the bird platter—beaks, wings and every other part of the starling tray—as payback for the goat’s eyeballs. Likewise, my version of the Orient Express is a rollicking ride, as is my gripping ‘inches from death’ yarn about the near plane crash at Sydney’s Kingsford Smith Airport. My stories—‘the truth’ in other words—were all printed years ago in a hardback book, clearly much more reliable.

  But I think there are also a number of crucial factors at play here that explain the huge discrepancies between his reporting and mine. There is the undeniable fact that the reason cameramen become … ah, cameramen … is that they’re just not good with words. They tell their best stories with the camera, which—according to legend—never lies. (Wrong!) Now, Nick’s unquestionably a really great cameraman—been everywhere, met everyone, done everything. And, around a barby he tells a cracking good yarn, usually with half a dozen laughs and a strong punch line.

  I distinctly remember once telling Nick that he should pen his grand story about life on the road with 60 Minutes. (For his grandkids mostly.) But in actually writing a 300-page book about his peripatetic life, has he gone a bridge too far? Well, you be the judge.

  Then, there could be the thorny issue of hallucinogens. This could explain heaps. I mean, in the book there are oblique references (a ‘giveaway’ really) to the taking of alcohol and drugs—such as the big night in Cairo after the world-exclusive interview with Egypt’s President Anwar Sadat. It’s no secret that excessive use of social drugs can often lead to memory loss.

  (Incidentally, on a couple of occasions in his book, Freddo does suggest that along with my tendency to talk to people excessively I also enjoy a drink or two. Excessively. That’s another issue the lawyers will be looking at closely.)

  Finally, there is the matter of ‘disturbances in the circadian rhythm’ of Nicholas Frederick Lee. In other words, massive jet lag, which is the game changer! It is, of course, a scientifically proven fact that jet lag seriously ‘affects cognitive skills and can result in acute memory loss’,2 while the resultant sleep deprivation ‘punches holes in the human memory bank’.3

  We all know that NASA officials speak openly about ‘the unknown unknowns’.

  Sleep deprivation, oxygen starvation, deep vein thrombosis, business class fatigue, etc., all add up to what’s called the ‘polymorphic risk’ of incessant air travel. Almost three decades spent flashing the Qantas platinum card has seen Nick rack up probably the equivalent of flying to the

  moo
n and back twice. Maybe even beyond Inner Space. So, I rest my case.

  Again, I should emphasise that the only stories I can categorically deny are the twisted tales about me. Myself. The rest I have only deep suspicions about, although I found them absurdly funny.

  So, what category does All this in 60 Minutes fit into in the local bookshop?

  Fact or fiction? Well, I’ll leave that up to the booksellers to decide. The front window is where I suggest it should go. And piles of books, just alongside the cash register. Either way, there’s no question it slots easily into the comedy section. Like I said, it’s a fun-crazy book. Made me laugh, certainly the stories about George, Ian, Lizzie & the others cracked me up. Well done, Nick. Played a blinder, mate.

  And by the way, Freddo, my lawyers will be ringing your lawyers today!

  Ray Martin

  ____________

  1 Macquarie Pocket Dictionary, ‘to make or become stretched; swell’.

  2 I certainly read this somewhere.

  3 Google it yourself !!

  Prologue

  I’m only 32 and about to die in a plane crash. I’ve survived snipers in Beirut, artillery fire in Israel, an exploding grenade in Rhodesia, and being ripped to shreds by an irate executive producer for having lost not one but two passports in less than six months (though I did wonder if he was overreacting)—and now I’m about to plummet to earth in a fireball. I should have been an accountant.

  We’ve just finished a 60 Minutes shoot in Lightning Ridge and the four of us are winging our way home to Sydney in a small eight-seater plane. I’m half asleep thanks to the many ice-cold beers supplied by our amicable and capable pilot so I’m not completely tuned in when I hear his announcement. I vaguely register his words ‘problem’, ‘not sure’, ‘most likely’ and ‘no wheels’. It’s after the ‘no need to panic’ that I know I’m not dreaming and I get very interested indeed.

  ‘It’s sort of possible to land without wheels,’ he tells us.

  Sort of?! What does that even mean?

  Sydney’s Kingsford Smith Airport, fifteen minutes away, is alerted to our problem. They tell us to fly over the ocean, jettison all fuel that won’t be needed for our fifteen-minute flight to our sort of landing, then head for the airport that’s now closed to all traffic except us. A row of fire trucks are on standby.

  Our pilot asks if any of us have been in this situation before. The answer, surprisingly, is no. Ray Martin, our reporter, who is handsomely paid to ask questions, asks the pilot if he’s ever been in this situation. The pilot’s answer is the same as ours. That’s a worry. However, a belly landing could be a bit of fun, and a cool tale to tell grandkids. If I survive.

  The pilot tells us to take pens or sharp instruments out of our pockets, remove false teeth, and put our heads between our knees. We make feeble jokes about each other’s teeth before he tells us he’ll leave the radio on speaker so we can all listen to the instructions from air traffic control.

  ‘We have you on radar. Ten minutes to touchdown.’

  We continue to crack jokes to ease the tension. I’m not sure if it’s working. I’m rather fascinated with how we’ll land, and love the idea that the whole of Kingsford Smith Airport is closed to everyone in the world except us. I genuinely have no fear, and am very impressed at how cool I am. I must be made of the right stuff. Then, just as I hear, ‘Five minutes to touchdown,’ there’s a dreadful electrical burning smell and the plane fills with smoke. My heart starts pounding and the fascination with landing deserts me. So does the right stuff. The airport bloody well better be closed to everyone but us.

  More and more acrid smoke fills our little plane. My fear is obvious. I’m not running around the plane screaming, but there must be one hell of a scared look on my face because Ray asks if I’m all right.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘I know for a fact I’ll never die in a plane crash.’

  Nice of you to mention it, Ray, but what about me?

  I’m more frightened than I’ve ever been in my life. My tongue swells up and fills my mouth. I can’t talk. Who gets a fat tongue from fear? It seems like such a strange reaction. From the airport we hear, ‘Two minutes to touchdown. You’re looking good.’ He’s obviously not talking to me.

  The pilot tells us he’ll do whatever he can to pull up the plane when we hit the ground. Then we must open the door and run. I’m closest to the door. I make a quick study of how it opens, then put my head down again. A minute later the engines start to slow down. I’m desperate to look up to see how close to the ground we are, but knowing my luck I’ll raise my head just as we touchdown and I’ll be decapitated, and Mr Know-For-a-Fact Martin will be true to his word and probably a hero. So I keep my head between my knees, easy to do with my anvil-like tongue.

  We hit the ground. Seems nice and smooth to me, but that smoothness could be my crossing to the other side. I’ve read about that. The plane comes to a standstill. I’m not dead. I open the door, hit the ground before the door does and start running Forrest Gump-like. What seems like 100 kilometres later, when I figure I’m far enough away not to be incinerated by a giant fireball, I turn to see our little plane happily resting on all its wheels and Mr Never-Die-in-a-Plane-Crash ambling towards me.

  ‘Do you want this?’ says Ray, and hands over the camera I’d left on the seat. A fine gesture, but I’m sure it’s a lot easier to think of others when you know for a fact you’re not going to die. Truth is, the last thing on my mind is that camera. I know, I’m a cameraman, but under the circumstances I figure it’s every camera and every cameraman for himself.

  The Daily Telegraph and 2GB radio news journos had heard the emergency on their police radios and are already at the terminal as we walk in. Recognising Ray they say, ‘Shit, you blokes got here fast, what do you know about what happened?’ We say we know nothing. Actually, Ray does. My tongue is still too fat to talk.

  Turns out, there was never a wheel problem, we always had wheels, but we did have an electrical problem so the wheels indicator wasn’t lighting up.

  And the front page the next day: Ray Martin Says—‘I Thought My Sixty Minutes Were Up.’

  Pretty snappy headline, but he didn’t say it. Why would he? He knew for a fact he wasn’t going to die in a plane crash.

  Moments like these were my life for 30 years.

  1

  Bed of Nails

  His Excellency, ‘President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji, Doctor Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, CBE, Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular,’ aka The Butcher of Africa, had left the building—in fact, the whole bloodied country—in April 1979. Not long after that, we were sent there to see just how much of a basket case Uganda really was.

  As usual, there were four of us on this job: producer Allan Hogan, reporter Ian ‘Leso’ Leslie, soundman Peter Fragar and me. Having no idea how or if the destination country was operating, we stopped off in Nairobi to buy a stack of food and a few dozen bottles of booze. We had been warned that things could be difficult in Uganda, though we weren’t too concerned, after all, the Intercontinental Hotel in Kampala had taken our booking.

  At Entebbe airport, it appeared as if the famed Israeli raid had only just taken place, though it had occurred three years earlier. Looking at the state of the airport we couldn’t help but marvel at the gall and success of the raid by the Israeli army. Three hostages, one Israeli, 45 Ugandan soldiers and all hijackers were killed, while 105 were hostages rescued. All over in 58 minutes.

  There were bullet holes in everything, walls smashed in and busted windows. Wires hung dangerously from the crumbling ceiling. Two or three fluorescent lights were struggling to stay lit. What a mess. And amongst it, Ugandan customs officers who couldn’t have been more ineffective if they tried. In near darkness they checked our passports and waved us through, with no hint of bribe money, the norm for nearly all African countries at the time.

  The Butcher of Africa had been done over beautifully by the
Israeli army raid. Furious at what had happened, and suspecting the Kenyan government had been involved, Idi Amin announced that all Kenyans were to be evicted from Uganda. Most left immediately. Unlucky stragglers were murdered. Then, with his paranoia really setting in, The Butcher had anyone suspected of opposing him killed. Not that there were many left. He’d already executed cabinet ministers (live on TV, then kept their severed heads in his fridge), supreme court judges, the chief justice, prominent leaders of the Catholic and Anglican churches, and two-thirds of his 9000-strong army.

  And now, in 1979, to divert attention from the country’s internal problems, he foolishly invaded Tanzania. His hopelessly prepared army was easily overrun and the Tanzanians marched into Uganda. When the Tanzanian army reached Kampala, they found the capital littered with dead bodies and His Excellency The Butcher had bolted with four wives, several of his 30 mistresses and twenty of his kids.

  A few months later when we hit Kampala, the streets were deserted, apart from Tanzanian soldiers. We wandered into the flashy marble foyer of the Intercontinental Hotel and the only people there were, surprise, surprise, Tanzanian soldiers. And they weren’t friendly. The staff at the front desk weren’t particularly welcoming, either. When we mentioned our reservation, although not met with fits of laughter, we might as well have been. Despite the semblance of a fully functioning hotel, with beautifully dressed reception personnel, arrival cards, pens, telephones, signs to the restaurants and lifts, the place had no bookings, no available rooms, no nothing. The elegant receptionist stared at us with a look of, ‘Have you seen the streets out there? It’s war and you’re expecting to just prance in here and get a room? What do you think this is? A hotel?’

  There was not just the four of us, there was also the small issue of eighteen cases of equipment and four personal suitcases. Oh, and some fine reds and tasty cheeses.

  While the others pondered the situation, I went to the gents. If I thought Entebbe airport looked as if it had been done over, this was like nothing I had ever seen, or care to see again. There was shit all over the floor, shit on the walls, and shit clogging every toilet and every sink, and it stunk like shit! What was it about these soldiers? Did their mothers teach them nothing about personal hygiene? Thinking I’d outsmart them, I went to the ladies instead. Obviously, I wasn’t the first to have that great idea—it was filthier than the men’s with even more shit. This was not going to be a fun trip.