I tried lying to my doctor. Blame the planets, I said. It didn't work
He says she stared at him as if he were Ernest Shackleton disembarking in England in 1917. I guess she'd never expected to meet someone who'd pulled off such a feat. Nobody could survive such a fire. Like meeting Alex Honnold, or Keith Richards… a myth, a ghost, a person seemingly impervious to the certainties.
Loading
I've done the maths on his habit (50 years x 365 days x 60 cigs = 1,095,000). He appears to have gotten away with smoking a million cigarettes. I guess if the packs were stacked they'd be about the size of a school bus. But you'd buy the bus and the school itself for the $2 million the smokes cost.
He always has one lit, and in absent-minded moments two – one waggling in his lips as he talks and the other being used as a baton to enhance his arguments. And I notice that every time he draws a lungful, as the ciggie crackles and glows, his pupils dilate, and a moment's serenity washes over his sallow face. So, who am I to say he's got it wrong? If it kills him now, he's still played games of chance against God and won. Is that genes? Luck? Or the devil taking care of his own?
He's also known among those who like to hoist a goblet. And when he finally got in to see the doctor he told her: 'The kidneys and liver we're not discussing at all. They're off-limits, a no-go zone, my private affair.' That he felt protective of these organs rather than his lungs tells you how appreciative he is of the vintner's art.
You will have guessed by now that he is South Australian. From where else could such a committed debauchee hail? I don't know what medical statistics say about the bacchanalia that is South Australia, but the Croweaters I know drink like they're trying to forget breakfast and smoke like they're trying to fumigate themselves of hideous inner demons. They've built a religion around wine, replete with ritual and lore, explicitly so they can get skunked at lunch and call it culture. They don't seem to understand that health issues crackle and hover above the libertine like lightning above a butchers' picnic, and that at any moment their contempt for purer ways might be slapped down by God masquerading as a stroke or coronary.
I wish I had the courage of my friend. I wish I was able to tell my own doctor what organs were off-limits. Because recently, roaming across my torso as enthusiastically as Darwin across the Galapagos, she diagnosed a morbidity that, despite my diversions ('It must be Sarah's paramilitary cuisine … a hereditary defect … Mars and Jupiter's recent conjunction…') she kept subtly blaming on an addiction I'd stupidly admitted to. When I say, 'admitted to' I, of course, mean half-admitted to. We all tell our doctors we're drinking half as much as we are, and they immediately double the amount to get nearer the truth. The first lesson at medical school is that each patient is a propagandist for their own virtue, a rakehell in sheep's clothing. I could have admitted to only a quarter of my turpitude – but that would have been a breach of faith.
So now I'm taking a daily pill that tastes like a hospital. I have a reminder on my phone that goes off at 10 every morning and sounds like death running a whetstone along his scythe. This seems entirely shocking to me. Pills now? Me? Damn. And soon just another Achilles propped in a chair in a corner of a nursing home.
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West Australian
16 hours ago
- West Australian
Peter O'Brien heading to His Majesty's Theatre in Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None
The desire to live a nomadic existence has been the motivation behind a great many decisions Australian actor Peter O'Brien has made throughout his life, especially on his career path. Raised in outback South Australian, O'Brien was studying a Bachelor of Science and Teaching degree at Adelaide's Flinders University when he discovered great creative joy in the university revue scene. 'It wasn't like I showed some extraordinary aptitude or gift for it, but I found it a world that was really interesting; the collaborative process and the creativity,' 65-year-old O'Brien says. 'There's a similar thread that runs through it like preparing for a game of sport. It's that preparation, and then out you go. That's something that I understood quite well, and every few months there was a possibility of a new job, and travel with it. 'I certainly wasn't seeking to go and be famous or anything, but it was a great chance to find somewhere in that industry that I could fit in, whether it was in front or behind the camera, or on stage or off-stage. 'From my original desire to be creative and travel, it certainly has fulfilled that and scratched that itch.' Film and television roles — from Neighbours, as original cast member Shane Ramsay, and The Flying Doctors to Halifax f.p. and White Collar Blue — have seen O'Brien travel back and forth to Australia for work as he has spent the past 30 years living everywhere from the UK and US to stints in China, Canada, and South America. He and actor wife Miranda Otto have temporarily moved back to Australia while their daughter Darcey studies at university in Sydney. 'We put the pets on the plane and brought them back, but we didn't do a Johnny Depp, we brought them through the right way,' he chuckles. The move has seen O'Brien reunite with director Robyn Nevin for Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None, having worked with her on Sydney Theatre Company's 2003 production of A Doll's House, and knowing Nevin's previous success directing Christie's The Mousetrap. Intrigued by the stage adaptation of Christie's bestselling crime novel, O'Brien signed on for the challenge of character William Blore, also eager for the chance to tour the Australian production to Melbourne, Sydney, Perth and Adelaide. Considered one of the greatest edge-of-your-seat thrillers Christie ever wrote, And Then There Were None follows 10 strangers who are invited to a solitary mansion on an island off the English coast. After a storm isolates them from the mainland, the real reason behind their gathering starts to emerge, taking on a grim reality. 'Agatha Christie always puts these complicated and veiled characters into shows in a way that you are intrigued,' O'Brien says. 'There's a lot of intrigue about William and his involvement in the story. He's a lot of fun, sometimes to his and my detriment. 'Every time he walks into the room, he changes the course of the play where there is an energy or a situation that he either creates, or is involved in, that relaunches or pivots the play in a way. 'There's a tapestry to Agatha Christie's works as she weaves them. It's not that characters are deliberately being deceptive, trying to deceive people, but there's always an area of intrigue about them, of 'why are they doing that?'. It's in her writing of dialogue and situations.' The production premiered in Melbourne in February, where it has been captivating audiences night after night with all the elements of mystery, suspense and humour expected of a Christie narrative. Alongside O'Brien in the 11-strong cast are Nicholas Hammond, Jennifer Flowers, Grant Piro and Anthony Phelan, plus WA Academy of Performing Arts graduates Tom Stokes, Mia Morrissey and Eden Falk. 'The response has just been unanimous rapture,' he says. 'I guess you're only as good as your audience reaction, and that's been enormous. I've really enjoyed it. It takes you along with it from the moment the curtain goes up, and you've just got to keep up. Tell Perth audiences to put their running shoes on when they come.' And Then There Were None is at His Majesty's Theatre, June 8 to 29. Tickets at
The Age
a day ago
- The Age
I tried lying to my doctor. Blame the planets, I said. It didn't work
He says she stared at him as if he were Ernest Shackleton disembarking in England in 1917. I guess she'd never expected to meet someone who'd pulled off such a feat. Nobody could survive such a fire. Like meeting Alex Honnold, or Keith Richards… a myth, a ghost, a person seemingly impervious to the certainties. Loading I've done the maths on his habit (50 years x 365 days x 60 cigs = 1,095,000). He appears to have gotten away with smoking a million cigarettes. I guess if the packs were stacked they'd be about the size of a school bus. But you'd buy the bus and the school itself for the $2 million the smokes cost. He always has one lit, and in absent-minded moments two – one waggling in his lips as he talks and the other being used as a baton to enhance his arguments. And I notice that every time he draws a lungful, as the ciggie crackles and glows, his pupils dilate, and a moment's serenity washes over his sallow face. So, who am I to say he's got it wrong? If it kills him now, he's still played games of chance against God and won. Is that genes? Luck? Or the devil taking care of his own? He's also known among those who like to hoist a goblet. And when he finally got in to see the doctor he told her: 'The kidneys and liver we're not discussing at all. They're off-limits, a no-go zone, my private affair.' That he felt protective of these organs rather than his lungs tells you how appreciative he is of the vintner's art. You will have guessed by now that he is South Australian. From where else could such a committed debauchee hail? I don't know what medical statistics say about the bacchanalia that is South Australia, but the Croweaters I know drink like they're trying to forget breakfast and smoke like they're trying to fumigate themselves of hideous inner demons. They've built a religion around wine, replete with ritual and lore, explicitly so they can get skunked at lunch and call it culture. They don't seem to understand that health issues crackle and hover above the libertine like lightning above a butchers' picnic, and that at any moment their contempt for purer ways might be slapped down by God masquerading as a stroke or coronary. I wish I had the courage of my friend. I wish I was able to tell my own doctor what organs were off-limits. Because recently, roaming across my torso as enthusiastically as Darwin across the Galapagos, she diagnosed a morbidity that, despite my diversions ('It must be Sarah's paramilitary cuisine … a hereditary defect … Mars and Jupiter's recent conjunction…') she kept subtly blaming on an addiction I'd stupidly admitted to. When I say, 'admitted to' I, of course, mean half-admitted to. We all tell our doctors we're drinking half as much as we are, and they immediately double the amount to get nearer the truth. The first lesson at medical school is that each patient is a propagandist for their own virtue, a rakehell in sheep's clothing. I could have admitted to only a quarter of my turpitude – but that would have been a breach of faith. So now I'm taking a daily pill that tastes like a hospital. I have a reminder on my phone that goes off at 10 every morning and sounds like death running a whetstone along his scythe. This seems entirely shocking to me. Pills now? Me? Damn. And soon just another Achilles propped in a chair in a corner of a nursing home.
Sydney Morning Herald
a day ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
I tried lying to my doctor. Blame the planets, I said. It didn't work
He says she stared at him as if he were Ernest Shackleton disembarking in England in 1917. I guess she'd never expected to meet someone who'd pulled off such a feat. Nobody could survive such a fire. Like meeting Alex Honnold, or Keith Richards… a myth, a ghost, a person seemingly impervious to the certainties. Loading I've done the maths on his habit (50 years x 365 days x 60 cigs = 1,095,000). He appears to have gotten away with smoking a million cigarettes. I guess if the packs were stacked they'd be about the size of a school bus. But you'd buy the bus and the school itself for the $2 million the smokes cost. He always has one lit, and in absent-minded moments two – one waggling in his lips as he talks and the other being used as a baton to enhance his arguments. And I notice that every time he draws a lungful, as the ciggie crackles and glows, his pupils dilate, and a moment's serenity washes over his sallow face. So, who am I to say he's got it wrong? If it kills him now, he's still played games of chance against God and won. Is that genes? Luck? Or the devil taking care of his own? He's also known among those who like to hoist a goblet. And when he finally got in to see the doctor he told her: 'The kidneys and liver we're not discussing at all. They're off-limits, a no-go zone, my private affair.' That he felt protective of these organs rather than his lungs tells you how appreciative he is of the vintner's art. You will have guessed by now that he is South Australian. From where else could such a committed debauchee hail? I don't know what medical statistics say about the bacchanalia that is South Australia, but the Croweaters I know drink like they're trying to forget breakfast and smoke like they're trying to fumigate themselves of hideous inner demons. They've built a religion around wine, replete with ritual and lore, explicitly so they can get skunked at lunch and call it culture. They don't seem to understand that health issues crackle and hover above the libertine like lightning above a butchers' picnic, and that at any moment their contempt for purer ways might be slapped down by God masquerading as a stroke or coronary. I wish I had the courage of my friend. I wish I was able to tell my own doctor what organs were off-limits. Because recently, roaming across my torso as enthusiastically as Darwin across the Galapagos, she diagnosed a morbidity that, despite my diversions ('It must be Sarah's paramilitary cuisine … a hereditary defect … Mars and Jupiter's recent conjunction…') she kept subtly blaming on an addiction I'd stupidly admitted to. When I say, 'admitted to' I, of course, mean half-admitted to. We all tell our doctors we're drinking half as much as we are, and they immediately double the amount to get nearer the truth. The first lesson at medical school is that each patient is a propagandist for their own virtue, a rakehell in sheep's clothing. I could have admitted to only a quarter of my turpitude – but that would have been a breach of faith. So now I'm taking a daily pill that tastes like a hospital. I have a reminder on my phone that goes off at 10 every morning and sounds like death running a whetstone along his scythe. This seems entirely shocking to me. Pills now? Me? Damn. And soon just another Achilles propped in a chair in a corner of a nursing home.
