>> Articles Downloads Links Merchandise Pictures

It's a lovely Sydney morning when I arrive, full photographic crew in tow, at the Gazebo Hotel to spend a day with Bob Downe. There's a whisper of spring in the air and it's a perfect day for shopping, chatting and nailing, as HQ has requested, the definitive profile of Bob. As Bob's long-term manager (we met in 1984 at the Glebe Food Fair), I have a very special insight into his proclivities. And of course, we're such unlikely partners: one of us a sophisticated, late-blooming bohemian; one a big fish in a very regional pond. Trouble is, though, we just can't agree on which description applies to whom.

When I spoke to Bob the day before on the phone, he had just flown into town for a well earned rest from hosting his show, Good Morning Murwillumbah. He enthusiastically agreed to an in-depth interview and a photo shoot. The cover! So Vanity Fair! Of course he'd do it. Did he mind if people followed him around with make-up and cameras? No, doll, not at all. So we'd be there at 9 am then...

"What time? NINE O'CLOCK!? Well, you can let yourselves in, then," he snapped, hanging up the phone. Now, catching the lift up to the penthouse suite at the Gazebo - a 1960's Kings Cross icon, it's been Bob's Sydney hideaway since a tiny incident at the Sebel Town House years ago meant that he'd needed to find lodgings elsewhere - I mull over the questions I want to ask him.

Along with the lift's Muzak version of "Anarchy in the UK", a thousand questions fill my head. Did the Bee Gees REALLY fax Bob that famed white suit? Did Georgie Fame really ring to admit that Bob's "Yeh Yeh" is the definitive one? Where did Bob's mother, Ida Downe, find the family's L-shaped caravan, and just how close to the amenities block in the Now-Or- Never Caravan Park is it parked? How does it feel to be Murwillumbah's most confirmed bachelor? And just how long is Happy Hour at the Classy Lady Bar & Grill?

Bob has thoughtfully wedged a Toblerone in the door of his room at the Gazebo, so the crew and I make our way in. We start to set up as the prince of polyester lies snoring, semi-lightly. I realise that in all the years of our professional and personal association, I have never seen him in repose. In fact, now that I think about it, I doubt that anyone has. Always moving, always single, always restless, always keen for a new old suit or song. Like Rod Stewart's "Maggie May", the morning sun when it's in his face really shows his age. Still, it has to he admitted, Bob's a pretty fresh 40, with or without his Kryolan 7W pancake.

Our crew tiptoes around at first, but when a halogen lamp blows and he merely stirs slightly, everyone relaxes. Matt the stylist gently picks the shards of glass out of Bob's hair, and still there's no movement. Believe it or not, it's only when we switch on the TV - after two hours of setting up and three test Polaroids - that the dulcet tones of Bert Newton bring our star to life.

Now, it has been said of me that I wake up unusually happy. Not so the King of Sing, especially when faced with an entire photographic crew. Beige bewilderment turns to white anger when I merely remind him that he'd told us to let ourselves in. "What are you DOING?" he screams. "What are those cameras doing in here?" His hands fly up to his head - instinctively checking and adjusting his famous, suspiciously unchanging hairdo in one deft, practised move. He clutches the covers protectively around him. Surely he was expecting us? Apparently not.

We're off to a bad start.

Bob's mood is transformed, however, after a bowl of Coco Pops with full-cream milk, and a rather lovely jazz standard by Chelsea Brown on Good Morning Australia.

BD: Now, THERE'S a pro. Chelsea told me that Bob Fosse's choreography did her back in doing the film of Sweet Charity - but does it show in the final product? Of course not. She is simply FIERCE in that Pompeii nightclub scene, and that's what we remember. Love her. Put that in - I love her.

MT: You've got good reason to admire that kind of skill. I mean it's only in recent years that you stopped getting your head kicked in by dancers in those British TV appearances.

BD: [Eating huge mouthful of cereal to block the question out] Sorry, what?

MT: How do you cover a wrong move?

BD: I just keep smiling and never look down. Then they think it's someone else's mistake.

MT: Variety’s such a disappearing patch of showbiz history, can you share some of your tips?

BD: Now, let's think. Firstly, of course, if they're looking at the shoes, there's something wrong with the act. Replace all your old fillings with white ones. Don't touch anyone's hair. Ever. And no dead air! Just keep talking, especially when you're being interviewed by Kerry Ann. Grab that wheel - and don't let go! This tea's cold.

[The tea is always cold. One of Bob's endearing traits is never, ever finishing a cup, and he always leaves a mouthful or two of food on his plate. I offer the theory that the likely reason for this is that there's just too much to gossip, whine or hitch about ...]

BD: Well, if you want to Put it that way, yes! Yes, I'm interested in the world, particularly in what's going on among my peers. Yes, I have opinions and the need to express them. What's so wrong with that? All the women in my family are like that. [Bob's mobile rings, and he quickly checks the caller display.] And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a call from my mother.

Twenty-Four minutes and 42 seconds later, I remind him of our first appointment of the day, a suit-fitting at Zink & Sons, the tailors in Oxford Street. As we crawl down the gay mile in a mid-morning cab, Bob reminisces fondly about the strip: "I discovered Oxford Street quite by accident, you know. I was looking for fruit and veg."

MT: And wound up with meat and potatoes?

BD: No, look, listen, I did! the coaches from Murwillumbah used to pull in at the back of the Koala Motor Inn. [Incredulous silence in the taxi, broken only by Alan Jones on 2UE.]

BD: Oh, look at you all, pretending you've never been on a fucking coach!

[I make a mental note to ask him, much later in the day, about the compulsive swearing which so distresses his mother, Ida, and his 98-year-old Nana, and has surely limited his Australian television prospects.]

By now, we've arrived at Zink's and a scene resembling Old Home Week is unfolding. Bob introduces the whole magazine crew - by name - to Robert, the tailor, and proudly points out he's been coming here for more than 20 years. Tailor and client chat animatedly, oblivious to the attention and the fact that Robert is measuring Bob's inside leg seam.

Bob is much more concerned with the renovations at the venerable shop, and is horrified when Robert informs him that the brown flock wallpaper is going. Meanwhile, the suit being fitted can only be described as Glen Campbell meets Harlem pimp.

MT: Lime green seersucker!! Perhaps the bridesmaids could be in orange?

BD: Darling, it's for a finale. You simply wouldn't understand. Let's face it, if it's not from the sale bin at The Gap in San Francisco, you wouldn't be interested.

MT: So Bob, do you have a signature style ?

BD: [Exasperated] Look, Mark, why do you keep asking questions when you already know the answers? I found my look in the 70s and stuck to it. Is that a crime? My brother has the Posh Shoppe boutique in Mur-bah, of course, with all the imported labels - Jag, Country Road, Staggers, the lot. So that was a good start for a North Coast boy. Then, thank God, I found Robert at Zink's here in Sydney - and he was the only other Australian I ever met who didn't think Tommy Nutter was some sort of cricketer.

[I explain to the crew that Tommy Nutter is a now-deceased but legendary London tailor to the stars, from the Carnaby Street era. It's the kind of arcane reference for which Bob is famous, and which peppers his stage act.]

I will admit that it's surely true that we don't see eye to eye on fashion. His constant on- and off-stage sniping about my appearance - and lifestyle - has reached a crescendo lately, prompted by my appearances on Channel 10's Good News Week. Really, readers, can I help it if they didn't ask him? And just as I'm about to gingerly bring up the subject of our diverging careers, one of the stylists is silly enough to congratulate me on a recent trio with Marcia Hines and Paul McDermott - within earshot of Bob.

"He's stolen my vocal style - and he thinks he's so trendy!" Bob starts in, ostensibly to Robert, but with enough projection to hit the windows of Hum records, on the opposite side of the street. "I just cower if I'm at home in Murwillumbah when Mark comes on the TV. He's such a POOF! "

The venom flows, the tension rises and, suddenly, everyone has found something to do and is looking very busy. Ever the tactful tailor, Robert brandishes a deliciously old-fashioned tartan fabric book. It's a fascinating and very welcome distraction. ("Do they have a tartan for people who aren't Scottish?" asks Bob with apparent seriousness.)

It's a pity he feels such a rage about my GNW work, because when I call Paul McDermott to get his take on Bob, Paul is delighted to talk.

"I'd heard of Bob Downe in the late 80s", he tells me. "I'd received many letters from him actually, and I hadn't thought to respond. I lifted up a stamp one day and realised these letters were sequentially numbered, up to 45.

"And when we finally met at the '89 Edinburgh Fringe, it was in a very strange way - we [The Doug Anthony All Stars] were about to go on stage, but during the lull between houselights down and curtain up, Bob managed to get ahead of us, and proceeded to perform an entire opening set. He did this every night of the season, to huge acclaim, despite our best efforts to stop him."

Hmm. I ask Paul if there has been any tension in his relationship with Bob since my appearances on GNW. "Actually, I have felt compromised when you appear with me on GNW, Mark," he says, "because the next morning after a show is broadcast, my phone message bank is full of hang-ups. Now, I'M NOT saying that it's Bob, but there is a pattern. And I do regularly find severed Ken doll limbs stuffed into my letterbox. In fact, I'm about to take an AVO out on him. But don't get me wrong - please write that I love Bob. Really."

For a bit of international perspective, I place a call to entertainer Julian Clary at his Majorca hideaway. Bob attended the camp comedy star's 40th birthday party earlier this year, and is exceedingly proud of their close, personal friendship.

"Bob Dine? Who? The line is very bad," says Julian. "Oh, Bob Downe? No, sorry - never heard of him. We had a bit of security problem at the party. You're calling from Australia? Do please send my love to Bert."

It's late afternoon as we make our way back to the Gazebo. Bob has been wholly co-operative except when he forbade us to come with him to a hair appointment in a dusty Pitt Street salon. Now, he suggests a poolside drink and after a quick change of clothes he joins me on the rooftop. I try him out on some free-association-style, off-the wall questions. (Well, off-the-wall for him, anyhow.)

MT: Who do you really love? really?

BD: Oh, Christ, Mum, of course, and my mad Aunty Bev, who Mum doesn't approve of, so I expect you'll make something of that.

MT: What you you love?

BD: Musk sticks. Upstairs on Boeing 747-400s. Old Women's Weekly's. Colour television...I know that sounds ridiculous, but I've never got over it. If you weren't around before colour, you couldn't possibly understand.

MT: Who would you be?

BD: Who would I be? That's so stupid. Me, of course! [Natch, sorry] No. let me think. Shirley MacLaine, or Clover Moore [Independent member for the NSW state electorate of Bligh]. Love her. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Jack Wild in H.R. Pufinstuf. Or Julie Andrews.

MT: Do you realise you're on your fourth can of UDL?

BD: [Darkening, suddenly and frighteningly] Oh, right. So THIS is what you've been waiting to get around to! I might just like to have a little relaxation after a long day of you lot poking and prodding and posing me around, and you're going to make a big deal of it....

MT: No, Bob, I just meant that you're had four cans of UDL - I'm intrigued, you've had a different mix each time. Rum and cola...passionfruit and vodka....gin and...

BD: Now, LOOK HERE. Whose side are you on? You're suppose to be my manager, not some Axes and Orchids, Pick and Pans HACK! Now, you know FULL WELL that I had a little problem with UDL's for those few years - from 18 to 31 to be exact - and you're determined to get the tragic angle, aren't you? They did it to Skippy, they did it to Bert, and now with your help they're going to do it to me, are they?!

MT: Bob, honestly! I never knew about your problem....

BD: [Sneering viciously] Yeah, yeah. WHAT-ever, I suppose Aunty Bev's told you about the creme de menthe incident at my confirmation, too. Well, it's all LIES! It was just lime cordial, neat...."

At this point the tirade starts to become a little repetitive, and a little slurred. I turn the tape machine off. An adoring young cocktail waitress withdraws in tears - a fan in crisis. The embarrassed crew packs up and bids an awkward adieu.

BD: [Brightening] Thank fuck they've all pissed off! Hey - have you seen I Could Go On Singing? Judy's last film. Dirk Bogarde, hilarious ad-libbed dialogue, scenes filmed in the London Palladium - where I played with Lily Savage, I've got the video; let's watch it in the room. I got Romy & Michelle's High School Renunion out again, too.

Alone, together. Again. Just the two of us, like Edward Albee's George and Martha. Well, George and Mildred, perhaps. I guess he really likes it that way.

Is it true that Bob and Pastel are actually engaged? "In a TV Week Coverstory sort of way. It's interesting, because I'm an out gay man playing a closeted gay entertainer. All comic characters - that have legs - have strange paradoxes within them. Bob's ugly and ridiculous, and yet he's kind of glamorous and sexy. There's the two opposite things pulling against each other. He's a closet fag but I'm always behind him peeking out saying'no, he's not, no he's not, no he's not'. So there's that knowing pretendyness. The new show plays with all that. 'Bob's got a new girlfriend - oh, has he now?' There's a lot of Prince Edward and Sophie jokes, put it that way. Pastel's quite in love with Bob, and he strings her along-"

That's really sad, isn't it?

"Yeah. In that brutal, showbusiness way. The thing about Bob is that he's a big old fag but Iwonder if he's ever actually had sex with anyone. He does live in a caravan with his mother. Mardi Gras opened his eyes a bit. But let's not even go there about the Mardi Gras-"

This comes as a surprise from the Billy Crystal of Mardi Gras. Does he not want to host it again? "Oh, absolutely I would! I'm there for my tribe! Because my audience is not primarily a gay one, and never has been, so I feel I'm ideal because I'm one of the tribe, and I can explain it to straights. No, it's just that I have huge fights and arguments every time the broadcast is discussed because all these queens go on about how Channel Ten hijacked it from the ABC. That's not the case. The ABC dropped it deliberately under pressure from the new Liberal federal government, and dropped it as late in the day as possible to make sure that noone else got it."

Some people have said that Channel Ten actually do a better job of it. "That's what I think! They much more capture the fun of it. And also I'd much rather be on Channel Ten reaching out to the kids in the suburbs than preaching to the bloody converted on the ABC."

Trevorrow feels that Australia has become accepting of homosexuality, and Mardi Gras - and its broadcast - have a lot to do with it. "Sydney Mardi Gras is a rite of passage for young people of all sexual persuasions. That's how important it is, it's actually a rite of passage. And that's why when people say to me, 'Oh, Mardi Gras's nothing like it used to be.' Well nothing's like it used to be. It's been a long time since aniseed balls were four a cent, let's face it. And the thing I always say to people is that you're faded with it because nothing's as good the tenth or fifteenth time around as it was the first, and you look at the faces on those eighteen, nineteen, twenty-one year olds,they're in heaven. It's as exciting for them as it was for us, and probably a little bit more because there's half a million people on the streets."

Which leads Trevorrow on to one of his other current obsessions - the gay approach to aging. "As gay men we're conditioned to be so terrified of turning forty - well I just turned forty and I'm here to tell you that life begins at forty." But did you panic about it? "Yeah! Shocking! For two years before, and of course I did the same thing when I turned thirty. It's such a lie, such a gross, destructive distorting lie that somehow you're nothing unless you're young. And from an artistic, a creative point of view we know that the opposite is true. You're nothing until you're forty if you've got a halfway decent path in life, something worth achieving. But that obsession in the commercial gay scene is just pathetic. But it won't change because sex sells, pornographic images of gorgeous young men are very powerful to use in advertising to sell magazines and products."

Drag Queen Kaye Sera has a theory that the media will always push the image that requires the most upkeep, as they have a vested interest in selling the products. "Oh, absolutely! You look at the average 18-year-old-muscleboy in a nightclub in Sydney or Melbourne, the upkeep and maintenance must be more than it is for a Melbourne-Cup winning stallion."

"God I'm going to get in trouble for this interview," muses Trevorrow.

Would he rather keep some of his comments off-the-record?

"Oh no, Not at all. That's the thing about tunung 40, you don't give a fuck what people think. And you've got so much to say!"