Goon To Woy Woy

At the height of his fame Spike Milligan drew up plans to leave Britain permanently and settle in Australia.

Newly-discovered correspondence reveals that the brilliant but often temperamental comedian and author had decided to move his family to the NSW Central Coast.

In 1961 he wrote to the Gosford Shire Council asking it to help him identify a large block of land, preferably surrounded by native bushland, on which he could build a “contemporary villa”.

In the letter, Milligan, then a household name in Britain thanks to the Goon Show (1951-60), said he planned settle down on the Central Coast and devote the next 20 years to writing books – including one about the plight of Aborigines in New South Wales.

The former Goon’s parents, Leo and Florence, emigrated to Australia after World War 2 and had settled in the quiet seaside suburb of Blackwall, just outside Woy Woy. Milligan, who made numerous trips to Australia in the 1960s and 70s, famously described Woy Woy as “the world’s largest above-ground cemetery”.

Milligan, who was born in British India in 1918, was very close to his parents who were both flamboyant personalities in their own right. Leo was a soldier, weapons expert and vaudeville performer with a passion for the Wild West, while Florence was an accomplished horsewoman and singer. Both appeared on stage during their time in India.

“Spike could sit quietly in the study at the back of his parents’ house on Orange Grove Road and write – or talk to Leo about his gun collection or sing around the piano with Flo,” says local historian Geoff Potter. “Woy Woy was his sanctuary.”

Despite his scathing comments about Woy Woy (“the only town twinned with itself,” he once joked) the comic relished his time on the Central Coast, where he wrote three bestselling books, including Hitler: My Part in His Downfall and Puckoon.

“Spike loved the bush, the beautiful waterways and the relaxed lifestyle,” says Potter. “In Australia he could be himself – he wasn’t expected to ‘on’ as the zany Spike Milligan all the time.”

In his letter to the council, Milligan, who suffered from manic depression throughout his adult life, said that the Central Coast, then sparsely populated, offered the peace and tranquility he needed to write.

Potter, who has spent 10 years sifting through the Milligan family archive, says that despite his hurtful gags about Woy Woy he was serious about leaving the UK and settling permanently in Australia.

“Spike did buy land at Empire Bay (just east of Woy Woy),” he says. “It’s a magnificent piece of bush with beautiful views across to Riley’s Island. He paid rates on the land throughout the 1960s.”

Locals also claim that the famous British comedian owned a second piece of land towards Kincumber, another beauty spot overlooking the local waterways, but Potter has been unable to verify these claims.

Despite his barrage of Woy Woy jokes Milligan, described by Eddie Izzard as “the godfather of alternative comedy,” clearly felt right at home in freewheeling, classless 1960s Australia.

“In letters he wrote to his daughters Spike would never shut up about Woy Woy,” says Potter. “But the pressure of work and family in England meant that he was never able to settle here.”

Opened in July 2018, The Spike Milligan Exhibition at the Woy Woy Library contains a treasure trove of personal items, including his cornet, LPs and several manuscripts, gifted to the council by Spike’s much-loved younger brother, Desmond, a talented artist, who died in 1991, and nephew Michael.

Potter, who curated the exhibition, says the late comedian made a huge contribution to the Central Coast, where he was heavily involved in local causes, such as fighting a canal housing development and establishing a bird sanctuary.

“Spike did an enormous amount of good in the district, but being a private man he kept it to himself,” says the historian. “More broadly Spike was involved in other Australian environmental campaigns of the 1970s and ‘80, including stopping the Franklin Dam in south-west Tasmania.”

During his lifetime many people in Woy Woy naturally resented Milligan’s hurtful comments about their sleepy commuter town, but Potter says that the Goon often mocked places and people, including Prince Charles, who were close to him.

“Spike did call Woy Woy the largest above cemetery in the world but he often used the same line on stage but substituting the names of other towns,” he says. “Spike Milligan was a comedian.”

Six decades after he first set eyes on the Central Coast it seems the people of Woy Woy have forgiven the comic genius who once made them an international laughing stock – apart from funding The Spike Milligan Exhibition the council has named a pedestrian bridge in his honour.

“I think we owe Spike an apology,” says Potter.

Did I Hurt My Son?

A red-faced father is dragging his crying four-year-old son from a Sydney park. He grips the boy by the upper arm tightly while holding the child’s bicycle and helmet in the other. After a 20-minute tantrum this dad has reached breaking point and decides that the bike-riding lesson is now over. 

Crossing the street they are confronted by a middle-aged woman. “You’re hurting that child,” she says. “You must stop doing that.” The man tells the woman to mind her own business. Expletives are used. “I’m going to report you to the police,” she warns him. “I know your face.”

That man, of course, was me. And while I dismissed the incident at the time as simply annoying, such a strong reprimand from a complete stranger has troubled me over the past few days. 

Had I indeed been too rough with my son? Had I given into my own frustration and taken it out on Myles? Was I, in short, a negligent father -- or worse an abusive one?

Using physical force against children, especially in public, has been a sensitive issue since the publication of the bestselling novel The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas in 2008. 

The book pivots around a fictitious incident in which a man slaps a three-year-old child, not his own, at a Melbourne barbecue. The story spawned television spin-offs in both Australia and the United States and sparked passionate debate in the United Kingdom. It also polarized opinion here in Australia.

Some critics argued that Harry, the villain of the story, is a victim of forces beyond his control and that while his actions were reprehensible they pointed to a wider malaise in society.

What I did to my son in Centennial Park hardly constitutes corporal punishment. I was merely restraining him so that we could get back to the car. 

But in the eyes of a concerned onlooker I can understand that seeing an adult literally drag a small, crying preschooler might appear cruel.

My main problem was simply that I did not have enough arms to hold my son (who was struggling) and to carry his bike at the same time. Had the lady in question volunteered to carry the bicycle rather than threaten legal action the situation could have been resolved. 

Little did she know that two minutes later, Myles and I sat down and had a quiet chat and a hug. The tantrum was over – which illustrates the problem of judging someone’s parenting from afar.

The question remains: should parents be allowed to discipline their kids inside and outside the home? The busybody in the park clearly believes that dialogue or perhaps some time out is the only mechanism that parents should use to alter their child’s bad behavior. 

What if that fails? Even the loveliest of children can misbehave. A gentle slap might do the trick. And despite the soul searching that followed The Slap, I suspect that many parents still raise a hand to their children – if only as a threat – when they are severely provoked.

Australian parents find themselves in a tricky situation when it comes to the use of corporal punishment. It is still legal for parents and guardians to physically punish children under their care, but the exact rules vary from state to state. 

In New South Wales, for example, I am entitled to use “reasonable” force to discipline my child, but not strike them on the head of neck. But many experts would like an explicit ban on the use of physical punishment against children.

“All corporal punishment, no matter how mild or infrequently administered, irrespective of whether it is administered by parents or teachers, regardless of whether it is religiously or culturally motivated, what part of the child's body is targeted or whether it is administered with an implement or the flat of the hand, is morally wrong and ought to be legally prohibited,” says Patrick Lenta, Associate Professor in the Law Faculty at UTS.

Many other countries, including Sweden and New Zealand, have already outlawed the use of corporal punishment; although parents and guardians are still permitted to use some force in limited circumstances. As a signatory to the United Convention on the Rights of the Child the Australian federal government might be expected to follow suit.

While I do not condone the excessive or even routine use of violence against small children the idea of prosecuting people for hitting their children seem ludicrous to me. And what happens if a court decides that I had used excessive force to remove my son from Centennial Park? Would I end up with a criminal conviction and even a jail sentence?

Professor Lenta argues that the purpose of such legislation is to change behaviour rather than to prosecute aggressive parents, arguing that children who are subject to even mild physical punishment can suffer serious and long-lasting psychological harm.

“One possibility is to require corporal punishers to attend, as punishment, specialised programs focused on family violence, with a view to bringing home to them the nature and effects of corporal punishment,” he says.

Poor parenting is not like poor driving. Correct parenting methods cannot be taught in a workshop but are fairly instinctive. 

Criminalizing corporal punishment will only make things worse. Only those within a family unit can decide where to draw the line. Getting the police, judges and the courts involved is I believe like using a sledgehammer to crack a walnut.

Alan, I Still Miss You

Grief is a strange, unpredictable beast. It follows you around like a stray dog, forlorn and loveless but somehow comforting. Once you open the door to grief there is no turning back. When my father passed away in June I expected a defined period of grieving and a speedy return to normality. But his death has left a huge chasm in my life – a keening absence I had never anticipated. I often hear something funny on the radio and want to call him. 

We often chatted about books. “Have you read so-and-so?” he’d ask. “He’s a mustard writer.” It was his favourite compliment.

A few weeks before he fell ill we had a long conversation about Albert Camus, the French existentialist. “What a marvelous writer,” he said. Dad, who had left school at 15, was a voracious reader and a curious one. 

A graduate of the school of hard knocks, my father worked every day of his life. He was still running a furniture restoration business at 88 and had recently taken on an apprentice. Like many men of his generation Dad was more comfortable at work than at home. Babies terrified him. Young people annoyed him. Lots of things annoyed him. 

When I presented him with my youngest son, Myles, four years ago he said bluntly: “Bring him back when he’s ready to go to uni.” But when I look at those photographs today I can see the love and pride in his face. He was a marshmallow in an iron glove.

Sadly, for much of his life my father saw family primarily as an obligation, rather than a source of joy. As a child he’d been a distant presence in our lives, always working, always pre-occupied. When he came home, the fun ended. There were no dinner parties, no BBQs. “Don’t think of me as your father, but as your bank manager,” he once said. I never went to the pub or the football with dad. He once took my brother and I hiking on the English Moors for a couple of days – that is the only act of father-son bonding I can remember. We ate Irish stew from a tin. Luxury.

Too often ours was a combative, fractious and generally awkward relationship; my fault as much as his. As a teenager I hated his politics and he hated my music. “The Beatles are rubbish,” he said with finality. “How can you compare that to bloody Mozart.” Curiously, my parents had met at a local dance in the 1950s jiving to the latest American hits. “I noticed him as soon as he walked into the room,” my mother once told me. “He was so handsome in his RAF uniform, with this mass of blonde hair. I told my girlfriend ‘He’s mine -- you can dance with the other one’.”

I can safely say that Dad was my sternest critic. He didn’t approve of my career, my girlfriends, my jet-setting lifestyle (as if) and my spending habits. But he often complimented me on being a great father to my two boys, Courtney and Myles. While genuine and heartfelt, I also saw this as an admission of his own failure as a father, a role he just felt emotionally unequipped to perform. 

But my dad was a good dad. He was caring, supportive and generous with his time. I’d always seen his awkwardness and lack of physical affection as a type of rejection. They weren’t. That’s just the way he was. 

Towards the end of his life Dad, the most non-tactile person I’ve ever met, became a serial hugger. “Come and give your grandad a kiss,” he’d say to Myles whenever we went to his house. I don’t believe there are bad or second-rate fathers, just absent ones. And my father was always there for me.