Larrikins, Rebels and Journalistic Freedom in Australia

Josie Vine Larrikins, Rebels and Journalistic Freedom in Australia Josie Vine Larrikins, Rebels and Journalistic Freedom in Australia Josie Vine RMIT University Melbourne, VIC, Australia

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This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland This book is about history. And journalism. Journalism is often said to be the frst draft of history. But sometimes, history is the frst draft of journalism. It’s this history, and the journalism it has drafted, with which this book is concerned. Dedicated to all journalists who have drafted, and have been drafted by, history. And to the most elegant Larrikin of all: Jay Edith. Preface

In 2002 I was a young sessional teacher, working into one of the highest- profle journalism courses in Australia. I had worked as a journalist on regional radio and newspapers, and was still dabbling but, with a small and rapidly growing cluster of children, I was looking for something with hours that were a bit more family friendly. I was still absolutely committed to journalism and its objectives, so teaching the trade to young up-and- comers seemed to be an ideal alternative. It was the year that Natalie Larkins dominated the news, both in the mainstream and in the journalism-specifc media. Natalie was an ABC journalist, who had been arrested out in the dust-bowl of Woomera, ostensibly for ‘Failing to Leave Commonwealth Land as Directed by a Commonwealth Offcer.’ But really it was for being a pain-in-the-arse when Australian Protective Services (APS) offcers told the swelling media contingent to move 200 meters outside a recently erected steel chain-link fence around the Woomera refugee detention centre, where up to 70 of this world’s most vulnerable people had gone on hunger strike and, as a symbol of voicelessness, had literally sewn their lips together. The whole contingent of local, national, and international journalists camping outside the center wanted to know who had made the order for them to move and why. According to Larkins, when the APS could not provide a clear answer, “all” journalists made a unanimous decision to remain inside the fence. “In the middle of a dust storm, frantic calls were made, but each government department and minister responsible denied making the order,” reported Larkins. “Throughout the entire confrontation between the APS

vii viii PREFACE and the media, journalists continued to question on whose authority the offcer was asking us to leave. He told us he didn’t know” (Larkins 2002: 8). An ultimatum was made: journalists had until 10 a.m. the following morning to leave the area. In the meantime, however, the APS was gather- ing names and contact details to issue summons. No one explained for what the summons were. Larkins was about to leave the disputed area, when an offcer spoke. She didn’t hear him and asked him to repeat the comment. At that point she was arrested and taken to Woomera police station. She was freed on bail three hours later but was obliged to leave the town immediately. Despite the fact that at least a dozen other journalists refused to move from the camp’s perimeter, Larkins was the sole arrest that day. This narrative of journalism’s defance and rebellion in an effort to gain access to people whose voice was being silenced inspired me—almost—to tears, and I felt pangs of slightly guilty envy that I had missed out on being among those camped in the heat and the swirling dust, waiting to get ‘the story.’ But when I asked my students, 18-year-olds sitting in the comfortable confnes of a university tutorial room, if they too would refuse orders to decamp, I was shocked and a little dismayed. The answer was unanimous: no, they wouldn’t defy an order from authority. I was about to explain that, as journalists, defying authority would be part of their job, when I realized that I couldn’t. How do you explain to well-educated, generally morally upstanding professionals (potential journalists) that, as part of their job, they may be required to openly defy the law. This then took me to a further thought: how do I tell them that to be good journalists, among the best professionals, they’ll have to build affliation with sources that could include criminals, crooked law enforcers, drug addicts, or any number of downtrodden, dubious, and possibly dislikable characters. In a tertiary education environment, it can be a little uncomfortable explaining why it’s so important to read that leaked document, or listen to that anon- ymous source, despite the fact that it could, quite conceivably, land them in dangerous legal waters. How do you say, when everybody else is running away from that car accident/bushfre/tsunami/bomb blast, it is their job to be running toward it. But if journalism education—which has, for a long time, flled the void left by the deconstruction of the cadetship system—cannot teach this quite vital professional sensibility, then where does it come from? Where PREFACE ix did it come from in the past, and where will it come from in the future? It must be cultural! And this is when I started thinking about professional journalism culture, and the power of industry-specifc narratives, and the link between history, tradition, and ideology. And then I undertook a PhD on journalism’s specifc history and traditions. Then I undertook a book. And through this process I discovered the Larrikin, personifed in Australian journalism’s most historically signifcant individuals, perpetuating a professional sensibility across generations. And I fell in love with my Larrikin, his fortitude, purpose, and a wicked delight in sticking a two-fngered salute up at authority—characteristics that have helped maintain journalistic independence in the only Western liberal democracy that does not off- cally recognise the function of a free news media. This is his story (and he is a he, despite the fact that many female journalists have taken on his masculine persona). This book is written in the hope that future budding young journalists will fall in love with the Larrikin’s charm, foibles, and fallibilities too.

Melbourne, VIC, Australia Josie Vine

References Larkins, N. (2002). Report No Evil. The Walkley Magazine, Issue 16, Autumn 2002, 8. Acknowledgments

As a member of RMIT University, I would like to acknowledge the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nations as the Traditional Owners of the land on which the university stands, and where this book was written. I respectfully recognise Elders past, present and future.

When I frst set out on this journey, I looked at the number of acknowledgments in other, similar, publications, and I was overwhelmed. How on earth could I ever achieve similar numbers of people and organizations to acknowledge? The amount of work ahead of me made me feel like I was drowning. But people were happy to help, people did give their time, and many went way beyond the call of duty to ensure this book reached publication stage. There are so many, and if I have accidentally missed some- one, please accept my apologies and my shout for a coffee/beer/wine once we are out of COVID isolation! First, thank you to the Walkley Foundation, and its CEO, Louisa Graham, who was the lynchpin in putting me in touch with others whose help proved instrumental. Thank you to the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance, who allowed me into their Sydney offces to access editions of The Journalist published between 1945 to 1989. A particular shout out to Jennifer O’Brien and Jack Walton, who hurriedly photo- copied editions from the entire 1980s’ decade and couriered them to me in Melbourne when COVID meant the Sydney offce was closed. Similarly, thank you to the Walkley Foundation’s librarian Barbara Blackman, who spent hours on the phone with me, selecting the sections of the 1995, 1996, and 1997 Walkley Year Books that I needed, scanning them, and

xi xii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS emailing them to me because at the time, here in Victoria, we were under a fairly strict lockdown. Thank you to the archivists at Melbourne University, where the earliest editions of The Journalist (1923–1945) are held. And thank you to State Library of Victoria archivists for helping me track down those frst articles that defed the D-Notice system. Thank you to Daniella Hutchings from RMIT Library, whose skill with legal databases is second to none! And the amazing RMIT Document Delivery department, whose manager, Alison Bates, organized for me to gain access to editions of The Walkley Magazine from 1999 to 2010. Myself and my hubby took a lightening trip to the Bundoora archival storage unit to retrieve these copies and brought them home for analysis— something that just wouldn’t have happened without Alison’s willingness to make a special case for this book. Thank you to the Melbourne Press Club’s David Fisher, who contacted many journalists for me, inviting them to be interviewed. I’m sure when he saw yet another email from me appear in his inbox, his little heart sank, but he always cheerfully agreed to send out my many invitations. This brings me to my deep gratitude to all my interviewees, many of whom are still working journalists and all far too busy to talk to some strange academic, but were more than happy to make time for me and share their thoughts and memories. These are Andrew Rule, Brian Toohey, Richard Baker, Russell Skelton, Russell Robinson, Justin Quill, Chris Masters, Peter Greste, John Tidey, Richard Walsh, Peter Manning, Mike Smith, Wendy Bacon, Mungo MacCallum, Liam Lander, Ranald Macdonald, Dr. Jennifer Martin, Peter Bartlett, Nick McKenzie, Marcus Strom, Annika Smethurst, Louise Milligan, and Bill Birnbauer. Thank you to the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies, who helped me with research into the Max Stuart case, and Casey Millward from the AIATSIS library, who checked sections of text to ensure my writing was culturally sensitive and accurate. Thank you to the Oral History Department of the National Library of Australia, the Australian War Memorial, Working Dog Productions, News Corp, Richard Walsh, Michael Leunig, the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, and Patricia Mitchell for giving me permission to use their copyrighted material. Finally, thank you to my long-suffering hubby, Gus Geyer, who kept the house running while I wrote this book, and my three little—well, not so little these days—Larrikins: Jeremy, Ethan, and Benji. And to my Dad, who has supported me—fnancially and emotionally—throughout my very rocky education. Contents

1 Larrikins, Rebels, and Journalistic Freedom in Australia 1

2 Colonial Larrikins 25

3 Larrikin-Journalists: Federation to Appeasement (1901–1939) 51

4 Larrikin-Journalists: WWII (1939–1950) 75

5 Larrikin-Journalists: Conservatism and Communism (1950s) 99

6 Larrikin-Journalists: The Swinging Students (1960–1975) 119

7 Larrikin-Journalists: Post-Whitlam (1975–1985) 143

8 Larrikin-Journalists and the Media Moguls (1986–2001) 167

9 Larrikinism.com: 2001 Onward 187

10 The Larrikin-Journalist: Past, Present, and Future 211

Index 233

xiii List of Figures

Fig. 2.1 The Monitor’s masthead (The Monitor, January 29, 1830: 2) 30 Fig. 2.2 ‘The Press’ (The Australian, February 24, 1830: 2) 31 Fig. 2.3 The Monitor, January 29, 1830: 2 32 Fig. 2.4 Smith Hall’s portrayal of Joseph Sudds and Patrick Thompson. (https://dictionaryofsydney.org/media/1518) 36 Fig. 3.1 ‘The Age’s statue of Mercury’. (Source: Author) 56 Fig. 4.1 The Sunday Telegraph, ‘A Free Press?’ April 16, 1944: 1 77 Fig. 4.2 Members of D Company, 39th Battalion, returning to their base camp after a battle at Isurava (https://www.awm.gov.au/ collection/C32744) 81 Fig. 5.1 Adelaide News cartoonist Norman Mitchell’s take on the Stuart trial. (Courtesy of Mitchell Estate and AIATSIS) 114 Fig. 6.1 Oz front page that was found obscene (Courtesy of Richard Walsh) 123 Fig. 6.2 Nation Review’s ferret (Courtesy of Michael Leunig) 125 Fig. 6.3 Nation Review’s frst anniversary front page (Courtesy of Michael Leunig) 126

xv CHAPTER 1

Larrikins, Rebels, and Journalistic Freedom in Australia

Introduction Robin Hood, Britain’s heroic outlaw who stole from the rich to give to the poor while the Sherriff of Nottingham taxed the people into poverty. Bonnie and Clyde, the American gun-slingin’, cigar-smokin’ couple who evaded police authorities while on their crime-spree during the Great Depression. Ned Kelly, the Australian bushranger who wore an improvised suit of armor made out of an old plough during his fnal shootout with police. Son Goku (or ‘Monkey’) who, according to the cult TV series Monkey Magic and the traditional sixteenth-century Chinese folktale, Journey to the West, strips the Peach Garden of Immortality of its fruit and is expelled from heaven. Don’t we just love a rebel hero! Every culture has at least one. Usually it’s a somewhat cavalier, impish character, who skirts the periphery of respectability and makes fools of those in authority. He (or she!) may be vicious and volatile, but the public admires the rebellious spirit and swag- gering style anyway. It is an archetypal character, whose story gets told over and over again throughout generations, taking a place in a society’s historical and cultural narrative, and functioning to say something about expected social norms and practices. In Australia, the rebel hero is often described as a ‘Larrikin’. Larrikins can be found in all walks of Australian life—from national politics (former

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1 Switzerland AG 2021 J. Vine, Larrikins, Rebels and Journalistic Freedom in Australia, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61856-8_1 2 J. VINE

Prime Minister Bob Hawke) and the high-profle business world (Elders IXL Chairman, John Elliott), through to art (painter Brett Whiteley), sport (champion swimmer Dawn Fraser), and your local pub, where the guy pouring your beer could just as easily be a Larrikin hero as anyone else. Although each one will probably be very different from the other in many ways, all will have similar characteristics that defne them as ‘Larrikin’: rebelliousness, humour, and a distinct disrespect for authority. This book’s particular concern is with Larrikins that have informed journalism’s professional micro-culture in Australia—or the values and beliefs that are specifc to journalism, existing in the wider macro-cultures of ‘the media’ and society in general. To question what Larrikin characteristics could possibly have to do with the journalism profession is legitimate: after all, isn’t the ‘professional’ persona all about achieving some sort of respectability? The Larrikin may be many things, but respectable— at least, outside his own community—is not one of them. The ‘professional’ (or otherwise) status of journalism is dealt with elsewhere in this book. But for now it’s important to discuss how Larrikin-journalists are particularly important in the Australian context. In a liberal democratic system, it is journalism, and to a lesser extent the cultural industries in general, that have responsibility to keep the public sphere running the way it is intended. This means protecting its integrity by ensuring equality of access, diversity of opinion, and transparency of authority in it. In order to do this, journalists need to be confdent that they will be unfettered in their professional activities. By acting as the public sphere’s champion, journalists contribute to the protection of democratic liberty against authority. However, Australia is the only liberal Western democracy that does not provide overt legal protection for journalistic activity (Pearson and Polden 2019: 33). The US and Canada have a constitutionally guaranteed free speech and free press, and the European Convention on Human Rights has shaped the laws in that continent, including the UK’s Human Rights Act 1998, which can function to protect journalistic freedom (United Kingdom: Human Rights Act, 1998). Similarly, New Zealand enshrined free expression in Section 14 of its Bill of Rights Act 1990 (Pearson and Polden 2019: 34). Although such legislation does not mean journalists overseas are above the law—they are still subject to legitimate restrictions—it does mean that they can have some confdence in that they will be protected in doing, what journalism academic Margaret Simons calls, their “dirty, vital work” (Simons 2007: 17). Although Australian journalism has no similar overarching protection, Australian society still expects its journalists to fulfll its democratic 1 LARRIKINS, REBELS, AND JOURNALISTIC FREEDOM IN AUSTRALIA 3 responsibility, fearlessly and without favour. This expectation was given substance in 1992, when the Australian High Court interpreted an implied right of freedom of speech within the Constitution in the cases Australian Capital Territory Pty Ltd v. Commonwealth (1992 177 CLR 106) and Nationwide News Pty Ltd v. Wills (1992 CLR 1), and expanded upon in 1993 in the Theophanous v. Herald and Weekly Times (Unrept, HC, 12/10/94). The problem is, although Australian legal authority may agree with freedom of the news media in principle, this agreement does not necessarily translate into practice. Because public scrutiny and criticism can cause hazards for authority, it is compelled to place limits on journalism’s ability to engage in such activity. This may be done overtly, such as Section 79 (3) of the Crimes Act, used to raid the home of an award-winning journalist and the newsroom of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation in 2019. Or it may be done covertly, as in the increasing time delay and cost (and widening exempt document categories) for those accessing information under the 1982 Freedom of Information Act (Lidberg 2019). Such boundaries limit journalism’s capacity to scrutinize and criticize authority on behalf of the public. Without overt protection, journalism is hindered in its ability to fulfll its democratic responsibility. So one wonders how Australia, apparently one of the world’s most sta- ble democracies, has managed to maintain this status with no recognized protection for journalistic freedom. At least part of the answer can be found in the 2005 comment made by the then Federal Secretary of the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance, Christopher Warren, in Australia’s inaugural ‘Freedom of the Media Report’. A free media “never emerges as a gift,” he said:

It needs to be fought for. It never attains a state of perfection, but rather sits on that fault line of power between government’s desire for control and continuing pressure from society. Above all, it depends on the preparedness of the media, itself, to push back that line away from governmental regulation and towards a freer media. (Warren et al. 2005: 3)

This book is a journey through Australian journalism history, to examine how journalists have internalized the wider Australian culture’s Larrikin ethos to ‘push back that line’ toward a freer news media. It goes back to the nation’s frst journalists, and traces resistance against authorized meth- ods of covering up legitimate public information through generations, to 4 J. VINE the present day. This book uses the Larrikin ethos to link up the stories that Australian journalists tell each other over generations to communicate the most fundamental of the profession’s ideological commitments—that of freedom of the news media. Collectively, these individual stories dem- onstrate how Larrikin-journalists have been central to the maintenance of freedom of the news media in Australia, and how the Larrikin has become an essential archetype to the Australian journalism micro-culture today. The Larrikin journalist sounds like a somewhat romantic hero. But this book recognizes there is also a dark side to the Larrikin. After all, the Murdoch empire—often accused of being the epitome of everything wrong with freedom of the news media—has a Chairman who can indeed be defned as a Larrikin. Rupert Murdoch’s business style can be interpreted as aggressive and rebellious. Yet these Larrikin characteristics have facilitated building the most successful media company in the world, paradoxically creating a further threat to freedom of the news media. In Australia in the 1980s and 1990s, there were several, what are termed as, media barons with very similar Larrikin characteristics—members of the Packer and Fairfax dynasties for example—who used their power to control, rather than free, journalists working in the news media. Paradoxically, freedom of the news media was then vulnerable to the very people who owned it, and its responsibility for its maintenance was left, to a large extent, to the Larrikin-journalists who were brave (naive?) enough to defy their employers. Proprietors espousing freedom of the news media for commercial and political gains is nothing new. As we shall see in the next chapter, Australia’s unique colonial circumstances mean there is a long tradition of aggressive businessmen owning the nation’s media as a money-making and power- building activity. What was worrying, particularly during the 1990s, was how their aggressive, commercially and politically driven Larrikin ethos appeared to pervade journalism micro-culture. There were some journalists, particularly in commercial current affairs, who appeared to take on the Larrikin characteristics and use them to drive a somewhat Machiavellian value and belief system, where the overt ‘freedom of the news media’ principle was arguably masking a commercially and politically motivated agenda on behalf of proprietors. The end result appeared to be a wide- spread type of journalistic activity that abused, consciously or otherwise, the very principles it purported to protect. 1 LARRIKINS, REBELS, AND JOURNALISTIC FREEDOM IN AUSTRALIA 5

The Larrikin So this book strives to avoid putting the Larrikin-journalist on a pedestal, and will, along the way, recognize the contradictions that are inherent to the archetype. In doing this, when we go on to now defne the Larrikin, we recognize he (and the Larrikin is a he despite the fact women can, and do, take on his masculine persona) originated in thoroughly dislikable characters. As social historian Melissa Bellanta (2012) points out, the original Larrikins were poverty-stricken youths who turned their hands to crime and violence in the bigger Australian cities sometime around 1870. The moniker soon became a source of self-satisfed pride, and youths of both sexes used it to dare the law and society in general to control their delin- quency (Bellanta 2012: xxi). Ned Kelly, one of Australia’s most romanti- cized outlaw heroes, could be described as one of these early Larrikins. Although he was celebrated among the poorer social classes, he was, according to others, nothing but a thief, murderer, and violent thug. Yet he has also been—and still is today—revered as a heroic republican (despite the contradiction that Australia, in general, venerates the British monar- chy) and a cultural icon. So defning the Larrikin is complex, because he is such an ambiguous character. He is riddled with conficting elements and resists any reduction to ‘hero’ or ‘villain’. Because the Larrikin is a paradoxical fgure, identifying both general and specifc characteristics for him, as a concept, is diffcult. The Larrikin started detaching itself from connotations associated with violent racism, and revenge attacks during WWI, when Australian soldiers branded themselves ‘diggers’, which they associated with the Larrikin (Bellanta 2012: xv). Indeed, historian Manning Clark argues Larrikinism was “epitomized” in the WWI battle at Gallipoli, when Australian soldiers refused to salute British offcers (in Gorman 1990: 39). This anti- authoritarian sentiment was enshrined in pop culture in Peter Weir’s 1981 cinematic version of the events at what is now known as ANZAC Cove. The characters in Gallipoli (1981) played by Mel Gibson and Mark Lee manifestly exhibit the Larrikin characteristics of anti-authoritarianism, mockery of pomposity, and exceeding limits. After WWII, the ‘Bodgies’ and ‘Widgies’ took to the streets wearing Larrikinism as a badge (Rickard 1998: 81). Thereafter, the Larrikin tradition continued in the Rockers, Surfes, Jazzers, and Mods (Baker 1966: 120). The Larrikin found his artistic expression in the Bohemian, which 6 J. VINE included journalists among its ranks of literary writers and artists (Baker 1966: 121). The Bohemian evolved into the Beatnik that, in Australia, included young radical intellectual exports such as Clive James, Robert Hughes, Germaine Greer, Les Murray, Bob Ellis, and Barry Humphries. So the historical Larrikin of violence and bullying seems to have been somewhat mitigated by the 1960s, to be replaced by a fgure representing anti-authoritarianism, egalitarianism, and audacity. This was certainly true at least as far back as 1958, when Wild Men of Sydney author, Cyril Pearl said:

The larrikin as a social and sartorial type has disappeared [but] many of his characteristics—cheeky aggressiveness, contempt for authority, strident masculinity—are still ingredients of the Australian make-up. (Pearl 1958: 8)

The Larrikin’s complex character is elusive. Larrikin biographer, Clem Gorman (1990), however, starts to make meaning out of this complexity when he defnes what the Larrikin is not, rather than what he is. Gorman says the Larrikin is “certainly not” an eccentric; “eccentrics are vague, unfocussed and expect to be indulged.” Nor is the Larrikin a rat-bag; “Rat-bags lack the cunning calculation that distinguishes the true larrikin.” Gorman goes onto argue that while Bohemians use iconoclasm as a “badge,” the Larrikin uses it as a “tool.” Gorman also dismisses delin- quents, no-hopers, lairs, yahoos, ockers, bodgies, and galahs. However:

Soaring over them all is the larrikin; almost archly self-conscious, too smart for his or her own good, witty, rather than humorous, exceeding limits, bending rules and sailing close to the wind, avoiding rather than evading responsibility, playing up to an audience, mocking pomposity and smugness, taking the piss out of people, cutting down tall poppies, born on a Wednesday, looking both ways for Sunday, larger than life, skeptical, iconoclastic, egalitarian, yet suffering fools badly, insouciant, and, above all, defant. (Gorman 1990: ix–x)

John Rickard’s 1998 analysis of the Larrikin is useful to make sense of this web of conficting positive and negative connotations.

It is as though there is something incomplete about the larrikin. Even as we are drawn to the performance, we are wondering at the risks he is taking—from alcoholism to suburban domestication. For the larrikin defes domesticity even while surrendering to it. He is a masculinity whose strength and charisma masks a core of inner uncertainties. (Rickard 1998: 85) 1 LARRIKINS, REBELS, AND JOURNALISTIC FREEDOM IN AUSTRALIA 7

Here, Rickard’s description of the Larrikin as an “emotional innocent” with a “core of inner uncertainties” appears incompatible with his or her “aggression” and “criminality.” However, when looking at the very brief assessment of Larrikinism Kevin Childs (2006) provides in his collection of profles of colonial “rebels, rogues and ratbags,” Rickard’s category of “emotional innocence” becomes clearer. Although Childs does not use the term Larrikin, his protagonists, collectively, display a typology remark- ably similar to the Larrikin. According to Childs, several of the “rogues” appearing in his book rebelled “only because society made life intolerable,” implying a natural steadfast belief in humanity underneath an exter- nality made tough under mitigating socially constructed circumstances. “Like everyone,” Childs says, “they have human failings,” but achieve the epitaph of “rebel” for their “immense courage” and “great foolishness or zeal” (Childs 2006: ix). The characters in Childs’ collection are “hailed by admirers of the national spirit” because of their “self-belief” and “refusal to be broken by harsh circumstances” (Childs 2006: ix). In other words, the Larrikin refuses to renounce his or her ideals, despite a contrary social reality. Using the combination of: Childs (2006), Rickard (1998), and Gorman (1990), we can start to develop a conceptual framework through which to explore Larrikinism’s history within Australian journalism micro-culture. Defance, particularly against authority and convention, apparently shapes all other Larrikinisms. As Rickard points out, Larrikinism, by def- nition, holds “little regard” for those in authority (Rickard 1998: 78), while Gorman insists that Larrikinism is, “above all” defant (Gorman 1990: x). This defance is not silent; it is overt and, more often than not, aggressive. When conceptualizing Larrikinism, defance can be seen as piv- otal, from which all other characteristics cascade. If the Larrikin exists to defy those who are in authority, then s/he will also tend to hold affliation with those who are not. Rickard makes this suggestion with his criterion, emotional attachment to working class origins (Rickard 1998: 84), although the ‘working class’ is not necessarily devoid of political or social authority. Gorman comes closer to interpreting these affliations when he describes the Larrikin as egalitarian yet “suffering fools badly” (Gorman 1990: x), implying intolerance of any behavior indi- cating pomposity. For the Larrikin cannot stomach pomposity, and will, according to both Rickard and Gorman, express his, or her, disdain through mockery. Rickard drives this point when he describes the 8 J. VINE

Larrikin’s ability to both “take the piss” as well as to “stand in judgment” (Rickard 1998: 83). Mocking pomposity is an expression of both defance and the Larrikin’s tendency to exceed limits. The Larrikin will exceed both legislated limits (“criminality”), as well as unwritten limits of social convention, such as exceeding the limits of alcohol consumption (Rickard 1998: 85). Although the Larrikin is aware of the consequences of his actions, a steadfast belief in his ability to render change in what Childs describes as life made “intolerable” by society (Childs 2006: ix) compels the continu- ation of risk-taking. In this way, the Larrikin self-legitimizes his own, often dubious, actions (even Breaker Morant claimed murdering Boer prisoners of war and a German missionary was ‘just’). As Rickard says, this self- justifcation, and belief the rest of the world should concur, renders the Larrikin an emotional innocent (Rickard 1998: 85). As Childs says, the Larrikin is identifed by “immense courage” that borders on “foolish zeal” (Childs 2006: ix). With such a resolute sense of personal idealism, the Larrikin is determined to continue defying authority and exceeding limits and, apparently, willingly accepts the penalties as some sort of secular martyrdom. Historian Manning Clark articulates the salience of Larrikinism for the broader Australian macro-culture succinctly. These Larrikin qualities, he says, may not describe all, or even any, Australians. However:

Despite the fact that larrikinism no longer depicts us as we truly are, every tribe must have a myth by which it defnes and justifes itself. Larrikinism, no doubt, is ours. (in Gorman 1990: 39)

Clark is referring to the Australian macro-culture in general. However, the same can be said for Australian journalism micro-culture specifcally. Indeed, Australian journalism’s need for Larrikin values and beliefs is perhaps even more profound, given its public responsibility to protect freedom from authority. Because this freedom is in a constant state of vulnerability, Australian journalism micro-culture has—theoretically— always drawn on the Larrikin tradition’s inherent ‘anti-authoritarianism’, ‘egalitarianism’, and ‘exceeding of limits’, to animate its responsibility and ‘push back that line’ toward a freer media. 1 LARRIKINS, REBELS, AND JOURNALISTIC FREEDOM IN AUSTRALIA 9

The Larrikin: An Australian Journalism ‘Memorial Narrative’ Distilling such Larrikin characteristics from the wider Australian macro- culture allows us to examine the Larrikin-journalist as, what historian Eric Hobsbawm describes, an industry-specifc “memorial narrative” (Hobsbawm 1998: 354) within the Australian journalism micro-culture. In other words, it is now possible to examine whether Larrikinism is a recurring theme in the stories that are constructed by the journalism community around a shared professional experience from existing verifable facts, the telling of which, over generations, affrms values and meaning (Hobsbawm 1998: 354–355). The ‘memorial narrative’ can be expanded upon using the concept of “a priori imagination,” noted by renowned historian, Robin George Collingwood (1946/1993: 240–249). As Collingwood notes, the historian begins with “mere theory,” albeit a theory informed by “indications” and capable of being tested:

The historian’s picture of his subject, whether that subject be a sequence of events or a past state of things, thus appears as a web of imaginative construction stretched between certain fxed points provided by the statements of his authorities; and if these points are frequent enough and the threads spun from each to the next are constructed with due care, always by the ‘a priori imagination’ and never by merely arbitrary fancy, the whole picture is constantly verifed by appeal to these data, and runs little risk of losing touch with the reality it rep- resents. (Collingwood 1946/1993: 242)

In this book, the ‘authorities’ (as noted by Collingwood) are the historical narratives about culturally signifcant Australian journalists, each one spinning a ‘thread’ to the next, to test the cogency of the Larrikin ‘a priori’ theory on Australian journalism, Larrikinism, and their relationship with freedom of the news media. Each source of these ‘authorities’—biographical and autobiographical material, original industry-specifc micro- cultural products and, where possible, interviews with still-alive Larrikin-journalists—are overtly analyzed in light of the theory of culture developed by British cultural studies scholars Stuart Hall (1978, 1980a, b) and Raymond Williams (1958, 1966, 1977). The theory of cultural studies is particularly valuable for showing how an understanding of micro-cultural forms (in this case, the Larrikin) 10 J. VINE develops from, and is shaped by, interpretations of historical evidence, to emerge as, what Williams (1977) would describe as powerful ideological “traditions.” Here we need to remember that Williams’ concept of ‘tradition’ does not necessarily equate to historical accuracy in a positivist sense, but is rather, the norms and practices that members of a micro-cultural community recollect and inherit—in other words, its ‘memorial narratives’. So, this book is about how the Australian journalism community has chosen to—either consciously or subconsciously—record and remember its Larrikin tradition, and how this has been—for better or for worse—per- petuated over time. We say ‘for better or for worse’, because it is possible to view journalism’s value and beliefs as nothing but a set of collective institutionalized myths, developed to mask a somewhat less admirable commercial ethos (see Young 2019; Winter 1997: 139–140). However, we can also think about how such culturally constructed ‘myths’ can function as the vital molecules that bind the journalism community together— in other words, journalism can be conceived as a set of professional micro-cultural practices (see Meadows 1998; Romano 2003; Simons 2007; Zelizer 1993, 2004), the values and beliefs of which are perpetu- ated through its historical narratives. Indeed, we can even hypothesize that these institutionalized ‘myths’ are foundational to journalism’s sense of responsibility in a Western liberal democracy—to facilitate protect freedom, equality, and diversity on the public sphere from those who wish to control it. And this is signifcant in democracy, where ‘professional’ (i.e., ‘reputa- ble’) journalists may sometimes be required to challenge authority, including legal authority, in order to fulfll their democratic responsibility. However, when, and under what circumstances, the ‘professional’ journalist is expected to challenge authority is not entirely clear, particularly in the Australian context where legal frameworks do not overtly recognize journalism as a legitimate activity. It’s certainly too subtle to outline in a text- book, or any course content. But it is, theoretically, possible for such micro-cultural practices—in this case Larrikin practices—to be communi- cated more perceptively through the ‘memorial narratives’ that get passed from one generation to the next. Here it is useful to refer to the emerging body of work that conceptual- izes journalism as a set of “micro-cultural practices” (Meadows 1998). Borrowing from the notion originally put forward by Gaye Tuchman (1978), Australian scholars such as Angela Romano (2003) and Margaret 1 LARRIKINS, REBELS, AND JOURNALISTIC FREEDOM IN AUSTRALIA 11

Simons (2007) perceive journalism as a micro-culture, with its own value and belief systems, separate from those of wider macro-cultures, such as the media and society itself.

Journalists have a strong sense of social identity, so that there is commonly a uniformity of opinion among them about their role in society,” says Romano. “Such self-identity is based on their horizontal relationship with their colleagues who work at the same level, rather than from vertical management or pressure from editors, managers or other fgures more senior to them within the newsroom’s chain of power. (Romano 2003: 9)

In the US, seminal journalism scholar, Barbie Zelizer, foregrounded the concept of journalism as a micro-culture when she developed her theory of journalism as an “interpretive community.” Zelizer demonstrated that reporters, in particular, absorb “rules and boundaries and a sense of appropriateness about their actions without ever being informed of them by their superiors” (Zelizer 1993: 221). But it is probably Australian traditional-journalist-turned-scholar, John Hurst, who describes the journalism micro-culture most accurately in his 1988 anthology of Walkley Award (the highest honor an Australian journalist can achieve from his or her peers) winners:

They’re [journalists] an interesting tribe, with their own strange totems and taboos, a close fraternity apart from, yet part of the crowd. (Hurst 1988: 6)

There is an argument that, since Hurst was speaking in 1988, the digi- tal revolution has changed journalism so dramatically that his comments are no longer relevant. However, as this book hypothesizes, journalism’s fundamental role—to ‘push back that line’ toward a freer media—cannot change as long as society expects journalism to contribute to a functioning democracy. This book studies the micro-cultural construction of Hurst’s ‘interesting tribe’, through an interpretation of one of its most neglected ‘strange totems’—the Larrikin—to reveal its signifcance as a democratic fgure.

A Note on Methodology For ease of navigation, this book is structured in roughly chronological order, with periods of time grouped according to signifcant historical events in the wider Australian macro-culture: 12 J. VINE

1. Colonial Larrikins (1803–1901) 2. Larrikin-journalists: Federation to Appeasement (1901–1939) 3. Larrikin-journalists: WWII (1939–1950) 4. Larrikin-journalists: Conservatism and Communism (1950s) 5. Larrikin-journalists: the Swinging Students (1960–1975) 6. Larrikin-journalists: Post-Whitlam (1975–1985) 7. Larrikin-journalists and the Media Moguls (1986–2001) 8. Larrikinism.com (2001–2015) 9. The Larrikin-journalist: Past, present, and future

To examine ebbs and fows in Australian micro-cultural consciousness, this book taps into the cultural conversations of Australian journalism in each generational context. However, because of its chronological nature, this book’s earlier chapters rely heavily on re-syntheses of already-existing biographical and autobiographical material (although, there is also some original newspaper publication on which to draw). It is only after 1910, when the union and professional association, the Australian Journalists Association, was formed, that we start to fnd primary source material to guide us through journalism’s micro-cultural conversations of the day. From 1923, we have the union’s trade magazine, The Journalist, although it’s not until the mid-1930s that this publication starts to function as a vehicle of collective professional values and beliefs, as opposed to an organ of industrial relations. Nevertheless, we can start relying on The Journalist (and its later incarnation, The Walkley Magazine), and the collective consciousness it expresses post 1933, as part of this book’s analysis. From 1954, we have the Walkley Awards, or what is today known to be the highest honor a journalist can achieve in Australia. Since founded by the somewhat Larrikin oil entrepreneur, William Walkley in 1954, each year a judging panel of journalistic peers examines entries in up to 30 categories. The whole process culminates in a gala event, for which journalists around the country dress up in their fnery—or, at least, tune into Australia’s multicultural semi-public broadcasting service, SBS, or log onto the Walkley Foundation’s streaming function, wrapped in their dress- ing gowns in their lounge rooms—to fnd out who their professional community deems ‘best’ in its feld. But for us, on our journey through the history of Australian journalism, the Walkleys are signifcant for perhaps a slightly different reason. As scholar, John Hurst, says in his 1988 anthology of award winners, what judges have always looked for is “special initiative” and “determination” to “expose corruption, incompetence, injustice or plain cruelty by people 1 LARRIKINS, REBELS, AND JOURNALISTIC FREEDOM IN AUSTRALIA 13 who do their damndest to stop nosey journalists getting anywhere near the facts” (1988: 13). In other words, Walkley winners will express at least one, or many, Larrikin characteristics. However, for us on our journey through Australian journalism history of insubordination in the face of restrictions on freedom of the news media, not all Walkley winners will be part of this particular ‘memorial narrative’ (here, we need to acknowledge the work of the determined and tireless inaugural winner, Eva Sommer, who, lamentably, does not appear in this book). But many have won for their subversion against restrictions, providing us with a defnite trail of ‘threads’ that ‘weave a web’ about the relationship between journalism, Larrikinism, and freedom of the news media in Australia. We meet a similar conundrum with the Melbourne Press Club’s Quill Awards. Starting in 1995 with 10 categories, and at the time of writing, hosting 29 categories, the Quills are, in general, awarded for “originality, impact, relevance” and “quality.” Arguably, all Quill winners will exhibit at least one, or more Larrikin characteristics in order to be judged against these criteria by their peers. But it is only a few who will meet the measures by which this book assesses its ‘threads’ that make up the web we are weaving about the Larrikin’s tendency to skirt the inside periphery of legality and its relationship to freedom of the news media. The chronological nature of this book also has implications for access to frst-hand accounts of journalism culture in context. It is not until the 1960s that we start to hear the voices of Larrikin-journalists who were embroiled in the historically signifcant legal struggles of the time. However, from 1960 onward, we have frst-hand recollections from journalists as signifcant as Oz Magazine’s Richard Walsh, Age Managing Director Ranald Macdonald and journalists Mike Smith and John Tidey, Four Corners’ Peter Manning and Chris Masters, National Times’ Brian Toohey, and the irrepressible journalist-activist Wendy Bacon. The fnal chapters speak to more recent journalists who have ended up against the legal system to ensure the revelation of information of public importance. The book concludes with the personal thoughts of those who are cur- rently fghting for a freer news media to contemplate whether the Larrikin- journalist continues to hold relevance now, and in the future, for democratic Australia. This book is focused on those journalists who demonstrated a tendency torwards ‘pushing back that line’ towards a freer news media as part of their professional practice. This is different from the many works that tell 14 J. VINE the stories of micro-culturally signifcant journalists using a ‘public bene- ft’ framework. In other words, texts such as Pearce’s 1998 Shameless Scribblers, and Pilger’s 2004 Tell Me No Lies, document those journalists whose work is signifcant revealed corruption or abuse to change social policy. And many of these journalists are, indeed, Larrikins. This book, by contrast, uses a different framework as a selection methodology. It tells the stories of journalists who overtly courted the Larrikin concept or skirted the periphery of regulation to ‘push back that line’ toward a freer media in Australia, and whose so-called ‘risk-taking’ behavior is celebrated in journalism micro-culture to become embedded in professional consciousness over successive generations. What this means, however, is there are many micro-culturally signifcant Larrikin-journalists whose stories have had a major impact on the profession, but have, in this instance, hit the cutting room foor. It is with regret that this book does not document the stories of journalists such as Harry Gordon, who campaigned tirelessly for traffc reform and undoubt- edly saved countless lives through the resulting legislation on seatbelts, and the ‘Prince of Press Adventurers’, war correspondent, Ronald Monson. This book is intensely Australian. This means there are several high- profle and laudable Larrikin-journalists who, although Australian, have battled for news media freedom under other countries’ legislative frameworks. The narratives of John Pilger, Neil Davis, and Julian Assange, therefore, have not been told in any depth. It is with great regret, and apology, that such journalists have not been discussed at length in this book, mainly because the selection methodology had to be tight enough to restrict the word count from tripling its required length. What readers will also note about this book is the lack of women repre- sented. Again, this book recognizes that there are many female Larrikin- journalists over time, but most of them were not given opportunities to ‘push back that line’ from government regulation. As Louise North pointed out in The Gendered Newsroom (2009):

In the mainstream print news media in Australia, content is determined by men. Men constitute the overwhelming proportion of editorial decision-makers in mainstream newspapers around the world, and Australia is no excep- tion. (2009: 1)

So, although women have always been present in newsrooms, it is not until the 1970s they start making an appearance in this book. This is not