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Review of Rolf Harris’ Autobiography

 

I was fortunate enough to read the manuscript of Rolf's book and note that his editor insisted on crossing out every mention of the word "toilet" and replacing it with the word "lavatory". I suppose this has been done with an eye on the UK market, but I hope we'll get a special Australian edition where Rolf can say '"toilet" because I'm afraid "lavatory" just doesn't work over here. It'll make him sound like he's trying to be posh. And this would never do.

 

But we shouldn't be surprised I suppose. Rolf Harris has always been refracted back to us from England. His novelty songs, his cartoons, his wobble board, his beard and glasses, his odd percussive breathing are all familiar to us in a hand-me-down-England-saw-it-first sort of way. Although he dislikes being called a "professional Australian", it's exactly what he is. And I don't mean that pejoratively. Rolf's Australianness is an integral part of his public persona. He may not have cunningly exploited it like Paul Hogan or mercilessly parodied it like Barry Humphries but he has certainly capitalised on it. Ex-pats like Clive James and Germaine Greer always seem slightly embarrassed by it and forever overcompensating with displays of fancy book learnin', but Rolf is what he is; a self-described "lucky amateur". It's what the infant British TV industry liked about him when he started and it's why audiences over there like him still. (In fact it is his original children's show audience, now grown up, who employ him in TV shows like Animal Hospital.) When Australian television cranked up in the late 50's and instinctively looked overseas for its stars, imagine our dilemma when we found Rolf. Here was a staggeringly popular UK TV star, but he was Australian. Fortunately the imprimatur of the mother country won the day and we imported him back to grace our small screen, along with scores of less enduring yanks and poms. And he's never looked back. Until now.

 

Rolf's book is an easy read. It has an unaffected, unghosted quality to it, and he uses the word "marvellous" a lot. His own cultural cringe and blinkered ambition are some of the more surprising things revealed, as is the fact that Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport was inspired by a Harry Belafonte song.

 

Any book where Andy Williams comes across as a bastard should be highly recommended, probably by someone better qualified by me. I liked it. Although I'd like it more if they'd let Rolf say "toilet".