Man of words
‘HARRY the Horse’ was a legend. A genuine one-off revered in the rough-and-tumble world of journalism in the 1960s and ’70s.
The ‘H’ — full name Harry Lovett — was a larger-than-life character who learned his trade on The Age, Melbourne Herald and Sun
News-Pictorial before finding his niche at the ABC.
How he came by the moniker is debatable. Some say it was the name celebrated American reporter Damon Runyon gave one of the fictional characters in his renowned short stories based on life in New York City during the Prohibition.
Others say it referred to his size; the big fella weighed in at 114kg and he delighted in telling how a tailor in Singapore needed double the material to make him a suit.
How Harry fitted in among the conservative, sober types at the ABC is one of life’s mysteries. For Harry, like Runyon, was the archetypal raconteur who loved to spin a tale and down a beer or three.
Jokester aside, his unquestionable talents as a newsman were recognised by ABC management, who appointed him chief of staff. He described his job as chief of chaff.
I met Harry in the media centre at the Russell St police headquarters in the late ’60s. The ‘centre’ was actually a rabbit warren of bare-board rooms up from the entrance to HQ and was crammed with hard-nosed journos from the daily metropolitans, radio stations like the old 3UZ, and the ABC.
It was organised chaos, with reporters talking on phones, tuning in to the police radio (illegal, but generally accepted by police hierarchy) or chasing story leads. Despite the friendly banter, competition was fierce.
Even the morning Herald’s reporters, led by the dapper Seaton ‘The King’ Ashton, kept their mouths and notebooks shut when their sister paper, The Sun, was around — and they shared the same shabby office.
Harry occupied the dingy back room, not that he spent much time there. Rather, he was out working his contacts or filing stories from crime scenes, accidents or whenever news was breaking.
Harry loved a cold seven ounce and, like many of his colleagues, unearthed stories from patrons at the pubs around the city. His regular was a stone’s throw away, where he chewed the fat with colourful characters straight out of Runyon’s fictional world.
After a solid session, Harry would meander back up Russell St to the office to call a taxi for the journey home. Once, he was stopped by a uniformed constable, who told him: “Sir, you are drunk.”
Harry’s response: “And you, sir, must be Sherlock Holmes.” They let him go.
There are countless anecdotes about Harry the Horse, but perhaps the most celebrated involves Prime Minister Harold Holt, who disappeared off Cheviot Beach, Portsea, on December 17, 1967.
Less than an hour after the PM vanished in dangerous seas, rumours started circulating. With news sense in overdrive, Harry contacted a friend — some say it was the driver of a ministerial car, others a drinking buddy who owned a Rolls-Royce — and they hightailed it down the highway to the Point Nepean National Park, which had been sealed off by authorities.
Urban myth or not, the ‘official’ vehicle was flagged through, allowing Harry to file one of the first onsite reports of the tragedy. It was textbook initiative and tenacity in beating the opposition to a story, but typical of a journalist of the old school — and a damn good one at that!
The big bloke was always going to be a journalist. He had the perfect pedigree. Father Harry Sr, was a former editor of The Argus, the great morning daily that ceased publication in 1957 after 111 years.
Older brother Peter also boasted an illustrious media career, including stints on the Adelaide News, Melbourne Herald, Brisbane Telegraph, Geelong Advertiser and, finally, The Bellarine Echo.
Peter was another product of the old school, and while he thrived on the cut and thrust of journalism in those early years, he relished the more sedate environment as editor of The Echo. He was particularly proud of its close links with the community.
He shared Harry’s knockabout nature and penchant for an ale. “Coming for a succulent seven or tantalising 10?” he often asked at day’s end. It was only right he had his memorial service at the home of his beloved Geelong Football Club.
Not surprisingly, the Lovett dynasty continues. Peter’s son Michael has been a journalist of note for 42 years and Harry’s daughter Virginia is chief executive of the Melbourne Theatre Co. Their parents would be chuffed.
Harry the Horse and Peter belonged to a different era, when reporters worked hard and played hard, but still found time to laugh at the world around them and themselves. Today, characters in the workplace have been driven to the point of extinction by political correctness and anti-fun management. More’s the shame!