MY MATE HOLMESY
Sir Paul Holmes 1950-2013
Colleagues pay respect,
FOR SEVEN years, I talked sport every morning from a converted cupboard while right beside me, Paul Holmes talked news from a penthouse studio with expansive harbour views.
I had a view too. From my broom cupboard I looked straight at him, luxuriating in his suite.
That wasn‘t torment enough for Paul.
He also reminded me most mornings that he was on 22 per cent (breakfast ratings share). The only reason he never added ‘‘while you Marty, you languish in the margin of error somewhere between 0-2 per cent’’ is because he didn‘t actually know how many listeners I had and didn‘t really care enough to find out. Condescending? Humiliating? Not at all. Never. It was his way of saying he thought you were OK. I saw it as nothing but a badge of honour.
I lucked into his life when he was absolutely smokin’ it.
Number one on prime time radio, number one on prime time TV.
He was the rock star and I was ‘‘Martin, uh? Marty who? Oh, Marcus, right!’’
Holmes was a broadcaster’s broadcaster. He never told me how to do my job, he just let me in.
He saw broadcasting as a craft, a work in progress.
He was always thinking about how to get better and by proxy he made me want to, too.
As odd as this may sound, I reckon it was what he did rather than what he said that revealed who he truly was.
I remember him inviting Dad and me over one afternoon. He did that so my father would be really impressed that I was mates with him. I sat and laughed all afternoon with the two biggest heroes in my life. It was entirely premeditated to make me and my Dad feel fantastic – and it worked. How cool is that?
I remember Toni Marsh from TV3 telling me how she had just boarded a plane in Wellington when he followed her on. He looked at her and obviously saw the terror in her eyes – she has a chronic fear of flying. So he sat down beside her and talked, cajoled and comforted her all the way to Auckland. How awesome was that?
Then there was the problem one week with his Sky decoder. It was on the blink. He was really frustrated until one morning he arrived at Newstalk ZB proudly telling us all that late last night he worked out how to fix it. He found his contact book and around midnight rang the CEO of Sky TV. Sorted, the technician arrived an hour later and changed the batteries in his remote. True!
I‘ll never forget the biggest compliment he ever paid me, which was one morning busting into my broom cupboard and saying,‘‘I was talking to my exbloody-wife last night who told me you are funny. Yes Marty. Apparently you are f...ing funny. Yeah, funny f...ing Marty huh?’’ He then yanked open the door and left. And now he really has gone.
He was never going to clock up a century or even get the chance to rark-it-up in a rest home.
It‘s obvious now that his death was going to be as large as his life.
I will remember him by the size of his life, how big he could make you feel and how much he gave.
I can hear him yelling already, ‘‘Mardeeeee, the story isn‘t about me going out at 62, it’s how I got there, the highlights, low moments, the sledging, the streaker, and most importantly, the reaction from the crowd.’’
He knew he could be good, knew he could be brilliant but he wasn‘t entirely convinced. He doubted himself at times and was worried that he might not even get past St Peter at the Pearly Gates.
My guess is he got a green light and has spent the past two days trying to log on to TVNZ on Demand ‘‘just to show me old mate, The Big G, what I’ve been up to lately’’.
I’m gonna miss you so much, me old mate. But I’m never going to forget you, Paul.