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“They used to go up to him and sort of play with him, wanking him, some of the kids used to suck him off. And I was one of them. There was a lot of others kids too that sucked him off and wanked him.”

Hudson produces no evidence for a lack of willingness to become AHWs, but to this end Hudson footnotes an ABC Stateline NT report, and yet again provides her own spin in the hope that no one had seen the original report—or would check it later. There is nothing in this report that evidences Hudson’s alleged “lack … of interest among remote Indigenous people to become AHWs”. The television report says it is a tough job, and not one that everyone can do—but critical nevertheless to the running of Aboriginal health services. One interview in the television segment points specifically to shortcomings in the structure of training, and another into the racially discriminatory nature of work conditions. No interviews or editorial in the yarn point to a “lack of interest”.

Andrew was one of the Territory’s great eccentrics—but also one of its best contemporary writers,” said Mr Mackinolty.

“He came to the Territory chasing music as a journalist, which led to the influential book Strict rules which covered the Warumpi Band/Midnight Oil tour of the Territory and never looked back as a writer. “He followed this with Death in Dili, Catalina Dreaming and An Intruders Guide to East Arnhemland—the latter led to his being awarded NT Writer of the Year in 2009.

Lorna Fencer Napurrurrla was non-conformist, original (and) abandoned conventions, revolutionary, independent, mercurial, unrelenting, tough, funny, flirtatious (and) seriously dedicated, go it alone, irreverent, talented, energetic, confident, irascible, feisty, loud, imperious, cranky and her imperial majesty. She was prolific, chaotic and partial to intellectual stoushes, wicked, impish, forcible and would brook-no-opposition, a dab hand at getting others to do her bidding, tough, overbearing, born-to-rule, with a strong sense of self belief, a strong sense of self worth, bossy, wicked, (with a) rapier sharp wit.She was a loner, eccentric, individualist, over the top fearless, go it alone, against the grain, (and) very, very funny.

Nigel Adlam’s award as NT Journalist of the Year was unsurprising and – in light of the three minor gongs awarded for solid work – deserved. But there were more than a few mutterings that it might have been better for him to leave the field to the many younger, and no less deserving, early career journalists who might appreciate the the nice cheque and trip to Brisbane for the Walkley Awards in a few weeks as much as he will.

Being here this evening, surrounded by her work, is not all of what Sarah is about. At her opening last year I described her in the best of possible ways as a “mongrel dog”. With that description, I was describing her as central Australia’s leading advocate and activist for Aboriginal people with end stage renal disease. I described her as that because, quite simply, she is completely unafraid in her dealings with bureaucrats and politicians in her battles with them. call her that as a token of real affection. The real puzzle is that she is both mongrel dog activist, mother, carer of people within the Western Desert Renal Dialysis family—yet still finds the time to create objects of beauty and wonder.

A guy came in here from the Navy the other day and…I asked him if they’d taught him how to stop these from going off…and I handed it to him like this. He looked at me…for a split second his training crept in and he goes like “You’ve just given me a bomb”

Donations for Andrew McMillan will be allocated to a McMillan Fund in the NT Writers’ Centre books. The NT Writers’ Centre is a charitable institution with endorsement as a deductible gift recipient. This means that donors may claim a tax deduction if they request a receipt from us. The McMillan Fund will be used to provide suitable accommodation and care for Andrew as he convalesces over the next six months and, hopefully, returns to his writing.

If, in the Crowd, there’s one who’s not forgot me,
If there’s one, perhaps who asks how I am,
Say I’m alive, but deny that I am well: That I’m even alive is a gift from a God.
(Ovid, thanks to Paul Kelly via Chips Mackinolty)