I asked Polly Bush to come to the Walkley awards in Melbourne last Thursday night as the representative of Webdiarists.

 

I’d never seen or spoken to her before we met on the night, just before which I realised I was about to have my first blind date and knew nothing about her non-virtual identity. As it turned out she was as she appears on Webdiary. We also discovered another connection. Her mother had babysat my sisters and I in Maryborough, Queensland, while her grandfather directed my parents in plays at the local theatre. My Mum still has two of her grandfather’s paintings.

 

Here is her report.

 

Polly Bush, Joan Smith and that other bird

 

A 55-year-old bloke strolls into a dimly lit bar of a Melbourne hotel foyer. He scratches the bald spot on his head as he skims his eyes across the room in search of Margo Kingston, who’s invited him as a Webdiary rep to the Walkley Awards. In front of him sits the brooding great, sipping on mineral water, sucking on a fag. He bends his tired old frame down to her seated level. Clearing his throat burnt by too many Winnie Reds he coughs, “I believe you’re expecting me – Polly Bush,” he offers with a limp hand.

 

Margo rolls her eyes ignoring it. She pauses for a second before puffing out her inhaled smoke. Stamping out her fag in one cool swipe of the ashtray, she calmly oozes “I half expected as much”. Holding up her remaining mineral water, she takes aim for his bald patch, dumps it and flees, leaving him in a pathetic foetal position sobbing “I didn’t lie, I really am a 24-year-old woman!” The guests inside the bar point and cackle wickedly at his rejection. He’s evicted out on the street, lying briefly heaped in the gutter before disappearing into the obscurity of my nervous head. And Margo’s.

 

Breath. Cyber scenario introductions aside, the pen name was going out for the night as a Webdiary rep. An honour, as the diary is a place I’ve escaped to many many times, sometimes to write, but more so to read the perspectives of the contributors I admire so much. This bold public space woven together by Margo was up for a Walkley for Online Journalism. Representing what an un-nominated commentator labelled as “the looniest members of the citizenry” was certainly something to live up to.

 

Climbing the escalators of the Hyatt on Collins was a disjointed taste of the night ahead. Behind us was Crikey editor Stephen Mayne, towering behind us two or three steps down, dressed in a bright red suit. Santa. But as we rode up the stairs a sea of black awaited us. Suits. Lots of blokes in suits and lots of scrambled noise.

 

We’d decided my name for the night would be my pen name Polly as that was the reason I was there. Margo stuffed the obligatory name tag in my hand, but it wasn’t my name and it wasn’t Polly Bush’s. The curses of a nom de plume and confusion over what to call me led to my registered guest name of Joan Smith. The elusive Joan Smith, quite a character. It was all very weird. Talk about an identity crisis – now I had three.

 

We were late. Certainly not fashionably, just late. Mary Kostakidis was gracing the stage and we had to duck and weave around the TV cameras and tables of suits and glammed up types to find our seats. The entrees had already been served and mostly cleared away. Marinated non-descript mush. The fork was dumped in favour of a liquid dinner, and the amount of untouched meals being cleared away seemed like others had the same idea.

 

On screen, we were met with a look at the year that was. You always know these sorts of grand summaries will never really portray what they set out to, even with the fine art of editing and back up music. Obviously there were the overplayed images of the tumbling down of the World Trade Centre towers, but it couldn’t all be doom and gloom, so we were provided with some comic relief shots of naked bums bent over the side of the Yarra, mooning in the name of art. It all seemed a bit trivial.

 

We left the moving pictures and crowd hisses to images of Jonathan Shier and Philip Ruddock pretty early on in favour of a fag in the foyer. We were not alone. In fact, half the party seemed to be mingling outside the function room, grasping glasses of alcohol, puffing on beyond the no-smoking signs – eventually ignored as the night progressed.

 

The whole evening seemed divided. Physically because half the audience was outside drinking and smoking. Physically because the room seemed divided by the corporate interests and the talent. The suits and the colour. The sponsors had their representative spots on each table. There were the faces in front of the stories, the faces behind the stories, and the machines of the media, the big guns. The suits that hold the power, or at least think they do.

 

The Online Journalism Award was positioned mid-way through the night. As Margo expected, the winner was the Sydney Morning Herald’s Sydney Games Website, but as Margo didn’t expect, Webdiary scored a highly commended. Double whammy. She grinned, congratulated the Games site winners on our table and took off, I guessed for a fag.

 

Everything seemed a little rushed, and a little staged. This was evident when one of the winners on our table made a phone call to share the news – but the news was already out there. The winners had apparently been published on the Internet. Remarkably, the nominees up for awards for their news had been beaten by the news of the awards itself.

 

I had a hold of the prize our competition had snatched from us. As one of the winners explained, the protruding pen nib statue was suitably heavy so he was suitably pleased. It was real. The awards had branched out into so many categories over the years, including Online, and the nib was a reminder of the Walkley’s history, the pen, or, more accurately print journalism. I guess a silver keyboard just wouldn’t cut it.

 

Around the table the winners of the Games Site spoke of the hard work and efforts put into their creation. They also spoke of how important it was for them personally to be recognised for their efforts. It was a pity they didn’t get to share this with everyone when accepting them award.

 

The presentations for the bulk of the awards (except for the biggies at the end) consisted of a quick slap from the chosen sponsor and a quick slap from the Victorian Premier Steve Bracks. No moment for reflection, no insight provided from the winner about what it meant to write or produce the story. No inkling about what it meant to them.

 

It was lame. Like a lame Logies without as much glitter, without Bert. On the upside at least the Walkley “celebs” were Roy and HG, who made a couple of presentations which just seemed to add to the disjointedness of the proceedings.

 

Perhaps the night would have been less disconnected had more people got their say. For example when the Gold Walkley winner Andrew Rule was allowed an acceptance speech, he thanked the braveness of five women for speaking to him for his story `Geoff Clark: Power and Rape’. You could have heard a pin drop. Here was a totally engaged audience, momentarily soaking up his words before scampering outside for where the fun was.

 

And it was. Outside at the end of the ceremony were some of the big names patting each other on the back and slotting into some ol’ remember when talk. I shook far too many hands than I probably should have as Margo hoisted me into some of the fold. As she explained my three identities it was more about introducing the contributors as a whole.

 

Finally, almost everyone had abandoned the function room and united in favour of the foyer for cigarettes, alcohol and conversation. Journos in their element. I’m just sorry I missed the punch up.