The Wit of Barry Humphries
On his mother
‘You see, Barry – not everybody likes you.’
My mother offered this kindly reminder one morning at breakfast 69 years ago.
‘We don't know where Barry came from’ was another of her frequently uttered observations. All eyes were then turned to me, the eldest son, whose very provenance was somehow open to speculation.
I was slowly learning how exceptionally gifted children can suff er at the hands of alien, but wellintentioned, parents.
On Britain
‘We're going overseas,’ announced Ada Scott, my mother's friend. ‘After that, we might pop over to some of the clean countries.’
By ‘overseas’, Ada meant what we all meant: England. My grandparents called it ‘going home’ and, in the Melbourne of that epoch, it was an inevitable destination,
