NICOLL, MR MURRAY

The Hon. M.D. RANN (Ramsay—Premier, Minister for Economic Development, Minister for Social Inclusion, Minister for the Arts, Minister for Sustainability and Climate Change) (15:32): Last week I attended the funeral of Murray Nicoll. I first met Murray in 1978. He was press secretary to Geoff Virgo; I was the young new press secretary for Don Dunstan. Murray took me under his wing and so did his wonderful wife, Frankie. They would invite me up to Greenhill Road for a feed and to try and educate me about practical things.

Murray was in his 30s but was an experienced newspaper and TV journalist, and we had something in common: we both came from New Zealand. I had worked for Radio New Zealand, Murray had worked for the Waikato Times and Evening Post. Murray never forgot where he came from. It shaped his values. It was his anchor. We would often have dinner on Friday nights, with restaurateur Libero De Luca being his favourite mein host. Murray was the great storyteller, whether it be through his journalism or through telling a yarn. There was a Mark Twain quality to the way he told a story, particularly if it was about the bush or fishing.

Murray was lucky to be alive. In 1975 Channel 7 asked Murray to go to East Timor to report on the imminent invasion by Indonesia. He was on his way, but he and other crews were stranded in Darwin. Murray killed time by going pig hunting with another Kiwi, a Darwin copper. Their jeep struck a buffalo; Murray was hit on the head and ended up in Darwin Hospital. His journo mates left him behind and then perished at Balibo.

Murray reported on some of South Australia's big stories. He was the great police reporter and could tell the real story of the drowning of Dr Duncan, and then there was the Nullarbor nymph. People liked him. He had the best contacts. The quirkier the story the better. He liked a story with a twist, but never twisted the story. There was no political bias, no personal malice. He did not distort. He was an old-fashioned journo. He was honest.

His ability to tell a story prevailed over his peers and over fashion, no matter what the technology or which decade. I remember the time he was at 5DN, along with Colin Tyrus, Tim Sauer, Anne Fullwood and others. It was the best reporting team I have seen. As press secretary to John Bannon, the first call I made with a story was to 5DN. It was the engine room of Adelaide journalism. I was not alone in thinking this. When I went on to phone other newsrooms I could hear 5DN in the background. It was a reference point. 5DN liked to break stories, and they did.

Murray, of course, became famous for his coverage of the Ash Wednesday bushfire—a disaster that claimed many lives and many homes, including his own. His live broadcasts, while trapped with others behind a stone wall as the holocaust of fire and smoke engulfed them, is celebrated in broadcasting history. Even today, the simple, stark clarity of the report by a journalist facing death is both chilling and compelling.

So many of his friends offered to help, but it is a measure of Murray's dry, ironic humour that he phoned me several weeks after the fire to apologise for not returning a biography of Mohammed Ali I had lent him, because it had burnt in the fire. Twenty years later, on the anniversary of the Ash Wednesday fires, I went to Murray and Frankie's house, which they had built on the same spot and read him and his family the speech I had just given at the official ceremony, where I quoted from Murray's broadcast.

Murray won a Walkley Award for his Ash Wednesday report, then another when he reported from base camp on an Everest campaign led by Sir Edmund Hillary's son, Peter, in which two climbers had perished. He also reported the Azaria Chamberlain story.

Murray Nicoll is sometimes described as a journalist's journalist. That is true, but he was much more than that. He was a mentor to scores of young journalists and a beacon of honest reporting. Too often these days, TV news broadcasts can be as much about the journalists as about the story. Reporters can see themselves as the star, and sometimes journalists on rival stations will collude in order to communicate the same line across the networks. There is safety in numbers, and no-one is therefore putting their neck out. None of this interested Murray. It was not about him: it was about the stories. Murray preferred to break stories rather than be part of a pack. He was no hack.

After 5DN, Murray went on to 3AW. When he returned to Adelaide he had his own Drive Time show on ABC but was treated shabbily and fired by minnows who were not fit to lick his fire boots. However, for years now his stories on Seven—whether they be about the plight of the River Murray, tales of the outback or reporting on daily events—are so often run nationally, because they are good yarns told with eloquent humanity by a great storyteller.

Haere ra, Murray Nicoll. A kauri has fallen. Deepest sympathy to Frankie, and his lovely daughters Tia and Peta and their families.