At the end of the day, all of these people, whether they sit comfortably in the category of fame or find themselves associated with infamy, are simply people operating within the environment they have chosen or found themselves in. In many cases, they are doing their job, applying their abilities, and responding to the realities of that environment in much the same way as anyone else would.
WHAT THE ACCOUNTANT SAW
Chapter 14 – Brushes With Fame
To me, fame is one of those words that appears self-explanatory until you pause long enough to properly consider what it actually means. It is often measured in headlines, in airtime, in the number of people who recognise a face or repeat a name without ever having met the person behind it. It can be counted in followers, in ticket sales, in the frequency with which someone’s image appears in front of strangers. By those measures, fame sits somewhere outside the reach of most of us, reserved for a select group who, through talent, timing, persistence, or occasionally sheer accident, find themselves elevated into a space where they are known more widely than they are known deeply.
That definition, while convenient, has always felt incomplete to me. It leans heavily on visibility and says very little about substance. It assumes that recognition equates to significance, and that a name spoken often carries more weight than one spoken rarely. Yet, in practice, that has not been my experience at all.
Because if fame is simply the breadth of recognition, it ignores the depth of impact. It overlooks the individuals who may never appear on a screen or a stage, but whose influence shapes the direction of lives in ways that no audience could ever fully appreciate. It discounts the quiet figures, the ones whose names are not printed or broadcast, yet whose actions carry a weight that extends far beyond their immediate circle. These are the people who do not need an audience to matter, because their significance is not derived from attention, but from contribution.
And so, for the purposes of this chapter, fame needs to be reframed in a way that reflects something more grounded, something that sits closer to lived experience than to public perception. Fame, as I have come to understand it, is not about how many people know your name. It is about how deeply your presence is felt by those who do. It is about the imprint left behind, the quiet shaping of thought, behaviour, and direction that lingers long after the moment has passed.
By that measure, the first and last names in this chapter are, without question, among the most famous people I have ever encountered. Not because they would be recognised in a crowded room, but because their influence has been both enduring and defining. They sit at the bookends of this reflection, grounding what might otherwise become a catalogue of encounters in something far more personal. Their version of fame has nothing to do with public acknowledgement and everything to do with the role they have played in shaping who I am and how I see the world.
Between those two points sits a different kind of fame, the more traditional version that most people instinctively think of when the word is used. The recognisable names, the familiar faces, the individuals whose lives have unfolded, at least in part, in the public domain. Over the years, through business, through speaking, through community involvement, and occasionally through nothing more than circumstance, I have crossed paths with a number of people who would comfortably meet that broader definition.
What follows is not a list in the conventional sense, nor is it an attempt to elevate my own position through proximity. There is no value in name-dropping for its own sake, and certainly no interest in presenting these encounters as anything more significant than they were. If anything, the interest lies in the opposite direction. These are moments, brief intersections for the most part, where the distance between perception and reality becomes visible, sometimes subtly and sometimes in ways that are far more obvious.
Each encounter carries its own interlude, a snapshot of time where the public image and the private individual momentarily overlap. Around that sits the context, the background of who they were, what they represented, and where they fitted into the landscape at the time. In some cases, the person aligned closely with the image that preceded them. In others, there was a noticeable gap between expectation and reality. Most, as it turns out, existed somewhere in between, navigating the same range of behaviours and emotions that exist in any room, famous or otherwise.
There is a tendency, when speaking about famous people, to either elevate them beyond reach or diminish them in an attempt to normalise the encounter. Neither approach has ever sat particularly well with me, because both miss the point. Elevation creates distance that does not need to exist, while diminishment ignores the very real effort and circumstance that often sit behind public recognition. What has been far more interesting, at least from where I stand, is the recognition that fame does not remove the fundamentals of human behaviour. It simply places them under a different light, one that tends to amplify rather than alter what is already there.
Ego, insecurity, generosity, indifference, curiosity, these traits do not appear as a consequence of fame. They are revealed by it. The stage, the spotlight, the recognition, they do not create the person. They expose them, sometimes in ways that are carefully managed and sometimes in ways that are not.
And in that sense, these brushes with fame have been less about the individuals themselves and more about the moments they exposed. About what happens when two lives, moving at very different speeds and under very different levels of scrutiny, briefly intersect. There is something quietly revealing about those intersections, something that sits beneath the surface of the introduction or the handshake, where the reality of the person can be glimpsed, even if only for a moment.
This chapter, then, is a collection of those moments. A series of dossiers, each one built around a name that carries some degree of recognition, but anchored in the small, often unremarkable interactions that reveal something a little more grounded. Some of the names will be familiar, others less so, but familiarity is not really the point. The point is what those encounters say, not just about them, but about the nature of recognition itself, and the way in which we, as observers, choose to interpret it.
More importantly, it is about returning, at the end of it all, to those two figures who sit quietly at the edges of this chapter. The ones whose version of fame has nothing to do with recognition and everything to do with impact. Because in a world that places so much emphasis on being known, there is something worth holding onto in the idea that the truest measure of a life may not be how widely it is seen, but how deeply it is felt.
So what defines fame? Is it achievement? Is it notoriety? Is it something else?
The first person in my line is my father, a man who spent 21 years on Boorowa Shire Council as a representative of his ward, a man who was chief instructor for the entire Zone 16 pony club organisation, and a man with a temper so profound that anyone in the local district steered clear when his ire was up.
There was no stage for him, no microphone, no carefully managed public image. His world was smaller in geography, but no less significant in its reach. In that part of the world, reputation travelled faster than any formal recognition ever could. It moved across fence lines, through conversations at the saleyards, in quiet acknowledgements at community events, and in the unspoken understanding of who you could rely on when things needed to be done properly.
His role on council was not ceremonial. It was not something done for the sake of a title or the quiet prestige that might come with it. It was work. Long, often thankless work, dealing with roads that needed grading, disputes that needed settling, and decisions that rarely pleased everyone involved. Twenty-one years is not an accident. It is not something that happens because of popularity alone. It speaks to a level of consistency, a willingness to show up, to engage, and to carry responsibility over a sustained period of time, often without any real recognition beyond the expectation that you will continue to do so.
The pony club, in many ways, revealed a different side of the same man. Chief instructor for Zone 16 was not simply about teaching riding techniques or ensuring that standards were maintained. It was about discipline, structure, and the passing on of knowledge in a way that would endure. It was about instilling confidence in young riders, while at the same time demanding a level of respect for both the animal and the process. There was no tolerance for shortcuts. No appetite for half measures. What you did, you did properly, or you did not do it at all.
And then there was the temper.
It would be easy to soften that description, to round off the edges in the interests of balance, but that would not be an accurate reflection of the man. His temper was real, immediate, and, at times, confronting. It was not something that simmered quietly in the background. When it surfaced, it was visible, and it carried with it a clarity that left little room for misunderstanding. People knew where they stood. They also knew when they had crossed a line.
Yet, even in that, there was a strange consistency. The temper was not random. It was not directed without cause. It was tied, in many respects, to a set of standards that he held not only for others, but for himself. There was an expectation of effort, of honesty, of doing things the right way, even when the easier path was available. When those expectations were not met, particularly in situations where they should have been, the response was swift and unmistakable.
In the context of this chapter, he would never have considered himself famous. The idea would likely have been dismissed outright, perhaps with a comment that suggested the very notion was unnecessary or even slightly absurd. But within the boundaries of that community, his presence was known. More than that, it was felt. His opinions carried weight. His approval, when it was given, meant something. His disapproval, when it appeared, was not easily ignored.
That, in its own way, is a form of fame.
Not the kind that draws attention from afar, but the kind that embeds itself within a place, within a group of people, within a set of shared experiences that shape how that place functions. It is not measured in numbers, but in influence. Not in visibility, but in impact.
As I look back on it now, it becomes clear that my earliest understanding of fame was not shaped by television or newspapers or the distant figures who occupied those spaces. It was shaped much closer to home, by a man whose reach extended not through recognition, but through presence. A man who, whether he intended it or not, set a standard for what it meant to be known for something that actually mattered.
And perhaps that is where the question begins to answer itself.
Because if fame is reduced to nothing more than recognition, it becomes hollow very quickly. But if it is tied to contribution, to consistency, to the quiet accumulation of actions that leave a lasting impression, then it takes on a different meaning entirely.
It becomes less about being seen, and more about being remembered for the right reasons.
And in that sense, the first name in this chapter sits exactly where it should. Not because of how widely he was known, but because of how deeply he was felt by those who knew him.
I met Sir Paul Hasluck, the Governor-General of Australia at the time, at a polo cross carnival where we, as members of the Yass Pony Club, were acting as sideline officials for the Australian Polo Cross Championships. It wasn’t a simple drive past and wave, the sort of fleeting acknowledgement that often passes for proximity to someone of that standing. My father actually introduced me to Sir Paul during a lull between chukkers, a moment carved out of the rhythm of the day rather than staged for effect.
To understand the weight of that meeting, it helps to appreciate who he was beyond the title. Sir Paul Hasluck was not simply a ceremonial figure occupying the highest office in the country. He was a man of considerable intellect and experience, a historian by trade, a diplomat, a politician who had moved through the machinery of government at a time when Australia was still defining its place in the world. By the time he arrived at that dusty paddock, surrounded by horses, riders, and a scattering of spectators, he carried with him a depth of experience that far exceeded the setting. And yet, in that moment, none of that seemed to dominate the interaction.
There was no entourage pressing in, no visible separation between him and the environment he had stepped into. He stood there, present in a way that felt grounded, engaged in the conversation rather than performing within it. My father, who was not a man easily overawed by position or title, spoke to him in the same manner he would have spoken to anyone else. There was respect, certainly, but it was not the kind that creates distance. It was the kind that allows for a genuine exchange.
I remember, more than anything, the normality of it. As a younger version of myself, aware enough to recognise the significance of the title but not yet conditioned to fully understand its implications, I expected something different. There is an assumption, particularly when you are young, that people who occupy positions of prominence will carry themselves in a way that reflects that distance. That there will be a visible gap between them and everyone else, something that reinforces the idea that they exist on a different level.
That was not what I encountered.
Instead, there was a conversation that felt measured, considered, and entirely at ease within its surroundings. The discussion moved, as these things often do, through the practicalities of the event, the organisation, the horses, the riders. It was grounded in the shared context of the moment rather than elevated into something abstract or performative. There was an ease to it that, in hindsight, says more about the man than any formal description ever could.
What stayed with me was not anything particularly profound that was said. There was no defining statement, no piece of advice delivered in a way that would echo through the years. It was, in many respects, an ordinary conversation. But it was the contrast between the expectation and the reality that left the impression.
Here was a man who, by any conventional definition, was famous. His name was known across the country. His position placed him at the centre of national life. And yet, in that moment, standing on the edge of a polo cross field, he was simply another participant in the environment, engaging with the people around him without the need to assert the significance of who he was.
That, perhaps, is where the earlier definition of fame begins to shift again.
Because if fame creates distance, then what I experienced in that moment was something different. It was a reminder that position does not have to dictate presence, and that recognition does not require reinforcement. The title existed, but it did not dominate. The man behind it was allowed to come forward, even if only briefly.
For my father, I suspect the encounter was simply another conversation in a long line of interactions with people from various walks of life. For me, it was something more formative, not because of the title attached to the individual, but because of the way in which that title was worn so lightly within the context of the moment.
It was, in its own quiet way, an introduction not just to a person, but to an idea. That fame, when stripped of its outward markers, often reveals something far more ordinary, and in that ordinariness, something far more instructive.
In my first accounting employment, one of the clients was Alan McGilvray, the doyen of Australian cricket commentary. The way Alan could describe what was happening on the field, from the technique of the bowler to the subtle misgivings in a batter’s method, conjured pictures so vivid that the absence of television was not a limitation, it was almost an advantage. You were not watching the game, you were constructing it, ball by ball, in your own mind, guided entirely by the cadence and precision of his voice.
That was the craft.
There is a rhythm to great commentary that goes well beyond the words themselves. It sits in the pauses, in the choice of phrasing, in the ability to let the moment breathe without feeling the need to fill every second with sound. Alan understood that instinctively. He trusted the listener. He allowed space for imagination, and in doing so, created something far richer than a simple description of events.
Walking into his world as a young accountant, however, stripped all of that back to something far more grounded. The man behind the microphone was now a client, seated across a desk, dealing with the same realities that every other client brought through the door. There were numbers to consider, obligations to meet, structures to understand. The voice that had painted entire Test matches into existence was now discussing matters that, on the surface, seemed far removed from the drama of a fifth-day run chase or the tension of a new ball spell under grey skies. And yet, even in that setting, there was a continuity.
The same clarity that defined his commentary carried through into conversation. There was no unnecessary complication, no attempt to obscure what was being discussed. Questions were direct. Observations were measured. There was an economy to the way he communicated that felt familiar, even if the subject matter was entirely different. It was as though the discipline required to describe a game with precision had simply transferred itself into every other aspect of how he engaged.
What struck me most was not the fame attached to the name, but the absence of any need to lean on it.
There was no sense that he expected to be treated differently, no suggestion that the recognition he carried should alter the nature of the interaction. In many ways, he approached the relationship in exactly the same way I was being taught to approach it, grounded in the work, focused on the outcome, respectful of the process. If anything, the familiarity of his public persona made the contrast more noticeable, because it would have been easy for him to rely on that reputation as a form of currency. He chose not to.
For someone at the very beginning of a career, still finding footing, still working out what it meant to sit on the other side of the desk, that carried its own lesson. It reinforced something that had been quietly forming in the background, that the name itself, no matter how widely recognised, was only ever part of the story. What mattered more was how the person behind that name chose to operate when the spotlight was no longer present.
In many respects, it mirrored the earlier encounter with Sir Paul.
Different worlds, different forms of recognition, yet the same underlying theme. The title, the reputation, the public image, all of it sat lightly when it needed to. What remained was the individual, engaging in a moment that required nothing more than presence and clarity.
There is something reassuring in that. Because it suggests that fame, for all its noise and visibility, does not fundamentally change the nature of the person. It may amplify certain traits, it may expose others, but at its core, the same principles apply. Respect, clarity, engagement, these are not reserved for the unknown. They are, or at least should be, consistent across every interaction.
Looking back, the image of Alan McGilvray behind the microphone remains as powerful as ever. The voice, the timing, the ability to transport a listener to the middle of the action without the aid of a screen, that is what endures in the public consciousness. But for me, there is another image that sits alongside it. A man at a desk, engaged in conversation, approaching a different kind of task with the same level of discipline and composure that defined his public life. It is a quieter image, less dramatic, but in its own way, just as instructive. And perhaps that is the thread that continues to run through these encounters.
That the most interesting aspect of fame is not how it appears from a distance, but how it behaves up close.
Once Colin and I left Ruwald & Evans, there was a period where the client base reflected a very particular slice of Sydney life at the time. The footballers from Manly Warringah Sea Eagles were prominent among them, not in a way that suggested exclusivity, but in a way that highlighted how closely aligned professional sport and small business realities actually are.
Names like Graham Eadie, Terry Randall, and Russell Gartner carried weight on the field. These were players who, in their time, were not just participants but defining figures within the game. Their reputations were built on performance, on consistency, on the ability to deliver under pressure in front of crowds that expected nothing less.
Off the field, however, the environment was very different. With Colin’s assistance, there was an attempt to transition some of that discipline and profile into something more enduring, the creation of a gymnasium of sorts, a business venture that, at least in concept, made perfect sense. It aligned with their identity, leveraged their experience, and offered a pathway beyond the finite window of a playing career. It was, in many respects, exactly the kind of thinking that should be encouraged.
But business, unlike sport, does not always reward intent. The venture found itself entangled in the broader issues surrounding the Vigor downfall, a reminder that even well-conceived ideas can be undone by factors that sit outside the control of those directly involved. The structure, the environment, the timing, all of these elements play a role, and when one of them falters, the consequences tend to ripple far wider than expected.
It was an early lesson, not just for them, but for me as well. That fame, or at least recognition within a particular field, does not provide insulation from commercial reality. The skills that make someone exceptional in one domain do not automatically translate into another. There is an assumption, often unspoken, that success carries across boundaries, that the same attributes will produce the same outcomes. Sometimes they do. Often they do not.
Alongside those interactions, there were others that felt more grounded in the day-to-day rhythm of life. Johnny Gibbs was one of those figures I would encounter not just across a desk, but on the cricket field. There was something almost seamless about the way his football background carried into that environment. The competitiveness, the physicality, the refusal to yield an inch, all of it translated, even into a game that, on the surface, required a different kind of temperament.
You could see it in the way he approached the contest. There was an edge to it, a veracity that did not diminish simply because the setting had changed. Cricket, for him, was not a gentle alternative. It was another arena, another opportunity to compete, to test himself, to impose a standard on the moment. That crossover, from one sport to another, revealed something that perhaps sat beneath the public perception of the player. The mindset did not switch off. It adapted.
And then there were others, less publicly recognised perhaps, but no less important in the context of what we were trying to do. John Dorahy and a number of others came through the practice, each carrying with them the same underlying reality. Football, for all its visibility, is a short career. The window is narrow. The earning capacity, while significant in the moment, does not necessarily extend beyond it unless it is managed with care.
That was where our role shifted. It was no longer about simply recording what had happened. It was about looking beyond the immediate, about trying to ensure that the effort invested on the field translated into something more sustainable off it. Structuring income, managing obligations, creating pathways that would endure once the crowds had moved on and the next generation had taken their place.
There is a certain vulnerability in that transition. When the identity that has defined you begins to recede, replaced by a future that is far less certain, the decisions made in that period carry a different weight. The noise of the crowd is replaced by the quiet of everyday life, and the question shifts from performance to sustainability. Not how well you can play, but how well you can live once playing is no longer the centre of everything.
In that sense, these interactions were less about fame and more about its limitations.
Because while the names were known, while the achievements were real and deserved, the underlying challenges were no different to those faced by any other client walking through the door. Income still needed to be managed. Risk still needed to be understood. The future still required planning, regardless of what had been achieved in the past. And perhaps that is where this particular set of encounters sits within the broader theme of this chapter.
Not as examples of fame in its most visible form, but as reminders that even at its peak, it remains transient. The applause fades. The headlines move on. What remains is the individual, navigating the same set of realities as everyone else, just with a slightly different starting point.
Which, in its own way, brings the conversation back to where it began. That fame, when viewed up close, is far less about recognition than it is about what is done with the opportunities it creates, and how those opportunities are managed once the spotlight begins to dim.
We counted Katie Pye, the dress designer, amongst our list of clients, and there was a time where the latest collection of her wares was put together and given to my wife at the time as a thank you for the job well done.
It was one of those moments that sat slightly outside the usual rhythm of the practice. Most expressions of gratitude in that environment were far more conventional, a handshake, a quiet word of appreciation, perhaps the occasional bottle of something shared at the right time of year. This was different. This was tangible in a way that reflected the world she operated in, where creativity, presentation, and personal expression were not abstract ideas but the very currency of the business.
I remember the collection arriving, not as a single item but as a considered grouping, each piece carrying its own character, its own intention. These were not off-the-rack garments chosen at random. They had been designed, assembled, and presented with a level of care that suggested this was more than a simple transaction. It was, in its own way, a reflection of how she saw the relationship, not just as a service provided, but as something that warranted acknowledgment beyond the ordinary.
For my wife, it was both unexpected and, I suspect, quietly affirming. There is something about receiving a gift that has been created, rather than simply purchased, that carries a different weight. It speaks to time, to thought, to a level of engagement that goes beyond obligation. Each piece told a story, not just of the designer, but of the moment in which it was given.
For me, standing slightly to one side of it all, it was another small window into a different world.
Fashion, much like sport or commentary, operates within its own ecosystem. There are seasons, collections, expectations, and an audience that, while perhaps less visible in a traditional sense, is no less discerning. The success of a piece is not measured in runs scored or matches won, but in how it is received, how it is worn, how it makes someone feel when they step into it. It is a different kind of performance, one that plays out quietly, often away from the noise of public recognition. And yet, the underlying themes were familiar.
There was the same drive to create something of value, the same pressure to remain relevant, the same need to balance creativity with the practical realities of running a business. Behind every garment sat decisions about cost, production, pricing, and distribution. The artistry was only one part of the equation. The sustainability of the business required something more structured, something that, in many ways, brought her back into the same conversations we were having with clients from entirely different industries.
That was always the interesting part. The outward expression of what someone did could vary enormously, from the rugby league field to the commentary box to the design studio, but the underlying mechanics were remarkably consistent. Income, expenditure, risk, opportunity, these were constants, regardless of whether the product was a try scored, a sentence spoken, or a dress worn.
The gift, then, became more than just a gesture. It was a reminder that the relationships built within that practice extended beyond the transactional. That in some cases, the work done behind the scenes, the structuring, the advice, the quiet navigation of obligations and opportunities, was recognised in ways that did not always fit neatly within the confines of the profession.
It also highlighted something else that sits quietly within the theme of this chapter. That fame, particularly in fields like fashion, is often more selective in its reach. It does not always carry the same broad recognition as sport or politics, but within its own sphere, it can be just as influential. The name may not be universally known, but among those who follow that world, it carries weight. It shapes trends, influences choices, and contributes to a broader cultural conversation that, while subtle, is no less significant.
In that sense, Katie Pye occupied a space that was both visible and niche, recognised deeply within her field, even if not widely beyond it. And perhaps that is another layer to the definition of fame that continues to unfold through these encounters.
That it does not have to be universal to be meaningful. That influence can exist within a defined circle and still carry a significance that resonates far beyond its immediate boundaries. The collection of dresses, carefully prepared and generously given, was a quiet expression of that influence, one that, for a brief moment, crossed from her world into ours and left an impression that extended well beyond the fabric itself.
Whilst many clients came and went, there was also the time I met “lokable rogues”, Harry M. Miller and Rene Rivkin in a meeting where, acting on behalf of two naïve clients, we sat, observed, and listened far more than we spoke.
On the surface, everything about the meeting suggested control. The setting was professional, the tone measured, and the delivery polished in the way that comes from years of operating in environments where perception is not just important, it is central. These were men who understood how to present a position, how to hold a room, and how to move a conversation forward without ever appearing rushed or uncertain. To anyone unfamiliar with that space, it would have looked entirely routine, the kind of discussion that plays out behind closed doors every day.
But there was something sitting just beneath that surface that did not align with the presentation. It started subtly, in the way questions were answered without quite addressing what had been asked. There was a pattern to it, a careful redirection that maintained the flow of conversation while avoiding any real exposure to scrutiny. It was not immediately obvious, and certainly not something you could isolate in a single sentence or moment, but as the discussion progressed, the disconnect became more pronounced.
What emerged was not confusion, but clarity of a different kind. We knew Miller was “strining us along”, lying, and the realisation did not arrive as a shock so much as a quiet confirmation of what had been building throughout the meeting. The narrative being presented was not anchored in the same reality that we were operating in, and yet it was delivered with a confidence that suggested it was not expected to be challenged in any meaningful way.
The most confronting aspect was not the lie itself, but the awareness that accompanied it. There was a distinct sense that he knew we could see through it, that the inconsistencies were not hidden so much as managed. And still, the performance continued, uninterrupted and unadjusted, as though the act of maintaining control over the narrative was more important than whether it was believed. That created a tension in the room that did not need to be spoken to be understood.
For the clients we were representing, the situation was far less abstract. They were looking for clarity, for something that could be relied upon, for a pathway that made sense within the framework they understood. What they were being presented with instead was something far more fluid, a version of events that required interpretation rather than acceptance. It was not a matter of working through detail or refining structure. It was a matter of recognising that the foundation itself was unstable.
In that moment, the role of the advisor shifted away from analysis and toward judgment. There are times when the numbers, the structure, and the technical detail provide the answers. Then there are times when those elements become secondary to a more fundamental question about whether the situation is worth engaging with at all. This was one of those times. The decision did not require further information, nor did it benefit from extended debate. It was formed in the recognition of what was happening in front of us.
We left the meeting with a shared understanding that required no discussion. There would be no ongoing involvement, no attempt to navigate around what had been observed, and no inclination to test whether the situation might improve with time or further engagement. The decision was not dramatic, nor was it confrontational. It was quiet, deliberate, and final, grounded in the simple recognition that some environments are not worth entering, regardless of who occupies them.
In the context of this chapter, the encounter provides a different perspective on fame. Here were individuals whose names carried weight, whose reputations had been built in highly visible arenas, and whose presence might, to some, have suggested opportunity or influence. Yet none of that altered the fundamental assessment of the situation. The recognition attached to their names did not translate into trust, nor did it provide any assurance that what was being presented could be relied upon.
If anything, the experience reinforced the opposite. It highlighted that fame can sometimes act as a layer, something that sits over the surface and shapes perception without necessarily reflecting substance. It can create an expectation that does not always align with reality, and for those who are inclined to accept reputation at face value, it can obscure the very things that need to be examined most closely.
The lesson, when viewed in hindsight, was both simple and enduring. The presence of a well-known name in a room does not change the nature of the decision that needs to be made. Judgment, once formed, still needs to be acted upon, regardless of who is involved. And sometimes, the most valuable outcome of any meeting is the clarity that allows you to walk away.
It was not a long encounter, and it did not lead to any ongoing relationship, but it remained for a reason. Not because of the people involved, but because of what the interaction revealed when the surface was stripped back and the substance, or lack of it, was left exposed.
Then there was the foray into the music industry, where Richard MacDonald, the then manager of Jimmy Barnes, became a client via the entity Bottomline Touring. It was a very different environment from anything we had dealt with before, but beneath the noise and the movement, it was still business, just operating at a pace and intensity that felt foreign at the time.
I still remember preparing gig data for the Barnstorming tour, laid out across a long piece of paper that seemed to stretch well beyond the edges of the desk. It was done that way so Jimmy could take it all in at once, each venue presented in microcosm, not as isolated performances but as part of a broader pattern. The intention was to identify where the energy held, where the crowds responded, and where it made sense to return. It was a simple concept in theory, but in practice it was an attempt to quantify something that resisted neat measurement. Music has a way of defying the numbers, because what works in one place does not always translate to another, and what looks ordinary on paper can feel extraordinary in the moment.
There was also a night at Bottom Line Touring that has stayed with me for reasons that had nothing to do with accounting. I caught Jimmy out of the corner of my eye, mid-conversation, and made the fatal mistake of suggesting to the person beside me that it was Mark Hunter from Dragon. It was one of those offhand comments, made without much thought, the kind that usually disappears into the background.
This one did not. When he finished his phone call, he came looking for me. There was no scene, no raised voice, just a direct and unmistakable correction. He was not Mark Hunter. He was Jimmy Barnes, and within that world, that distinction mattered. There was a hierarchy, a structure that may not have been visible to an outsider, but was very real to those operating within it. I had, in that moment, misread it completely, and he was not about to let it pass unnoticed.
That interaction, small as it was, revealed something that would become clearer over time. In that environment, identity was not incidental, it was central. Recognition carried weight, and not just in a public sense. It shaped relationships, defined positions, and influenced how people moved within that space. To confuse one for another was not simply a mistake, it was a misunderstanding of how that world was ordered.
From there, the circle widened through our association with Chris Murphy, who was managing INXS at the time. Through Murphy and his organisation, we became involved in the Australia Made Concert Tour, a large-scale undertaking that brought nine bands together over the Christmas/New Year period. Even from a distance, it was clear that this was something significant, not just in terms of the music, but in the sheer logistics of moving that many acts across the country in a compressed timeframe.
Our role, as it had been elsewhere, was to bring some structure to what was inherently unpredictable. I was preparing tour reports for each venue and turning them around within 24 hours of each performance, utilising what was termed “advanced Flexol” to arrange reporting output well before Excel or other spreadsheet operators were available. It was relentless work, but necessary, because decisions were being made quickly and the information needed to keep pace. Each report was another attempt to impose order on something that, by its nature, resisted it.
What none of those reports could fully account for was the human element when it intruded so suddenly and so completely.
We were all there when a backing band member of Mental As Anything suffered a heart attack and died at Cronulla. It was one of those moments that cuts straight through everything else, where the machinery of the tour, the schedules, the reporting, all become secondary to the stark reality of what has just occurred. The shift in atmosphere was immediate and absolute, a reminder that for all the planning and coordination, there are elements that sit entirely outside control.
And yet, within the chaos that followed, the tour continued. Mental As Anything “opened the batting” as it was marketed, as if nothing was wrong, whilst chaos ran supreme behind stage, until the ambulance took his body away.
That, perhaps, was one of the more confronting aspects of the entire experience. Not because it suggested a lack of care, but because it highlighted the nature of the machine itself. Once something of that scale is in motion, it does not easily stop. There are obligations, expectations, and financial realities that continue to operate, even in the face of something as final as that moment. The show going on is not just a phrase, it is a reflection of how that world sustains itself.
From a commercial perspective, the lessons were just as sharp.
We, as the accountants of Bottom Line Touring, actually lost money on that tour, and not because the concept was flawed or the execution lacking. The issue sat in a decision that, at the time, would have appeared practical. One of Murphy’s contacts, an insurance agent, elected to self-insure the tour, effectively removing the external safety net that would normally sit behind an operation of that scale. It was a decision built on confidence, perhaps even on experience, but it carried a risk that was not immediately visible.
As it so often does in Melbourne, it rained.
What should have been a straightforward claim became something else entirely. There was no policy to fall back on, no coverage to activate, no mechanism to absorb the loss. The risk that had been quietly assumed in the background moved abruptly into the foreground, and the consequences followed just as quickly. It was a stark reminder that structure matters most when things do not go to plan, and that assumptions, no matter how confidently held, do not provide protection when reality intervenes.
Looking back, that entire period sits as a convergence of spectacle and substance.
The names were recognisable, the performances significant, the scale impressive, but beneath it all sat the same fundamentals that applied everywhere else. Risk needed to be managed, decisions needed to be tested, and structures needed to be in place to absorb what could not be predicted. Fame did not remove those requirements, and in many ways, it made the consequences of getting them wrong far more pronounced.
What stayed was not the noise or the movement, but the understanding that even in the most visible of industries, the same quiet principles apply. The difference is that when they are overlooked, the impact tends to echo a little louder.
We lost because our client lost, and lost too much to recover, from a decision someone else made.
The partnership with Colin Waller eventually moved in its own direction, as these things often do, shaped as much by timing and circumstance as by intent. What followed was a different phase of the practice, one where the client base continued to evolve, but the thread of encountering individuals operating at the top of their respective fields remained.
Among them was Paul Gow, a name well known within Australian golf circles and, for a period, one that sat prominently within the record books of the PGA. He held the record for the most number of birdies in a single PGA tournament, a statistic that, on its own, speaks to a level of consistency and control that is difficult to fully appreciate unless you have spent time around the game.
Golf, unlike many other sports, does not lend itself easily to dominance in the way that a scoreboard might suggest. It is a game of margins, of incremental gains, of maintaining composure over long stretches where the difference between success and failure is often measured in millimetres rather than metres. To string together birdies at that level requires more than talent. It demands a rhythm, a confidence that builds shot by shot, and the discipline to sustain it when the temptation to force the moment begins to creep in.
I had the opportunity to see that up close when he carded a 60 in the cannon on the Australian PGA circuit, and I found myself walking in the galleries behind, observing not just the shots, but the manner in which they were played. There is a different perspective when you are not watching from a distance, when you are close enough to see the preparation, the stillness before the swing, and the immediate response to the outcome. The crowd, while present, becomes part of the background, and what comes into focus is the process itself.
What struck me was the absence of drama.
From the outside, a round like that invites excitement, a sense that something extraordinary is unfolding. From within the ropes, or at least just outside them, it felt far more controlled. Each shot followed the next with a consistency that suggested this was not an anomaly, but the result of a method repeated countless times. There was no visible attempt to chase the score, no sense of urgency that disrupted the flow. It was, in many respects, methodical, almost understated in the way it unfolded.
That, perhaps, is where the real difference lies.
The performance appears exceptional because of the outcome, but the execution remains grounded in process. It is the accumulation of small, well-executed decisions, each one building on the last, that produces the result that others then describe as remarkable. Walking behind him that day, it became clear that what we often perceive as brilliance is, more often than not, the visible expression of something far more structured.
In the context of this chapter, it adds another dimension to the idea of fame.
Here was someone whose achievements were recognised within his field, whose name carried weight among those who understood what those numbers represented, yet whose presence within that environment was not defined by that recognition. There was no outward display of what had been achieved, no reliance on reputation to carry the moment. The work spoke for itself, shot by shot, hole by hole, without the need for reinforcement.
It also reinforced something that had been emerging through each of these encounters.
That the common thread across these different forms of fame is not the recognition itself, but the discipline that sits behind it. Whether it is on a golf course, a stage, a field, or in a boardroom, the individuals who sustain that level of performance tend to operate within a framework that is both consistent and deliberate. The external perception may vary, but the internal approach often shares far more similarities than differences.
For me, the memory is not just of the scorecard, impressive as it was, but of the experience of walking behind it as it was being written. Of seeing, in real time, how something that would later be reduced to a number was actually constructed through a series of measured, almost quiet decisions.
And in that, there is a lesson that extends well beyond the fairway.
There have been many others, both famous and infamous, names that could easily fill another chapter on their own. Some carried their reputation with a quiet ease, others seemed to lean into it as though it were part of the role they were expected to play, and a few appeared almost disconnected from it altogether. Each encounter added something to the picture, reinforcing that fame, in all its forms, rarely presents itself in quite the way you expect when you are standing close enough to observe it properly.
Rather than continue listing those names, it feels more appropriate to finish where this chapter was always heading, not outward, but inward. The final example is not someone encountered across a desk, on a field, or in a meeting room, but someone whose journey I have watched unfold from the very beginning.
My daughter, Kirsten.
She has created her own identity under the name “Astro Kirsten,” a title that reflects both her study in astrophysics, in which she holds a PhD, and the way she has chosen to position herself within that space. It is not a label adopted for effect, but one that has grown naturally out of her interests, her curiosity, and her willingness to engage with a subject that, for many, feels distant or inaccessible. There is an intentionality behind it, a sense that this is not simply about what she studies, but about how she wants to translate that knowledge into something others can connect with.
Her ambition is not fame in the conventional sense. She is not chasing recognition for its own sake, nor is she seeking to occupy a space simply because it offers visibility. What she is aiming for is something far more considered. She wants to be a science communicator, to take concepts that often sit behind layers of complexity and present them in a way that invites understanding rather than exclusion. There is also a clear purpose in the audience she is trying to reach, particularly women and Indigenous students who may not always see themselves reflected in that field.
That purpose matters, because it shapes the way the work is done.
In 2025, she created media that attracted in excess of five million views, a number that, on any measure, places her within the realm of what most would describe as fame. It suggests reach, influence, and a growing presence that extends far beyond a small circle. But the number itself, impressive as it is, does not fully explain what is happening. It is the by-product of something more consistent, more deliberate, and more grounded in intent.
What sits behind those numbers is a pattern of effort.
There is a discipline to how she approaches what she does, a willingness to refine, to adjust, and to keep presenting ideas in a way that improves the connection with the audience. It is not unlike what I have seen in other fields, whether it be sport, music, or business. The external recognition may differ, but the underlying approach carries the same hallmarks. Consistency, clarity, and a focus on the process rather than the outcome are what allow the results to accumulate.
Watching that unfold brings the definition of fame back to where it began at the start of this chapter.
Because here is someone who is, by any external measure, becoming widely recognised, yet the more meaningful aspect of what she is doing sits in the impact of that recognition. It is not simply that people are seeing her work, but that they are engaging with it, learning from it, and perhaps seeing a pathway that they had not previously considered. That is a very different form of influence, one that carries a depth that numbers alone cannot capture.
She is well on the way to being someone of note, if she is not already, but that observation feels almost secondary to what is actually taking place.
The more important point is how she is choosing to use that growing visibility, and what she is building with it over time. There is a sense of direction, of purpose, that aligns far more closely with the earlier definition of fame as impact rather than recognition. It is not about being known for the sake of it. It is about what is done once that recognition arrives.
And in that way, she sits comfortably alongside the first name in this chapter.
Different generations, different environments, and completely different forms of visibility, yet connected by the same underlying principle. That the most meaningful form of fame is not measured by how widely a name is known, but by how deeply it influences those who encounter it, and what remains once the moment of recognition has passed.
And so the question that opened this chapter circles back, not as something that requires a neat or clinical definition, but as something that reveals itself through the accumulation of experience. What defines fame, what separates it from infamy, and what either of them actually means begins to look very different once you have stood close enough to the people who carry those labels.
Across each of these encounters, from the Governor-General to the footballers, from the commentary box to the concert stage, from boardrooms shaped by persuasion to fairways shaped by discipline, a consistent thread has emerged. The arena changes, the visibility rises and falls, the names carry varying degrees of recognition, but the individuals themselves rarely shift in the way the surrounding perception suggests. The distance that fame appears to create from afar tends to collapse the moment you are close enough to observe the person rather than the persona.
Fame and infamy, for all their apparent weight, are largely products of context rather than indicators of something fundamentally different. They are shaped by the environment in which someone operates, by the lens through which their actions are viewed, and by the narrative that builds around them over time. A sportsman becomes famous because of performance in front of a crowd, a musician because their work resonates beyond a single venue, a public figure because their role repeatedly places them in the path of attention. In each case, the recognition is real, but it is also situational, and when the arena is removed, what remains is something far more familiar.
What remains is a person doing their job, often with a level of skill and discipline that deserves respect, but still grounded in the same realities that apply to everyone else. That observation does not diminish the achievement, nor does it ignore the effort required to reach those positions. In many cases, the opposite is true, because the persistence, resilience, and ability to perform under pressure are exceptional. What changes is not the individual, but the scale at which those qualities are observed and the level of attention they attract.
Infamy follows the same structure, just viewed through a different lens, and it reinforces the same underlying principle. Where fame can elevate, infamy can distort, but both are driven by attention and the narratives that grow around it. What is praised in one context may be criticised in another, what is celebrated in one moment may be condemned in the next, and the shift between the two can occur without any meaningful change in the person at the centre of it. The narrative moves, the perception adjusts, and the label follows, while the individual continues to operate within their own reality.
That becomes far more apparent when the crowd is removed and the interaction returns to something direct and unfiltered. Titles and recognition begin to recede into the background, and what remains is conversation, decision-making, uncertainty, confidence, doubt, and all the elements that exist in any other setting. The difference is not in the substance of the exchange, but in the awareness that the person involved carries recognition beyond the room, a factor that may influence perception but does not alter the fundamentals of the interaction.
In many cases, these individuals are simply doing what they have always done, applying their skills within a particular field and responding to the demands that come with it. The footballer plays, the musician performs, the commentator speaks, the advisor advises, the designer creates, and the manager manages, with each role carrying its own expectations and pressures. The difference is that their work takes place in arenas that attract attention, and that attention begins to shape how they are seen, often creating a version of the individual that sits alongside, rather than accurately reflects, who they actually are.
When viewed in that light, the distinction between fame and infamy begins to lose much of its significance, because neither truly defines the person. Both are external constructs, shaped by circumstance and sustained by perception, and while they may influence opportunity, scrutiny, and expectation, they do not change the fundamental nature of the individual. Recognition can open doors and create pathways that might not otherwise exist, but it can also bring pressure and exposure that require careful navigation, and both sides of that equation exist independently of who the person is at their core.
At the end of the day, all of these people, whether they sit comfortably in the category of fame or find themselves associated with infamy, are simply people operating within the environment they have chosen or found themselves in. In many cases, they are doing their job, applying their abilities, and responding to the realities of that environment in much the same way as anyone else would. The notoriety that follows is often less about who they are and more about where they are, the arena in which they perform, and the attention that arena naturally attracts.
That, perhaps, is the most grounded way to understand it, not as a measure of worth or a defining characteristic, but as a reflection of circumstance that sits over something far more consistent and far more human. Once the spotlight shifts, once the crowd moves on, and once the narrative begins to fade, what remains is not the fame or the infamy, but the individual who was there all along, continuing to do what they do, largely unchanged by the label that was temporarily attached to them.
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