A few years had passed since my last attendance at Queerstories, the recurring LGBTQIA+ storytelling night in Sydney. My most recent visit was pre-COVID, and after a recent stint in the hospital, I decided to give it another try. Yet, concerns about mobility accessibility lingered as I contemplated navigating in and out of the venue.
A few months ago, attending was inconceivable; I heavily relied on my wheelchair due to the limited mobility with my prosthetic. However, with a month of not using my wheelchair, I felt ready to venture out again.
Disability became a central theme in the stories shared that night, particularly through Katia Schwartz, the founder of “Sky Sirens,” a former venue for burlesque classes near my home in Surry Hills. Katia, who lives with a hearing disability, formerly worked as a sex worker, and her narrative delved into her experiences with clients. The story primarily focused on the support and camaraderie Katia found among fellow sex workers, which I found truly heartening.
Katia Schwartz performs at Queer Stories using sign language, but with vocal “accompaniment” from someone in the audience.
A distinctive aspect of Katia’s story was its unique presentation — signed by Katia, with accompanying vocalisation from someone in the audience to my left. This departure from the “traditional” process, where someone on stage signs for a deaf audience, added a great dimension to the story-telling.
Other memorable moments from the night included Alastair Lawrie’s coming-out story, an intriguing offer to create porn for a cabaret performer from country Victoria, and tales of forming connections through pets at the dog park. The evening also featured some musical pieces about the establishment of a religion centered on atheism. Life’s richness lies in its diversity, eh?
Victoria Falconer performs at Queerstories
Seated next to a woman and her friend, both lesbians in their 50s/60s, we acknowledged the evolving landscape of LGBTQIA+ diversity. As I surveyed the predominantly 20s and 30s audience, I concurred with her observation that times had indeed changed since our youth.
They treated me to a glass of wine during intermission, and that was a significant reason I stayed until the end. Around halfway through, fatigue from my health condition set in, and thoughts of heading home early crossed my mind. Concerns about transportation and the lack of accessibility at the theater on Cleveland Street troubled me. Fortunately, Uber rides to and from nearby streets eased my worries. I learned online the theater has plans to enhance accessibility, which is great to hear. It’s a lovely venue, and a great place for a Thursday night outing.
“I’m not sure I’d like to spend an evening over a few bottles of wine with him”, I joked to my friend, as we chatted over dinner, having seen Paul Capsis perform earlier in the night.. The musical universe he occupies is very sad. That said, I LOVE sad tunes, the melancholy, and so I’m probably just as sad in my musical tastes, and probably just as sad as someone to spend their time with.
Paul is a remarkable performer, in cabaret, theatre, and film. You might also know Paul from his performances in a range of movies, including “Head On” and “Carlotta” https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0135697/
A lot of people describe themselves as “fluid” these days, in terms of gender and sexuality, but as Paul commented at the show, “I’m not fluid, I’m a flood”. The last time I’d seen him perform was only a few years ago, but as Paul rightly noted a long time ago, a lot has happened since then.
Friday night’s performance, at “The Song Company” featured some of his favourite/influential music, from the works of Brecht/Weill to Elton John. Though a couple of years older than me, I connected strongly with the songs he chose. “Cabaret”, for example which Paul performed recently as the MC, has been strongly influential in my life.
The song by Elton John, “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word” (performed beautifully by Paul) is one of my all-time-favorite-songs due to its very honest lyric. There were moments, as we listened to Paul when I felt so incredibly sad. The lyrics of the songs chosen were so beautiful. And the minor tone. I love a minor tone! There were also moments of comedy and intrigue. For example, the lyrics for “Mack The Knife” was updated to include contemporary Sydney. Who was the rapist and the misogynist Paul referred to in the updated lyrics?
As my friend and I chatted over dinner, we reflected on the melancholy in his work. Dinner, by the way, was at Lavana Tapas which we both highly recommend.
You know how I mentioned Damien and I went to see The Chaser being taped? “I’ll bet you they ask me to move”, I said to Damien at one point early in the evening. “Bald heads” don’t look good on television”, I told him. As it turns out, they DIDN’T ask us to move. And despite our initial concerns about being in the front row, we didn’t end up looking so bad as part of the “opener” to this week’s show. Aside from capturing that via iview, it was a reasonably interesting and eventful day. There’s a bit of movement at work at the moment which is always very interesting.
And then after work I caught up with Mark who is visiting from Perth. Mark used to live in Perth, and then lived in Sydney, and now he’s back in Perth, though thinking of returning to Sydney or maybe to Melbourne, depending on job opportunities. Though we had planned to meet at the Strawberry Hills Hotel, we decided against that, as they appear to have refurbished the place significantly. “When did that happen?”, Mark asked to which I replied it must have only been in the last couple of weeks. We had hoped to have one of their great, cheap steak meals. A sign inside the pub, however, urged everyone to the nearby Shakespeare Hotel. When we noticed, however, how busy that was, we moved to the nearby Clarendon Hotel (formerly O-Bar) which does an equally nice, good value steak for $10. After dinner, and as the “atmospheric singer” in the corner of the pub got louder and louder, we retired upstairs.
Upstairs they have some very comfortable lounges which we comfortably settled into for a couple of drinks and a chat. Not far from us was a group of young folk – maybe a birthday party? – who seemed to have control of the music system. Lots of Michael Jackson.
”Yes, it’s like this every day”, my friend David told me with a certain disdain on his face. As I looked around the carriage most of the other passengers seemed to have the same look on their faces, as a group of buskers started playing music in our carriage. Although it was the first time I’ve experienced it, apparently it’s quite common on the Paris metro to have musical buskers in your carriage.
I wasn’t sure, though, if the locals genuinely disliked their peaceful trip on the metro being interrupted, or if they just didn’t want to make eye contact with the buskers, just in case they felt obliged when the hat was passed around.
With well known tunes like “Take Five” and “Those Were The Days”, I couldn’t help but hum along silently to the piano accordian, the trumpet and the boom box which seemed to appear from absolutely nowhere. After the third or fourth time this happened, though, and as especially as the musicians got progressively worse and worse, I began to understand a little of the frustration many Parisiens must feel.
Deep down, though, I still think it’s quite charming. And I guess it says a lot of good things about the French that they would allow something like this to flourish, when in many other parts of the world (including Sydney and London), you’d have the transit police trying to stamp it out.
The other thing I noticed on the metro today, and commented to David about, was that I really like the informal way in which people touch each other. Back in Sydney, if you saw three young blokes sitting together on a train, they’d be at opposite ends of their bench seats trying to avoid any physical contact. Here, however, it’s not been uncommon to see young men have close physical contact with each other. And not in “that kind of way”…
We spent a fair bit of time on the trains today as we travelled from David’s village, which is located about eighty kilometres south of Paris.
First there was the car trip, though, through the glorious countryside, as we made our way to Fontainebleu to catch the train.
Château de Fontainebleau
Fontainbleu is the main town in David’s area with lots of shops, a national horse-racing centre, and what was once a French Imperial Castle. The castle is pretty impressive, and David couldn’t stop from commenting about how much work had been done to improve the castle’s inside and outside. As a place to visit, it’s really quite good, with terrific gardens which actually afford you a view inside the house into rooms you can’t otherwise enter.
Arriving in Paris, we came straight to Montclair where I checked into my accommodation. It’s a nice enough place, with the only apparent downside being having to lug my suitcase up six flights of stairs. And although fairly basic, it has a terrific view and it’s located in a really nice part of the city. I had to laugh, though, when I booked in tonight behind a young American woman who was travelling with six pieces of luggage (one backpack, one suitcase and four handbags). The bloke behind the counter was quite clear in telling her there was no way she could have that much luggage in a dormitory room. And, she’s also on the sixth floor!
After a bite to eat, a visit to the toilet (David went to what I labelled the Voulez Vous toilet because of the resemablance it bears to the cover of an ABBA CD), and a wander around a record store, we began our “Day Of Death”.
The first stop was the Catacombs of Paris where six million Parisiens are buried in a mass-grave underneath the city. “Are you at all claustrophobic?”, David said to me as we walked down the stairs and through the walkway. Although I do suffer a little claustrophobia, I hadn’t actually thought of it until he mentioned it, and then I began to have just a moment when I began to wonder if it was such a good idea to go under-ground to look at a bunch of dead Parisiens.
Catacombs of ParisCatacombs of ParisCatacombs of Paris
As you go under-ground, however, you begin to loose track of both time and place, and any sense of claustrophobia I had quickly disappeared. It’s as peaceful as any other graveyard you might encounter, except here you see literally millions and millions of bones and skulls laid upon top of each other. Everywhere you look there are bones, though I didn’t really feel any great sense of “death”, possibly because the bones are organised so neatly. Perhaps this was why so many people going through the catacombs were failing to recognise the space as the final resting place of real human beings? Or maybe they were just disrespectful?
We also went to Basilique Saint-Denis which is final resting place of most of the French Royal family, with many of those buried there dating back to the sixth century. Located within a “very Catholic” cathedral, you see the tombs of every French royal you might want to imagine.
Basilique Saint-DenisTourists inspect the dead at Basilique Saint-DenisLes InvalidesAnd then late this afternoon, we went to the final resting place of Napoleon Bonaparte, Les Invalides. As it was late, we didn’t actually go in, but it was great to walk around the building and to enjoy the atmosphere.Nearby there were lots of people walking around, playing soccer, and generally enjoying the sunshine. A great day.
And so here it is, my final Saturday night in Europe before I return home. Next Saturday night I’ll be in Hong Kong. And although I could go out and enjoy a bit of Paris nightlife, I can’t be bothered. At the end of this long trip, I’m feeling quite tired. Still, I have another three days in Paris, and there are lots of adventures still to be had. Tonight, though, I think it’s just me and my computer and a bit of French tele.
When you become an amputee, you are immediately introduced to a revolving door of medical professionals: specialists, physiotherapists, and prosthetists. While these experts are incredibly skilled, there is a unique, almost unspoken connection that occurs when you meet a professional who truly “gets it” because they have walked in your shoes—literally.
In an episode of The Limb Shift podcast, I sat down with Jeremy McGrath, a man whose journey from a terrified child to a Paralympic athlete and professional Occupational Therapist (OT) offers a profound look at the “lived experience” of limb loss.
A Difficult Choice and the Journey to Recovery
Jeremy’s story began with a difficult choice. Born with a limb difference, doctors initially suggested amputation when he was very young, but the idea was terrifying. As Jeremy recalled:
“The doctors brought it up again to me. Probably I was about seven or eight or nine. I was pretty young and pretty, pretty horrified at the idea of it. Um, got pretty emotional. Didn’t want to do anything like that.”
However, the medical team explained that as he grew, his leg would continue growing and make his prosthetics “more unshapely heavy,” subsequently limiting his ability to run and remain active. By the time he was fourteen, having given up sport, Jeremy reached a turning point. He realised that delaying the surgery would only make things harder once he hit major life milestones like his Higher School Certificate (HSC), university, and his career.
“I just decided if I have to get this done and I want to kind of live a healthy lifestyle and not limit myself and get back to running and fitness, I just made that decision. I have to do it,” he explained. He placed himself on a waiting list and underwent the amputation at age fifteen.
The immediate aftermath brought a fresh set of physical and social challenges. Jeremy changed schools at the same time, spending three to four months on crutches while navigating an entirely new environment. Because his pre-amputation prosthetic relied on heavy strapping all the way up to his hip, his right quadriceps lacked strength, requiring rigorous pre- and post-operative physiotherapy.
Furthermore, the physical adaptation to the new socket was a slow, painful process. As Jeremy noted, “The swelling was really large and took a long time for that swelling to come down, so had quite a bit of pain in the shoe first adapting to that, um, that socket or that prosthetic.” It took a full twelve months before he could properly return to sport and fitness.
The Psychological Shift and Finding Rowing
While the physical recovery required immense patience, the psychological adjustment was an entirely different hurdle. During his teenage years, Jeremy battled deep insecurities and actively avoided drawing attention to his limb difference.
“Going through high school, I didn’t want my personality or everyone to just look at and identify me through my legs. So I actually wore through the whole of high school long pants. I didn’t like to really bring too much attention to it. Um, so yeah, I was a little bit insecure. Definitely.”
Before his surgery, Jeremy had spent ten years playing soccer, using his heavily strapped leg to “belt the soccer ball.” Post-amputation, he found that kicking a soccer ball with a prosthetic was vastly different: “Sometimes I would kick the ball and my leg would go flying further than the ball.”
Losing that athletic outlet left him adrift until his final year of high school in 2012. Watching the London Games reminded him of attending the Sydney 2000 Olympics as a six-year-old, where he had harboured early dreams of competing at the Paralympics.
Searching for an accessible sport, he looked into rowing, mistakenly believing it was strictly an upper-body discipline. He soon discovered that rowing is actually predominantly a lower-body sport driven by the initial leg drive. “I might not have chosen rowing if I knew that at the time, but I loved the sport,” Jeremy admitted.
Fascinated by the water and embraced by a supportive local club, his rise was meteoric. Training six to seven times a week and waking up at 4:00 am, he made his first World Championships in Amsterdam in 2014—just two years after picking up an oar—and ultimately competed at the Rio Paralympics in 2016.
At the 2014 World Rowing Championships in Amsterdam, Jeremy McGrath competed with Kathleen Murdoch (prefers to be known at Kate). Together, they won the silver medal in the Legs, Trunk and Arms Mixed Double Scull (LTAMix2x) event.
For Jeremy, the true value of the Paralympic journey was not just the elite competition, but the profound psychological transformation it catalyzed:
“The main thing I got out of that whole experience was… the confidence, the fitness, being able to feel confident in my body and myself again, even if I didn’t make the Paralympics. I think growing and building all that and growing as a person was probably more influential on my life than necessarily the Paralympics.”
This newfound confidence completely changed how he carried himself; the teenager who once hid behind long pants completely abandoned them, choosing instead to wear shorts exclusively.
Landing in Allied Health
Jeremy’s career path was heavily influenced by a compassionate professional at Westmead Children’s Hospital during his adolescence. He recalled a physiotherapist “who not only was a great physio, but she really was a support for myself and my mother… I really felt cared for by her.”
Though he originally intended to pursue physiotherapy, he narrowly missed out on entry and “landed” in Occupational Therapy, initially planning to transfer after a year. However, once he discovered the holistic nature of OT, he fell in love with it.
While physiotherapy targets specific physical functions, OT evaluates daily living occupations in their entirety—from morning routines and parental duties to employment, leisure, and mental health. “I felt like, oh, this is a real opportunity where I can help people with more than just build up their physical strength, but be able to get back to doing things,” Jeremy shared, noting how perfectly it aligned with his own life philosophy of refusing to be held back.
Now a practicing clinician, Jeremy utilizes his personal history to break down barriers with his clients. Within the National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) space, his background gives him a distinct advantage in establishing rapport:
“I think a lot of my clients, uh, when they find out that I, um, not just work in the NDIS but am a participant in the NDIS, I think they, they take that on board as, oh, this person not just knows about OT, but actually knows what it’s like to be in my shoes, um, and to have walked in them. So I think it really helps me build that rapport and understanding with clients.”
The Reality of Practice vs. Personal Habits
As an OT, Jeremy’s day-to-day expertise involves executing functional assessments, modifying homes, and prescribing assistive technology. This ranges from minor items like reachers to major mobility aids such as lift chairs, scooters, and hoists. Yet, despite nearly a decade in the field, Jeremy remains incredibly candid about his own shortcomings and the enduring pressure of maintaining a “stoic” persona.
Now in his early thirties and noticing the onset of back soreness, he has begun evaluating his own home for fall hazards, yet admitted that he does not always follow his own clinical advice:
“I think I’m very aware of falls, risks and how easy it is to fall. And even right now, I do have some falls in the shower. Even though I am pretty fit, I can balance one leg really well. Um, I don’t necessarily follow the best practices all the time that I tell my clients to follow, but, um, I think, um, you just need to be open and understanding of how serious falls can be.”
He acknowledged that being a young man makes it incredibly easy to default to silence rather than reaching out. “Being a man, being a young man, I think I like to be pretty stoic and not ask for help. Yeah. I think if my wife is here right now, she would agree with me that often I don’t ask for help when I probably do need it,” he confessed, highlighting that coming to terms with vulnerability is a lifelong, unfolding process.
Advice for the Journey Ahead
Reflecting on the fifteen years that have passed since his amputation, Jeremy emphasizes that the absolute hardest part of his journey was keeping his struggles internalized. For anyone currently facing limb loss or navigating a major physical transition, his advice centers on breaking the cycle of isolation.
“Once again, I’m going to come back to being that stoic man. You often keep a lot of thoughts and challenges to yourself… But the more open you can be to the close people in your life, the more that these people can come and help. And you’re never in this by yourself. You know, um, even just in if it’s not just your therapist and, uh, your medical team around you, but your support networks or your family members, your friends, uh, all these people want to help you. Um, and people can only help if you’re, you know, brave enough to have those chats and let them know what you’re actually feeling and thinking and experiencing.”
Jeremy’s full, insightful story will feature in The Limb Shift podcast later in the year.
This week has been dedicated to reflecting on the rich history of radio in Australia, particularly my own connection and career within the radio industry.
My earliest recollections transport me back to my childhood, sharing a room with my mother and grandmother, waking up to the tunes of 2LM, our local commercial radio station. The “Country Hillbillies” program, with its timeless country music, became a morning ritual. The simplicity of the melodies and the compelling storytelling within the music captured my young heart, a sentiment that has endured through the years.
Radio was a constant presence in our household. Every morning, we would listen to both the funeral announcements and that day’s power outages.
Memories later in life include the John Pearce Morning Show relayed from Sydney and the unmistakable voice of John Laws. Though my early childhood was not dominated by music radio, those experiences unfolded later in life.
My father shared my enthusiasm for radio, spending the midnight hours tuned into 2CH, catching the crackly signal from Sydney. He particularly enjoyed the old-style music presented by Friel Smith, including the legendary Benny Goodman. I remember the excitement when, as a child, I wrote to Friel and received 2CH merchandise, complete with stickers.
Entering high school in 1978, my fascination with radio intensified with the discovery of a weekly show dedicated to Richmond River High School on the local community radio station, 2NCR. Eager to volunteer, I found my way into the station, initially assisting with a Sunday morning classical music and “Ethnic Information” program hosted by Karl Gottsche. Eventually, I took the reins of the Richmond River High School program, incorporating contributions from others.
Over the subsequent four to five years, I continued presenting diverse programs on 2NCR, even during my university years when I traveled back from Brisbane on weekends. While I attempted a shift at 4ZZZ, the university/community radio station in Brisbane, my style was deemed a touch too “commercial”, I was told.
Post-university, unsuccessful job attempts at the ABC led me to 2WEB in Bourke, thanks to a recommendation from community radio volunteer Bev Ferris. In 1989, my ABC journey commenced in Renmark, followed by presenting roles in Wagga and Sydney. In 2004, prompted by my manager Roger Summerill, I transitioned into radio management due to perceived “potential” in that realm.
ABC Radio Renmark 1989
Fast forward 45 years from my initial community radio shift in Lismore, and I’m still passionately immersed in the world of radio.
The love for radio endures, with a special appreciation for the intimate connection formed by a single human voice and its interaction with my own thoughts.
The question, “What do you look for in a presenter?” has been posed to me frequently. I typically respond by seeking someone a bit smarter than myself, yet approachable, possessing humor, genuine care for people, and active listening skills, especially when engaging with guests and talkback callers.
This week, I commemorated two significant radio anniversaries.
Thursday marked a delightful celebration of the 100th birthday of radio in Australia. The first licensed station to go to air, 2SB went on air on November 23, 1923. There were stations prior to this, and 2FC was actually the first licensed station, but 2SB was the first continuous station to go to air. The station later became 2BL, 702BL, 702 ABC Sydney and now ABC Radio Sydney. For a number of years I was the station’s Program Director, and I maintain close ties with the station now.
The current team at ABC Radio Sydney (along with a few “blow-ins” like myself) at the 100th birthday celebration of radio in Australia.
Last night, I attended the 50th-anniversary celebration of the Australian Film, Television & Radio School. Over the years, I’ve been involved as a guest lecturer and am the current supervisor of a joint radio scholarship between the ABC and AFTRS. Reconnecting with former colleagues Tony Rasmussen and Andrea Ho, both with ties to AFTRS, and meeting potential collaborators made for a memorable evening.
With my friend, Andrea in the photo-booth at the AFTRS 50th celebration.
