Hollingworths need your help

Dear Morrie
I know I'm in a minority in this country, but as an Anglican and regular churchgoer, I believe former Governor-General Peter Hollingworth was treated very shabbily by politicians, the press and the public.
To hear people talk you'd think he personally committed acts of abuse against under-age individuals.
He didn't. His only sin, if I can call it that, was to display a lack of judgement as Archbishop of Brisbane - a mistake which he's admitted.
Now, since he's resigned as our head of state (sick), there's been a lot of people critical of the fact he's drawing a pension. Isn't it something to which he's legally entitled?
I'd value your thoughts, Morrie.

Annoyed
Ashgrove

Dear Annoyed
I agree with you totally. What's going on in this beloved country of ours when you're no longer allowed to make one or two blues in life and then move on?
I for one know the trials - the crucifixion - our former G-G has gone through just because he took his eye off the ball for a moment or two
Strewth, I've made my fair share of mistakes and errors of judgement.
The Lake Eyre canal estate Bondy and I tried to get off the ground in the 70s, the home liposuction kit strangled by bureaucratic red tape, and my ultimately rejected plans for a Port Arthur rifle range are just a few of the speed bumps I've hit at high speed in my life so far.
As Old Blue Eyes sang all those years ago: "Regrets, I've had a few."
But Frankie S also told us he always picked himself up and got back in the race - that's life!
Okay, maybe they're not hymns in the traditional sense, but you'll often find the old Morrie humming those tunes to himself for inspiration.
In fact, I was humming them just the other day while driving along in the Caprice. I was cruising through the traffic in a bus lane when I passed a church. I'm not sure what brand it was, but it looked like one of the bigger franchised chains.
When I saw it, my mind went back almost 40 years to when I was just a nipper.
On most Sundays back in the early 1960s I'd head off with the old man to flea markets in distant country towns where I'd help flog his colour TV converters from the back of our Holden station wagon.
Sometimes we'd stop off and do a bit of door-to-door business selling his decimal currency vouchers. They were always a big hit.
But on the many weekends when he had to repaint the Holden, I'd shoot off to the local Catholic Church with a mate of mine.
Steve and I lived in the same street but went to different schools - he was at the Catholic primary and I was at the state school - and we used to muck around together.
At the church there was an old and fairly doddery priest. I won't tell you his name, even though the codger's long dead by now.
The old priest would have us dress up in smocks and help out with the wine and crackers during services. Not that there was much of the wine left after he'd had a tipple or ten beforehand.
Although I didn't think anything of it at the time, the old bugger said we couldn't wear anything under the fancy little outfits the church supplied. He also insisted we change out of our civvies in the room next to his office.
One day after we'd stripped off our gear and were standing there naked as Besser bricks, I noticed something odd about the poster of Jesus hanging on the wall.
I got up on a chair and, on close inspection, could see that Jesus had bloodshot eyes - and they were blinking.
Until I grew a bit older and wiser, I always considered myself to have witnessed a miracle that day - a belief the old priest was quick to confirm and encourage.
My parents stopped me going to the church with Steve after I told them what I'd seen.
Steve kept at it. We lost touch, although I did bump into him more than a decade or so later at a lunch at a businessman's club in Melbourne.
At first I didn't recognise him, but when I slipped a fiver in his panties as he swung around the pole he whispered in my ear and broke the news. Of course how was I to know he'd changed his name to Stephanie, chemically inflated his boobs, and was about to get the builders in downstairs to remove a pipe and dig a trench?
Yep, the old Morrie thought to himself at the time, some Catholic priests really do alter boys.
I know I've got off course a bit here, but my point is that even that old tosspot Catholic priest was able to confess his sins and be forgiven before being packed off out of harm's way to run one of the church's kiddies' homes somewhere north of Sydney.
So why are people so vicious and vindictive when it comes to poor old Peter Hollingworth and Mrs H?
As you point out, the latest gripe is that our former first couple will be getting $184,860 a year in a lifetime pension.
There's been a lot of people screaming long and loud about that. I'd be screaming too, but not for the same reasons.
How can we expect Mr and Mrs H to live on such a pittance?
After all, they had a big house with staff, travel and transport when he was Archbishop of Brisbane. When he got the G-G gig they moved to Yarralumla - a big house with staff, travel and transport in Canberra.
Can they maintain that sort of lifestyle on a piddling $184K? I'd say not.
It's time to put an end to their misery and give them a helping hand.
I know there are plenty of people like you - good God-fearing churchgoers concerned enough to help out your former Archbishop and our former G-G.
To enable you to express your concern in a direct and tangible manner, I've set up a special trust fund with the sole aim of supplementing the Hollingworths' retirement nest-egg.
So if you and your family and friends want to kick in by contributing a minimum of one or two Ks each, then feel free to do so.
Send me a cheque made out to Concerned Anglicans Supporting Hollingworth and I'll soon get things moving at my end.
Bugger it, to save your time and mine, just make it out to CASH.
I'll be in touch.

Morrie

Morrie Bezzle is executive director of In Vestments Investments Pty Ltd, chairman of Build Ean & Associates, and general manager of Serge Onker Whisky Importers (in liquidation).