Poem for Hugh, on his 40^th – from Matt.

It’s time, my droods, to speak of Hugh

To mull on the man, just here before you

For he is why we degustate tonight

He’s why our taste buds are renewed.

Our fearless urban explorer, the challenges he sets

The love he has for his lovely lass, & all of us I guess

Let’s see the arc that his wide life has taken, to get to Assiette

So point the spot on Mr Boyd, play trumpets, cue cassette.

I do not know where he was born, Israel or Adelaide

It’s an inauspicious start, you’re right, not all my facts are straight

But the Earth’s been round the Sun, some forty times to the day

& if I had known Hugh back then, he’d have a few less words to say (anyway.)

So for entertainment purposes, the next 30 years I’ll skip

I wasn’t there, the formative years, chip in yourself for this bit

Or better still, let’s take ten seconds out – come on, cease your chew

And sit with whatever your earliest memories are of Boyd, comma, Hugh.

Right, that’s enough, we’re not all here, to sit in sentimental drear

There’s far too many chucks to have, embarrassments to hear

A veritable twelve golden country greats of joy and woe

Events too full of colour and verve, mixed with a few of D’oh!

O many moments being gloriously out of step with the times

The early 90’s, the long haired hippy, who also loved Ramones

Around this time, Hugh and I met, with Mark E Mark, all bent

But it wasn’t love at first sight, perhaps just bonged-out mild amusement.

But when we straightened out & talked, of politics and music

Here was someone that much more thoughtful, kind and lucid

Than I’d really given credit to, through long hair and bong smoke

But then I saw him on stage, Choose Groove, & had to take another toke!

Hugh sang & hyped the party up, from O’week till exams

Front man with guitars & horns, & such an energetic dance

Like Motown, via Wham, they played prestigious joints and bars

The thinking person’s Party Boys, they inspired such drunken romance.

So as I got to know Hugh Boyd, & all of you have seen this

He’d point out a disgusting bug, and precisely denote its genus

Its sex, its size, its lifespan, mating rituals as well

& at least six other facts, like the thickness of its shell.

And I thought entomology, was just the study of words

But of course, I got my logos mixed up, and this was quite absurd

And to this day, I still equate the Oxford Dictionary

With Hugh & Ben & Mark & Jo, discussing something small, dark and hairy!

But quite apart from buggy knowhow, and musical aplomb

When it comes to the size of his CV, Hugh really is the bomb

If there’s a job in this fine land, he hasn’t done as yet

It hasn’t been invented, or doesn’t have a pay packet.

Now, it’s not just that Hugh & you (Miss K) are two

It’s the type of two, a two with much ado

A two who just today on King St, it’s true

Saw Hugh revel in buying sexy underwear for you! (Cute!)

I would like to prove to you, the colours that Hugh suits

The shades of spectrum we all know as he and not so many others too

In fairground tent, imagine Hugh & all of us lot crammed in there too

While the hippy bleats of resonating hues – only $50 it’ll cost you!

The colour blue, with Hugh, does not quite do

He very rarely gives the view, there’s time for darker blues

Melancholy Hugh, swaying fro and to

Is an oxymoron you & I have not until now, used.

Black & white, brings Hugh to mind, in yin-yang tandem, right?

The written word, discriminating intellectual bite

Perhaps his salt-&-pepper coiff can add the metaphor some weight

But the black pepper in it I must say, is giving way to white.

Shrinking violet, I don’t think so, nor a shocking pink

Perhaps a dash of fluro orange, the ghost of Choose Groove, I think

A grungy aeroplane gun metal gray, that fits the bill methinks

But when I asked Celine today – her answer “burgundy” just like we drink!

A plummy red, oh yes indeed, like vibrant blood in veins

Certainly not a pastel, Celine said, no gentle shades of lame

This man’s man represents the shades from crimson through to orange

Hang on, entomologists, help me out…

I’ve painted myself into a corner trying to rhyme with the word orange… daim

So anyway, as you all no doubt lose interest in my pome

I’m just here to say on behalf of us: parties, you know how to throw’em!

You’re generous, we think, to a San Andreas Fault

Hip-hop-hooray, good cheer, happy day Hugh, Long May You Be Spoilt!!!