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There are very few peo­ple who qual­i­fy as unfor­get­table in your life, and Ted Wilshire was one of those for me. A larg­er than life char­ac­ter in every sense of the word, Ted was best known as the Research Offi­cer for the Aus­tralian Met­al Work­ers Union (AMWU) who penned the then-influ­en­tial pam­phlets Aus­tralia Ripped Off and Aus­tralia Uproot­ed in the days pri­or to The Accord under the Hawke and Keat­ing Gov­ern­ments.

He passed away on Wednes­day last week dur­ing an oper­a­tion in Bris­bane, and there will be a wake to cel­e­brate his life at the Bayview Bar, 1^st floor Wool­loomooloo Bay Hotel, at 4pm this Thurs­day. If you knew Ted and you’d like to join the cel­e­bra­tion, please let Alan Ander­son know by send­ing an email to (spelling it out to avoid spam­bots) alananderson209 AT bigpond.com (the venue had to be changed from the For­est Lodge Hotel, because of the num­ber who have already said they will attend).

Fig­ure 1: Ted at my farewell from the Free­dom from Hunger Cam­paign’s Ideas Cen­tre in 1980, half his life ago

I first got to know Ted when he was a mature age stu­dent at Syd­ney Uni­ver­si­ty back in 1975, when the first Polit­i­cal Econ­o­my cours­es began. He was in his ele­ment in the vibrant and pas­sion­ate Uni­ver­si­ty atmos­phere of the mid-70s, and he pro­vid­ed an impos­ing bulk to the Polit­i­cal Econ­o­my Move­ment’s many demon­stra­tions. Ten years apart in age, and a world apart in lifestyles—well, every­one was a world apart from Ted, because no-one could match his capac­i­ty to con­sume and party—we became firm friends.

Lat­er he employed me, when he became the Direc­tor of the (pro­nounce the acronym) Busi­ness Union Con­sul­ta­tion Unit—a sem­i­nar-organ­is­ing group with­in the Depart­ment of Trade, estab­lished to improve Union-Busi­ness com­mu­ni­ca­tion under The Accord.

We lost touch for a while when I resigned in 1987 to start my aca­d­e­m­ic career, and after BUCU (lat­er giv­en the more bureau­crat­ic name the Trade Devel­op­ment Coun­cil Sec­re­tari­at) fold­ed, and Ted moved to Queens­land. But we got back in touch in the ear­ly 2000s’—Ted took the initiative—and I’ve vis­it­ed “Club Ted” (as he apt­ly called his self-con­struct­ed and well-appoint­ed home in Boon­dall) on sev­er­al occa­sions since.

At least I think I did—it was always hard to remem­ber a night out with Ted the next day!

I was always amazed that Ted lived as long as he did—his over­con­sump­tion of cig­a­rettes and alco­hol (and oth­er intox­i­cants) was deserved­ly leg­endary. But he had such a life force in him that he made it to 71, liv­ing far longer than most peo­ple thought he would. And for a while, he had a strong impact on the eco­nom­ic debate in Aus­tralia (and inter­na­tion­al­ly), before the finance sec­tor derailed every­thing.

He could be an intim­i­dat­ing presence—his huge per­son­al­i­ty, along with his bulk, guar­an­teed that. But he was at his heart a lov­ing and gen­er­ous soul, and full of bois­ter­ous bon­homie. I knew no-one who could par­ty like him, nor cook as good a meal, nor build as grand an abode when he put on his work­er’s boots.

If any­one lived Dylan Thomas’ adage to “Rage, rage against the dying of the light”, it was Ted. And of all the vers­es of this great poem, one stands out as the tem­plate of Ted’s life:

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they griev­ed it on its way,
Do not go gen­tle into that good night.

Good­bye, old friend. I hope to see many more of your old friends at The ‘Loo on Thurs­day. There will indeed be a rage for Ted.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gen­tle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no light­ning they
Do not go gen­tle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, cry­ing how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they griev­ed it on its way,
Do not go gen­tle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blind­ing sight
Blind eyes could blaze like mete­ors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gen­tle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.