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Geezers fete Honest John
I refuse to be fettered
by a lobster bib!
How undiginified.)
BY DAN WALSH
FOR ONE NIGHT, CLOSE TO 290 TORIES SET
ASIDE THEIR WORRIES ABOUT NOVA SCOTIA’S
FISCAL OUTLOOK TO PAY HOMAGE TO FORMER
LEADER JOHN BUCHANAN, THE LEGENDARY
POLITICIAN WHO SHACKLED FUTURE GENERA-
TIONS WITH BILLIONS IN DEBT.
For one night, Tories basked in the glow
of John and his lovely wife Mavis, who
looked radiant, surrounded by friends and
hundreds of supporters. It was a happy
evening — to celebrate John’s 80th and
the 40th anniversary of his winning the Tory
leadership — at the St. George’s Greek
Church Hall on Purcell’s Cove Road.
I didn’t spy Ralph Medjuck anywhere, the
developer who profited enormously from
Buchanan’s years in office, nor did I see
Stu McInnes, George Archibald, Bill
Black, or Halifax Mayor Peter Kelly.
But Tory dinosaurs were out in full force:
Neil LeBlanc, Joe “Bowtie” MacDonald,
Walter Thompson, Ken Streatch, Tom
McInnes, Rick Grant (the Tory, not the ATV
reporter), Bill Sutherland, Lorne Clarke and his son Colin Clarke
of Cox & Palmer, Alan Hayman, Helen Gillis, Rob Smith, Dugger
MacNeil, Roger O’Neill, along with MLAs Chris D’Entremont, Keith
Bain, Alfie MacLeod, and N.S. Tory Leader Jamie Baillie, who I’m
told man-of-the-hour John more than once referred to as “Bail.”
Competition to attend this historic event was fierce. I’m told more
than 60 languished on the waiting list for tickets. Even flea market
king Bill Mont got turned away at the door, although I hear he
managed to slip a note to John before he was rounded up by Tory
Robocops and sent packing. Ever the party animal, Bill merely
shrugged and returned to twirl a couple ladies around the
Northwood dance floor.
Gerry Regan’s pre-taped speech notwithstanding, Rollie
Thornhill delivered the best tale of the night, although I’m sure
half in attendance had already heard it several times before.
Rollie told his captive audience he met John back in 1955, when
they both were both Dalhousie students working on the waterfront.
It was, of course, the coldest night in Rollie’s life, and the
poor guy wasn’t dressed for it. At breaktime, he stepped into a
nearby boxcar to escape the elements, and there was John
Buchanan, sitting like Buddha in the corner.
John was more prepared than Rollie. He was better dressed
and carried a thermos of tea. Rollie eyed the tea enviously. Ever
the sport, John shared his brew, and the two became fast friends,
political allies for life and the rest, as they say, is history. As Rollie
put it, “That was the most expensive goddamn cup of tea I ever
had.”
Did I mention this Walk Down John Buchanan Memory Lane
Tory Craziness lasted six hours? That’s right, six bloody hours!
That’s like watching Gone With The Wind one-and-a-half times!
Why, you’d get to see Atlanta sacked twice!
If anyone can turn a simple lobster supper into an evening of
casual social torture, it’s Honest John.
I must confess, I left as soon as the Tory faithful began to don
their bibs, as the bustling kitchen staff served up the Sambro
16 FRANK MAGAZINE MAY 24, 2011
Cripes! I haven’t
seen Tories
wearing bibs
since Belinda
Stronach unveiled
her platform.
Tando MacIssac, the fastest Tory this side of the Mississippi,
clocked at the hip-breaking pace of 2 km/h.
lobsters. I can think of few things I’d rather witness than the sight
of Buchanan-era Tories smacking their lips as they suck the
white meat out of dead, broken claws. But that’s just me.
The highlight, I’m advised, occurred after festivities hit the fivehour
mark, when John and Mavis’s fabulous daughter, Rev. Natalie
Buchanan, stood up to say a few words.
I can’t for the life of me understand why the room cleared after
it dawned on some of the remaining diehards that Natalie’s “few
words” were going to climax in a group sing-along.
I’m told some — no doubt the tone-deaf in attendance — were
horrified when Nat suggested everyone break out into a spontaneous
rendition of, “If You’re Happy And You Know It, Clap Your
Hands.”
I’m further advised more folks rushed the exits, after Nat smartly
suggested the Tory stragglers follow up that majestic anthem by
crooning, “You Are My Sunshine.”
No doubt those who stayed until the bitter end emerged from
the evening finer people and wiser for the experience.
dan@atlanticfrank.ca