Mark Dapin was a favourite columnist of mine back in the mid-2000’s when he had a regular column in the Weekender magazine that came with the Sunday Age. At the time I was a new father, as was he, and it was exciting to read his somewhat rough but clever words over my Sunday Irish Coffee. He seemed to walk the line between yobbo and wanker with a swagger I admired. I was delighted to bump into him at the festival, shake his hand and thank him for those years of amusement. He was humble but possibly a little disappointed I seemed to be so unaware of what he has been doing since then. Lots, it turns out—he still writes columns (although only publishes online) and has turned out a number of books… sadly none of which have sold quite as well as he might have liked, but thankfully enough to get by on.
It was only while researching for this blog post that I realised he was a former editor-in-chief for the men’s magazine Ralph. I was a little disappointed, in the same way I was when I discovered another literary hero had been an editor for Playboy before he started writing novels (R A Wilson). Why can’t all my literary heroes be a jungle survival instructor, pearl diver, ecologist and fire-watchman like my other great hero, Frank Herbert? (Although again, research has led to some disappointment… apparently, Herbert wrote speeches for the Republicans and referred to his relative, the infamous McCarthy, as ‘Cousin Jo’… fuck you, Wikipedia, seriously.)
But back to Dapin, with his trademark baseball cap traded in for a more contemporary flat-cap and his surprisingly pronounced, almost Yorkshire twang even after over twenty years in the antipodes. He was funny, clever, down to earth and self-effacing. Perhaps not as ‘illuminating’ as some of the other speakers, but he reminded me of the value of a good narrative and strong literary voice.
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