Remembering Philip Stuart Brady

When Paths Cross

In the dark hours of 11 February 2025, the brightly pulsating star that was my dear friend, Philip Stuart Brady, lost its sparkle forever.

I met Philip Brady while I was caring for my mother, Alison. At Mum’s advanced stage of dementia, her behaviour had become difficult to predict. One minute she was angelically sweet as honey. The next she was wild as a Southern Ocean storm. Mum certainly kept me on my toes.

For over a decade, Philip and I frequented the same coffee shop. He sat at his usual table near the door and adjacent to ours. A dog lover, Philip, was already on patting terms with my puppy, Goliath.

One day, I approached Philip and invited him to say a quick hello to my mother. Busy with five kids and a factory job, my mother’s guilty pleasure was staying up late to watch Philip and Bert Newton on TV. Without hesitation, Philip left his seat, pulled a  fan card from his pocket, and autographed it before handing it  to my mother with his cheery, “Hello Alison”. Mum’s world-weary face lit up with excitement. She was 87 years old. She had lost her ability to remember her address and how many children she’d birthed. Even my name eluded her. She often referred to me as her elder sister, the one she didn’t get along with.

Somehow though on that day, Mum was able  to dive into the deepest trenches of what remained of her memory. Miraculously, she was able to recognise Philip Brady as “from the TV.”  Philip’s heart of gold and his desire to bring joy to others made my mother feel incredibly special that day. I am sure that he reignited her youthful crush on his cheek dimples in that moment. He wrote on the fan card, “God loves you, Alison.” She was gone not long after that.

Public Figure, Private Man

You would never have guessed that the gregarious, charming, affable, and omnipotent Philip was an intensely private person. On air, he was the consummate professional broadcaster, a celebrity. Philip and I often joked that he only liked to be the centre of attention when he wasn’t the centre of attention.

At home he lived a quiet, understated, and unpretentious life. There was no bling, zing, or razzamatazz in his home. He was enough to light up any room, so it was no surprise that he preferred his home lighting to be muted, if not switched off. He was never wasteful, including of electricity. One of his favourite instructions was “Can you turn off that light?”

Philip was a genius at bringing people together whether through television, radio, or coffee gatherings. Over time, that Friday coffee with his lifelong friend, Mike McColl- Jones, morphed into the invitation only Brady Bunch with up to twenty-eight members and guests present on occasion. Membership of the Brady Bunch was exclusive and apparently highly sought after. The group comprised an eclectic assortment of entertainers, friends, fans and dogs. Membership hopefuls would only be admitted following a yet-to-be determined period of initiation that included regular attendance. Applications were considered at a meeting of a select committee comprising Philip and his golden retriever, Oro. Philip would announce any new members at coffee on Fridays. Members, both human or canine, were expected to wear their badge at every Brady Bunch gathering or risk Philip’s threat that they’d be paying for their own coffee.

No Brady Bunch gathering would be complete without the obligatory group photo being testimony to the number of attendees and the popularity of the club. Generous to a fault, Philip would pick up the tab for Vietnamese banh mis, coffees, shakes and cakes for the entire group. He’d also shout a coffee for the odd passerby.

Philip saw himself as the group facilitator and community builder. Apart from a little chat with his broadcasting contemporaries, he would sit quietly at the head of the table, selectively ignoring the conversation while studying his weekly movie guide.

The Man Beneath the Fame

Philip’s faith was integral to his life. His veins coursed with kindness, humility and forgiveness. He would never hesitate to help those in need. Even when slighted his anger would pass in an instant or two. That is, unless the coffee he ordered didn’t arrive within the (unreasonable) time limit he’d set. Even then, he would forgivingly excuse those who had ignited his fuse and say, “They mean well.” Philip saw the good in everyone. As saintly and virtuous as Philip could be, he was by no means angelic. His high standards made him occasionally demanding, sometimes intolerant (especially of silly mistakes like being unable to find something right in front of you) and a little impatient. He was also annoyingly stubborn, sometimes to his detriment. On occasion, he was inclined to reject other people’s good ideas until, hours or days later, he came up with the same good idea himself. Those stories are for including in his biography. Whatever he was, he was always very lovable. And I grew to love him more and more with every passing day.

In those last few months that were his cancer journey, I volunteered to care for and advocate for Philip. For me, it was an honourable way to put my experience in the health sector to good use. To have been able to look after Philip on this last journey has filled my soul with a joy that I have never before experienced. I feel enriched and blessed for being by his side. As most who have cared for someone at the end of their life will appreciate, it’s a challenging role. Philip and I shared many meaningful chats about his ceasing chemotherapy, about retiring and his last wishes. Being with Philip Brady has brought out the absolute best in me. And, I hope, also in him.

I learnt much from Philip Brady. He was a brilliantly intelligent, complex man of mystery with a mind like a steel trap and a memory to match. He would have excelled in any chosen vocation. He was a man who was always true to his word.

Final Acts of Strength

Throughout those last weeks, I watched him fade from life. I watched him struggle for the barest of breaths. He was matter of fact as he came to terms with the finality of his cancer. “I don’t think that I’m long for this world,” he’d say. And together, we would go on to discuss how the end often plays out for palliative care patients. He was brave. He was pragmatic, at least until he changed his mind. Towards the end, he’d ask hopefully, “Do you think it will be tonight?” He’d had enough.

An inspiring aspect of Philip’s personality was his determination, courage, and resilience. He was clearly taken aback when he received his cancer diagnosis. He quickly came to terms with his prognosis. Hours later, he nonchalantly announced, “I’ll be going to work on Sunday night.” He went to work, not only every Sunday night, but on other occasions throughout the holiday season. He went to work until he could no longer. As a listener, you could hardly tell that this broadcaster was knocking on heaven’s door. Cancer may have infiltrated his body. However, it never infiltrated his lust for life and work. Philip had plenty of living to do and he wasn’t about to let anything stand in his way.

Philip’s ideal was to pass at home while he slept in his green recliner. His dog, Oro, would be by his side stretched out in a similar recliner. It wasn’t to be.

Philip Stuart Brady might have signed off from this earthly world. But, as usual, he’ll have the last word.

“I’m feeling a little tired now, folks. I need to close my eyes. Would you mind.”