A Farewell to the Formidable Pete Veness.

On Sunday night my friend Pete passed away.

In 2009 doctors discovered a tumour in his brain and he was given several months to live. ‘Given’ is the commonly used term, but it’s not really accurate. No-one gave Pete anything except a prediction the he defied with a mix of courage, good grace, strength, an incredible work ethic and a healthy dose of dark humour. No-one gave Pete years more than was predicted, he took them and he took them with both hands and he ran with them. He travelled, he continued to report from the Press Gallery in Canberra, he raised awareness of his disease through promoting a charity very close to his heart, The Warwick Foundation and by writing an incredibly moving piece about living with cancer at age 25 and his subsequent marriage to the equal force of nature that is his wife, Bec.

The outpouring of emotion has been amazing, such a testament to who Pete was. I don’t think Pete’s age or illness has influenced the grief people are feeling so much as his personality did. He was colourful,  a throwback to an earlier time. He was tenacious, argumentative, well-read, inquisitive and funny. His energy knew no bounds and he and his tight unit of friends were often plotting adventures. They loved music so it was only natural that they pitched themselves to a band and went on an Australia-wide tour with them, acting as their official documentary makers. There was a fake (Or real? It didn’t really matter in the end, the myth became larger than any notion of truth) band, King Carcoar and the Faggots of Bracken.

There were many, many nights where Pete and his friends were holed up in our house, stereo cranked so loud that a local musician who lived nearby, and who was prone to noise himself, actually came around to complain. In Adam’s room, they would launch themselves around, off furniture, into the hallway, completely unselfconsciously screaming along to the lyrics and energetically air guitaring. I would lurk in the doorway of my bedroom across the hallway, watching them, equal parts amused and bemused. At the end of the night, it was always well worth finding yourself one the porch alone with Pete with one last cold beer, the sun threatening to come up, and him in an introspective mood. Pete was loud and brash and self confident, but he was also struggling, as we all do, with who he was and where to find his place in the world. In a few short years he would be making great strides in his career and happily ensconced in Canberra with Bec.

Pete’s colleague, Paul Osborne wrote an incredible piece about him, which does much more justice to the scope of grief and celebration of Pete’s life than I can, so I just want to end with one of my favourite memories of Pete, stirred up by this photo, courtesy of Adam Gartrell, the second half of one of history’s greatest bromances:

Pete, Adam and The Infamous Yellow Pants.

Oh those pants. First week of uni, hordes of nervous teenagers pretending not to be nervous while sitting in small groups on the lawn in front of the uni library, when along come someone whose youthful face clearly belied that he was one of us, fresh meat, yet unlike us, he was striding alone and very confident through the crowd, wearing the biggest, brightest yellow pair of pants I’ve ever seen.

That was the first time I’d seen Pete and before the first month of uni was over, he was a firm part of my wider circle of friends, a loud presence on the lawn where we lay in the sun between classes, a total goof and a genuinely sweet guy.

Like everyone else, I’m going to miss you, Pete, you are honestly unforgettable.