IT’S 2010, AND I’m sitting here at the ARIA Hall of Fame induction ceremony. My band, The Church, is being let in. They’ve even brought the famous journalist George Negus to induct us into the non-existent hall. I’m sitting between my mother and my brother Russell; I’m here reluctantly I must admit. I’m not looking forward to proceedings. I don’t as a rule like award ceremonies. I’ve always felt as if I didn’t need some boozy industry accolade to justify my contribution to Australian rock, whatever the hell that means. Yet here I am, sitting at a big table in the Hordern Pavilion, trying to cope with the not-very-good vegetarian option, and also looking after my old mum and making sure she’s having a good time. I’m chatting with everyone as they drop by our table to offer up congratulations. You know what? That isn’t really my cup of herbal tea either … all that back-slapping and stuff ? All that fakery and big noting? What has that got to do with music?

No, I haven’t been looking forward to this at all. My band and I haven’t talked about it much between us – we’ve been offered it a few times before and turned ’em down, but now everyone reckoned it behove us to do it. So here I am. Everyone in the band has said we shouldn’t have a speech, so I don’t have a speech. OK, that was the easy part, not having a speech …

But as the awards progress all the other inductees make very gracious and heartwarming speeches that go down a treat. And it’s becoming increasingly obvious that we’ll be considered churlish if we don’t at least say something. It’s not going to be good enough to let the music do the talkin’, as we’d planned. The occasion demands a speech. And it’s going to fall on my bony shoulders to deliver it! Tim Powles – our drummer and the ‘new boy’ in The Church – has perceived exactly the same thing: the necessity of a speech. He takes me backstage and pours me a tiny nip of my favourite liqueur, Unicum Zwack from Hungary. A little drop goes a long way in refreshing your attitude.

‘You’re gonna have to say something!’ Tim says. Yes, fuck it all, I am! The only reason I came here is because they said I wouldn’t have to give a speech and now, with about fifteen minutes to go, it’s become very apparent that a speech is expected. A speech that’s funny, and engaging, and all the other stuff an occasion like this warrants. Slightly emboldened by the Zwack, I sit back down between my mother and brother and go to work in my head trying to construct the perfect acceptance speech. Time is running out as I hurriedly try to chuck together in five minutes what I should’ve been composing over the past five months. Typical Kilbey, typical The Church. The final nail in the coffin of my perfect speech is Lindy Morrison, good friend and drummer in The Go-Betweens. Seeing me sitting there slack-jawed and still as I mentally try to get a magnanimous and eloquent speech together:

‘You better say something!’ Lindy says in her no-nonsense manner.

‘I will,’ I reply, trying to ignore her well-meaning interruption.

‘What are you gonna say?’ she asks.

‘Um, I dunno … something.’ I mumble, trying to concentrate.

‘But what will it be?’ she asks again.

‘I dunno! I’m trying to think of something!!’

We go on like this for a while until I notice George Negus motioning us up to the stage. There are cameras and lights and people shaking my hand and slapping me on the back. Suddenly I’m up at the old podium being handed my pointy triangular golden award; I turn and face the audience. I can see my mum and brother wondering what I’ll say. Will I ungraciously and ungratefully blow it? I can see other musicians and managers and agents and publishers and hangers-on, and the merely curious onlookers who’ve paid to get in. All of ’em sitting there waiting for the last guys up to explain themselves and accept their award. There is absolutely no way a simple ‘thank you’ will suffice.

So I just start saying the first thing that comes into my head, and I keep going for fifteen minutes and then I stop. Somehow I manage to wax forth, and my words make them all laugh and clap and cheer. And in the middle of the whole thing Michael Chugg, who once managed us, yells out a very pertinent question as he observes all the mirth and merriment my speech is causing: ‘Why couldn’t you have been like this 25 fuckin’ years ago?!’ he demands to more cries of laughter.

Yes, that’s a very good question. Why does it take someone so long to arrive and be what they could’ve been all along? Chuggy had managed me during my insular, confused, sulky stage, which preceded my arrogant and blasé stage, which gave way to my ugly junkie phase, which in turn begat my eccentric uncle phase – the one I’m currently in.

The answer to Chuggy’s question is perhaps blowing through the pages of this book.