Philip Brady was a man who brought humor, kindness, and unwavering dedication to his audience.

 Philip Brady: A Man of Wit, Kindness, and Unwavering Dedication to His Audience

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aToday, I felt like I lost more than just a colleague—I lost family. The tears I shed made me realize how much Philip Brady meant to me. He was the one who gave me a chance when I didn’t have the qualifications, taught me how to do the job, and later, after his longtime on-air partner Bruce Mansfield passed away, chose me to co-host *Remember When* on 3AW. Now, he’s left me to carry on the show without him.

Bruce once told me, “You only get one Philip Brady in your life, and most people don’t even get that. He’s the greatest second fiddle anyone could ask for.” And he was right. Philip always downplayed his talents, saying, “I don’t sing, I don’t dance, I don’t tell jokes. I’ve got nothing.” But his real lesson was this: it doesn’t matter if you’re the punchline, the orchestrator, or just part of the ensemble—what matters is showing up.

When Bruce and Phil teamed up in 1990 to host *Remember When*, they brought something magical to radio. Both were veterans in the industry, well-known and respected. Their show was filled with insightful interviews and a chemistry that was undeniable. They could turn something as mundane as a stapler into comedy gold. Bruce would joke about his missing stapler, Phil would accuse a salesperson of hoarding them, and the banter would end with Bruce threatening to staple Phil’s hands to the desk. It was classic.

But Phil wasn’t just a sidekick. He was a storyteller. He shared tales of snubbing Clint Eastwood on the set of *Rawhide*, standing quietly in Winston Churchill’s garden as the former prime minister painted, and even turning down Elvis Presley in Las Vegas because he was “too busy.” These stories were all true, and they were part of what made him so special.

Phil also had a knack for laughing at himself. After cataract surgery, he once tried to gift Angela Lansbury something from his Woolworths bag during an interview, only for her to snap, “Why are you going through my handbag?” In the same interview, he tried to get James Earl Jones to say their show’s tagline. James refused, saying, “I get paid good money to do things like that.” Phil just laughed it off.

What truly set Phil apart was his dedication to his audience. He replied to every piece of fan mail. Before email became common, he’d receive over 1,000 Christmas cards each year—and he responded to every single one. If a card didn’t have a return address, he’d read it on air and ask the sender to call in. It became a nightly ritual, much to Bruce’s annoyance, but Phil did it because he genuinely cared.

When Phil was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer in December, his health declined rapidly. The pile of unanswered cards grew, and it weighed heavily on him. Even in palliative care, he was determined to respond to every message. I’d sit beside him, reading texts aloud as he dictated replies. He was still worried about the Christmas cards in February, so I promised to reply to them all after he was gone. That finally gave him peace.

In his final days, Phil was too weak to speak, but he’d nod as I read messages and told him what I was writing in response. When I said goodbye for the last time, he couldn’t respond, but I knew he was listening. On Monday, his carer turned off his phone, and I think that’s when he knew it was okay to let go.

Phil set a standard I’ll never live up to, and I’m just one of countless people whose lives were better because of him. He lived a life full of humor, kindness, and dedication. Well done, Phil. You’ll be missed.

Now, I guess it’s time to start on those Christmas cards…