JOHN MARTIN

Exhibit A: Name, Heritage and Pure Coincidence
A man named John Martin was a convict on the First Fleet. He was a Black American and a political prisoner.

So it’s wildly unlikely I’m related — but you never know. Australia was built on improbability. Until recently I thought I had Locke blood on my mother’s side. Turns out I don’t. No Locke DNA at all.

Genetic testing has led to the conclusion an Irishman named Dooley shook up the family tree by popping next door for a cuppa and clearly taking love thy neighbour a little too literally.

Exhibit B: Ancestry Under Oath
On my father’s side there’s a healthy slab of Irish DNA as well.

He came via northern England, where Irish families had moved in search of work during the potato famine years. So yes, I accept the argument that I may be edging towards Irishana. But ancestry is only the prologue. What matters is where you land.

Exhibit C: Place of Manufacture
I was born in the Queen Victoria Maternity Hospital in Launceston on October 6, 1958. That matters. I was scheduled to arrive the day before, but my mother’s obstetrician wanted to play golf, so he gave her an injection to delay labour. In those days Tasmanian doctors prescribed thalidomide as a sleeping pill, so delaying a birth tee-time-style barely raised an eyebrow. If being rescheduled for golf isn’t Australian, I don’t know what is.

Exhibit D: Occupational Wear and Tear
I spent decades in Australian newsrooms — natural habitats for blunt language, dry humour and opinions formed before morning tea. I learned to observe people closely, mistrust certainty and respect anyone who could tell a good story. This is not a profession you survive without absorbing the national temperament by osmosis.

Exhibit E: Condition and Functionality
Like many genuine artefacts, I’ve been knocked about, repaired repeatedly, retired earlier than planned, and repurposed rather than discarded. I creak, I complain and I still turn up. I operate best with shade and a cold beer nearby.

Conclusion
I may carry Irish DNA, questionable genealogy and the ghost of a First Fleet namesake who almost certainly isn’t related — but I was born here, shaped here, delayed for golf here, and worn down properly over time.

That, I submit, makes me a legitimate piece of Australiana — not the shiny souvenir kind, but the slightly battered original that still works if you don’t rush it.