We know him as the charming TV host and hard-hitting journalist, but for Jenna Martin, her father Ray is just her doting, sometimes embarrassing dad.
When I think of my dad, what comes to mind is not the toothy-grinned television star swapping stories with a Hollywood celebrity, or the hard-hitting journalist reporting from the latest conflict hot spot.
No, the image that sticks is Dad, with his fingers covered in peanut butter and honey from his toast, tearing through the newspaper.
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Every day, whether he’s in London, Libya or at home on Sydney’s lower North Shore, he reads the morning rag religiously from cover to cover.
This daily ritual takes place even when he’s not looking for a story. When it’s been your job for 40 years to find out what’s going on in the world, it’s tough to stop investigating.
My dad, Ray Martin, is special. I guess it shows his triumph as a father that, as a kid, I never knew he was special to a lot of people, not just me.
I can’t pinpoint the moment I figured out he was famous. I thought every dad’s office was a television studio where Whoopi Goldberg or some other passing celebrity would drop by to plug their latest film.
As I got older, I grew more aware of the attention that Dad got whenever we went anywhere. We couldn’t leave the house without him being stopped for an autograph or a photo, or a “G’day, Ray!”
Everybody in Australia knew who he was and everybody at school knew who I was. I loved that people loved him, but I hated feeling like our family was on display.
For Dad, my discomfort in his celebrity was the craftiest bribe: all he had to do was threaten to get out of the car and kiss me goodbye at the school gates, and I was putty in his hand — I’d do anything to avoid that.
In the sanctuary of our own home, we’re quick to rib Dad on his snoring, his terrible singing voice and his abysmal cooking (although he microwaves a mean can of baked beans).
The Gold Logies are gathering dust out of sight and there are no famous friends dropping by.
Beyond our shared love of country music and Woody Allen films, Dad and I are extremely similar. We have the same curiosity, the same sense of humour and, I have been told, the same ideas about what is decent and important in life.
If that’s true, then I’m honoured — Dad is the most morally courageous person I know.
For the past two years, while dabbling in performing and directing, and finishing my Master’s degree, I’ve been working alongside Dad as a researcher and producer.
We’ve roamed Australia, telling stories about everything from indigenous education programs to Tasmanian boat shows.
When Dad decided to write another book, I wanted to be involved. It’s been fascinating travelling back through the years and the yarns, and helping him choose his “favourite people” for the book.
I won’t lie, researching and transcribing dozens of interviews left me with some fairly serious repetitive strain injury, but it was great to share the memories with him.
There were even times I had to crack the whip and make him work, as he’s both easily distracted and an excellent procrastinator. Yet who better to nag a man than his daughter?
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It’s a joy to have Ray Martin as a father. He’s done some pretty amazing things — journalist, humanitarian and would-be opening batsman for Australia (he wishes) — but being a dad is what he does best.
Ray Martin’s Favourites: The Stories Behind The Legendsby Ray Martin, published by Victory Books, on November 1, $49.99.
Read more of this story in the November issue of The Australian Women’s Weekly.
Video: TV legend Ray Martin
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