As one of the founding members of The Chaser, Dom Knight knows how to do satire. It’s experience the longtime media personality has deployed for his latest project, Don’t Call Me Skippy, a pseudo self-help book that combines photographs of those buff kangaroos in Alice Springs with pithy workout and lifestyle advice.
While Knight may be known as an author and radio presenter, in his high school days he dabbled in a different form of creative expression: music. Learning to play the double bass – “badly”, he admits – introduced him to the world of jazz. Decades on he considers the stringed instrument one of his most prized possessions. Here he reveals why he’d lug it out of a fire and the stories behind other important personal belongings.
What I’d save from my house in a fire
I’d save my double bass from a fire – not only because it’s precious, but because it’s exceptionally flammable. It would slow me down, being the bulkiest thing I own that isn’t a car, but it has enormous sentimental value. I started playing in year 8 after investigating which instrument would let me join the school orchestra in the shortest amount of time, and with the least possible ability. I was so dreadful that I largely mimed my first concert.
The double bass opened the world of jazz to me – albeit more as a listener than a player. Then, when I discovered the bass guitar had the same strings as the double bass, but that rock bass generally consists of playing the root note of any chord on the beat, I finally discovered a style of music that was simple enough for me to be vaguely competent. Come to think of it, I should probably save my bass guitar – I am less likely to embarrass myself playing it.
My most useful object
My beard trimmer. As someone with the genetic lottery-winning combination of being bald and hirsute, plus having extremely sensitive skin, my beard trimmer lets me maintain the perma-stubble that saves me from having to shave with a razor and irritate my tender cheeks.
I’ve used my beard trimmer to cut my hair on more than one occasion too, because when you have so little hair on your head, you resent spending any money on tending to it.
The item I most regret losing
I bought a spectacular pair of Italian sunglasses from a little shop in Venice called Ottica Carraro, blatantly copying my cool artist brother. They were a honeymoon splurge and had lovely frames made of translucent honey-coloured resin. I put them on and felt, with great relief, like somebody else.
[I assumed] because I was now all grown up and married, I’d be able to avoid losing my pricey sunnies like a responsible adult. I was wrong. Or it’s quite possible that the sunglasses deemed me unworthy and absconded to find a more fashionable owner – possibly my brother, but I haven’t been brave enough to ask.
