Col Elliott

~ On the Canvas Of Service, 2022

Leading Seaman Underwater Control (LSUC) Ret’d

Royal Australian Navy

I first learned about Col in a way that still makes me laugh—completely unaware of who he was, Googling him like I’d just uncovered a well-kept secret. What I found was someone who had already made so many people laugh, for so long. A comedic icon. A performer whose work had filled rooms with joy for decades. And somehow, I had missed him—until now.

In 2022, I finally saw him live at the Bairnsdale RSL. It wasn’t just a night of comedy. It was a moment. I met Matt, another Of Service participant, and the idea of capturing Col’s story through portrait quietly began to take shape. What stayed with me wasn’t just the show—it was something quieter. A sense that there was more behind the stage than the spotlight ever shows. I knew then I didn’t want to meet the entertainer. 

Content Advisory:

The following story contains personal reflections from an Australian veteran that may include themes of trauma, war-related experiences, mental health struggles, and suicide. These narratives are shared with deep respect and the intent to honour service, foster understanding, and offer hope to those facing similar challenges.

If you are feeling distressed or need support, we encourage you to reach out. Help is available.

• Lifeline Australia: 13 11 14 (24/7 crisis support)

• Open Arms – Veterans & Families Counselling: 1800 011 046 (24/7 support for veterans and their families)

Please proceed with care and compassion.

So we planned another kind of visit. At his home, Col and Kaz greeted me like an old friend—like we’d known each other for years. There was nothing performative about their hospitality. Their home told their story together—every wall carried one of Kaz’s paintings, not placed for effect, but lived with. It was the kind of space that doesn’t need to be explained. You feel who lives there by how it holds you.

Col talked about the Navy with clarity and without nostalgia. “The Navy showed me a different life,” he said. “There was bastardisation, and I stood my ground. I wasn’t a bully, but I wouldn’t let myself be bullied either.” It gave him structure, but it came at a cost.

What came after was harder. He spoke quietly about loss, addiction, and the point where everything nearly slipped away—until Kaz was pregnant. That was the moment he turned toward something better. “Stopping drinking was one of the hardest things I’ve done.”

He didn’t need to tell me he was grateful. You could feel it in how he looked forward.
“I’m very, very fortunate and very, very thankful for what we’ve got… You’ve got to try and keep positive.”

What stayed with me wasn’t just his resilience. It was the ease with which he shared it—without performance, without hesitation.

He didn’t hand over a polished story. He spoke it simply—without needing to explain, without needing it to be more than it was.

I saw not a man looking back—but one who had chosen, fully, to go on.

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The content featured here is extracted from Of Service, the original fine-art publication by Jenani Therone. It is reproduced with permission from both the author and the publisher. All rights are reserved. No part of this content may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without explicit permission.