Typically, he went on to buy portable defibrillators - which quickly became known as Packerwhackers - for every ambulance in New South Wales. He was clinically dead for six minutes before being revived by ambulance officers. But in October 1990 he had suffered a near-fatal heart attack during the Australian Open polo championships in Sydney. Packer, the unrepentant smoker, was said to have been annoyed at the rumours. The Big Man, as he was known at his TV network Channel Nine, was in fact alive and well and living in London's Savoy hotel, where he regularly spent the polo season. In June 1998, rumours of his death swept world markets and the share price of his listed media company, Publishing and Broadcasting, fell. In 2004, Business Review Weekly magazine estimated his fortune at A$6.5bn (£2.75bn), and financial markets were always keenly interested in his state of health. On all counts Kerry was no exception, and was aware he was living on borrowed time.
His biographer Paul Barry said males in the Packer dynasty loved a bet, hated paying tax, were excessively secretive and tended to die young with heart trouble. Yet Packer's one weakness was his health. Tales of tips to hostesses and waitresses of £50,000 also abounded. He reportedly lost £8m playing blackjack in London in 1987, then won £10m at the same game in Las Vegas eight years later. He also liked to win, especially at gaming tables around the world, where tales of his successes, losses and extraordinary tips are legendary. "Come gentlemen," he said, "there is a little bit of the whore in all of us name your price."
KERRY PACKER GAMBLING STORY SERIES
In 1976, before he pulled off perhaps his greatest coup in establishing World Series Cricket, he was stuck in talks with the Australian Cricket Board about television rights to Test matches. Packer believed that people could be bought. While in office, Hawke signed off a testimonial video for his mate with the words "Good on yer, Kerry, you've been true blue. With wealth came power, and Pack- er's close connections with politicians, especially the former Labour prime minister Bob Hawke, ensured that the Canberra government's media policy often went his way. But his burning desire was to make even more money his fortune grew more than five times after he supposedly gave up business in 1987, and a ferocious sense of privacy set him well apart from most of his readers and viewers. In some ways the magnate's "ocker" tastes were the secret of his success, with a populist magazine empire and television network that frequently outperformed their rivals.
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