Well it wasn’t me who died it was Edward Gough Whitlam. The king is dead. Long live the king.
I’ve emailed PMC (Pissweak Minor Character) and requested two seats at the memorial service on the fifth. I’m not optimistic. The Sydney Town Hall holds 2000 and I predict 10000 will show up so Gough might just stop the traffic one more time. I hope so.
I was a 17 year old schoolboy when the pompous pisspot sacked Gough and his government. I was too young to vote but I remember going to the street rallies and shaking Gough’s hand as he cleared out the back of a rally in Geelong.
It radicalised me. In these bigot Brandis days I’d have my passport taken, my emails monitored and traduced, banned from visiting Camelot I’d get a trip to Nauru instead.
I would never have gone to university if it wasn’t for Gough’s Labor government. Thanks comrade.
What a bunch of small, inept, bitter turds we have for a so-called government now. Mercifully the polls suggest we know how inadequate they are. Maybe we just kicked Labor out last time to end the fiasco of leadership battles. Sorted. Let’s get a government again that can legislate and lead.
I hope the election comes before Professor Barry Slur is appointed to the ABC Board.
As if Gough carking it – at 98 the longest lived PM, best in show yet again – the last weeks have been busy at home. Wallington has retired from work. My fantasy of her becoming a Welsh house cleaner were cruelly dashed when, at a raging retirement house party, she fell over while dancing and broke her wrist.
‘Ow. That really hurt.’
‘You’ll be right. Think I better dance now!’
‘No. It really hurts.’
People more heroic than me put her to bed. Frozen peas in tea towels and appropriate concern.
‘Think I better dance now!’ I kept the party going, which was probably not the best idea. But man it was a good party up until then.
So typically my Wallington has not dithered around. She has already done the retired old lady thing and ‘had a fall’ and broken her wrist. That year of sick leave she gave away on retirement is now floating around out in space, unused, unavailable (surely that’s what happens to it, right?).
The RPA hospital experience was Dickensian – the best of times, the worst of times. It speaks volumes about this government, and those before it except for Gough, who brought us home from war, that they can squeal budget emergency and then find hundreds of millions of dollars for a war. There’s always money for war and private schools. No money for nurses or hospital beds.
Instead of cleaning the house as part of her leisure routine (my idea) Wallington has reclined in pain instead and directed from the red couch. The red ouch.
‘Can you cook dinner?’
‘Would it be possible to vacuum the sunroom and clean the bathroom?’
‘Can you scratch my back?’
‘Is the novel dead as an art form?’
Well my novel is. The publisher who had been seriously considering it for publication has just declined.
See what happens? Life.
Prime Ministers die. Bones break. Art struggles. Gardens grow.
Think I better dance now.