Hypocrisy and Incompetence

"If there is no humane and democratic answer to the question of what a world without capitalism would look like, then should we not abandon the pursuit of unicorns, and concentrate on capturing and taming the beast whose den we already inhabit?"

George Monbiot, a leader of the British Green movement.


This is the tree at the back of the house where we live here. The building in the corner is the Aboriginal Housing Coop; and this leads down to the notorious "Block"; an aboriginal housing area set up in the 1970s. Locals came to stare in awe at all the brand new houses the government had built for the aboriginals; some with a great deal of envy and bewilderment that their own hard work was not rewarded by such grand palaces; but a group who did not work and drank too much could have everything gifted to them.

But this was the vision of the man we regarded at the time as our saviour; on the right hand of a God; although of course, being left wing; he had to be a secular God; if that makes sense; anyway, Gough Whitlam "became Australia’s 21st Prime Minister on 5 December 1972. His Labor government, the first after more than two decades, set out to change Australia through a wide-ranging reform program. Whitlam’s term abruptly ended when his government was dismissed by the Governor-General on 11 November 1975."

Gough was warned at the time that the block would ghettoise, but instead ploughed on, creating a focus for urban and national black pride in Australia. It was destroyed in the 1990s when supposedly progressive government policy allowed the place to descend into one of the city's leading heroin markets; the regulations advising that police stay at least 50 metres away from needle exchange buses encouraging the trade. In its hey day, the market was little more than astonishing; and led to many many deaths in the area.

Now; the Block has been decimated. There are only 16 families left living there; and most of the place looks like a war zone; the houses destroyed. The gum tree is a part of Australiana, stretching over one corner; catching the infinite in its branches like a giant dream catcher. At night, and every morning when I go walking, you can see the huddle around a fire where they have been all night, drinking, carousing, fighting, always fighting. The Rousseau version of aboriginal reality is far from true; they were a fiercely territorial and tribal people who had fought with each other for limited resources over thousands of years. Now, with their "sit down" money aka welfare and the chronic alcoholism plaguing their most public citizens, they still fight, barely knowing why.

"You, you're a f'n cunt," yelled one to the other at my back fence the other night. "You, you wouldn't even know where your kids are. Least I know where my fucking kids are. They're up in fucking Lismore." It's lovely stuff.


THE STORY CONTINUES:

"Too soon it was over. Those with tickets went on to the post-parade party. This was the main event. Everything else was a prelude. Sleeping was for the living vegetables, the truly duller than the dull. This was the centre. The entrants in the parade disappeared into the great maw of the Showground, into their personal nights of promise, pinnacles of high times, abandonment, hours of non-stop dancing, the promise of sex everywhere. Truly the best of times. Not even his position as the man covering the event for the city's most prestigious newspaper had done anything to help procure a ticket.

"He went to the post-parade press conference, drank a free beer, took notes as the chairwoman proclaimed it, as he or she did each year, the most successful and most problem free Mardi Gras ever.

"Shortly after he was standing in the middle of Taylor Square, watching the crowds scatter, the clean-up crews go into action, when he found himself standing next to Louis. They'd met more than 20 years before when they were both impoverished adolescents in London with nowhere to live. They'd spent one long night riding the tubes, catching trains just to stay warm."


THE BIGGER STORY:

THE biggest book launch in history has exceeded book sellers' expectations, with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows thrashing sales records.

The seventh and final book in JK Rowling's ultra-successful series was released on Saturday morning, with sellers reporting first day sales easily outstripping those of its predecessors.

Many Potter fans lined up early for their copies and then hid away for the weekend, keen to reach the climax of the series before returning to work or school, in case their enjoyment was spoiled.