It has come!
BLAAAAH!
This verbal explosion occurred just as I was about to take in my day's surfeit of news. I was the speaker of that BLAAAAH, and my utterance was noted by many of those around me. These same people quickly turned themselves to physically note my existence: "What's he on about?", they said in quiet formation.
But I, once I had shot the BLAAAAH blast forth, continued to stare at the morning daily before me. I did not open my mouth for any purpose of articulation but thought deep in my bosom that a double BLAAAAH now seemed appropriate.
Before me the news loomed large: class conflict was visiting our shores. I thought the business of class, or business class, was simply a question of the very best way to fly when someone else is paying. But this other matter, which was supposed to be passé, was back, and it was mean and nasty, naked and — God forbid! — struggling.
The class struggle is back! Shut your windows. Lock all the doors. It has come. It has come! Why, oh why, could they not leave well enough alone? Remember the good old days. Remember? A bloke could lose his job and still go quietly. No fuss. No mucking about. We were getting on with one another like a house on fire. Remember the easy dialogue. The problems shared. The ready input from the shop floor.
Remember? Partners with management, all in it together struggling to improve on the return for last year's quarter. That's how it was. Strength in unity. Big Aussie battlers and little Aussie battlers all doing their damnedest to make a go of it.
It breaks my heart just to think of it. Now we're at each other's throats like there was no yesterday. So I read about the wharfies, about the picket lines, and what Patrick and Howard have to say; and dream about the good old days when we all learnt to take it lying down. As the ship of consensus pulls away from the quay and passes the docks wherein this struggle is partaken, I and Kim Beazley raise our voices in sweet song: "Will ye not come back again?".
By Dave Riley