The 1967 Referendum

On 27 May 1967 the Australian Federal Government held a referendum to ‘include Aboriginal people in the census’ and – well, Frank Hardy (in The Unlucky Australians) can take up the story.

The press is featuring the Federal Government’s referendum on the Aborigines, urging a ‘Yes’ vote as if this will solve all problems.  The apparent aim of the referendum is to remove the bad image of Australia, created overseas by the White Australia policy and our treatment of Aborigines, by eliminating two clauses from the Australian Constitution which discriminate against Aborigines.  To repeal Section 127 which reads: ‘In reckoning the number of people of the Commonwealth or of a State or other part of the Commonwealth, Aboriginal people shall not be counted.‘   And to delete the discriminatory words from the clause which reads in part: ‘The Parliament shall, subject to the Constitution, have power to make laws for the peace, order, and good Government of the Commonwealth with respect to the people of any race, other than the Aboriginal race in any State….’  No doubt when the Australian founding fathers wrote the Constitution at the turn of the century the let-the-abos-die-out theory led them to introduce these outrageous provisions.  The motives of our present fathers in removing them seem less clear; no referendum is needed  to enable the Government to count the Aborigines and it has legislated for aboriginal natives in the Northern Territory for nearly fifty years with the parlous results only partly revealed in this book.  At best: window dressing; at worst: a confidence trick to delay mounting concern in the community about the crimes committed in its name against the Aborigines.

I enter the polling booth at the Manly School.  Voting to me has always been an automatic process:  Communist with second preference to Labor – and in a Referendum: ‘No’.  Now, I must switch and vote: ‘Yes’.  Yes, to perpetuate the power of the Federal Government over the NT Aborigines.

Picking up the ticket I mark it with the stub of pencil: ‘No’.  Why?  An impulse, or the memory of a remark by an official of the Health Department in Darwin:  ‘The best thing the Federal Government could do for Aborigines is to disband the Welfare Department and have the other relevant departments – Health, Education, Social Services – apply equally to the Aborigines.  Free compulsory education for Aborigines, free health service for Aborigines, and pensions, child endowment and dole, where applicable, to be paid direct to them in cash.   The Welfare Department is a bottle-neck preventing equality, destroying the initiative of the Aborigines with paternalism and acting as an agent for the rich pastoral (cattle) companies.

An empty gesture.  Ninety per cent vote: ‘Yes’ – and I am glad.  But in some areas where relatively large number of Aborigines live, a majority votes: ‘No’.  Citizens of the NT have no vote so their feelings are not revealed.

Written at the time.

Yesterday we reported Quentin as writing ‘I would dearly love to be sharing the fag end of this year with the both of you”.
Ira, in typical fashion took exception to this proclamation, after totally misconstruing its intent.  Today Cecil Poole sets him straight.

On 5 January 2014 09:40, Cecil Poole wrote:
Dear Ira

I feel you have got the wrong end of the stick here.  I am in no way afeared of Fag Ends, In fact I have quite some experience with them, and pleasurable on the hole.

There is no doubt “Fag End” refers to what others among us would call butts, and when I say butts I can see that yet again and inadvertently one could misconstrue the meaning, in fact in the United States of America, particularly in the south amongst the Barbecue Set Butt refers to the dressed rump of a hog.  (Oh, dear, yet again I foresee trouble – dressed butt refers to the hindquarters of a hog what has been stuck – the term for killing a hog – and shaved clean, and make ready for healthy consumption after much basting and smoking.  Which of course brings me back to the proper use of Fag End.  My parents (whose death accompanied by emphysema confirms this account) would from time to time find their supply of Craven A Cork tips* seriously diminished to the point of zero.  This occurred invariably at one minute past twelve noon of a Saturday, the nearest shop having closed at noon.  This shop in fact was the Post Office and General Store.  If my parents had realised their parlous Fag state early enough they could telephone the said general Store and ask them to leave packets of Craven A Cork Tip cigarettes with the loaf of bread and mail and paper (the Argus) in the Telephone Box, where it would be safe and we could pick it up next morning on the way to church.  This would allow both mother and father to lights up and have at least two cigarettes prior to divine service.   Now If as from time to time was the case, and the emergency call had not been made to the General Store my mother and father would engage all their numerous children in searches of the house, of all the ask trays, of the rubbish and fire place and the car and truck and gather all the Fag Ends.  It was worth our doing well as the mood in the house was less than congenial in the absolute absence of tobacco.  Of course the Fag Ends that were best were those from wealthy and well bred people who used a cigarette holder – such as those from Frank McIntyre – who drove a Chrysler Royal, except that Mr Frank McIntyre smoked menthol and mother and father abhorred menthol.  Only the effete smoked them.  Which rounds us off nicely with Fag Ends.

I trust this allays your concerns.

With firm and best wishes

Cecil

* They graduated to Viscounts with filter tips at a later date.  Never did they smoke Greys – probably because their advertising was ungrammatical – “Greys is Great” was their slogan.

On 05/01/2014, at 11:27 AM, Ira Maine wrote:
My dear Sir;

Thank you for your extended and thrusting re-buttal in which you certainly ‘but me no buts’ on your butt debate debut.

This is why I constantly encourage you to write about your background. The bit about looking for ‘superior’ cigarette butts is priceless and might easily be extended into a 500 word smash without a single mention of buttressing your buttered buttocks or any of the other filth which seems to come so easily to you.

A good day to you,

IRA

Belated best wishes for 2014, a year that promises so very much and at this stage the low light is Andrew Bolt’s wholehearted endorsement of Senator Bernardi’s appalling hate inducing views on people of difference.

Quentin, Cecil and Ira took holidays during that period, yet managed to correspond with dignity, clarity and erudition.  At least that is what they told me to tell you.  Perhaps you should judge for yourself by examining these edited transcripts.

On 31 December 2013 13:21, Quentin Cockburn wrote:
Helo Cecil and Ira, much ado about nothing tonight. I am, (if you should like to know) sitting in a small, ( they still exist) bungalow at Mt Martha. This is very apt, a low key new years eve for a low key end of the one we’re currently in.. Apart from that Nuffink!.. I wish you all the best, and I feel tempted to remind you that i have just received a missive from Paddio who is seeing the old year out in the company of lesbians in the Strathbogie ranges.

I would dearly love to be sharing the fag end of this year with the both of you, but I am reminded by their impish squeals and laughter that the kids would rather stay at the beach till Friday.. However on friday I am back in charge again and up for anything if you’re about in Melbourne..

What a year..

Shall ring you in person this eve, and determine an escapade, could even be fish and chips on the Yarra, the possibilities are endless!!!

Cheers

On 04/01/2014, at 12:11 PM, Ira Maine wrote:
Dear Brother Ignatius,

“…I would dearly love to be sharing the fag-end of this year with both of you…’

We the undersigned are just a soupcon disturbed by your above remark and feel that too close a proximity to Melb. Uni. Library (Carmodious Division) has perhaps brought back to the forefront that which was formerly in the back of the front. I’m fronting you with this to bring back to the forefront that which you seem to lack the front to back out of. To help you get back in front there are a couple of things we would like to have you back to confront;

Just because Shameless Carmuddy takes it upon himself to bogle two  Ladies of Lesbos  in the Stratbogies, this doesn’t automatically give you the right to behave in a like manner with friends who, to this point, had trusted you completely. What else could you possibly you mean by ‘…sharing the ‘FAG END’…’   Well, on the surface it seems to me to be pretty plain what you mean…

And I suppose too it’s in imitation of Shameless and his ladies that you feel the need for ‘FAG END’ time with BOTH of us…

At the very least you must give CP, the time to get used to the idea and allow him time to decide on venue, appropriate dress and on a scale of charges commensurate with his standing in the community.

For myself, being temporarily hors de combat, I must rule myself out of this latest round of the ‘FAG END’ gender agenda.

I reckon ‘FAG END’ is the same as ‘BAG END’ with the slight difference here that all the Hobbits at ‘FAG END’ are gay.

IRA

To be finalised tomorrow

Whoops sorry about my tardiness, but I’ve been giving a lot of thought recently to my latest Christmas Message, and you’ll forgive me, theres still a bit of confusion up here as to which day is “correct”, and quite a kerfuffle I can tell you as to which virgin gave way to immaculate conception.  I know, but here and at my age my aim ain’t quite as good as it used to be.  Could you believe it I get almost a hundred thousand requests from the southern states, (Alabama, etc) testifying to my hand in the conception thing, and it’s getting a bit tiresome.

Where was I, Oh yes another year is upon us 2014.  Well, I remember fondly 1914, and you should thank me for it, like clearing out the shed or the attic, a lot of people to be recycled, and I’m afraid there’s still significantly more industrialists and profiteers up here in my neck of the woods than heroic dead soldiers.  It seems the thing I wrote about ‘the eye of the needle’ needs refining.  As a matter of fact I’m a little bit peeved.  I didn’t even get to see that man Mandela.  He’s gone downstairs, with that other bloke O’Toole who did such a lot of good in Arabia.  I know you’re saying ‘he just acted the part’, but we didn’t like the real Lawrence because we’ve got problems with pillow biters up here, and Bob Katter says he’ll not come up till he’s assured the place is “safe”.  Cant’ blame him, you have to be so careful these days.  Can’t blame that Mandela fellow either, took one look and went for the downstairs option.  I hear they’ve got a non stop disco, flashing lights, all you can eat, and topless go go dancers provided you can stomach an afterlife with a non stop backing track of Abba and Justin Bieber.  You see they accept shit music down there even if the artist is not dead yet.  Seems Mandela was so sick and tired of being beatified, and with the prospect of having to share a cloud with Bono, made a calculated decision.  After all who am I to tell a freedom fighter he can’t excercise freedom of choice?

Still there’s lots to be happy about 2013, the GFC slugged on, the Banks and Corporations now plunder the public realm with impunity and righteousness, and the best little joke for you lot down under, (no pun intended) is that I finally got my christmas wish for 1955.  Bob Santamaria is now running the country.  And he’s doing a fine job, pushing the clock back, just like before the big split, and enforcing all those age old rites of piety, hypocrisy, and bigoted, self serving religious clap trap.

Still though, you can’t blame me I just work the cogs, but this bloke Santamaria has got me worried, he pulls the levers, adjusts the wheels, practically made me redundant.  ‘Spose I’ll go the way of Holden, but i’m past caring, i’ve got better work to do in Russia and the US of A.  As for China, I’m working on a bird flu for 2014 that should make the influenza epidemic a preamble for the black death, We can only hope.

A christmas message from a Loving God
With help from Quentin Cockburn.

by Quentin Cockburn

What’s it they say about wilderness?  ‘Just knowing it’s there’.  It’s the same with the Carlton Bookshop.  Though the restaurant next door has changed hands several times, and the top end of Swanston Street has morphed from down at heel brewery, brothel and fire station into a grotesque tilt slab and cynically cheap blending of Beirut, Kowloon, and Docklands, the bookshop, has always been there.  I’m not an avid reader of crime fiction, but I’m sure someone in the febrile world of the avant-guarde Melbourne crime scene must have immortalised it in fiction.  Because it was here, Tardis-like, alone at the top end.  This non fiction piece of fiction outlasted, un-attached, all the other fabrications and absurdities that vaguely resemble contemporary education.  You see it existed because for a long time people felt an education was an end in itself.  You studied Ancient Greek, not to be an interpreter of Ancient Greeks or tour guide, but for the fun of it, and perhaps the enlightenment of seeing through other eyes, those most ancient, the essential truth about ourselves.  Similarly you studied philosophy, fine arts, etruscan, ancient hebrew, not for crust earning, but as an end in itself.

But something happened along the way.  The accountant, and bean counters took over education.  They felt that the only stuff worth studying were practical things.  Things that could be measured.  They could then prove, with pie chart, bar graphs and power point presentations the ‘irrefutable’ fact that education could be indexed and reduced to metrics.  The more metrics the more value, the more certainty the more metrics.  Goodbye Ancient Greek, goodbye Philosophy.  Welcome Accountancy 101 and Business Management.  Of course there were still some who would argue that all this certainty and management were false idols, that a bit of Philosophy would have averted something like the GFC, but they were all repatriated to Tasmania, time share resorts and redeployed as Myki sub consultants.

Last time I visited, a month or two ago, the expression on the proprietor told me the inevitable truth.  He remarked sadly, ‘they don’t do books anymore’.  I think he was trying to tell me something I already knew, they don’t have undergraduates, infected with std’s, with no responsibility, nor with curiosity for its own sake wandering in an out with Literature’s bounty.  Instead, the odd accountancy student, baffled by the incongruity, would walk in and quickly out, not sure if they had witnessed something akin to ‘Freaks’.  Which confirmed the inescapable truth that the existence of the bookshop is nought but a footnote in the ether.  Somewhere between Google and Wikipedia.

So I treasure the memory of this bookshop, this last bastion, because I treasure the selective bits of my memory marked ‘pleasure’ as against the nasty ones marked ‘payment demand and foreclosure’.  Why?  Because, like love lost, it retains a resonance that’s reassuring.  Those careless days wandering and imbibing, buying occasionally, and the indescribable joy of riding home with a bag dangling from the handlebars filled with books. Old books, battered books, ones with pencilled text in the margins, and all touched, and nurtured by hands like mine, and passed, and loved and not forgot.

Lest we forget
RIP The Carlton Bookshop.