It’s Time For Australians To Try Common Sense. Think!

Cover of "Three Days of the Condor"

Cover of Three Days of the Condor

Appreciation to Wikipedia for the closing lines of the political thriller, “Three Days Of The Condor.”

Turner and Higgins stop in front of The New York Times.

Turner: They’ve got all of it.
Higgins: What? What did you do?
Turner: I told them a story. I told ’em a story. You play games; I told ’em a story.
Higgins: Oh, you… you poor, dumb son of a bitch. You’ve done more damage than you know.
Turner: I hope so.
Higgins: You’re about to be a very lonely man. It didn’t have to end this way.
Turner: Of course it did.
Higgins: Hey Turner! How do you know they’ll print it? You can take a walk… but how far if they don’t print it?
Turner: They’ll print it.
Higgins: How do you know?

The common man would trade his mother for a slab of slops, has had his IQ downgraded both by legislation and by a diesel fuelled atmosphere, ably assisted by a Bureaucracy impatient to see the removal of whatever freedoms left standing. There is more to life then accepting kid-glove trade-offs. Pleasure taxes, including gaming machines, are multiple times the few cents that might be added to power bills. Better the individual argue for the right for integrity and regain common-sense and ease away from the nanny state. Newman’s shock treatment now might spare ECT later. Shame Canberra can’t follow through.

Never other than a Labor voter, I first fell foul of the system one Saturday ‘market in the park’ where Jimboomba Labor manned a booth when an election was pending. Raguse doggedly stood for any seat until he scored a walkover in the then Federal seat of Forde after popular Kay Elson correctly sensed the winds of change and chose not to run. Raguse was approachable but it was while I exchanged idle talk with two booth workers that I became an object of ALP interest and a witness to their m.o.

I opined how every issue of the Courier Mail presented at least three Labor-adverse articles that an active NLP war-room could pick-up, elaborate on and run with, but, I added, there never seemed to be any follow-up or interest from that camp. The words had no sooner gone with the wind when I was invited to pose in a ‘matey’ photo shoot with the chap’s wife and while I twigged to the ruse and had time to pull out, I thought what the hell, it would dawn on them that I was a harmless oldie filling in time waffling.

Political people expect the entire voting populace to have a three-week retention limit and feel foiled when one with an adequate memory hasn’t forgotten the surveillance cameras of the ALP and their origin. The photo-happy Special Branch of the seventies openly recorded anti-war protestors as an intimidatory measure and these tactics were adopted with relish by the Labor Party.

The Beaudesert park adjoins the 12 unit, over 55 year, Qld H.C. flat precinct where I was domiciled and where the chemistry wasn’t a happy mix. Many of the institutionalized residents feared independent thought and earned security of tenure by making regular reports to their individual ‘good friend’ in Woodridge Housing.

After being instructed by a QBuild painting foreman to “Shut up you fucking poofter,” when I implored him to tone-down his sky-larking team, my ver batim reportage the next day to two young H.C. women who, by sheer chance were doing annual property inspections, brought the response,”What disgusting language to use before women. Should be ashamed and etc. Clearly, in their view, it was I at fault. As a mature adult, double their age, it was preferred I be contrite, wring my hands and bow and scrape.

Wanting a satisfactory conclusion, I failed miserably when my detailed letter to then Minister Schwarten was answered by his chief-of-staff with instructions not to write his office again and a three-line tutorial on how to address a Minister of the Crown. My concerns about the effects of cigarette and road toxins on flat-dwellers and of the much frailer people in the nearby Wongaburra convalescent complex won me no friends.

A deputation of women from Woodridge H.C. came to my place and insisted I make no more mention of two up wind residents who between them had four active mosquito coils burning throughout last winter presumably to aggravate a breathing problem. After my partner’s hand-written diary became pivotal in a favourable legal decision against a faux horse trainer and her father, I started such a journal which become a series of A4 on-going notebooks. Discrepancies or tampering with hand-written journals are easily picked-up and are welcome evidence in court.

“How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate, they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to.” — George Orwell, 1984

After unmasking and disparaging two unnamed residents whose deeds and actions were those of specially trained eviction tenants, even planted asio pimps, I was visited by Qld Police who failed to pressure me into volunteering for a mental evaluation test. That this could happen to me in my lifetime in Australia spooked and stilled me briefly but the scene for official retalation is being set with Queensland’s new Police wizard calling for more undercover agents to report on family and friends.

Writers might be a bit nuts, but no Australian thinker has yet became a Robert the Bruce. Top level bureaucrats should settle down and spare themselves unnecessary anguish, avoid megalomania thought and try not to be the enemy of the people. Writer’s gulags have no place in this country and should remain Stalin’s symbol of suppression.


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