A Saturday Sydney Scorcher. I had a throat like a limeburner's boot.
With three street meetings on the board we head towards the Masonic at Petersham in pursuit of three things. My bid for the Federal seat of Grayndler and a couple of schooners - new for Bill, old for me.
We pulled up outside the pub and unloaded the decrepit and foul-tempered sound(sic) system out of the Party ute. The battery sank into the melting bitumen outside the hotel awning where lounged our captive audience. I busied myself setting up the box, amp and mike before taking stock of the drinkers.
Wharfies, truckies, labourers they looked. And not real happy to see us. The Campaign Director (that's Bill, Bill Britten), one of Mother Englands finest exports, steps to the microphone and says. "We're here representing the Communist Party of Australia." The way Bill said this in his cockney slur made it clear that if you thought that wasn't a good thing then that was your stiff shit. Then he said a few words about what a bastard Menzies was, the great fighting history of the WHARFIES, TRUCKIES and BUILDERS LABOURERS and a few other panegyrics thrown in. All of which was true.
Then he introduced me ... Son of the working class, trade union activist, Railway Shop Steward and other pedigreed origins. Only part of which was true.
Then he handed me the mike. I got as far as - "Comrades and friends, fellow workers," when from the midst of the assembled drinkers came a voice developed in opposition to a ships foghorn. "GAWD BUGGER ME DEAD," it said. "HE'S LIKE A RACIN' BLOODY GREY'OUND - ALL PRICK AND RIBS."
I stopped stone-cold, motherless dead as my tongue clove to the top of my mouth. Speechless. But not Bill. Grabbing the microphone from my unresisting hand, he bellowed into it. "HE MIGHT LOOK THAT WAY," he says, "BUT HE'S GOT BETTER FORM THAN ANY OF THOSE DISH-LICKING MONGRELS YOU DOPEY BASTARDS DO YOUR BRASS ON EVERY FRIDAY NIGHT DOWN AT FROG 'OLLER." Touche, Bill.
A momentary silence, followed by a murmer of approval at the sally and I'm away on the set piece to which they mostly listened. In the pub afterwards we drank our way through a dozen political discussions and who knows how many beers.
Dear Bill. The Cockney son of toil. Rouseabout, Farmhand, Soldier, Moulder,
Ironworker, Swagman, Storeman, Paper seller and who knows what else. One of
my teachers, a passionate Socialist and one of the best mates I ever had.
With three street meetings on the board we head towards the Masonic at Petersham in pursuit of three things. My bid for the Federal seat of Grayndler and a couple of schooners - new for Bill, old for me.
We pulled up outside the pub and unloaded the decrepit and foul-tempered sound(sic) system out of the Party ute. The battery sank into the melting bitumen outside the hotel awning where lounged our captive audience. I busied myself setting up the box, amp and mike before taking stock of the drinkers.
Wharfies, truckies, labourers they looked. And not real happy to see us. The Campaign Director (that's Bill, Bill Britten), one of Mother Englands finest exports, steps to the microphone and says. "We're here representing the Communist Party of Australia." The way Bill said this in his cockney slur made it clear that if you thought that wasn't a good thing then that was your stiff shit. Then he said a few words about what a bastard Menzies was, the great fighting history of the WHARFIES, TRUCKIES and BUILDERS LABOURERS and a few other panegyrics thrown in. All of which was true.
Then he introduced me ... Son of the working class, trade union activist, Railway Shop Steward and other pedigreed origins. Only part of which was true.
Then he handed me the mike. I got as far as - "Comrades and friends, fellow workers," when from the midst of the assembled drinkers came a voice developed in opposition to a ships foghorn. "GAWD BUGGER ME DEAD," it said. "HE'S LIKE A RACIN' BLOODY GREY'OUND - ALL PRICK AND RIBS."
I stopped stone-cold, motherless dead as my tongue clove to the top of my mouth. Speechless. But not Bill. Grabbing the microphone from my unresisting hand, he bellowed into it. "HE MIGHT LOOK THAT WAY," he says, "BUT HE'S GOT BETTER FORM THAN ANY OF THOSE DISH-LICKING MONGRELS YOU DOPEY BASTARDS DO YOUR BRASS ON EVERY FRIDAY NIGHT DOWN AT FROG 'OLLER." Touche, Bill.
A momentary silence, followed by a murmer of approval at the sally and I'm away on the set piece to which they mostly listened. In the pub afterwards we drank our way through a dozen political discussions and who knows how many beers.
Dear Bill. The Cockney son of toil. Rouseabout, Farmhand, Soldier, Moulder,
Ironworker, Swagman, Storeman, Paper seller and who knows what else. One of
my teachers, a passionate Socialist and one of the best mates I ever had.
