Once upon a time, Billy Big Ears was Prime Minister and wife Sonia much loved by all, even some of the people.
The blackfellers were restless, even angry.
Legislation, which, Christ help us, would worsen the Aboriginal peoples' lives still further was mooted. Deadly. Someone had to do something. So they did.
As I heard the story ten years on, four of them had a talk to the Party, borrowed some moolah and a motor and headed for Canberra. Still not knowing what to really do, they had some talks with the Trades and Labour Council mob then got into the coolibah. As we all know there's nothing like the piss and some yarndi to get the old cerberals (sick) going. Ideas spew out like nobody's business. Many's the caper that sounds great at 2.00 a.m. and looks like a yard of old bones and dog shit next morning.
It seems they decided on setting up the Aboriginal Embassy on the lawns of Parliament House (the greatest outhouse of them all). Someone had the crash hot idea of taking an old beach umbrella from the back yard of where they were camped. Which they did. And that's how the Embassy got started.
Of course some people can be awful liars.
Bob Pringle rang me and asked if I was busy the week-end.
A few months on and the umbrella had worked its magic and there was a thriving camp. People were being fed, kids looked after and tents and swags hunched round each other. Something was happening.
Very embarrassing.
Foreign policy paranoia was healthy at the time. People took notice. There was talk of some countries recognising the Embassy. Onya Gadaffi! People were busy all over the world whipping up international opinion. An election loomed.
And in the Lodge Billy and Sonia were in deep trouble.
Pringle said that they (the coppers) had pulled the Embassy tent down and smashed up the camp. They (the loony left) were organising the fight back and would I come? Would a duck discharge fecal matter from the rectum? I near did later.
Acting on some administrative ordinances, Billy's mob ordered that this nonsense had to stop. In those days Bill's word was law. As it is today with Bob - as long as you forget Sir Pete Ables, Bondy, the Great White Fish Finger Norman, George Bush and the septic tanks, maybe the Pope (but excluding Indira Ghandi). But then Sir William had his arses he licked in his time as well. And then again, the P.M. of those days had the lovely Sinia who was now famous for the dress she wore to meet Tricky Dick Nixon of the U.S. of A. It was split up the side showing clearly that her legs went right up to her bum.
Where were we?
On the Parliament House lawns, on the site of the torn down Embassy, two hundred souls had gathered. Up went its resurrected spirit (if a spirit is contained in a battered twelve by twelve canvas marquee with side poles and a longer centre one). For a while nothing happened as we waited for a response. Things grew quieter. All sound seemed to stop, as though to listen to itself.
Then a peculiar clumping sound that grew and grew and became sound itself. Nothing else. Only that rhythmic clump.
It was feet. They came around the corner from the back of Parliament House where they had been stationed, supporting the legs, torsos and ugly looking heads of about two hundred coppers. And they were marching towards us. In lines. And they drew up on the roadway in ranks opposite the ragged tent and stopped.
So did the sound again. Complete, absolute, stunned silence.
Really weird.
Then, loud and clear.
"You are hereby ordered under ordinance something, section so and so, to vacate this scene and retire forthwith," or something like that. In other words, PISS OFF! Being contrary bastards we stayed.
About twenty or thirty of us circled the tent. The Inspector barked an order and they circled us. In rings. The pointed tip of the centre pole was dead centre of the target. Dead true. Pringle and me stood at one corner near the door flap, shook hands and told each other not to get arrested.
BULLSEYE!
Talk about lambs led to slaughter, Trev, we were sitting bloody ducks. I mean, fair go. Fair's fair. A smack in the mouth for a kick in the nuts. But they weren't cat-shagging about.
The next thing I know is the Aboriginal Embassy sign falling off the door pole and into my hands and down I went like a sack of potatoes as the number nines, tens and elevenses went over the top. 'Good night, Irene, good night Irene, I'll see you in my dreams'.
I woke, up on my back, yards away from the action. Somehow I still had the sign. Gerrie Willessie and some reverind bloke were looking down and asking if I was alright. Where the tent had stood were piles of rags that might have been clothing. Shoes, ropes, tent poles. It looked like a terrific wind had swept things away, including the people who had been torn out of their clothes and swept away as well. Others came up screaming about what the pigs had done and people being arrested.
I was cold. And so I should have been with only shorts and teeshirt left on that cold Canberra afternoon.
The police had been lined up again on the roadway in ranks. Facing his troops Inspector McKay had his back to me as I faced about four lines of police uniforms.
One of the coppers had a nick on his forehead and a trickle of blood. A T.V camera focussed on him and I went ape stupid.
"Don't take him," I screamed. "Look, look there behind me. Look at what THEY'VE done to the people."
An unknown hand and arm came over my shoulder, pushed me in the back and I was propelled forward. The hand/arm continued up until it reached McKay's head. The heel of the hand hit his neck. He lurched forward, his cap flew off, he turned, pointed a finger at ME and bawled.
"ARREST THAT MAN."
Sorry, Pringle old mate, I did me best not to.
Two coppers hustled my arms up my back and frogged me to the nearest waggon. One opened the door and the other booted me inside.
"Fuckin hell," exploded a voice from the body on which I landed. "Welcome, Comrade," says Williams, "good on yer."
Yair?
That underground holding pen has got to be the coldest I've ever been in. My feet and arms were blueish by the time I was taken upstairs, processed and locked up in the cells. One of the heavy coppers gave my toes some hurry up in the process.
As I found out later some of our mob got really roughed up that night.
Bobby Sykes and Pringle bailed me after midnight, drove me home to Sydney and I subsided into a hot bath with St. Agnes.
I decided to take a couple of sickies.
The big umbrella worked overtime that week.
Canberra was invaded by five thousand land rights activists the following Sunday. They came from all states and territories. From settlements and humpies. From the factories and universities. Black goal releasees and some escapees. And they all came to right a wrong. And they were another gigantic nail in Billy and Sonia's coffin. After twenty-three years the right-wing government was about to crash.
Some of the heavies brought their own methods of persuasion. Like bike chains and evil looking hand made knives. Sling shots, iron bars and nulla nullas, one or two pieces. Long and earnest discussions led to a unanimity of handovers. The committee guarded a small armory of popular weapons.
Of course the white political fringe dwellers turned up flogging their wretched little rags and free with their advice. These leeches were also contained. This was a blackfellers' show and the gauge was your practical contribution.
So we marched from the town centre to the seat of all wisdom.
And there a ceremony was performed and a symbolic tent carried through the state ranks and placed on the steps of Parliament House. Nobody was touched. We had the numbers and the point was made.
About twenty-eight faced charges. Some got out of it, some got fined, some did time. All but eight.
I'd met Foley, Williams, Craigie, maybe others at a NSW Trades and Labor Council meeting. We were in the gallery. The left put up a resolution demanding all charges be dropped. The usual wrangle and the right pulls the numbers trick.
After some abusive advice to the delegates we left and I asked the others what they were going to do about the charges.
Shorn of ribald adornments the answer was clear cut. Let them go ahead, it's meaningless to us, we're used to it.
So seven blackfellers and me had warrants issued.
So Whitlam swept into office and changed the ordinances and we were innocent again.
So always take a blackfellers advice.
Just one more thing about umbrellas.
That copper who stomped on my toes. I'd like to shove one up his arse and pull it down open.
The blackfellers were restless, even angry.
Legislation, which, Christ help us, would worsen the Aboriginal peoples' lives still further was mooted. Deadly. Someone had to do something. So they did.
As I heard the story ten years on, four of them had a talk to the Party, borrowed some moolah and a motor and headed for Canberra. Still not knowing what to really do, they had some talks with the Trades and Labour Council mob then got into the coolibah. As we all know there's nothing like the piss and some yarndi to get the old cerberals (sick) going. Ideas spew out like nobody's business. Many's the caper that sounds great at 2.00 a.m. and looks like a yard of old bones and dog shit next morning.
It seems they decided on setting up the Aboriginal Embassy on the lawns of Parliament House (the greatest outhouse of them all). Someone had the crash hot idea of taking an old beach umbrella from the back yard of where they were camped. Which they did. And that's how the Embassy got started.
Of course some people can be awful liars.
Bob Pringle rang me and asked if I was busy the week-end.
A few months on and the umbrella had worked its magic and there was a thriving camp. People were being fed, kids looked after and tents and swags hunched round each other. Something was happening.
Very embarrassing.
Foreign policy paranoia was healthy at the time. People took notice. There was talk of some countries recognising the Embassy. Onya Gadaffi! People were busy all over the world whipping up international opinion. An election loomed.
And in the Lodge Billy and Sonia were in deep trouble.
Pringle said that they (the coppers) had pulled the Embassy tent down and smashed up the camp. They (the loony left) were organising the fight back and would I come? Would a duck discharge fecal matter from the rectum? I near did later.
Acting on some administrative ordinances, Billy's mob ordered that this nonsense had to stop. In those days Bill's word was law. As it is today with Bob - as long as you forget Sir Pete Ables, Bondy, the Great White Fish Finger Norman, George Bush and the septic tanks, maybe the Pope (but excluding Indira Ghandi). But then Sir William had his arses he licked in his time as well. And then again, the P.M. of those days had the lovely Sinia who was now famous for the dress she wore to meet Tricky Dick Nixon of the U.S. of A. It was split up the side showing clearly that her legs went right up to her bum.
Where were we?
On the Parliament House lawns, on the site of the torn down Embassy, two hundred souls had gathered. Up went its resurrected spirit (if a spirit is contained in a battered twelve by twelve canvas marquee with side poles and a longer centre one). For a while nothing happened as we waited for a response. Things grew quieter. All sound seemed to stop, as though to listen to itself.
Then a peculiar clumping sound that grew and grew and became sound itself. Nothing else. Only that rhythmic clump.
It was feet. They came around the corner from the back of Parliament House where they had been stationed, supporting the legs, torsos and ugly looking heads of about two hundred coppers. And they were marching towards us. In lines. And they drew up on the roadway in ranks opposite the ragged tent and stopped.
So did the sound again. Complete, absolute, stunned silence.
Really weird.
Then, loud and clear.
"You are hereby ordered under ordinance something, section so and so, to vacate this scene and retire forthwith," or something like that. In other words, PISS OFF! Being contrary bastards we stayed.
About twenty or thirty of us circled the tent. The Inspector barked an order and they circled us. In rings. The pointed tip of the centre pole was dead centre of the target. Dead true. Pringle and me stood at one corner near the door flap, shook hands and told each other not to get arrested.
BULLSEYE!
Talk about lambs led to slaughter, Trev, we were sitting bloody ducks. I mean, fair go. Fair's fair. A smack in the mouth for a kick in the nuts. But they weren't cat-shagging about.
The next thing I know is the Aboriginal Embassy sign falling off the door pole and into my hands and down I went like a sack of potatoes as the number nines, tens and elevenses went over the top. 'Good night, Irene, good night Irene, I'll see you in my dreams'.
I woke, up on my back, yards away from the action. Somehow I still had the sign. Gerrie Willessie and some reverind bloke were looking down and asking if I was alright. Where the tent had stood were piles of rags that might have been clothing. Shoes, ropes, tent poles. It looked like a terrific wind had swept things away, including the people who had been torn out of their clothes and swept away as well. Others came up screaming about what the pigs had done and people being arrested.
I was cold. And so I should have been with only shorts and teeshirt left on that cold Canberra afternoon.
The police had been lined up again on the roadway in ranks. Facing his troops Inspector McKay had his back to me as I faced about four lines of police uniforms.
One of the coppers had a nick on his forehead and a trickle of blood. A T.V camera focussed on him and I went ape stupid.
"Don't take him," I screamed. "Look, look there behind me. Look at what THEY'VE done to the people."
An unknown hand and arm came over my shoulder, pushed me in the back and I was propelled forward. The hand/arm continued up until it reached McKay's head. The heel of the hand hit his neck. He lurched forward, his cap flew off, he turned, pointed a finger at ME and bawled.
"ARREST THAT MAN."
Sorry, Pringle old mate, I did me best not to.
Two coppers hustled my arms up my back and frogged me to the nearest waggon. One opened the door and the other booted me inside.
"Fuckin hell," exploded a voice from the body on which I landed. "Welcome, Comrade," says Williams, "good on yer."
Yair?
That underground holding pen has got to be the coldest I've ever been in. My feet and arms were blueish by the time I was taken upstairs, processed and locked up in the cells. One of the heavy coppers gave my toes some hurry up in the process.
As I found out later some of our mob got really roughed up that night.
Bobby Sykes and Pringle bailed me after midnight, drove me home to Sydney and I subsided into a hot bath with St. Agnes.
I decided to take a couple of sickies.
The big umbrella worked overtime that week.
Canberra was invaded by five thousand land rights activists the following Sunday. They came from all states and territories. From settlements and humpies. From the factories and universities. Black goal releasees and some escapees. And they all came to right a wrong. And they were another gigantic nail in Billy and Sonia's coffin. After twenty-three years the right-wing government was about to crash.
Some of the heavies brought their own methods of persuasion. Like bike chains and evil looking hand made knives. Sling shots, iron bars and nulla nullas, one or two pieces. Long and earnest discussions led to a unanimity of handovers. The committee guarded a small armory of popular weapons.
Of course the white political fringe dwellers turned up flogging their wretched little rags and free with their advice. These leeches were also contained. This was a blackfellers' show and the gauge was your practical contribution.
So we marched from the town centre to the seat of all wisdom.
And there a ceremony was performed and a symbolic tent carried through the state ranks and placed on the steps of Parliament House. Nobody was touched. We had the numbers and the point was made.
About twenty-eight faced charges. Some got out of it, some got fined, some did time. All but eight.
I'd met Foley, Williams, Craigie, maybe others at a NSW Trades and Labor Council meeting. We were in the gallery. The left put up a resolution demanding all charges be dropped. The usual wrangle and the right pulls the numbers trick.
After some abusive advice to the delegates we left and I asked the others what they were going to do about the charges.
Shorn of ribald adornments the answer was clear cut. Let them go ahead, it's meaningless to us, we're used to it.
So seven blackfellers and me had warrants issued.
So Whitlam swept into office and changed the ordinances and we were innocent again.
So always take a blackfellers advice.
Just one more thing about umbrellas.
That copper who stomped on my toes. I'd like to shove one up his arse and pull it down open.
