Jetty Road Weekly Blog 25/05/25
- jettyroad09
- May 25
- 4 min read
Reservoir Dingoes
by
Quentin Tasmantino
A down under sequel to cinema’s most notorious Mexican Stand Off
Mr Pink (Representing the CEO’s of current AFL Clubs) points his loaded gun at the AFL: “We are not playing down there and giving up players unless you give us something really special”
Mr White (Representing the AFL. How else do you describe them? Pure as the driven snow) points his loaded gun at the Tasmanian Premier:
“It’s a roof and new stadium at Mac Point. Otherwise forget it”
Mr Orange (The Tasmanian Premier) points his pretend loaded gun at the electorate:
“It’s the Mac Pont 1 design take it or leave it”
Mr Blue (Representing at least half of the Tasmanian electorate) points his loaded gun toward the Premier and the next election:
“We will leave it thanks.”
Mr Brown (Representing the other half of the electorate) points his loaded gun toward the Premier (and the opposition) and the next election: “We will take it”
Mr Blonde (Representing the Legislative Council) points his loaded gun at the Premier:
“It’s too expensive. The costs will overrun. We won’t support it”
How will this play out? When will they discover Mr Orange’s gun is not really loaded? Is he already mortally wounded? Is Mr White a psychopath?
We asked Mr Tasmantino. He played a dead bat. “You have to go and watch the movie” he said.
The Numbers
He was the ultimate number’s man.
The indispensable grubby underbelly of Party politics
In my first job as a mature graduate in a Not For Profit organisation the Chair was a union man through and through. Other board members came from business and the Alcohol and Drug Foundation. I was about to experience some very harsh lessons. First up the insidious politics of North and South. Decisions made by my Northern employers would sometimes be overturned by their Southern counterparts on a whim. They were the overarching body and dominated by the Foundation. But they did not control the funding for my operation. Funding which they coveted with a barely disguised avarice. Having a union background my initial loyalties lay with the chair. My disillusionment was swift. We had a realistic opportunity of hosting a workplace forum. A number of the business board members were supportive and we planned to discuss it at our next meeting. It was not to be. Indeed it was not even put to a vote. When I approached the chair afterwards he simply said: “We didn’t have the numbers.” I was gobsmacked. No discussion. No attempt at persuasion. Just brutal mathematics. A minor glitch in my life. A devastating time honoured Labor/Union assassination for Ed Husic and Mark Dreyfus.
Myrtle and Mrs Dunn
Egalitarian Australia did not grow out of the gardens of Potts Point and Toorak.
They were two old weatherboard houses side by side . Weather browned hardy dwellings that had taken on the character of those who lived in them. My Grandmother was always referred to as Mrs Dunn outside of family. Even among her closest acquaintances. She in turn would refer to her next door neighbour as Mrs Bennet. But not so the rest of the Rosebery community. We first encountered her as very young children. My grandmother’s house had a semi-detached laundry and bathroom connected by a roofed cover way open on her neighbour’s side. My brother Peter and I would have been about 4 and 5. No sooner had we stepped down into the cover way when a rasping shrill voice arrested us on the spot. “Mrs Dunn! Mrs Dunn!” Across the top of the paling fence a wild woman’s face with tousled witchy hair, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth and eyes with dark circles etched into tanned weather beaten skin sized us up and repeated her refrain. We fled. There was no real emergency. Myrtle was after a cup of sugar for which my grandmother was happy to oblige. Two more different neighbours you could never hope to find. My grandmother. Teetotaller. Non-smoker. Church goer. Early riser. Friend and helpmate to the nuns and the priest across the road. Myrtle. Party goer, smoker, late riser and in the idiom of the day regarded as a bit of a character. In Rosebery in my time there was only ever one Myrtle. One of her most legendary feats occurred after disembarking from the train at Barkers Crossing upon returning from a dance in Zeehan. As my mother recounted it Myrtle had stopped to relieve herself before crossing the Stitt foot bridge only to lose her balance and tumble into the river. Her husband Toddler jumped in after her. A river I might add as cold and dark in summer as in winter. They were both fished out unharmed. Perhaps saved as much by the spirits consumed than the efforts of their rescuers. Both of these women had raised large families during the depression. Had known real hardship. In spite of their differences there was never ever any ridicule. Yes there was gossip and amusing anecdotes - but never overt and never mean. When my grandmother died my four siblings and I did not collectively return to Rosebery until some years later. We found ourselves outside our grandmother’s house just on dusk when Myrtle suddenly appeared beside us. She immediately began a fierce interrogation not recognising any one of us. Eventually we were able to mollify her. She then turned and headed back to her house. Her parting words uttered with the deepest respect. “Mrs Dunn lived in that house”. She did.
Song: West Coast Mining Town - lyrics Geoffrey Miller. Song Tony Newport
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