Nostradamus
Like it or not, old age catches up with us, one way or another. Creaking joints and aching bones become more than just a nuisance. You can swallow enough fish oil until you stink like rotten cod; emu oil by the bucket load, which is far more pleasant and has about as little effect, or you can fall into the trap of believing those ads about glucosamine. Speaking to a friend of mine recently, an older man whom we call “the oracle,” he advised me just to get on with it; use whatever works and try not to get too cranky.
I HAD RESOLVED this year to write some positive articles dealing with serious social issues and I was positively salivating at the prospect of getting stuck into the gambling mentality that afflicts so many folk in our community, especially those who, if truth be known, can least afford it and at the same time, castigate a government, which persists in an almost “open slather” approach to the gambling industry. Research by organizations and a few academics prove quite conclusively that allowing poker machines to be rolled out into areas of what charmingly described as being of lower socio-economic status (SES) is a recipe for disaster: for the individual, family and ultimately the government as a whole. I have mentioned earlier that the first round of Mr. Rudd’s payments to the less fortunate resulted in most of the payment going through poker machines. I think the idea behind the Rudd hand-out was to stimulate the economy but I’m not sure that putting it through poker machines stimulates anything except the profits of the gambling industry and government taxes.
Treasurer Michael Aird harrumphed and carried on about the problem of excessive gambling and its social consequences but when pressed on the subject of pulling poker machines out of low SES areas, there was no fudging his refusal. Like smoking and drinking, gambling provides a significant tax boost for the government. The average mug punter thinks that a few more dollars might bring a big win and having spent some time in casinos and the poker machines watching the faces of those who gamble, you can see signs of desperation. I fully support the efforts of Bishop Chris Jones of Anglicare in his campaign against pokies and all those who have joined him or gone before. The great Lemon once told a friend of mine that you couldn’t legislate against gambling, to which he should have added: “anywhere in Australia.” Talk to some of my mates in the Australian Federal Police and they’ll tell you a few things about gambling; money laundering and dirty politics. As one said to me: “never for into the trap of believing that it can’t happen in little Tasmania.”
I hate to bring academics into any argument because they are only interested in abstract theory these days but there have been some hypotheses that we are living in a “risk” society: that is a society where people are prepared to take risks above and beyond the normal to make ends meet. The usual signs are debt default; increased credit card spending; petty crime and gambling. There is no way known that the government will tackle gambling is a social problem until it becomes so expensive and counterproductive that paying for the casualties costs more than the revenue income. You only have to look at smoking to see that attitudes have changed dramatically because of the health risks. People don’t smoke as much as they used to but the figures for lung cancer are still alarming and there are few things as bad, at least in my eyes, as seeing an extraordinarily pretty young lady standing at a bus stop, outside a shop door or just beyond the precincts of the shopping centre and lighting up. Their enjoyment is obvious as they drag the smoke down into their lungs and in my youth, the popular name for a cigarette was a “gasper” and a break for a cigarette was “going out to have a gasper.” With what we now know on the medical and scientific basis, gaspers have long ceased to be cool and are helping a pattern of addiction that, if unchecked, leads to an early death.
Several people I have known, loved and respected have died of lung cancer. It is a terrible way to go and if ever we needed a more dramatic couple of examples, there was the deathbed video of the film star Yul Brynner, urging us to give it up and more recently, the terrible publicly documented demise of former Premier Jim Bacon. At school, we were shown a film of an autopsy carried out on a smoker and the diseased lungs were shown in glorious technicolour. I don’t suppose Tasmanian schools bother with this type of health education: the attitude of youth is basically thus: “you can’t tell me what to do.” And of course they are absolutely correct. The dedicated smoker will not be deterred by rising prices of cigarettes, nor TV advertisements and promos against smoking. The young have an almost unbelievable belief that they are immortal. If 16-year-olds could know what it’s like to be 60, perhaps a few would change their ideas but I wouldn’t hold my breath. And paradoxically, that brings me to the second part of what I have wanted to say for some time.
It was not that long ago that Premier Bartlett announced his idea of the vision splendid for the centre of Hobart and I must admit that it looked attractive on paper but the city has to be accessible. I have said too many times that the Treacle Tin and Ground Zero are extremely ugly constructions on the way into the city. At least driving in from Kingston, you can occasionally take a quick look at the city as you come down the southern outlet and marvel at its visual appeal. However, both approaches would benefit from a ring road that took log trucks and heavy vehicular traffic around the Hobart and then, we could move in and bulldoze some of the visual excrescences that spoil what is a wonderful city. I suppose it says a great deal about the majority view in Tasmanian politics that roads are built for trucks and heavy transport, which goes a long way to explaining the demise of the rail system and the existence of potholes that would swallow a Mini.
Of late, The Mercury has devoted some attention to problem areas in the city, including The Elizabeth Street Mall, the adjoining bus mall and St. David’s Park. It would be nice to be able to say that spending some time in The Elizabeth Street Mall can be a pleasant experience. There are occasionally times when it can be but far too many when it is a test of endurance, health and fitness. For some reason, cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air and rather than being a place to sit and rest weary limbs, the pedestrian has to be extremely careful who he looks at and how. A wrong look or sideways glance brings out the nasty streak in an obnoxious teenager who wants to know: “you gotta (sic) problem?” It is best to ignore such behavior but if backed into a corner, I would be concerned about my primal instincts taking over and then having to explain to the police, provided I could find an officer of the law, why it was necessary to inflict violence on a teenager.
The fact of the matter is that the Mall is inhabited by buskers, beggars and I’m told, by bogans, the latter being blamed in newspaper letters for every imaginable ill within the city. I have to be frank and say that I don’t know what a bogan looks like. Is there a style of dress that distinguishes them from ordinary teenagers or is being a bogan a state of mind? Any replies for my edification can be directed to the editor, who I’m sure will pass them on, or alternatively you can blog at the end of this article.
I think in my day they would be called yobbos – young men with basically very little to do except gawp at passing girls and make suggestions that today scarcely be called lewd, crude or in poor taste. A much younger sibling of mine provided some hint of the type of “chat up” or “pick up” lines that would be used today. He confessed to me that at the age of 40, he had even tried himself and approached an attractive young lady with the question: “Hello darling, do you fuck?” I’m told that it actually works but it didn’t for him because the snappy reply was: “Yes but not with you.” That sort of behavior is light years removed from somewhat shyly saying: “You’re a grouse looking Sheila, how about having a drink with me?” Several friends of mine have daughters who are younger than my two but I certainly know what my youngest would faced by the question that I’m told is illustrative of the current generation. She would punch his lights out and kick him in the ribs with her Doc Martin’s. I didn’t raise her to be violent but apparently it’s a survival technique and enough said.
What I’ve never understood of the gratuitous comments and insults hurled in a person’s direction as they wander through the Mall, amiably or in a hurry. I usually ignore them but I suppose that it is inevitable that one day, some idiot will pick on me when I’m not in a very good mood. I hope they have health insurance. What does this outpouring of filth; verbal excreta and the like prove beyond a limited IQ; social maladjustment and simply nothing better to do with their time. Mind you, it’s not only homo sapiens boganus that gives cause for surprise or offence in Hobart. Like the Premier, I would like the city to be open and friendly, with spaces for various activities of a physical nature. I’m quite sure a tan jogging track around St. David’s Park would be welcomed by many public servants wanting to keep fit and strong in order to carry home their wallets. But jogging is a very serious proposition and I’ve seen some sights that make me wish my eyes came with a built-in movie camera. From the lean and the gaunt, perspiring heavily and forever looking at their watch wondering whether this is a new PB to the obviously unfit, male and female alike, bouncing and joggling trying for heaven only knows what. In my youth, I ran and later enjoyed orienteering and am quite prepared to believe my doctor when he tells me that jogging is not necessarily good for the health. In one terrible month over 20 years ago, some of my staff decided to run in the Frankston to Melbourne Marathon or whatever they call it. Without exception, they were all fit and used to running distances. It was a hot day and an extremely fit young golfer fell by the wayside and was taken to hospital only to find that he had a minor heart problem of which he’d been unaware. Another fell to the ground vomiting and was taken away by ambulance and a third was taken into hospital and not expected to live because he had suffered that extreme condition known in the vernacular as muscle melt-down. He was in a coma for a month but eventually recovered but was never the same again mentally or physically. I know the dreaded hypnotic effect of running; the adrenaline rush and the desire to push on faster and harder.
As you get older, you know when to stop. I mention this in passing because of an anniversary. One of “my” runners was exercising in a park during lunchtime a month or so after the big race. He was powerfully built, exercised regularly but of fair complexion and always wore a sun hat – not a baseball cap but a proper toweling hat with a brim and like me, on really hot days, he would soak it in water, wring it out and it generally made the conditions tolerable for a while. My poor dear friend Lloyd dropped dead in the park. When I went to his funeral, a friend of his wife, whom I rather fancied, said to me in a very angry fashion: “why didn’t you look after him better?” I think that upset me more than the funeral because I prided myself on treating my staff as human beings, with all their frailties and weaknesses as well as their strengths. I seem to recall that the song: “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother” was popular at that time although written much earlier. And at Easter, I try to remember that everyone is my brother and act accordingly.
So, back to the Premier and his open city concept: I have felt more challenged physically in the bus mall. I have also seen some sights that made my jaw drop coming from behavior by young adults from expensive schools. The hand inside a girl’s blouse is common enough and quite unremarkable these days, (the dirty, filthy, lucky devils and the girls are as bad) but as you weave through the smoke of tobacco and the occasional joint, to be confronted by a couple having sex quite openly surprised me to say the least. I have seen things go on in that Mall which are truly mind-boggling but I haven’t seen too many policemen on patrol. Both the bus mall and Elizabeth Street, Mall are located only a short distance from police headquarters and yet, the number of people writing into the newspapers about the dangers of both areas is astonishing.
I have no particular axe to grind in relation to Tasmania Police. By and large, I consider them to be among the best in Australia. Certainly they are a lot more courteous and friendly, depending on the situation, than their counterparts on the Big Island to the North. I don’t know whether they are armed with tasers and if not, why not? It’s far better than having to shoot someone or rely on the vagaries of the capsicum spray. I do worry about the diminutive size of some of the females in the police force. However well-trained they are, there is an old saying that a good big man will beat a small good man any day and that applies to the female of the species. These young constables should all spend part of their time patrolling the Elizabeth Street Mall, the bus mall and St. David’s Park. The lawns outside Parliament House and diagonally across from the Cathedral also need regular checks. It doesn’t require rocket science or extra sensory perception to know when a drug deal is going down or physical violence is on the cards.
Lest I praise our police too much, I would say that the spokesman who have appeared on TV in relation to the road toll have been responsible and caring. They are a far cry from a few years ago when a blue-suited red-faced senior officer would warn the public about driving habits. I’d like to remind the police just gently, that they are not the law; they are there to uphold the law and deal with a variety of situations from the minor to the tragic. I certainly don’t envy those policemen who have to call and tell a parent that their child has been killed in a road accident or a fight. I’ve been there and I’ve done that and it doesn’t matter how many times you find yourself in that situation, it very rarely gets better. The so-called road blitzes are common to all states but they were imported from Victoria, courtesy of a former Chief Commissioner. There is nothing worse in the world when driving than being confronted by a copper engaged in traffic duties even when you’re stone cold sober and driving responsibly. At Christmas, you know that he or she would sooner be at home with family and friends and at Easter, probably the same and I can tell you, a copper rostered on for such duties doesn’t have an easy time of it. As far as I can gather, at least we have been spared the quota system beloved of the Victoria Police. I had friends among the plods and senior officers alike and over time, developed a great deal of sympathy for some of the rotten jobs they had to do, especially in the field of domestic violence and eviction of tenants on a magistrate’s order and above all attending fatal road accidents. It is rare to see police patrolling on foot anywhere these days.
Like many of Premier Bartlett’s other ideas, a more open city is praiseworthy and I’ll pass on the matter of knocking over a few buildings. But for a city to be open, it must be secure: people must feel safe. And of the little social research carried out in Tasmania, we have a grossly disproportionate population of people who feel scared and insecure. A more visible police presence costs money, irrespective of whether we are talking about my pet subject, road safety, or the safety of members of the general public. The higher risk of fear probably has something to do with an aging population but does that make it any more acceptable? I suggest not and while I’m not a great believer in certain tactics tried in other countries, it would be an interesting exercise for the police to seal off the Elizabeth Mall at each end and exits along the way and do a random stop and search operation now and then. Those who have nothing to worry about need not worry but on my visits to town, I can’t help thinking that from observations in the Mall there should be a full-time police presence and regular patrols, day and night.
When you get the money they cry? A simple answer: restore Parliament to its proper size; freeze MPs salaries for two years and desist from purchasing expensive imported vehicles for public servants. And while you’re at it, start sacking the Grey Council – that vast, unnamed, amorphous aggregation of advisers and spin doctors that cost far more and for less effect than politicians that do their jobs and regular police patrols through those areas of the city I’ve mentioned. I’d like to say “Bring it on!” But I know it’s not going to happen. Not yet and possibly not in my lifetime: I hope I’m wrong.
Nostradamus
