Spent a fair bit of today wondering whether The Bug’s reader would be interested in hearing the biggest cunt act I ever pulled in my six decades in journalism.

I’ll take that head movement as a nod so let’s go back to November 11, 1975. That’s right! Where does a half-a-century go, eh?

Here’s the scene: I’ve just started the afternoon/night subbing shift at the Warwick Daily News strategically based in Warwick when the news came through that that fucking, drunken, Tory-loving turd of an oxygen thief, our governor-general John “And last of all I’d like to thank the horse” Kerr had sacked Gough Whittam and put Malcolm “Tammy has one and Malcolm is one” Fraser in his place.

I did the only thing I could do – and I’d repeat it exactly the same today – was to alert my editor that, sorry, I’ve got to go! Not the required months’ notice. Out the door in a flash. Left the poor bastard in the lurch – and he was a really nice fella – and drove straight down to Brisbane.

I reckon most scribes would be able to dredge up fairly quickly the worst cunt act they’ve ever pulled but mine was pretty awful, I think my reader might have to agree.

So in my little Honda Civic that I’d bought a year earlier to give Johannes Bjelke-Petersen a dreadful fright in the state seat of Barambah did I rush to Brisbane.

I spent almost of all the following campaign weeks as a volunteer in Labor’s Ross Street, Newstead, HQ, writing media releases for candidates we knew had no fucking hope after, as Donald Horne wrote in Death of the Lucky Country: “Never before has a vice regal entity acted in a way that so favoured one side of politics and so disadvantaged the other”. Bit of paraphrasing there.

But I want to share the sad moments I remember most. And that was to drive out to the old Brisbane domestic airport and pick up blokes who, days before, had been ministers of the crown with all the power and privilege that had come with holding the numbers to control the House of Representatives.

It’s the way our Westminster-based system had always worked until the red-faced claret-overloaded fucknuckle Kerr struck, as the Palace papers later revealed, after he had been seeking advice from the tampon-replacing Prince Charles and his mummy, the lady much adored by Malcolm “every Australian is an Elizabethan” Turnbull. That was before Kerr told Fraser of his plans and hid him at the back of Yarralumla before bringing down the axe on an unsuspecting Whitlam’s three years in office.

Back to the airport. I still have vivid memories of these former Whitlam ministers standing alone by the carousel, all with the sort of thousand-yard stare that a soldier on the western front would have used. No staff. No advisers. No spin doctors.

Shocked, dispirited, discarded men. Picked up about a half a dozen of them, from memory. One tall, shattered, bastard who could hardly fit in the Civic.

So to all my friends and associates – some now no longer with us and I have no idea if they went up, down or sideways – who argued that the election that followed Kerr’s villainy showed our system of democracy was working well, go fuck yourselves with a rubber hose!

From what’s left of my memory, The Bulletin had ready to print an edition of Fraser on the steps of the old Parliament a little bit tired and emotional and accompanied by a heading that said “Man in a Muddle.

That’s right, reader. The Opposition was about to cave in on blocking supply and you’ve probably already guessed I wouldn’t have minded another term or two of Whitlam. Australia deserved it.

After half a term of Whitlam kicking into the wind with admittedly a few own goals thrown in, that cunt Kerr called the game off when prospects for Labor were starting to look much better in the second half. (Hint: the Tories kept Bill Hayden’s Budget)

So to all of youse out there who still think Kerr acted properly and fairly and executed his duties honourably, hop down to Bunnings, find the most inflexible garden hose available – and the longest – and go fuck yourself repeatedly with it.

Don Gordon -Brown

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