May Day March Sydney, New South Wales Sunday 4 May 2014

MAY DAY MARCH SYDNEY 2014

And this is what it is all about! Workers, families, people of all ages, all cultures coming together to march with a number of different causes and a good representation of unions both state and federal. And not a politician to be seen...

This photograph is self explanatory, the tories destroying an inner city community because having workers living in prime real estate sticks in their craw. Dollars over community, peoples lives and another nail in the coffin of our supposed egalitarian, "we honour our battler's" myth-as long as they don't occupy saleable land at Miller's Point that is.

 As on every year for the past five years I choose to march with the Maritime Union of Australia-the MUA. This is in part with my seafaring connections of my Geordie ancestors, my father and brother. And I am proud to be associated with their history of struggle. They have had their fair share of fights, lock outs and achieved good working conditions for their members. I take my hat off to the oldies in the MUA, some of them  must be over eighty and they still march and one led the chant all the way down George Street. And our flag bearers seem to be getting younger, it can only be good for the future. It was a great day, the sun shone, the whole street outside the State Parliament rippled with flags.  I reckon, with the Abbott government, the turn out this year was at least double if not triple last year. Good to see the Health Service Union out in force claiming back the pride stolen from them. As always the Fireys pipe band was a joy to march behind.

Then there was this mob below attaching themselves to the side of the march-what did they stand for? No less then White Australia for the Australians! Please...give us a break...

Ukip clones? Party for freedom?

After a bit of banter they were seen off following a confrontation with a group of anarchists. Got to love them (the anarchists-not the drongo's in white) and the Socialist Action kids. They are never afraid to put a foot forward on issues around racism, workers and human rights. The anarchists in their dirty black and red gear, legs like pipe cleaners are a formidable and battle hardened bunch of activists. But the fascist freedom party or what ever they call themselves  like Ukip in the UK, really, they were not worth the energy spent on them and their narrow focus of the world; they miss the point of this march and were there because it was their right to associate and stand where ever they chose. They had bottle mind, four of them at a march of five thousand plus, many of our unionists are tough roosters. But in case they did not get the message it is the International Workers Day. 

All causes, Kurds, Syrians, Turks, Kurds, Iranians, Chinese, Koreans...the list is endless



And I can't go past this gentleman here with his wheelie walker and his heartfelt sign. Advertising Malcolm Fraser's book and I like the sign's poetry.

Likewise, this year the only attacks from the onlookers was a man so out of it he was having difficulty standing. The tragedy is it will be people like him, he looked as if he was sleeping rough, are the very people this Government will remove any vestige of a safety net from.


Reflecting on the march and these thoughts I owe to the Greek organisation from Marrickville. Thanks for the conversation brothers and sisters. What Abbott and Hockey are about is introducing the austerity measures used in Greece, Portugal and Spain. They reminded me, in Greece they cut the workers to the bone. Out went wages, conditions, pensions, sick leave, holiday pay, permanent jobs. Ability for all people to access universal health care, education, housing (Millers Point comrades!) In came the casualisation of labour, astronomic youth unemployment and a bleak future for the majority, most who were already doing it tough. They told a story that summed up the heartlessness of this approach. The introduction of tolls on all major roads, now people cannot afford to get back to visit their villages. Another smashing of real community infrastructure-the family structure and the ability to feed the roots of where you come from. And who has benefited from the austerity measures? The same Fat Cats that caused the shit to hit the fan in the first place. Tony Abbott and Joe Hockey's cronies. And they have the gall to attack us workers for asking too much...they want us all "to share the pain"-in their case of supporting their expanding bellies and groaning pockets.

And just for the record, this morning only SBS on line seems to have covered this march. They say there was over 7000 of us there. Sounds about right. Good photograph and reasonable story. So enjoy the pictures I took, it was a great day, thanks comrades and remember 

WORKERS UNITED! WILL NEVER BE DIVIDED!

Jack Common: Kiddar's Luck and "The Ampersand"

These novels are so rich in the writing and the stories they tell. They crackle with humour. "Kiddar's Luck" is set at the beginning of the 20th Century and follows one family and a child's progress. It is autobiographical but very much a novel. It covers life in an industrial, poor community with big extended families feuding, laughing and loving through all their days. On streets and in middens it is all exposed for public view and discussion; the drinking, the brawling, the eating and the coming together and the disintegration of a family with drink and the stress of hard work, and too many children. But Mr Common has a sharp eye and a sense of humour to match. What could be dreary is instead a story of hope, courage and love. The "Ampersand" carries on the Kiddar's story but in a slightly darker tone. I am pleased Mr Common wrote in Geordie as much as possible. It is a rich part of our culture. I picked this up second hand as it is hard to get otherwise. Why begs the question. It is a good as anything produced by the angry generation. It sits easily alongside the domestic novels of George Orwell and politically as astute as that writer at his best.  It is evident (from his dairies) that Gorge Orwell (Eric Blair) thought highly of Jack Common's work and they shared socialist beliefs and in supporting working people to write or at least be represented in the literature of the day.

Jack Common (from dust cover photograph)

Film: The Classics: "The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie" Luis Bunel circa 1972

Mr Bunel appears in ma coffee

Right get yourself back to 1972, when this film was released. Mainstream cinema had the "Godfather", Poseidon Adventure", a "Shaft" sequel. But Europe had its heavy weight directors turning out films to think by, absorb and feel, well a bit better for exposing the eyeballs to. Pasolini, Visconti, Jean Luc Goddard, the chilling, slightly deranged Herzog and the, oh so up-tight Fassbinder's "Ludwig" was a 1972 release. Then there was this movie, "The Discreet Charm". Luis Bunel had two major periods of film making. His Spanish period and the post Franco-French period and this falls into the Gallic period. There were no special effects labs tinkering with edits. To produce impact, it was the director/cinematographer and cameras that produced the "special effects". I remember the plot of this film as basically being a group of people trying to get together to have lunch and these get togethers spinning out of tangent. Lunch never seemed to make the entirety. Or coffee ran out, followed by water not available and the restaurant closing because there has been a death in the family. Get the drift. A cut of everyday with dream sequences heightened a hallucinatory effect, underscored by repetitive, at times banal conversation that would suddenly launch off left a field somewhere completely unexpected. It was certainly mind boggling in the seventies. It was cinematic surrealism at its best, ably led by the brilliant, very watchable, Fernando Rey. I can remember seeing it three times on the trot to try and understand the plot. There is one, but think Philip Glass-repetitions on a theme. In its time and place it was up there with the best European masters of cinema.

So does it last the distance? Not quite. When you remove the shock of the unexpected, surrealism tends to look a bit of a grandiose statement (think Dali-they must have knocked the socks of people first exposed to the concept-now you think clever genius painter but it doesn’t feed the soul, least wise not mine). Special effects aka Weta and co have spoiled us for what we see. We may not put in so much effort to see where a film is going when the plot is so layered. I found it hard to sustain watching the film again in its entirety but trying to look at it as a statement/observation of its time, French bourgeoisie society, it’s not a bad social commentary and captures the hedonistic seventies. But I quibble, enjoy the fertile and political mind (Bunel) behind this.

Tony Benn having a jolly good think about this film

Belgo Geordie readin an writin the' classics collection TWO: The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner by Alan Sillitoe

Three shillings! 

Tom Courtenay as Colin in the lead role is excellent. Alan Stillitoe's novel of the 1960s borstal boy is a classic and the film does the book justice. It is not comfortable watching. If you were a lad in those times and coming of age in a working class community disintegrating under the new wealth, new identity (its where being a teenager had its roots-self identity kicking out against old people-our parents) then this resonates. I saw the double standards of kids from my neck of the woods being sent down while richer kids were sent abroad or nod, nod, wink, wink to magistrates to know it was and still is a weighted system if you are not born to the right class of parents. And then there is the added insult for all of us ever forced to endure that event; cross country running. Yeah, like Colin, it was often time to switch out of the dirge of daily life and be on your own but it was also often frigging cold, and try running five miles with more mud on your plimsolls than Clacton has on its beaches. Yes, this film certainly had the memory bank ticking over. A good film but not one for sixties "Wasn't Britain luverly then" nostalgia freaks or those who like to feel inspired with heartfelt joy of being alive. The book? A collection of short stories and a poem "Rats". A deserved modern classic in the kitchen sink drama realism of post war writing. A generation kicking against the pricks and still readable. In the main story, the working class lad unplugged. It is a great collection of short reads.

And how we looked in the real sixties

Listnin: Prog Rock and dreams of our youth: ATOM HEARTY MA

Are yew looking' at me bum?

Adam Dale, he was my best mate circa 1969-70. He was a ginga cool kid living in Welwyn Garden City with his beautiful art teacher mum. Adam with monkey ripple soled shoes said "Here listen to this". Pink Bloody Floyd! Not that Pink Floyd was then what it is today. No big inflatable pig to match inflating egos, big budgets and subsequent big-ego fall-outs. Now back to 1970, Adam knew I had a bad, bad secret aka a John Sebastian (with goofy tie-dye cover) album and a copy of “Bridge Over Trubled Waters”. He had “Trout Mask Replica”, vinyl by Matching Mole and Soft Machine. Get the picture? He was so cool, while I was still a wannabe. 

Belgo Geordie proud owner of a John Sebastian album

On first listening to Atom Heart Mother I was not impressed. No sir! I thought “what a by-product of playing with yourself!” Being a lad after all and expert on such matters. But shucks Adam-you left me with a life sentence of listening to this and loving it. It was experimental, is multi-layered, mood enhancing without illicit substances and in parts-it rocks. It is an album of two sides and the first "Atom Heart Mother" definitely puts the pomp in pomposity. However, that is no negative as it works well. In particular that unlike many "concept" albums of the late sixties/early seventies the guitar driven symphony of Floyd takes you on a meditation of soaring moods and even the added sounds of car engines, gunfire etc. combined with the choral to create a full piece that is satisfying to the ear and brain-not to mention test drive of whether the sound system can still do the business. I miss the days when it was a thrill to hear sound go from side to side, speaker to speaker as the floor vibrated and the needle threatened to jump of the vinyl and leave gouges that seemed to add fuzz to the whole atmosphere of the listening experience. The second side is a series of songs which work in the folk rock idiom. "If" is one of those best sun drenched acoustic songs of the sixties-like Nick Drake on that traditional one English summer's day of the year. Even "Alan's psychedelic breakfast" has you reaching for the marmalade.

This was the first Pink Floyd album I owned and has remained over time a firm favourite. It makes a good bookend with "Meddle" before the forces of the "Dark Side" gathered on the top of the pops concept album horizon. 

And the Hipgnosis cover is a classic in itself.  And below...Belgo Geordie after one thousand listenings of Atom Heart Mother...you know it makes sense...get some proper Floyd down ya...

And below...after one thousand listens it was bloody transformation inta Robert Plant like...

Ulysses by one Jimmy Joyce: Belgo Geordies Readin an Writin page 1

The very tome read by Belgo Geordie

Ulysses by a lesser known Irish writer, Mr James Joyce

Started Ulysses twice at age of seventeen and then at eighteen and hoyed it both times after two hundred pages. I decided then I was obviously not clever enough to do it justice. My elder brother, a working class intellectual, sneered at my lack of mental stamina. And so be it. It does require stamina, fortitude, determination and enough supplements to stun a bull rhino to get through all 934 pages. So at the age of fifty eight I embarked on a further journey to read each and every page-well up to page 503 after that it was switch to speed auto read. Ok, so completed around 1920 (the novel-not the reader) it is and remains for obvious reasons a classic. Mr Joyce was a smart and creative force. Dublin in a day and everyman's journey (Leopold Bloom) is a worthy vehicle to drive this opus.

The observation

The elephant in the tome is that after a while it becomes as tedious to read as a shopping list of facts and fancies. And I sank beneath the syrup of clever use of language; sufficient to scream enough! Its parts, the glittering pearly stuff do not justify the mad-dog doggerel, bulk of the whole. I lack a classical education, well ok, education full stop. I am self-taught but widely read. From the Dandy to the Illiad but Ulysses? "War and Peace" it is not. Me brother loved it because in general it excludes clarts like  me. He, with a brain like a combined harvester on steroids could churn through and admire multiple levels of thought, process and he got a lot of the literary in-jokes. Me, I just wiped me brow, sweated on, rolled up more of me sleeve and wondered when the agony would end. Prostatitis of the grey matter aching in areas that had not had a thought pass by in a long while. When the last page turned, did I feel a better man for it? Not a bit. But good on you Mr Joyce, you kicked the shite out of the traditional novel and for that we ought to hold you in gratitude. But will I read it for fun at ninety? Don't hold your breath. Now did I say Dandy? That was a grand read and the smell of fresh printers ink as you stood outside the newsagents freezing yer developing bollocks off in a North Sea gale? Desperate Dan astride a cow horn pie-that's more like it!