It's been pouring, more rain in the last 48 hours than in the last five months; dust washed away. Former leader of the Labor Party Mark Latham was in Campbelltown Court today. I am fascinated by him. He was described as a house husband. He went apeshit at a Telie photographer back in January. The figure he cut in court today, grim, gaunt, nobody but paid lawyers for company; going through the process in a tortured way. He had been the great white hope, so to speak, of the Labor Party, after its last Prime Minister, Paul Keating, with his outlandishly aristocratic leanings, led the party up its worst garden path in history. Excuse me Mr Keating, Mr Keating, the academics would cry at endless tax funded conferences; I agree with every word you say.
But Latham was a different story; and for a while struck a chord as a real person in a bullshit game. It's hard to imagine now; history and politics having moved so fast, that Howard had been rattled by Latham, a big man. The room was darkened and he pleaded consent. The previous case was a driving charge. He sat next to a boy with gell in his hair, one of the many troubled young men that frequent the court everyday. Things were crying out for release. Time was clutching him and he knew he had to get by.
They have passed an ordinance or whatever they're called banning drinking in the streets of Redfern, all except for the Block. Which has upset some, saying that just means all the drinkers will go there. But what do you do with a band of street alcoholics, white black or brindle?
Some stories, though humorous, were better not told. We had been warned. We had been marked. They were our merry band, not so merry.
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