Here At The End Of Days

*

That languidly handsome boy who's haircut he had paid for only a fortnight before accosted him in the street; and promptly, holding his hand insistently, followed them to the go go bar where they were going to watch a show; Bangkok Boys, the biggest, as they claim, go go boy bar in Thailand. Baw, the second Baw, whispered in his ear: I can get ice, nahm keng, big packet, 2,000 baht, I bring my girlfriend, we can smoke, we can all sleep together, I f... my new girlfriend, you can watch, us all four, we can sleep together. And in another life; only a short time ago, he would have been defenseless against the promise of heightened joy and things he never thought possible. But the new boy was having none of it; shaking his head as if the mere thought of an orgy on ice was too ridiculous, crazy and insane for words and why would any sane person want to do such a thing. The go go boys paraded their wares; there was only one amongst the dozens he might have picked; with the tatoos curling across and down his back and across his stomach, almost touching his pubic hair.

I like girl show, Baw said, and he replied: I know, I know. And they laughed; because they had shared such an insane time together; not so long ago, in the Plaza Hotel, when every night saw them out at the clubs and kareoke bars until dawn and bottles of Black Label, along with many thousands of baht, disappeared like water. He noticed another European, they were so rare in Bangkok at the moment, watching him: the boy with his hand possessively on his leg and the other, astonishingly handsome boy, whispering in his ear as they laughed together at all the things they had done. He relayed the story of how the other Baw had bought him a go go girl; and he knew, of course, that the money he handed over would have been fritted away, at least to some fair degree, on whiskey and girls. It didn't matter. It was the rightthing to do. Time stood out of mind but he could see, circling far above, the wings of the dispossessed circling as the night storms gathered. It might be the rainy season, but it only rained briefly at night; here in the far reaches.

One of the only other Europeans in the bar, a man who could easily pass for an overweight Philip Seymour Hoffman, sat in the far corner of the bar, pushing out his enormous belly as the go go boys played to him, and the performers, when they came on, flashed their erect cocks in his face. But he never seemed to be with anyone; just watching, watching, and he wondered: what's the story man, just pick one, or two. They will take good care of you; even if you are an overweight pig who needs to do something about himself. There were too many occasions when the past was etched on his face. Moi moi moi many days, they had said, losing respect; and now, they say, every time he stumbled: moi. But he was not drunk. I can see it in your face, they would say, you drink too much. Before, before, he would say, not now. And the boy helped him, smiling with approval as every day passed without a cigarette, without so much as a beer, certainly not smoking ice in wild alcohol soaked orgies which left him exhausted for days. Now he was learning Thai, he noticed the words which had already been marked: moody, strange, difficult, troublesome, disturbing, untrustworthy, insincere; as if all those crazy days which passed in a blur had disturbed them all; left them all wondering why, why, why do it to yourself?

So they came home and went to sleep happily enough in each others arms and the pressure of everything seemed to consolidate in a short package of requirements; the need to be loved, the need for company, the pressure to conform, the loneliness of strangers, the desire to be different, unaccustomed as we are... He went to a gay meeting and just as one might expect, there was the kindness of strangers and t he compassion of people who had seen and done everything; and support for the new. If you want what we have, said one, and for a girl like me I knew I wanted this Italian stud's cock and so I kept coming back. And they all laughed. You never heard anything like that at the straight meetings. An old priest told an outrageous story of arriving at a hotel in Venice and the boy asking him what he wanted? A shower, he said. And so the boy took both his and his own clothes off and gave him a shower. And then got dressed again. They all laughed. And he spoke movingly of his crisis with the Catholic church, of his double life, going home to his Buddhist lover, while during the day preaching compassion and understanding.

I know I helped a few gay people die more peacefully in the hospice, and for that I am proud, he said. I told them Jesus loved them, even if they were gay, although I don't know if that is true it helped them. In the end I didn't want anything to do with a church that said to the dying, you are going to hell if you are gay, I didn't want to be a part of any of that, and I wrote a letter to the monsignor, and I quit. And now I don't live a double life, I live a single life. And I've been happier ever since. He made his way through the morning crowds, back from Limpini Park where he had been since the early hours, following the strict meditation practices of the Falun Gong and hearing in the clouds, in the ancient rhymes, in the traditions passed down in isolated monasteries for centuries, for literally millennia, revealed now publicly for the first time, here at the end of days, with the giant centipedes crawling across the rich green of the grass, the water spraying, the children playing, the old people doing their Tai Chi. There wasn't anything like this anywhere else on earth; as the tinkling melodies of the people practising their chorus came from behind and the teachers patiently showed him every move. And he made his way back to the swishy boy in the cafe; and back to the young man in his bed; and how long you stay; when you go home, what you do here? All questions he had no answer to except: I don't want to go home. They looked at him puzzled. But that was the truth. I don't want to go home. Wherever home might be. Home now is a condo in Bangkok, and for him, that was as good as it got.

THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2010/06/25/2937066.htm

The idea had long burned in the minds of some but the final operation was so tightly controlled that its denouement utterly shocked most members of the Labor Party.

Just before the first shot rang out at 7:00pm on ABC News and ABC Online one of the party's elder statesmen Defence Minister John Faulkner was in the middle of a pre-recorded interview for The 7:30 Report.

KERRY O'BRIEN: As we've been sitting here recording this interview, I'm told that ABC News is about to go to air, from Canberra, with a story that there are leadership rumblings, as they put it, in Canberra right now as we speak, that factional leaders are in discussion and counting numbers, as I understand it, with regard to a possible leadership challenge. Are you aware of any potential moves on the leadership of Kevin Rudd tonight, not the moves tonight, but the moves?

JOHN FAULKNER: Well, Kerry, I don't know what's on ABC News. All I know is I've been sitting here talking to you and so it might be on the ABC News, well it's also news to me.

It was news to everyone. In the minutes after 7:00pm, in the offices and restaurants and cafes around the Parliamentary Triangle, the mobile phones of Labor MPs and Senators lit up. In the early stages ministers and MPs rolled out the usual denials, because they honestly believed it was another beat up.

The Member for Reid, Laurie Ferguson said, "I don't know who they are, the ABC knows more than Caucus."

The prime minister was at a function in Parliament House celebrating the 20th year in Parliament for Senator Nick Sherry. Just after 7:00pm many people who were there report that everyone's mobile rang. The prime minister left.

A few tiny flaws in the execution of the assassination plot exposed the final hours of the operation to the arc-lights of the media. Because of the ABC stories, shortly after 7:00pm the halls around the prime minister's office were swarming with journalists and cameras and Julia Gillard's every public movement was being recorded.

There is a novel in this but what follows is one small shard of the plot.

For weeks there had been speculation that the prime minister might be replaced with his deputy. But as long as Julia Gillard remained loyal then without a challenger there could be no challenge.

So there was no genuine threat to Mr Rudd in any real sense until Wednesday. That morning two right-wing powerbrokers, Mark Arbib from NSW and David Feeney from Victoria, went to see Ms Gillard. They were sent away to count.

They returned at noon to say they could deliver a majority of the Right in every state. Ms Gillard was in the game and the challenge was on. But they fretted that the entire plot could come unstuck if word leaked that it was on. So they intended to make their final moves late, to stay under the electronic media radar.

But there are few perfect operations. There are always fingerprints.

Exactly 12 months ago the tip that Godwin Grech might be something more than just a hapless Treasury official came from a scrap dropped during a casual conversation at Aussies Cafe on the ground floor of Parliament House.

The scent of the Gillard challenge came during a chance afternoon encounter with a Labor powerbroker at the same table.

In the midst of an otherwise harmless chat he dropped his voice, scanned the tables for familiar faces and said with an unusual urgency. "Could we win with Julia?"

Pressed to explain, the conversation ended abruptly, "I gotta go thanks for the coffee."

Something was up. Calls to the likely suspects went unanswered until one picked up at 5.30pm.

"What's happening?" I said?

"What do you know?" he replied.

"I know something's going on. What do you know?"

"Wait until after 8:00pm and I'll give you an exclusive."

"But the news goes to air at seven."

"Wait," he said and hung up.

It was an infuriating conversation because it confirmed a serious push against the prime minister by serious players. But there was every chance it could evaporate because everything depended on how Ms Gillard had responded to their advances.

Comparing notes, it emerged that the ABC's Chief Political Correspondent Mark Simkin was also on to the story.

By 6.50pm we had enough to broadcast that there were moves afoot but that it wasn't clear at all whether they were being supported by Ms Gillard. We made it clear in the stories that we were uncertain of her position and deliberately erred on the side of caution.

But it was still an enormous risk. If she had rebuffed the advances then the conspirators would melt back into the shadows and the next day everyone would, again, furiously deny there was anything going on. And, unlike some other operations, there are serious consequences for being seriously wrong in the ABC.

We knew that the first sign that we were wide of the mark would come by way of be an outraged phone call from the prime minister's office to the ABC's bureau chief, Greg Jennett.

That call never came.

Greg and the ABC's tireless chief of staff Simon Johnson began furiously organising resources and dispatching them to the halls and restaurant districts.

In ABC Radio Louise Yaxley was powering through calls and stories and marshalling her team.

ABC TV's Hayden Cooper was trawling the corridors down near the prime minister's office and Lateline's Dana Robertson was tracking down backbenchers.

In Radio Current Affairs Sabra Lane and Samantha Hawley were working the phones and Chief Political Correspondent Lyndal Curtis returned to work from her sick bed.

The new producer for ABC News 24, Michelle Ainsworth, left her children with her husband and returned to work and ABC News Breakfast's Melissa Clarke (who gets to work at 4.30am) was on the phone asking if she should come in.

The rest really is history.

I write all this for two reasons. First, it is a great yarn. Second because the ABC doesn't plaster "exclusive" on every lame rumour and, frankly, does a really poor job banging its own drum.

And I know that in the wash up of this, the story will have 1,000 fathers, as some of the self-basting outlets drown themselves in their own acclaim. That's fine too but I write because I'm bored by reading bile covered tripe in same outlets claiming the ABC doesn't break stories.

The ABC radio news breaks stories almost every hour. AM is the jewel in the crown of a Radio Current Affairs operation that is unique in this country. The ABC Online site is second to none. ABC Local Radio gives a voice to every community on this continent. And ABC TV News and Current Affairs is the most trusted brand in television broadcasting.

I'm proud of my colleagues and the job they do in the large and small parts of the ABC. And, in the end, the proof of the pudding is in the quality of the ingredients.

As one minister told Mark Simkin, "I didn't know about it. But the fact that the ABC was running it meant it had credibility".

Chris Uhlmann is the 7.30 Report's Political Editor.