Chapter 4 - Queensland Political Culture

Queensland political culture formed an intriguing, often uncomfortable backdrop to my youth. 

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https://www.robpyne.com.au/about/queensland-political-culture/

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Chapter 4 Queensland Political Culture The first section subtitled A Queensland Upbringing. Queensland political culture formed an intriguing, often uncomfortable backdrop to my youth. Yet despite this, life continued to offer me the enjoyment and opportunities of a relaxed country upbringing. Indeed, it would be hard to imagine a more enjoyable school environment than Gordon Vale State High. The school had a number of two-story buildings with expansive green playing fields and native bushland at the rear. However, my years there were marked by unremarkable achievement, both academically and athletically. Instead of excelling in these conventional areas, I devoted considerable energy to grappling with life's bigger questions, trying to comprehend the world and my place in it. This period was defined by two persistent traits, chronic self-doubt and a stubborn resistance to authority. My father Tom, as mayor of the Mulgrave Shire, occupied a prominent position in our local community. His meetings with Queensland political figures, including government ministers and even the Premier, only heightened my adolescent rebellion against the establishment. Looking back, I can't say whether my rebellion targeted my father's authority or Queensland's autocratic political establishment. Perhaps both. The state's ultra conservative politics certainly provided ample justification for dissent. Those teenage years at Gordon Vale State High pulse with life's raw intensity. First love, first beer, first joint. Rules existed to be broken, whether behind the wheel of a car or a strider motorbike. Risking your life when so much of it lays ahead of you was not an irony lost on me. Nor was this recklessness unique to me. I attended too many funerals during Year 12 and beyond, mourning schoolmates lost, mainly in road accidents. My fierce individualism clashed strangely with growing political awareness. While I cherished non-conformity, I could see that when individuals were left to their own means for survival and advancement, the wealthy property owning class would always prosper. On the other hand, those who had nothing to sell but their labour would always struggle. This understanding shaped my belief in government's vital role to redress in balance and extend opportunity to the marginalized. I championed collective approaches where state services met genuine need. Yet everywhere I looked, the political tide flowed fiercely in the opposite direction, both nationally and globally. Queensland Politics and the Age of the Individual. The political landscape of the 1980s was fundamentally shaped by theories associated with neoliberalism. Neoliberal policies promoted the notion of the individual as the main social and economic actor in society. Indeed, for neoliberals, the notion of community and collective action is seen as a negative. Individual choice within a capitalist economy is believed to deliver superior outcomes. This ideology originated with Thatcher and Reagan. Indeed, if communism represented one political extreme, neoliberalism constituted its polar opposite. The movement found its most influential champions in British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and US President Ronald Reagan. Thatcher famously articulated this worldview in a 1987 interview when she said, There's no such thing as society. There are individual men and women, and there are families. No government can do anything except through people, and people must look after themselves first. It's our duty to look after ourselves. This declaration epitomized the neoliberal rejection of collective responsibility in favour of radical individualism. Australia was at the time governed by the ALPs Bob Hawk and Paul Keating for most of the 1980s. They also implemented neoliberal policies, albeit in a gentler form. This included the selling off of national public assets such as the Commonwealth Bank, Telecom and Qantas, while introducing Medicare. Government departments were reformed under a corporate guise, resulting in the loss of staff and services. The language and rhetoric of the government was inclusive, however, the harsh reality was that during the 1980s Australia saw a massive increase in inequality. Queensland politics. Queensland political culture was also impacted by neoliberal policies during the 1980s, including the privatization and corporatization of state assets. However, the state political scene at this time cannot be seen outside the dominance of Jobiocki Peterson's government. As a young man, the only premier I had ever known was Jobiocki Peterson. Corruption was widespread in Queensland. Sex work and illegal gambling were widely practiced, and much of the police corruption stemmed from profits made from those industries. Police were paid handsomely by those who ran brothels and gambling dens to look the other way. Queensland's social conservatism clashed sharply with my own beliefs, which were distinctly radical. I had no respect for Joe or his government. When protesters rallied against the all-white Springbok rugby tour of 1971, Joe declared a state of emergency and authorised the use of force against protesters. Bjockey Peterson famously proclaimed, The day of the political street march is over. Anybody who holds a street march, spontaneous or otherwise, will know they're acting illegally. Don't bother applying for a march permit, you won't get one. That's government policy now. Joe Bj Peterson, a staunch conservative, held the distinction of being Queensland's longest-serving Premier, governing from 1968 to 1987. Born in New Zealand in 1911, he entered politics in 1947 as a National Party MLA for Nanango. Biocchi Peterson was an authoritarian leader who relied on a notoriously corrupt police force to maintain power. Dissenters, who took to the streets in protest, often faced brutal police repression. Many Queenslanders remained willfully ignorant of the poor state of democracy under his rule. As one account notes, some suspected malfeasance but found it easier to look the other way. Others happily walked this path with Joe, totally endorsing what he and his police were doing. This tacit complicity became impossible to ignore after the ABC journalist Chris Masters exposed systemic corruption in the landmark Four Corners documentary The Moonlight State. Masters' reporting revealed a shocking level of official and police corruption. This marked the beginning of the end for Joe and his National Party government. The long era of authoritarianism under Joe Biocchi Peterson came to an end in 1989 when a Royal Commission was established to investigate police and government corruption in Queensland. Chaired by Tony Fitzgerald, this landmark investigation became forever known as the Fitzgerald Inquiry. Just as the Hanlon Labor government had stomped down on political protest and left-wing activists like Fred Paterson, the Jobycki Peterson government used the powers of the state to shut down dissidents and silence political opposition. A key instrument in this repression was the Special Branch, a covert division of the Queensland Police that operated from the 1940s until the 1980s. Declassified documents from the 1940s revealed the Special Branch's primary mandate was to conduct investigations into subversive organizations and their affiliated groups. At the time, combating communism stood as its main priority. During a visit to my sister in Brisbane in 1985, I accompanied her to a political gathering organised by the Democratic Socialist Party. Attendees took great care to ensure they hadn't been followed by undercover special branch operatives. This wasn't paranoia. At the time, the special branch actively maintained files on left-wing political activists, particularly those advocating socialist policies and civil liberties. Civil libertarian lawyer Terry O'Gorman described the Special Branch as a thoroughly insidious organization. They compiled dossiers on students, including some who had never engaged in violence, which later hindered their chances at securing public sector employment. In an article from the Brisbane Times, O'Gorman reflected, the Special Branch was wielded as a blatantly political tool by the Badockey Peterson government. It was used to destroy the careers of students whose only crime was protesting government policies. Sam Watson and Resistance. The Badockey Peterson government kept a particularly close eye on Aboriginal activists. Among the most prominent activists at this time was Sam Watson, a well-known Beri Gubba man. As both a socialist and an Aboriginal activist, Watson ticked all the boxes for special attention. His lifelong activism began in his teenage years when he campaigned for the 1967 referendum to count Aboriginal people as part of the population and make laws for them. He later played a role in establishing the Aboriginal Tent Embassy in Canberra and helped many indigenous community organizations. Given his prominence, it was no surprise that the special branch kept a close watch on Sam. Sam Watson recalled, in the 1970s we were running a very active anti-Vietnam campaign with regular rallies, marches, and protest meetings. The Special Branch was always there in the background, raiding our place every couple of weeks. With a laugh, he described how officers attempted to infiltrate activist circles. They're undercover cops dressed in hippie gear, he said. They didn't fool anyone. However, encounters with uniformed police officers often did turn violent. Watson remembered the chilling atmosphere during the protest in October 1977 when demonstrators marched from Brisbane's King George Square straight into a wall of uniformed officers five rows deep. There was this terrible, almost overwhelming terror that we were going to be bashed by the police. And we were. Queensland's political climate at the time was marked by extreme brutality and paralyzing fear, yet Sam never wavered in what he saw as his duty to stand firm against the repressive regime. For over half a century, Sam Watson made profound contributions to the advancement of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander rights, as well as many other social justice movements. Following his death in 2019, his daughter Nicole captured it best. Sam had two great loves in his life, his community and his family. His heart would almost burst with pride at each invasion day rally as he witnessed our young people assume the reins of the glorious struggle. But Dad also cherished nothing more than spending time with his precious grandchildren. While his passing marked the end of an era, Sam Watson's voice still echoes through every struggle in the fight for justice in Queensland. Queensland Government Workplace and Culture. Despite my fierce opposition to the ruling regime, one of my first jobs was with the Queensland Government Department of the Public Trustee. I found my niche as a clerk at the Public Trustee, then located in the heart of the city on the corner of Abbott and Spent Streets, bordering the green oasis of Anzac Park. The leisurely pace at the Public Trustee contrasted sharply with the bustling city outside. Though Cairns today is far more hectic, in those days it maintained a relaxed rhythm. Life at the Public Trustee was easygoing but never dull, largely thanks to the colourful characters who worked there. Take Alan Dick Whittington, for example. Hailing from Edmonton like me, he worked in deceased estates and was a regular at the Hambledon Hotel. Dick became a close friend over the years and we shared many beers at the Cannes Masonic Club on Abbott Street. The Greek and the Soldier. I also became close friends with Robert Lazarus, known to us alternatively as Robbie or Lazo. He came from a prominent local Greek Australian family. A compact man with a quick wit, he served as our regional wills officer. A former rugby league player for both Kangaroos and Cairns, Robbie remained light on his feet, except after those legendary two-hour lunches at one of the Barbary Coast pubs across the road. As a former halfback for Cairns in a rugby league obsessed town, he was both well known and universally liked. Then there was Terry Curtin, another true local, a Vietnam veteran and public trustee long-termer. What I remember about him most was his devotion to his two sons. He'd frequently meet them at the office and take them swimming or to various sporting pursuits. Another distinctive memory of Terry was his meticulously maintained list of every public trustee employee in Queensland. In a system where promotions were based on seniority, he'd ceremoniously cross off names when someone retired or passed away, quipping right, now I'm number 42 in charge of this place. The priest, the bookie and the sailor. The man in charge of the public trustee was Peter McInrie, a former priest. He'd committed what you might call the cardinal sin, or more accurately, the carnal sin, by falling in love with a woman. This ultimately forced him to leave the priesthood to marry her. Keith McIntyre was another good bloke. He worked administering deceased estates and transferring assets to surviving beneficiaries under people's wills. Keith was the son of a bookie, and when I knew him, he was running a book at the races like his dad. Greg Brooker, my supervisor, headed the property and conveyancing section. With salt water in his veins, Greg eventually left to pursue his passion, establishing a business, taking backpackers out to the reef on his boat. In hindsight, Greg was something of a pioneer in reef tourism. Some other mates included Terry Casey, great man with numbers, Murray Sate, who loved his sport, Graham Cairns, a prominent Greyhound trainer, Bevan Phillips and James O'Brien, Karen Jensen, Sharon Anderson and Tosia Hodgkinson, Leanne Leary, Katrina Clark and Janet Winkworth. The Winkworth name carried local significance. A street was named after her family in Bungalow, who were well-known business figures. Proving that workplace romances aren't uncommon, statistically one in five relationships started work. Janet and Bevan became the officer's glamour couple, tying the knot in the late 1980s. Long lunches and guns in the workplace. In those days, a two-hour lunch at one of the pubs across the road was not unheard of. Everyone drank, especially on the second Wednesday, which was payday or as Dick called it, the day the Golden Eagle shits. The back bar at the Cairns Return Services League was another regular watering hole for the crew on Friday nights. One work day I dropped into Bill Lee Long Sports Store on Lake Street and purchased a nice pump action shotgun that was on sale. I thought nothing of walking the gun back to the office and putting it on my desk. Unbeknownst to me, this caused some stress to other members of staff, but everybody found humour in this looking back. Today it would be a major incident and would probably see the SWAT team called in. The public trustee building, originally a Commonwealth Bank Branch, was eventually demolished to make way for the Reef Hotel Casino, symbolizing Cairn's shift from rural community to tourist destination. When the department relocated our office to 27 Sheridan Street in the early 1990s, fresh faces joined our ranks, including Jodie Farrell, Laurie Bryce, my good friend Liam Nicholas, and many others. Throughout these changes, Deputy Public Trustee Bill Butler remained a constant who held the institutional memory with steady hands and bridged past and present. Queensland political culture and neoliberal reforms. Moving into the 1990s, Cairns and Far North Queensland felt the full force of neoliberal government policies. No one championed this economic agenda more vigorously than Keith DeLacy, then Labor member for Cairns and Queensland Treasurer. He loved selling public assets. This era saw the railway yards transformed into the privately owned Cairns Central shopping mall, Anzac Park on Abbott Street, along with the old public trustee building, sold to foreign investors through a casino development, and the Cairns Central school site sold off to a private hotel. Selling a public school was offensive to me, but it was particularly galling as my great-great-grandfather had donated the land for the school in the first place. Community opposition to these sales ran deep, with many on the left condemning them as outright betrayals of public trust. The most significant public backlash erupted when the government sold the Canjok Club, a beloved community hub for events and gatherings, and a building of genuine historic significance. Despite widespread protests, the ALP government proceeded with the sale regardless. Union Delegate Rob. The public sector was not immune from these neoliberal reforms. At the time I was a representative of the Cairns Public Sector Workers as a Queensland Public Sector Union QPSU delegate. The QPSU had a fairly conservative history, but together with other ALP aligned delegates, we managed to change that. Bill Butler, then District Public Trustee in Cairns warned me we don't want Labor elected, they don't protect public sector workers. At the time I dismissed this as political naivety, yet when Wayne Goss's ALP government won in a 1989 landslide, their subsequent policies would prove Bill right. At the public trustee, workloads increased with fewer staff under the new government. Departmental seniority was ditched in favour of so-called merit-based promotion, though merit, like beauty, was all too often in the eye of the beholder. Other market-driven reforms included extended pub opening hours, introducing Sunday trading, eliminating the traditional day of rest, and the controversial introduction of poker machines. In retrospect, the Goss government's neoliberal agenda offered little benefit to Queensland workers or marginalised communities. Poker machines, in particular, spawned widespread social harm while devastating the state's live music industry. Conveyancing cancelled. Buying or selling land. I enjoyed helping people navigate this process, especially those who could not afford a solicitor. However, Premier Wayne Goss and Attorney General Dean Wells, both solicitors themselves, bowed to pressure from the Law Society and ordered the public trustee to cease offering conveyancing services, effectively granting private solicitors a monopoly. Outraged by this betrayal of public service, I resigned from the Queensland ALP in protest. My fiery letter to the ALP State Secretary declaring the ALP is now dead to me would later resurface to haunt me. Queensland political culture tied up in controversy. Given the casual, relaxed atmosphere at the Cairns branch of the public trustee, you can imagine the outrage caused when we received a memorandum from the department head in Brisbane instructing us all to wear neckties while at work. It was probably not a clever move to agree to an interview when I was contacted by local journo Robert Reed, who freelanced for the old Aussie icon The Australasian Post. Robert was much more accustomed to doing interviews than I was to being interviewed. Over beers at Rusty's pub, now the Jack, Reed, a seasoned pro, skilfully loosened my tongue. I slammed the bureaucrats in Brisbane who had nothing better to do than come up with ridiculous rules like this. Then, a reference to senior staff in Brisbane as pencil-necked bureaucrats without bulls just slipped out. Everyone thought it was hilarious when the next edition of the Australasian Post came out, but in truth it was a foolish foray into Queensland politics. I was lucky to keep my job. What began as a storm in a teacup quickly gained momentum. On New Year's Day 1990, at around 8 a.m., I received an unexpected phone call from Jeff Cannett, the former Premier of Victoria. Overcoming a serious hangover as I waited on hold, I heard him say to listeners, we are now going to interview a man from North Queensland who has the biggest social, political, and economic issue of this decade, which was less than eight years old at the time. Apart from his smart ass introduction, the interview went well. This story received massive media coverage, much of it lighthearted, but I really felt the Cairns needed to cultivate an image that offered a point of difference, not just being like everywhere else. Besides, it gets hot up here. A Far Northern Tragedy. One May afternoon in 1990, I saw my mother sitting beside the phone in the living room, her face etched with concern. She had been watching television when a message flashed across the screen. A plane carrying Far North Queensland local government officials was missing en route from Early Beach to Cairns. At the time, Dad was away delivering a presentation on local government management alongside Cairns Mayor Keith Goodwin at a conference in Airley Beach. Naturally, we were worried. In those days, many North Queensland councils hired private charter planes to transport councillors to meetings in areas without regular air services. No sooner had mum informed me of the news than the phone rang. It was the media asking Mum if she had heard from Dad. We both stayed by the phone with the television on, desperate for updates, good or bad. We feared the worst. Earlier that day, Keith Goodwin and Dad had given their presentations. Afterwards, Dad tried to get on the plane bound for Cairns, but all the seats were taken. He watched enviously as Keith and his other colleagues took off, waving them goodbye before resigning himself to a long bus journey back to Cairns. I'd rather be with them than endure the long drive back to Cairns, he thought. He had no way of knowing that while the bus would reach its destination safely, the plane never would. At around 5 p.m. on May 11, 1990, the plane crashed into Mount Emerald, and all on board lost their lives. They were Keith Goodwin, Rose Blank, Ivan Wilkinson, Harry Rankin, Alwyn Phillips, Bruno Redwig, Hector Wallace, Sister Nadia Giovanni Del Popolo, Joseph Frederick Newman, Graham Gilbert Luxton, and the pilot Stan Lindgren. The tragedy shook the community, robbing Far North Queensland of some of our much loved and most respected leaders. Their loss was later officially commemorated by the Cairns community. One Bourbon, one Scotch and One Beer. The famous American blues singer George Thoroughgood had a hit song in my youth called One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer. One Friday night I was sitting at the bar in the Grafton Hotel reciting this song and singing the verse to the bartender. She replied, Do you want anything with the bourbon and scotch? Just one beer, I said. She promptly served me the three drinks I ordered. Those drinks disappeared into my mouth quicker than you could say George Thoroughgood. I kept singing and the same thing happened another three or four times. I don't know if there was responsible service of alcohol laws back then, but I doubt it. Either way, it wasn't long before the manager had endured enough of me. I vaguely remember having words with her on my way out. I decided it was time for a big night on the town, so I jumped into my aging Toyota Seleca. Driving into the city, I saw a car on the side of the highway. Out of curiosity, I turned my vehicle in that direction to shine my headlights and see who it was. Suddenly, an overweight policeman jumped out onto the road and tried to wave me down. It was a stupid thing to do as I was travelling at 100 kilometres an hour. I swerved back into my lane, missing the custodian of justice, but not by a long way. As I passed, I turned my head to see our hero making haste to the driver's seat of his police commodore. Realising my old Toyota Solika offered little in chance of escape, I decided it might be harder for the policeman to chase me if he couldn't see me. So I turned my lights off. That's the sort of decision a drunk person makes. Spotting a side road, I swung right off the highway, only to skid off the bitumen onto a gravel road. It was the road to the old Queer meatworks. Regaining control of the car, I reached another corner. Unfortunately, I saw it too late. It's hard to notice these things with your lights turned off. The car fishtailed across wet grass for about 20 metres before falling into a drain and hitting a dirt embankment with a thud. I flung the door open and took my seatbelt off, unsure of how much time I had before the police picked up my trail. A patch of bushland and a creek lay about 30 meters away, but in my state I knew I would struggle to cover that distance very quickly. Then another drunken brain wave. These blokes will think I've done a runner anyway, so why not just stay put? I swung the door open, rolled onto the ground and slid under the car. The Silika was now a couple of feet shorter, but it was still good for something. Not quite a Trojan horse, but I figured most Queensland police officers were not the sharpest tools in the shad. Our hero arrived without delay, screeching to a halt in his new Butte late model Holden, Commodore Police Car. He pulled up about two meters away from where I lay. He shouted to his partner, Quick, he's gone into the bush, call for backup. Within minutes another police car arrived with two more of Queensland's finest, and they made a 30 yard dash which I had thought better of. I couldn't help feeling smug. Even if they do work out where I am, by the time they find me I'll be sober anyway, I reflected to myself. Our hero returned to his fellow law enforcement officers and I heard him say, I've had enough of this, let's call the tracker dogs. I lay there for another twenty minutes, feeling like an uninvited guest at the annual policeman's ball. Before long, a police van pulled up and I heard several dogs being released. Game over, I thought. Then to my astonishment, the dog handler led a German shepherd into my car and gestured him towards the driver's seat. Pick up the scent, boy, he said. We'll track this clown down. With that, the dog obediently jumped in, took a sniff, and leapt out and bolted into the bush. Even more remarkably, the other three dogs followed him. I would have made a run for it, but two officers had stayed near my car, so I lay there, silent as a mouse for what seemed like an eternity, until Queensland's finest returned with their four legged reinforcements. It's got me buggered where he's got to one mudded, he just vanished. I began feeling optimistic until a female voice piped up. Hey, who's that under the car? A journalist from the Cannes Post, tagging along for a story on the dogs, had spotted me. Two burly boys in blue dragged me out from under my Trojan horse. As I stood, I recognized my pursuer from our roadside encounter. He shoved my face into the car and snapped on the handcuffs. Pissed off I smirked, so did you enjoy your bushwalk? Before bursting into laughter. The officer slammed me onto the ground, driving a knee into my back. Thank God for that female journey. Without her, I would have coped a hiding for sure. Needless to say, I spent the night in the watch house. Now there's no defending what a dickhead I was that night, and I wouldn't even try. That said, what happened the following week troubled me deeply. I was still working for the Queensland government at the public trustee when the Cairns police called, summoning me to the station for an interview. I agreed, but something felt off. I rang Mal Clealand, a family's friend and a solicitor, who barked back to me, You're not going anywhere. Mal then called the police and the matter died permanently. Later I learned the police had intended to frame it as though I'd driven at the officer, a blatant lie. It made me wonder how many others had been charged, even jailed, just for obeying a police order to come in for an interview. Decades on, I watched Queensland politicians sneer at and condemn troubled youth. I was old enough to know better, but condemning troubled children became a toxic part of the state's political culture. It's one of the reasons I've never played that holier than thou card. My reflex has always been there, but for the grace of God went I. I possess the insight and empathy to recognise life's hardship for many in society. Yet my clashes with authority stem from a rebellion without purpose. I was a rebel without a cause. One of my favourite films was Cool Hand Luke, in which Paul Newman's character battles with violent prison guards. Like Luke, I was on a self-destructive path. Fighting with a defiance that promised no victory, only ruin. I felt on a similar trajectory. Unlike activists such as Sam Watson, my rebellion lacked focus. It wasn't channelled into resisting oppression. However, by the decade's end, my life was finally stabilizing. In late 1990, I attended a 21st birthday party. There I noticed a young woman with brown hair, little knowing she would become my life partner. Jenny, who adored music, was helping the DJ. We talked and I resolved to see her again. She later admitted she never expected to encounter me again, yet the next day I surprised her with flowers at her Australia Postworkplace. We remained together ever since. Reflecting on how most people around the planet lived, I knew my life was a fortunate one. I had a stable job, a home, my health, and a loving relationship. While I understood class struggle and the Queensland political culture, I'd never endured systemic discrimination or belonged to an oppressed group. Unbeknownst to me, all that was about to change.