The whole time in NT I haven’t heard one good word about Rudd’s intervention in 2007 or Gillard banning live cattle exports. People whose livelihoods are directly affected by government knee-jerk reactions to extremist Greens pressure tend to be vocal quite often around these parts. And not in a calm way. There are rallies, marches, newsletters, many newspaper articles, websites and heated discussions that need to travel further south than Alice Springs. Aboriginal and cattle country has its fist in the air screaming for immediate action on these 2 issues. Indigenous locals want what the ‘intervention’ promised it would do, or end it now. The cattle industry needs to continue exporting or bovines will die on the wharfs.
A curious and possibly soon-to-be remnant of the intervention is the ‘No Liquor, No Pornography’ signs that dot the Stuart highway and the back-roads. Q – Will a large yellow semi-trailer with pictures of beer advertisements and 8 foot photos of the XXXX Angels be run down like prison escapees and lynched by renegade authorities? Not likely. And by no means do I suggest the Angels are in any way pornographic. But the deterrent capabilities of this sign is about as effective as a one legged man at an arse-kicking party. Fair dinkum, I almost dropped my Playboy magazine and spilled whiskey all over myself when we drove past the first one of these.
The All-Seasons motel restaurant, reception and whatever else at Katherine this Sunday evening was manned by a guy who believed he was destined for better things. And if those things were rudeness, snobbery and ungracious service then he was well on his way. As we sipped our overpriced drinks, we watched him heard elderly travellers like unruly livestock to tables they didn’t want and deliver food to people who were, in his gaping arrogance, below him. ‘This is still frozen,’ exclaimed a lady after trying her carrots. The only other food on offer was a meagre buffet of BBQ burgers served on cheap buns with listless salad accompaniments. Dessert was a choice of oddly coloured tapioca or a 1970’s Coles cafeteria-style jelly. Cost: $33
He stormed our table, taking our dining involvement as granted. ‘Three buffets guys? I’ll charge it to the room, shall I?’
We were still gawking at the cuisine. ‘No thanks, we’re going to get something in town.’
‘Okay, getting some Makkaz are ya, guys?’ he said.
What I should have said as I rose from my chair and stared him squarely in the eye was, ‘Listen to me carefully fruity-loops, just because you missed the last train to the Boorish Olympics does not give you the automatic authority to urinated on the customers of this wildly mediocre business. And what makes you think that just because we refuse to fork over 33 bucks for a pissy hamburger, we are going to run straight to the nearest multinational fast food outlet. Do not assume that we or anyone else here is not your equal. In fact, all your conceited posturing, in our eyes, drags you down lower than whale feces. So, my man, learn some damn manners and stand aside while we procure more edible fare. Good day.’
But what I actually said was, ‘No, we’re not.’ We got pizza.
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