Funny how some people who have had life laid on a platter for them are scumbag pieces of sh*t, and others who have faced adversity and had to pull themselves out of the morass or the gutter are good, decent-hearted folk isn’t it?
My mum’s funeral was attended by more than 200 people, and among them were multi-millionaires and monthly wage earners, welders and welfare recipients, one-time convicts and current choir girls, school teachers and students, thespians and former thieves, rock stars and refugees, university lecturers and unionists, avante-garde artists and antediluvians, LNP staffers and Labor devotees, nurses and no-hopers, businessmen and biscuit makers; a representative spectrum of society come to pay respect to a dead woman who in life loved, cared for, and did her damnedest to help them all.
It’s times like funerals that real men stand up, and despite the feuds and fighting put the past in their behinds, and step up to the plate and do the right thing out of respect and a simple sense of common decency. It’s like Christmas Day in the trenches, a time when the guns are put down and white flags waved, and all the wretches than can be saved by grace are, because they have the heart to say ‘Hail enemy, let us make peace and mourn as one’.
Only a f*ckwit fated to find themselves floundering in the fires of hell would shun the moral mores and ignore such an occasion due to some strange form of malice and indecency that festers forever inside their sad excuses for hearts and souls.
There was no Tub-Thumper present, and there was not a soul from Australia’s worst union, and most wickedly of all there was no Branch Stacker.
By their sins you shall know them, and I have a f*cking long memory and a willingness to wait and a long, long, long reach.
It must be a terrible inner torture to know that you have failed in your moral duty to your ancestors, your parents and your friends. To turn your back on the innate decency that defines us as individuals. To place your own greed and lack of guts before the grief of good people who once upon a time in your own hour of need selflessly gave you and yours their hearts and their souls.
Redemption is now impossible. You have made your beds, and they are yours to lie in, and one day we’ll meet again my former friends.
And on that fine day you can call me Francis Begbie, and I’ll call you nobody, and oh won’t our reunion be filled with joy and pain, just like my mother’s funeral was without you.
Geebung boys don’t get mad, and we don’t get even. We’re givers, not takers. And what I have to give is all your own, and trust me, it tastes best served cold.
Lest we Forget.
Even if you do, I won’t. Ever.
Don’t you worry about that.