A bit of fun for a change

In one of my first posts there was a vague reference to my complete contempt for 2 party ‘democracies’ such as the particularly poor example we suffer with in Australia. I am going to try and tackle that over the next few blogs but not before a relevant and hopefully amusing anecdote.

In Australia we are forced to vote once we turn 18. As a nineteen or twenty year old I choose not to and was sent a letter stating that I needed to tell them why I was unable to vote; so I did. With an equal measure of naivety and rebellion I calmly pointed that there was no one worthy of my vote and I wanted someone to represent me not some party machine that has no deference to local interests. That was the rebellion part, the naivety part arrived in the post in form of a small fine and a letter listing some acceptable reasons for failing to vote which included childbirth and coma. I may have written back suggesting they use my fine in a strange combination of origami and proctology.

Not a chance I was going to pay that fine, this was my stand against the obvious failing of this system. Come to think of that ‘equal measure’ was well weighted towards naivety. I ignored the subsequent late notice, final notice, referral to courts for failing to pay a federal fine, larger court fine, notice of intent to issue a warrant for arrest and finally notice of following through with the arrest warrant.

Well what a winner I was. As long as didn’t get pulled up for something insignificant and give the police cause to do warrant check by giving them lip or similar I was home free.

So twelve to eighteen months later, still very young, I was on a mercy mission to provide vital medication for the needy early on Saturday morning when I was pulled up by the police driving my decrepit 1970 Datsun. Alright it was a hang over cure sortie for bacon, eggs and iced coffee for me and the Datsun SSS was much more at home on a race track than a public road.

I politely explained to the police officer I wasn’t travelling over the speed limit therefore I could not understand why I was being delayed. He was faster in pointing out whilst that was true it was customary to slow down for corners and roundabouts, particularly when it’s raining.

When you were a kid did you ever hear funny noises coming from your parent’s bedroom so you poke your head in the door to make sure everything is alright? Only to realise the very nanosecond you discover the source of the noise that you are old enough know nothing good could have come from that action. It strikes you it was either going to be that thing that movies stars do but parents definitely do not, or disrupting a murder in progress. You also learn that no matter how unpalatable the only other option may be it can seem preferable in order to get oneself out of the one’s current situation.

Unfortunately the alcohol of the previous evening attacked and destroyed the very brain cells containing those lessons. I would very soon realise that wasn’t the time to share with the officer I had done those corners and roundabouts much faster than that “all the time” and would have again if it weren’t for the fact I was suffering a hangover that “would kill a small dog”.

I had that terrible ‘noise in the parent’s bedroom’ feeling again as the police officer walked down to his patrol car to check my name and address he had written down. I was only carrying the few dollars I needed to complete my mission; no wallet therefore no license. I had thought about the fine for not carrying a license as soon as I was pulled over, decided that a fair bust and was confident that he could only give me a(nother) ‘bit of advice about my driving style’. I have a very successful strategy for getting out of, or reducing driving offences but that is another story. I had not made the connection that putting my name into the computer would result in him having to arrest me.
N.B. Adrenalin overload is a sure fire, instant cure for a hang over.

It is amazing what becomes important when faced with imminent incarceration. I immediately became quite concerned about my attire. Or lack thereof with the full inventory being my daggiest, oldest track pants, the very loose sweater I slept in and a pair of Caterpillar work boots that were closest to hand when I began my short trip, I had not bothered to do them up. No underwear, no T-shirt and for some reason I was most concerned about no socks which would turn out to be justified. Suddenly I became very conscious of the cold so tied my boots up tight to compensate for lack of socks and became aware of the wind chilling parts of me that were usually covered in t-shirts and underwear.

On a positive note it was warm in the police car all the way to lock up and police officer and I got along great. I was resigned to my fate while steadfast in my position and these fellows seemed greatly amused that I would go this far in a battle I could not possibly win. “Why didn’t you just pay the fine mate?” one would ask. “But then they win!” I retort. “As opposed to...this?” he asks.

The trip to the closest holding cells seemed lengthy but was warm and cordial during which the officer explained I just needed to pay the latest iteration of the fine, some 8-10 times the original, or spend about 4 days in jail based a dollar amount per day calculation. Still resolute, having not yet seen let alone entered the lockup, I very briefly considered doing the time. With little cash and no cards, really wish I took my wallet, I would have to call family to bail me out which would be nice to avoid, plus doing the time would fulfil my crusade. In reality I was a conservative banking dude by day so ringing the boss Monday to say I can’t come in for a few days until my sentence was served really wasn’t an option.

As soon as we arrived at the local lock up my now matey officer allowed me to make a call to organise someone for my release before starting the book in process which was not normal protocol so that was nice of him. Whilst my Mum would have been their in a jiffy it to save her dear Son from cavorting with criminals it would have stressed her out where as Dad wouldn’t be stressed; far from it as it turned out. I figured the dressing down would similar in length from either albeit very different in delivery so I took the ‘don’t stress Mum’ option. Dad seemed as amused as the arresting officer was, said he would come bail me out and drop me back at my car. At the time I didn’t notice the mischievous tone to his voice.

The officer that bought me in handed me over for book in telling the processing officer I was a “good kid”. At this point I am feeling quite the James Dean. The cavalry is one the way, the officers are all being very nice and I am being locked up for standing up for my beliefs. Tianamen Square got nothing on me baby, remember I was young and much more self centred.

That feeling would not last long. My lack socks came back to haunt me during processing as I was asked to take out my shoes laces. Enquiring why this was necessary I was told it was to prevent me from hanging myself... with my shoelaces?... for the heinous crime of failing to vote?... while my Dad was en route to bail me out?

Bugger, cold ankles again, at least the heating is working in the station which turned out to be little consolation as I was I lead outside to the cells.! Yes out the back of station the cells were the old school sliding bar variety, totally open to the environment except for the 3 foot corrugated iron veranda, or rain noise amplifier as it were.

The angle of the rain made the first foot so of the cell floor wet. Colder than cold was the small holding cell containing a cot along one wall barely 2 feet wide with a thin mattress whose only covering were stains of assorted colours and sizes. Later I discovered that was the ‘clean side’. There was no toilet or basin as this was only a temporary holding cell. Seeing my shivering I heard officer say he would fetch me a blanket over the sound of metal on metal as the sliding bars grated to a halt with a solid thud. The turn of the key was the final, undeniable sound of incarceration. Never one to exaggerate but I am so ‘middle class white bread’ that one of the 90+ descriptions the Inuit people have for white translates to ‘Dissident Dave’s arse’ so it was hardly surprising this provoked a moment of reflection.

It is hard to understand but I maintain there is a certain freedom in incarceration. There is freedom in having no choices to make. You have a rock solid ‘excuse’ for failing to fulfilling any commitments you may have. There is no consideration needed for when or what to eat and no one, partly because there wasn’t anyone, has any expectations of you. If you didn’t smear your own faeces all over yourself and the cell you were consider a good guest. An absolute social abyss devoid of any decision making. I certainly am not saying this is everyone’s experience. I was briefly in a holding cell where there was no prison population knowing of my imminent emancipation that at least heightened and may even have been the sole cause of this feeling but it was definitely a different ‘brand’ of freedom.

After a while in the cell having a found a warm spot in the foetal position on the cot with the blanket wrapped around my neck and tucked into the top of my boots I started to wonder where Dad was as he lived only about 40 minutes away and I rang him well over an hour ago. It was then I started to recollect on my Fathers broad and often exercised sense of humour.

As a young family we used to take long 4WD trips up and down most of the famous Australian outback tracks including the Birdsville, Strezlecki, and Gun Barrel tracks. We also did the Stuart Highway from Adelaide to Darwin when the bitumen only went to Port Augusta leaving over 1000 kms of dirt road with mixtures of hundreds of kilometres of corrugations that would rattle all your innards, deep bull dust (very fine nearly silicone red dust) that gets into everything, and washouts from floods where the road just disappears for kilometres. Dad never... ever got tired of the old ‘drive off just when you get to the car door trick’ after a ‘bush toilet’ stop. He would take great delight in doing it again and again and again... in heat that could melt the chrome off a tow bar. Another favourite was when I was water skiing in cold water with Dad driving I would pull off a Sir Wheat (sweet) dry start barely getting spray above the knee and once we had cleared the beach he would start pumping the accelerator of the boat off and on while shrugging his shoulders. Sometimes he would even shut the boat down signalling dismay to me, an actor he is not, and I would get low in the water to point where I had to bail or start dragging my back leg then the boat would miraculously refire and off we would go to the vast amusement of Dad.

After a very long and peaceful wait, really have no idea how long it was as time too was pretty much irrelevant, I received word that I was a free man. At that point I was well past my wistful reminiscing and asked my delighted Father what took him so long. Barely containing his laughter he said something like “Oh, were you in a hurry, you should have said something.” and needn’t finish with ‘there endeth the lesson’.

I am bit smarter now, at least in respect to dodging the vote, and soon realised that getting your name ticked off by attending a polling centre and voting are two entirely different things.

You walk into one and there is a station for getting you name ticked off, a station for collecting the forms, private voting booths for filling out the forms and a final station for casting the votes. There is no control of flow between the stations, not even velvet ropes or anything. Hmmm, it would be fun to design a RFID system for the electoral commission that could track a persons flow through the stations while conforming to privacy requirements: but I won’t. So it would be very easy for someone to walk into a busy polling centre get their name tick off to avoid the fine and just slink on out again.

For the record I categorically deny I have ever done this and it would be an infringement of my rights if anyone would suggest otherwise as voting has guaranteed privacy. I would like to think any person who get their name ticked off without voting could just deny it and should be constitutionally protected. Opps, there’s that naivety again. :-)

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N.B.

Beware of contact with Monorail sales persons. It always ends in song.