Comrades, Let the Revolution Begin
“If the proletariat during its contest with the bourgeoisie is compelled, by the force of circumstances, to organize itself as a class; if, by means of a revolution, it makes itself the ruling class, and, as such, sweeps away by force the old conditions … then it will, along with these conditions, have swept away the conditions for the existence of class antagonisms…” – Karl Marx, The Communist Manifesto
Well, it’s not often that a highly respected member of The Gambling Fraternity and that old class warrior Karl Marx stand side-by-side and look out over the political spectrum from the same soapbox but having spent two sober days in the outer at the Sydney Cricket Ground drinking light beer while the aristocrats and the bourgeoisie sucked back the icy cold full strength gear in the Members, I couldn’t help but look back with a glint in my eye and warmness in my heart to the words of Old Uncle Karl.
Sometimes, as Belle and Sebastian eloquently whispered, when you’re throat is parched and your fun has been kicked in the groin, you just want to be “left alone with Marx and Engels for a while”. Indeed.
But these times are rare and it takes a real situation to have me thinking in shades of red, to have me calling for the hammer, calling for the sickle.
The failure of the Sydney Cricket Ground Trust to allow the hoi polloi to consume regular strength beer whilst ensuring those who breathe the rarified air of wealth are allowed to indulge in the good stuff and then have the nerve, the unbelievable gall, to charge the same price as the old regular strength beer prices was one of these situations.
It had me thinking revolution.
How dare these cufflink wearing, champagne sipping, dinner party attending socially gifted elites stamp the jackboots down on the head of fun, dictate that The Masses are too stupid and too irresponsible to drink regular strength beer and in the meantime, re-open old class warfare wounds.
Who the hell invented the time machine and took us back to the 19th century?
And then, to really get the voice at that kicked-in-the-balls pitch, the pig lovers that sit aloft the SCG trust decided it would be fair and reasonable for us peasants to pay ludicrous and unreasonable prices for goddamn light beer. This, purely and simply, is forced sodomy. As soon as these words of anger have filled the page, my next diatribe will be a forcefully worded letter to the ACCC. We can’t let these pleasure killers get away with this kind of heist.
Hitler’s blackshirts couldn’t have killed the fun at the SCG any more than those fools at the SCG Trust and those headkickers and skinheads they employ as security. You can have more fun in North Korea than you can at the SCG. I’d be more chance of getting some measure of logic and reason out of Kim Jong II than the meathead power freaks who dish out justice under the Doug Walters Stand.
The glory years of a day on the hill are dead, beaten and smashed to jagged pieces by the fun police. Himmler would be proud of the job the SCG Trust has done.
There is no more seering sun repelled only by the soothing relief of an old school ale. No more witty repartee from Bay 19 and sweeping Mexican waves started by sunburnt, singleted comedians. No more buxom female flashers and twirling unsteady beer snakes. The atmosphere is gone and so is the fun, slashed to pieces like a beach ball that floats over the fence.
If there is one upside, it meant all punting remained firmly under control. There was no alcohol fuelled stupidity, no beer crazed madness. I managed to bet against Andrew Symonds and have a little on Ricky and remained sober enough to avoid any drunken wagers. And I was sober enough to collect all bets at the Bat and Ball afterwards. Alcohol does funny things to your punting and not in a funny ha-ha way. I was in full control…but when I’m sitting high up in the Doug Walters stand, sometime around New Year, the last thing I’m looking for is control. Alcohol and punting…a violent combination that will inevitably end in disaster. But that’s by-the-by. We’re all adults here.
Alas, it would appear the time for revolution is upon us. Us, The General Public, must rise as one and make ourselves heard. Enough headkicking. We need to inundate the SCG PO Box with our fury, fill up Letters to the Editor pages with our anger, and hammer every avenue until our liberties are returned and this brutal class stomping is finished.
Eat the Rich. And every member of the goddamn SCG Trust. It is time for the masses to unite!
