The hashtag bobbed up as the news spread last night: #DoItForBob.
Yes. Let’s. Spectator types in particular.
Let’s have a beer for Bob tomorrow night. Let’s have a cigar, if the results go our way.
Let’s laugh, let’s cuss and talk the way Australians once talked.
Bugger it. If the timing’s right, let’s get pissed and get laid.
Let’s embrace all those things that made Bob Hawke one of us despite his politics; a man with a brain, the gift of the gab and a sense of social service who enjoyed the pleasures of life.
Let’s not do it in a way that hurts others, of course.
But let’s do it in a style that sticks a finger firmly up at the purse-lipped wowsers that now infest his party.
The codliver oil merchants, the Nanny Nicola Roxons that have displaced the blokes from the shearing shed and the shop floor.
How the hell would they have reacted to Bill Shorten’s would be health minister, Cathrine King when she told the National Press Club just a fortnight ago a future Labor government may “mandate… food reformulation targets” – literally tell our manufacturers how much salt, sugar and fat they put in their products.
The old Labor types would have gallantly escorted the Roxons and Kings back to the rooms of the Christian Women’s Temperance League and suggested to the ladies two of their members may have had a little too much sun.
It then would have been off to the pub.
King and Roxon should realize the smokes and booze didn’t stop Hawkie from chalking up 89 – three score and 10 with another score on top.
So tomorrow night – whether our side wins, lose, or whatever – let’s do it for Bob.
Let’s enjoy it with friends – and a friendly drink or two.
Even (if we can find them the post-plain packing world) a cigar.
For Bob, for the pleasure, to piss of the prurient and call Nanny a nong.
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