DonaldTrump and the game of History's "What ifs?"

I am sure a lot of people have played history’s game of “What if”.  We ask ourselves, "What if Germany won the war? What if Hitler was hit by a bus in 1933? What if the Japanese did not bomb Pearl Harbour? What if Kim Beazley, who won most of the votes, had actually won the 2002 Federal election?  What if we had won Lotto when we were 21?"

At present a lot of very worried people are asking themselves, “What if Donald Trump becomes the next President of the United States?” For many it is a fate far too terrible to contemplate. Will he fire nuclear missiles at countries he does not like? Will he start incarcerating all the Hispanic people in the USA? No doubt Marco Rubio will be the first to go to prison. Will he start arresting all of the people who hold contrary views to his, whatever view it is that he happens to hold that day. His views change quite frequently.

It may be noted that Trump said publicly he would like to bash objectors in their faces and praised those who did. He even offered to pay their legal costs. Now he says it is the objectors who are starting all the rough stuff. This is counter of the TV images we see off his rallies.

Someone should also tell Trump, if he listens to anybody but himself, that his call for his supporters to raise their right hands at his rallies is starting to make them look a little bit like nazi/fascist rallies of the 1930s.

Donald Trump claims to be a very astute business man who will successfully manage the US economy. Trump has been declared bankrupt several times. He inherited 2 billion dollars from his daddy about thirty years ago. If he had invested his inheritance in standard stocks and shares, that initial 2 billion would now be worth 8 billion. In fact, Donald Trump is now worth about 2.8 billion, which is about as much as he inherited all those years ago. Obviously, he is not as clever at financial affairs as he thinks he is, or as he claims to be.

So far Trump has won most primaries, but he has not won more than 50% of the votes in any state primary election. It will be interesting to see what happens as the Republican field of presidential wannabes shrinks. Bush and Rubio have already pulled out. It will not be surprising if all of the primary votes/convention delegates, already won by the Anti-Trump candidates, go to his Republican opponent when the crunch finally comes.

Actually, the bottom runner, Razik, a state governor who talks the talk more presidentially that Trump shouts the shout, may very well get nominated from the floor at the Republican convention. If the convention voting goes to a second ballot, all state delegates are then at liberty to disregard the primary election results and cast votes for whomever they wish. This may sound a bit crazy, after all of the almost yearlong ballyhoo of the primary contests in the 50 states, but that is what can happen at US Presidential Conventions. So Donald Trump, may continue to win the primaries but eventually lose the nomination for President of the United States by a vote from the floor of the convention. It has happened before!

In fact, in the tumultuous Democratic Convention in 1968, that is exactly what did happen. Senators Eugene McCarthy and George McGovern, who had contested the primaries on strong anti-Vietnam war campaigns, were muscled out by Hubert Humphrey, who did not contest any primaries at all. Humphrey supported the Vietnam War policies of President Lyndon Johnson.

1968 was a bloody year in the US. Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were assassinated. During that 1968 Democratic Convention there were vicious riots in the streets of Chicago (and many other cities) between antiwar protestors and Mayor Richard Dayley's Chicago police force. Outgoing president, Lyndon Johnson, and Mayor Daley, a Democratic strong man, used all of their Machiavalian  skills and political chicanery to get Humphrey the successful nomination.

As we all know, Hubert Horatio Humphrey lost the 1968 election to Richard Nixon. Those of us who like to play the historians' “What if “game may now only ponder on how world history could have played out so very differently had Eugene McCarthy or George McGovern won that presidential election. Or if Anti-Vietnam War campaigner, Bobby Kennedy, had not been assassinated and  went on to defeat Nixon in 1968 presidential election.

These “What ifs” of history reminds me that in 1968 I was studying Politics at The University of Western Australia. My politics lecturer was Paddy O’Brien. He was a burly ex Carlton footballer who started on the left side of Labor, drifted into the Democratic Labor Party and finished up, if not exactly right wing, about as far right as you can go without being called a dyed in the wool conservative.

In the hot days of February/March and October/November, Paddy used to conduct his afternoon tutorials in the beer garden at Steve’s Pub on the Nedlands foreshore. Paddy always bought the first jug.

Anyhow, one day Paddy fronted up at a lecture and asked us to contemplate how the world would have been different if JFK had not been assassinated. “What if,” he said, “it was Khrushchev who had been assassinated instead of President John Kennedy?”

We all thought about this for a while but nobody seemed keen to pontificate on how subsequent world events would have been different. Eventually, one brave fellow raised his hand and said, “Well, I am pretty sure that if Khrushchev had been assassinated instead of JFK, that Aristotle Onassis would definitely NOT have married Mrs Khrushchev.” Nobody could beat that so Paddy got on with the lecture.

Right now a lot of male readers are thinking how nice it would be to marry Donald Trump’s very sexy looking widow. Perhaps some others are still contemplating what their life would have been like if they had won Lotto at age 21.

Ah yes, “What if?”

Anyone for coffee?

When I was growing up in Perth in the 1940s and 50s almost everybody drank tea. Hardly anybody drank coffee. If they did it was a sickly sweet concoction that came out of a tall, dark bottle labelled, Chicory Essence. These bottles were generally stored in the back recesses of the kitchen pantry or kitchenette.

For those born in the last thirty years, a kitchenette is a large double door cabinet which contained dry goods, herbs, spices and various condiments. It had shelves and drawers for crockery, cutlery and other kitchen utensils. It also contained a rectangular compartment for storing bread and a tall, narrow compartment for storing brooms and mops. Almost every kitchen had one in the 1950s.

Yes, tea was the non-alcoholic drink of choice. So much so that we called our mid-morning and mid-afternoon breaks Morning Tea and Afternoon Tea. I was a white and two sugars tea drinker. Everybody had their own preferred way of drinking tea. Some were quite different.  In the 1960s I was travelling in a Greyhound bus from Mexico City to San Antonio, Texas. The gentleman next to me noticed my Australian accent.

“I spent three years in Australia,” he told me. “I was stationed at the US Navy Catalina Base at Crawley Bay in Perth. The Australians were great people, but they had a real funny way of drinking tea.”

“Oh,” I replied in mild amazement. "What was so funny about it?”

‘Well they drank it hot and with milk.” Not long after that encounter I enjoyed my own cup of tea in San Antonio. It was black tea, served with ice in a long glass with a sprig of mint in it. Very refreshing it was, too.

While we Aussies continued to drink our tea hot, with or without milk and sugar, the tidal wave of European migrants in the 1950s saw an increase in the demand for coffee…real coffee. Good coffee, not Chicory Essence. Espresso coffee machines arrived from Italy and soon people were asking for coffee in cafes and restaurants and in the many coffee lounges that began to spring up in downtown areas. In those days the legal drinking age was 21. After the libraries closed at 9-00 pm, my university mates and I used to spend a great deal of our time in coffee lounges solving all of the world’s problems well into the wee small hours of the morning.

My favourite coffee lounge was called The Coffee Pot. It was owned by a Dutch couple who fled to Perth in February 1942 when the Japanese invaded Indonesia, then known as the Dutch East Indies. In the Coffee Pot in the late 1950s we drank black coffee, Vienna coffee, cappuccino coffee, accompanied by Danish pastries, apple strudel and the very exotic spring rolls.

A great feature of the Coffee Pot was that the owners did not seem to mind that my student mates and I could order just one cup of coffee each and then sit there for hours and hours in deep and meaningful discussion. The owners possessed European charm, always had a friendly smile and did not hurry us in any way. We were eighteen and nineteen year olds but they treated us as if we were grownups. And they played great jazz and swing music on the very large radiogram that sat against one wall. We felt suave and sophisticated as Stan Getz, Miles Davis, Astrud Gilberto, Dave Brubeck, Benny Goodman and others played in the background while we solved all the world's problems.

Perhaps the Coffee Pot’s greatest feature, however, was the beautiful daughter of the proprietors. She waited on the tables. She was in her early twenties and looked like Juliette Greco. Only a man who spent his boyhood in the fifties can know the effect that this beautiful Greco like creature had on us pimply faced, pseudo intellectuals.

Since then, of course, coffee has overtaken tea as Australia’s non-alcoholic beverage of choice. Now, we have TAFE course awarding diplomas to baristas who hone up their coffee making skills, making  exquisite creamy shapes and patterns to top off our steaming cups of Java. Unfortunately, some coffee drinkers have become as tedious and pernickety as those fastidious wine drinkers who rattles on at length about the quality or otherwise of whatever it is that they are drinking.

We are now overburdened with choice when it comes to ordering coffee. We can have long black, short black, macchiato, decaf, double decaf, espresso, cappuccino, Vienna, latte, skinny latte in regular cups, large cups or pots. Recently, a friend of mine ordered a skinny, large cappuccino. It sounds like a contradiction in terms, but translated it just meant she wanted a large cappuccino made with skimmed milk. Simple really.

People deciding what type and size of coffee to drink are now faced with the same multiplicity of choices that also now confront beer drinkers. Once upon a time, hotels generally only supplied beer from one brewery, so when you ordered a beer you did not need to tell the barman if you wanted a dry, extra dry, super dry, light or mid-strength Cascade, James Boag, Hahn, Heineken, Budweiser, Pirelli, Fosters, Tooheys , Carlton, Coors, Stella Artois, Millers, or whatever. You just said, “I’ll have a beer, please.” And that is what you got.

Waiters now need photographic memories when taking coffee orders for skinny lattes, long black decafs, short blacks, double decafs, large cappuccinos, skinny cappuccinos and so on.

Still, some places never change. Recently, my wife and I drove back to Perth from Brisbane. On the Eyre Peninsula we left our accommodation at Ellerston quite early, planning on grabbing a coffee somewhere along the road before we hit Ceduna. After a while we arrived at Port Kenny which consisted of a general store, a water tank and a couple of petrol bowsers. Inside the shop a very friendly lady smiled and asked me how she could help.

"I’d like two coffees,” I replied.

“And what sort of coffee would you like?” she said as she turned and walked towards the hot water urn on a bench behind the counter.

“I’d like a skinny latte for my wife and a large cappuccino for me.”

Slowly the lady turned and with a charming smile said, “Sir, this is Port Kenny, not Collins Street. You can have black coffee or white coffee.”

We drove away from Port Kenny with two white coffees. They were made with instant coffee and milk. The funny thing is, that  Port Kenny coffee tasted just as nice as some of the delicately designed and artfully constructed coffees we had so recently purchased in the trendy cafes of Melbourne and Sydney.

An Unforgettable night in Aberystwyth.

I am watching a rather good detective series on BBC TV called Hinterland. The show is set in Aberystwyth. As I watched it the other night my mind went back to a day in August, 1962, when my good mate, David Ashcroft, and I drove into that picturesque Welsh town.

It was the summer holidays and we were touring the United Kingdom in David’s  Ford Prefect. We had both arrived in England in February that year with four other mates. David quickly picked up a teaching job in Crowthorne. On the other hand, I spent a few weeks dipping into my savings before landing a job as a Cost Clerk for the Regent Oil Company in Oxford Street. My salary was about five pounds per week but for the first four weeks Regent Oil deducted two pounds automatically and gave to the employment agency that got me the job.

In early May I picked up a teaching job at the primary school in Cookham, a beautiful village on the banks of the Thames.. By this time, my bank account was very low and I was really hanging out for my first teaching pay cheque from the Berkshire County Council. In those days teachers were paid by the month. When my pay eventually arrived it was in the form of a computer print out on a long strip of paper. It was an Advice Note really, because my money had been paid into my Bank of New South Wales account in Berkley Square in London. 

On the left hand side of this long ribbon of paper was the amount of my gross monthly income. Next was indicated the amounts of money taken out for income tax, superannuation, teachers union fees and the national health scheme. On the far right hand side of the pay advice was the small amount of money that actually made it in to my bank account. I was staggered to find that it was not much more than what I was receiving per fortnight back in Perth. I was devastated.

I calculated that it would take me about forty years saving enough money for my return fare back to Fremantle, Western Australia. I desperately sought ways to change my dire financial circumstances. Fortunately, two of the fellows who travelled with Dave and I to England were also not impressed with the money they were earning. As a result, the three of us booked our passage for Toronto, Canada, departing on the good ship SS Homeric at the end of August. One of my better decisions, because Canada was like going to Teacher Heaven

In the meantime, the school term finished in mid July and Dave and I set off to see as much of the United Kingdom as we could in four weeks. We did a pretty good job of it, going as far north as Inverness before turning to the south west, via Loch Ness, towards the Kintyre Peninsula, Glasgow, the Lakes District and then into Wales.

Before we arrive in Wales I must tell you that we drove the entire length of Loch Ness. At the southern end of Loch Ness I took a picture of some ancient ruins. So, though we never, ever did see the Loch Ness monster, I do have some very good pictures of the ancient Loch Ness Monastery!

We had a rather dreary drive into Aberystwyth, through deep valleys, shrouded in drizzle and mist, passing through occasional mining villages that looked lifeless and soul destroying. However, when we arrived in Aberystwyth the sun was shining and we spent about an hour parked at the seaside and just staring out at the beach and rolling waters. For two Australians abroad, the sight of the ocean made us quite homesick for our own sun drenched western shore. Hundreds of seagulls and kestrels were just hovering, quite stationary, into the fairly stiff see breeze. Even the constant “eeark, eeark, eeark” of the birds brought back happy memories of days at North Cottesloe beach and Scarborough. Mind you this beach at Aberystwyth consisted mainly of good sized pebbles.

We drove around taking in some historic sites. Then we parked at the beachfront and took a leisurely stroll through what were interesting streets featuring quite a lot of solid stone buildings. At about four o’clock we decided it was time for a drink and went into the front bar of the first pub we came to.

It looked a bit like an Australian pub. A long bar on one side and tables and chairs, a dance floor and bandstand on the other. The only people in the bar were a group of five or six young men down the far end of the bar and a barmaid. They were talking in Welsh.

Dave and I fronted up to the bar and the group of men gave us a cursory look and then went back to their conversation. The barmaid made her way towards us. We said hello and with a cheery smile she asked what we would like. She spoke in English. After she served us she went back to talk in Welsh with the men at the end of the bar. They gave us another cursory look.

Dave and I finished our beers and the barmaid came back and served and us two more beers. We chatted briefly before she returned to the group of men who all turned once again and looked briefly in our direction.

When she came back to serve us a third time the barmaid said, “You’re not English, are you?” We confessed that we weren’t and told her we came from Western Australia. She welcomed us to Wales and returned to the group of men. They all leaned in to listen to what she had to say.

No sooner had she spoken when all of the men picked up their drinks and came to where Dave and I were sitting at the bar. As soon as they arrived they began peppering us with questions. “So, you come from Western Australia, do you? Do you live in Fremantle?” “Do you know, Sydney, at all?” “Do you play rugby?” “Can you sing the Wallaby’s team song?” “Are you in the merchant navy?”

Then one of the men said that the Welsh rugby team song mentioned the Wallabies. He sang a few lines in Welsh and heavily emphasised the word wallaby when it was mentioned. The other men joined in and sung the Welsh rugby song with a great deal of passion and, it must be said, with very pleasing musicality. They all had good Welsh voices.

Well, Dave and I had had three beers and it was my shout. I asked the barmaid to set them up again, but one of our new found friends would have none of it. He insisted that we should enjoy their hospitality. They were all merchant seaman and were based in Aberystwyth. “You, know some of those Australian merchant seamen are quite mad,” said a man I found out later was named Rhys. “We were in Sydney one time, you know, and this fellow, he climbed up the rigging, gave a great yell and then dived into the harbour. He just cleared the deck by inches. He could have been killed. I don’t suppose you know him? He lives in Sydney.”

We spent the next hour in happy conversation explaining that we did not know any merchant seamen and that in Western Australia we did not play much rugby. “I know,” said another fellow, named Tommy. “You play that game called Australian Rules. I saw a game in Melbourne once. I don’t know why they call it Australian Rules because as far as I could see there weren't any rules.”

At about 6-30pm Dave and I said that we had better be going because we had left our car parked at the seaside and we needed to find a place to have a bite to eat. “Come and have dinner at the club,” they all said. “We can sign you in so there is no problem at all.” I cannot recall the name of the club but it was something like the Seafarers’ Association or the Merchant Seamen’s Union. At any rate it was down by the waterfront and the interior looked like the lounge bar of a reasonable pub. A lot wooden panelling.

We were quickly signed in and then our Welsh friends proceeded to take us around the bar/lounge introducing us to one and all as their Australian friends. It was fairly crowded with a mixture of young merchant seamen and groups of older couples, possibly retired seamen and their wives. We enjoyed the atmosphere and again our Welsh friends would not let us pay for any drinks. Even the meal, I think I had sausages and  three vege, came to us free of charge.

The club was due to close at 9-00pm, so Dave and I said that we would need to be getting back to our car. “No, don’t go just yet,” said Rhys. He went on to say that a rugby team from Huddersfield was in town to play what was apparently a traditional contest against Aberystwyth. He said that the team was staying at a hotel whose name I have forgotten.

So we left the Seafarers Club, saying a fond farewell to the many people we had been introduced to over the previous two hours. Outside, it was dark and the city streets were deserted. Our new friends, now in quite jovial mood, led the way. For about a fifteen minutes we walked through dark and silent streets. Our Welsh friends told us what a nice bunch of Boyos the Huddersfield players were.

“There it is,” one of them shouted. On a corner block stood a quite impressive two story building. It was the hotel. It was in total darkness.

“Doesn’t look as if anything is happening here,” I remarked. 

“Oh, yes,” said Tommy, Those Huddersfield boys will only be getting started.” With that they all began pounding on the large wooden doors of the large, dark and very quiet building.

“But there is no noise coming from inside,” I felt I needed to point out.

One of the men said, “That’s because it’s after closing. They will be down stairs.” After some more pounding on the door it opened and a smiling man greeted our Welsh friends with great delight and said, “We have been waiting for you. They are all down in the cellar.” Of course he said it in Welsh, but that was obviously what he meant.

We entered the building and the man who greeted us led us to an area behind one of the bars to an opened large doorway in the floor. We went down about twenty stairs into a huge cavern of a place. There were about fifty or sixty men and women in this huge cellar area and they were all having the time of their lives. There were small tables and chairs around the room. There was a large trestle table set up at the far end that was laden with sandwiches, cakes, sausage rolls and other savoury foods. There was lively music from a violinist and ukulele player. Everyone was singing or dancing or laughing or drinking or eating. Some were doing all of these things simultaneously.

Rhys announced to all and sundry that Dave and I were from Australia. Well, you would have thought the entire Wallabies rugby team had arrived. We received a tremendous cheer, we were handed glasses of beer and all of the Welshmen, and maybe some of those from Huddersfield, started singing the Welsh rugby song. Again, with special emphasis when the word “Wallabies” was mentioned.

It was quite noisy. A great party noise of music, laughter and happy conversations. I marvelled at how none of this noise in the cellar had been heard in the street above. 

During the night there was a lot of singing. Apparently it is what rugby players are very good at. They even sang Waltzing Matilda. Well, Dave and I sang the verses and everyone one else came in with the well-known chorus.

Then, the Singing Syrup really kicked in and I did a solo item. I sang The Wild Colonial Boy. I used to teach it to the children in my classes and I still knew all of the seven verses. At the end of the first verse I sang the chorus:

“So come away me hearties

We’ll roam the mountains high

Together we will plunder

And together we will die.

We’ll wander over valleys
We'll ride across the plains

For we scorn to live in slavery

Bound down by iron chains.

At the end of the second verse the party people all joined in the chorus. I suppose the Welsh will always enthusiastically sing a song that mentions valleys. By the time they sang the chorus for the fifth time they sounded like the very best choir singing at the Welsh National Eisteddfod. They were even harmonising. 

Of course Verse Seven is quite sad. The Wild Colonial boy fights it out with troopers, Kelly, Davis and Fitzroy until he is mortally wounded: The sombre last line is drawn out.

And that’s the way they captured him, The Wild Colonial Boy.

That last chorus is sung slow and low, gradually rising to a grand crescendo:

For we scorn to live in slavery

Bound down by iron chains.

Well those Welsh people certainly knew how to put passion and emotion into those words and the song finished with a rapturous cheer. The party continued long into the night. Unfortunately, I have no recollection of what happened about fifteen minutes after the Wild Colonial Boy sank to the ground Still firing at Fitzroy.

“Eeark, eeark. eeark.” 

The seagulls and the kestrels woke me up. I was lying on the stony beach at Aberystwyth. Dave’s car was still parked where we had left it the previous afternoon. It was standing all alone in the deserted street that fronted the beach.  The sun was shining and Dave was still asleep about three metres away. It was about 7-0'clock in the morning. I was feeling seedier than the floor of a cockies cage. As I sat up, trying to figure out where I was and how I got there, Dave woke up. We both tried to recollect our movements after leaving the hotel. The problem was we could not remember leaving the hotel!

How did we get back to the waterfront? None of our Welsh friends seemed to have a car. After walking along darkened streets from the first pub to the seafarers’ club and then to the to the "wild party" pub, Dave and I had no idea how to get to the beach from the hotel. There is no way that, very late at night, wandering strange streets and very much the worse for wear, we could have found our way back to the beach. We never did work it out.

Later that morning we set off for Cardiff, via Cardigan and Fishguard. It was an unforgettable night in Aberystwyth. 
If only we could  remember it!.