By Tony Smith
The traditional image of the true believer is changing dramatically. Union membership is being decimated, socialism has fallen from popularity in the East, and full employment has been reduced to the status of a mythical ideal rather than real politics.
It is now clear that politics as a career is both financially lucrative and psychologically absorbing. (Egomaniacs with no other qualifications can get rich quick!) So a visit to Ben Chifley's villa in Bathurst comes as a shock to anyone familiar with the lifestyles of members of today's government.
The true believer, circa 1950, was typically a trade unionist or school teacher. His hair (he was definitely male) was styled after his heroes — ex-diggers and amateur sportsmen with whom he once shook hands. He was clean shaven, drank beer from a glass and thought baked chicken more than once a year was an unnecessary indulgence.
The true believer, circa 1990, is an accountant or commercial lawyer. His hair (still male) will vary according to Mel Gibson's latest style, and his heroes are Kerry Packer, Rupert Murdoch and Kerry Packer. He drinks chardonnay with his smoked salmon and does not think any indulgence unnecessary.
The believer of 1950 wore a tweed sports coat — the same one every day. The elbows were patched where worn from being placed on the window sill of the train to Canberra. His baggy trousers had broad cuffs, and his shirts were invariably white. His shoes were serviceable and always well polished. In his jacket pocket was a fountain pen and a small diary. In his trousers pocket was a white handkerchief embroidered with his initial, courtesy of his children last Christmas.
His 1990s counterpart wears a three-piece suit, probably imported from Italy. For sitting days he has a grey lounge suit and seldom ventures out after dark unless in black tie. His shirts, changed at least twice daily, and always following the rigours of an executive class flight, are coloured or striped.
In his top pocket is a silk handkerchief in scarlet and royal blue, to match his tie. He carries an electronic organiser and would not know a pen or diary should he be mugged by them. He has more staff than his ancestor would have dared dream about.
Our '50s representative carries a battered briefcase which he received when he passed the leaving certificate at the local Catholic High School, thanks to regular discipline by the brothers. It came in very handy while he was studying economics and history — part-time of course. In it he has the cut lunch in greaseproof paper dutifully prepared by his wife from the last night's roast, and a thermos of tea. He will equally dutifully fold the brown paper bag and return it next week for re-use.
He also has a copy of the Daily Telegraph and one of Tribune. He will hide one inside the other depending on his company. There are letters from constituents to whom he must reply, and a clipping from a newspaper his wife asked him to consider: an advertisement for a cottage at Kiama where she would love to spend the Christmas vacation.
His '90s counterpart has a black attach‚ case with combination locks and a special paging device in case it should become confused with the other 90 similar to be found in the party room. He has had the case only since receiving it as a complimentary gift when attending a finance conference in Hong Kong the previous month.
After school he "read" commerce and law — one does not "study" such subjects — and his attach‚ case contains Business Review Weekly and a novel by Jeffrey Archer. He never reads, but likes the coloured graphics in the magazine and has to have something "on the go" fiction wise. Then he can lie convincingly to interviewers naive enough to try to discover the human face behind the authoritative public figure.
It also contains some colour brochures his partner suggested he might examine. During the parliamentary recess he faces a difficult decision. Venice is a little muggy during the northern summer, and he has just about exhausted the Club Meds. The chateau in Provence would be his partner's choice. Today's believers thrive on the pressures wrought by such dilemmas.
Our '50s man looks pretty tired. Back in his constituency he has been around the pubs, choked on the atmosphere and been told innumerable personal problems. He is a good listener. He relies on local support for endorsement at the next election and has a deep respect for the instinctive fair-mindedness of ordinary Australian battlers.
Our '90s man looks terrific. He takes his mobile phone to aerobics and has a regular massage. He is in high demand for business breakfasts and needs to be fit to keep up the pace. He is a good talker. He was preselected in a "head-hunting" drive by the National Executive, which installed him in a safe seat despite branch objections. He has a healthy respect for the powerful market forces of the economy and admires the Asian "tigers".
The believer of a previous generation thought that compassion meant that workers received a fair wage, that the sick could afford medical treatment and that the children of the poor should have access to the best education possible. Today's believer thinks that compassion means not beating the refugees locked away in remote camps, and ensuring everyone has enough croissants for breakfast — if that's what they choose to spend their money on.
Of course, the change in the believer from the '50s to the '90s was gradual and almost unnoticeable. Australia is a vastly different society today and, some would say, richer and more sophisticated. But one thing that remains the same is the principle that we get the leaders we deserve. Exciting thought, that.