The Sydney Morning Herald Money for nothing and the joke's on me Date: 22/04/00 By RICHARD GLOVER What amazes me is the touching faith in free money; that 82 per cent of us believe we can have our cake and eat it. That Nick Whitlam can summon up a great pile of loot from nowhere and that we can then all help ourselves. "Money for jam" is everyone's term for the demutualisation of the NRMA. It's like we've all hot-wired a Porsche that we found parked in George Street. "Oh," we say, "it was just sitting there; so we didn't think anyone wanted it. It was, um, free." Where do people think the pile of loot comes from? Do they really think it was just sitting there with no use or purpose, waiting to be found? Even Nick Whitlam must know the loot comes from somewhere. It comes from the past generations who built up the NRMA, thinking they were adding to Australia's social capital. And it comes from the future generations who'll have to pay extra as the new company focuses on paying dividends. If you voted "yes" in this week's ballot, you've actually performed an act of some dexterity: slipping your hand simultaneously into the pockets of generations past and future. No doubt both groups whatever their hopes and dreams will be delighted they've managed to buy you a new fridge. No wonder they say the Nick-Whitlam, me-first, main-chance, baby-boomer generation is the cleverest we've ever seen. (And with university fees like they are, the cleverest we're ever likely to see.) Meanwhile, since we're talking of postal votes, about 82 per cent of readers have so far voted "no" to my piece of two weeks ago. I'd sat down and, with some danger to my own sanity, constructed 40 one-line jokes about the Prime Minister and his Aboriginal Affairs Minister, Senator Herron. Jokes of the lightbulb, chicken-crossing-the-road kind. If it's any consolation to the Prime Minister and his many supporters, I had a shocking headache by the end of it. Yesterday I received my 93rd abusive email, letter, fax or phone call on the matter. I keep nervously glancing out the window lest someone utilise the pigeon post. What conclusions can we draw from this outpouring? Other than that a statistically significant percentage of racists have the same cramped and tight handwriting style. One thing: we're not relaxed and comfortable about this. What's interesting is how vein- poppingly steamed up are the opponents of reconciliation. They all go from Dear Idiot to apoplectic in one paragraph. These are people, mostly, who've never met an Aborigine. In Federal Budget terms, it's an issue dwarfed by many others. Yet they are so red hot about it. What is going on? Such effort, such passion, such leaps of logic, all to avoid feeling a sense of unease about the nation's history. I admit, it's hard to stare unblinkingly at black-white relations. Too often you come across figures such as the one released this week by the Australian Bureau of Statistics: more than half of indigenous Australian men die before they reach the age of 50. It should be a figure that calls people to action. How odd that every time a figure like this emerges, most of the action that results is a lot of white people running around red-faced with rage thinking up excuses, arguments, red herrings, anything ... Anything but to silently repeat the figure and to admit that changing it will take reconciliation both practical and spiritual. At the Royal Easter Show this week, there was reconciliation of an easier sort being achieved. City was meeting country. On Wednesday, we took our radio show to the show and tested who was smarter: country people or city people. We had a panel of each faced with questions and tasks drawing on both city and country expertise. Our shock finding: country people don't know how to make a focaccia sandwich. Glen Denholm, whip maker and horse breaker, built a beautiful fence in under four minutes, used a whip and an axe with enormous skill, and answered a score of general knowledge questions. On every count, he beat the city slickers hands down. Then we presented him with a variety of possible ingredients and an electric sandwich-maker and invited him to prepare a classic Italian focaccia sandwich. I'm shocked to reveal: Glen added carrot and a slice of pineapple. No wonder our predominantly city crowd were aghast and shaken. We also chatted to youngsters such as Max, who told me his father was a dairy farmer and milked cows. Naturally, I queried this notion. "Doesn't milk come from the supermarket?" "No," said young Max, himself spluttering and aghast. "It comes from cows. You squeeze the cows, and milk comes out. They've got udders, you see ..." Squeeze cows? Milk emerging? Frankly, I can't see a future for the nation so long as country people come to town and insist on inventing these fantastical tales. What do they think we are? Stupid? 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