The Coalition has offered a natural home for parochials who want to cast a protest vote against the snobbery of cosmopolitans, writes Lech Blaine. The question is what progressives do next
A few weeks before he suffered a fatal stroke, I visited my father at the three-star motel he was leasing in Bundaberg. It was a five-hour train ride from Brisbane. I was studying political science and literature at the University of Queensland, a young man suffocating from class anxiety.
My dad was from the working class. My mum was from the welfare class. My foster siblings were from the underclass. By the time I started primary school, my parents owned a small business and investment properties. I had a comfortable upbringing. Unlike me, my parents were incapable of aesthetically assimilating into the middle class. “Your parents are bogans,” a classmate at my Christian Brothers school told me in grade 8, the closest that I’ve ever come to punching someone.