Fremantle is red tonight. Red are the shirts of the tens of thousands that sprawl across Esplanade Park and spill into the neighbouring streets, every western branch of the Socialist Party assembled en masse. Red are the flags which fly and bob above them, broken only by the standards of the unions: the CFMMEU, whose dock workers built this town; the UWU, too many to count; and the teachers of the SSTUWA, grinning and defiant. Red is the stage upon which the mighty emblem of the Socialist Party of Australia hangs for all to see.

The soothing notes of Waltzing Matilda float above the multitude, yet suddenly fade away. A hush falls across the expanse, and in its wake an elderly man with a chevron moustache appears from amongst the red banners that hang at the rear of the stage. Waves of recognition roil through the crowd, then shouts of elation, then a mighty roar that reverberates through the time-worn streets of Fremantle. It is a face they all recognise and love, the face of Miguel Bsharri, the first Socialist Prime Minister of Australia. The retired statesman grins as he walks to the podium, and there waits patiently for the din to subside.

"Comrades," he begins, a look of fatherly love etched across his face. "I come here tonight, to this place where our movement truly began on this continent, to remind you of a simple truth. It is a truth that the enemies of the working classes, in their board rooms, and parliaments, and newsrooms, have always tried to suppress. It is a truth that breaks the chains of oppression and shakes the system to its rotten core. It is the truth, that we, the workers, run this country!"

"It is we, the workers, who mine the ore, we who man the ports, we who drive the trucks! It is we who work the factories, we who collect the garbage, we who heal the sick!" He slams his fist down upon the podium in righteous anger, bellowing, "and it is WE, not the vultures in Canberra, who fly the aeroplanes, we who build the skyscrapers, we who teach the next generation!"

The masses howl in approval, yet Bsharri does not stop, only raising his voice to the clamour: "Yet every day in this country, the capitalists and their political lackeys demand that it is we, the workers, who should foot the bill for their follies. It is we who should bear the burdens and take the blows for their booms and their busts, who should grit our teeth and tolerate austerity and privatisation. It is we who should fight their wretched wars abroad, we who should send our sons and daughters to die for their greed. It is we who should accept the cuts in wages and welfare, we who should behave and obey."

"Socialists," he cries, raising one gnarled fist before the assembly. "What do you say to the demands of the enemy?"

"NO."