An old scab postman lay dying…

Another straight lift - this time from the Health & Safety website HandSigns. Couldn't resist it.

"An old scab postman lay dying… He sent for his son.

The son rushed to his bedside and put his ear close to the old man’s lips.
“Yes Dad, what do you want to say to me?”

“Son”, he wheezed, “I’ve got one last wish, and I want you to see it’s carried out.”
“Yes, Dad, what is it?”

“When I’m gone, I want you to arrange my funeral.”
“Yes, Dad, I’ll do that.”

“And I want you to arrange that the Union Banner is draped on my coffin, and that my pallbearers are good Union members, and better still, Union Reps.”
“But Dad”, the son replied, confused, “You never supported the Union. When you started in the Post Office as a casual, it was the Union who got you a permanent contract, but you always slagged them off.”

"I know, son.”
” And the Union got you taken on full time, but you thought it was management who had given you a full time job, and although you joined the Union, it was only to get any protection going, in case you needed it.”

“Yes, son, that’s true.”
“And when you were threatened with dismissal for sickness, it was the Union Rep who represented you and saved your job.”

“Yes, she did.”
“And you took every pay rise, and improvement that the Union negotiated, though you always said that the Union did nothing for you.”

“Yes…”
“And when the Union said a stand had to be taken against Management’s refusal to negotiate on their plans to cut wages and impose their Business Plan, you resigned from the Union ‘on principle’, as you were against strikes.”

“Yes, son, I did — the Union can’t tell you what to do.”
“And you crossed the picket line, laughing at your colleagues standing there losing pay to defend their pay, their conditions and their jobs.”

“Well, yes, I did. They’re idiots to think they can stand up to Management.”
“And you did every bit of overtime going, even coming in on your days off.”

“Yes, son, well, you have to look after yourself.”
“And if anyone called you a scab, you went running to the manager to get disciplinary action taken against them.”

“Yes–well, they shouldn’t be so nasty to me, I’m only doing my job.”
“So Dad, if you’ve hated the Union all your life, why would you want Union members to be your pallbearers?”

The old scab wheezed and gasped, turning blue, before he breathed his last, and departed this life for that hell reserved for scabs, nonces, bullying managers, torturers, concentration camp guards, fascists, greedy bosses, and the rest of the dregs of humanity. He beckoned his son to come closer, and with his last breath he whispered:

“GOOD AND DECENT TRADE UNIONISTS HAVE CARRIED ME ALL MY LIFE, AND I WANT THEM TO CARRY ME WHEN I’M DEAD, TOO.”