Tom French (Moore, Australian Labor Party) Share this | Hansard source

I begin by acknowledging the traditional owners of the land on which we meet, the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people, and I pay my respects to their elders past and present. I would also like to pay my respects to the traditional owners of the land of my community, the Whadjuk people of the Noongar nation.

I wasn't born into politics. I'm the son of a painter who was the son of a painter. I wasn't the first in my family to go to university or the first to work in law—because of Labor government policies. But I am the first to stand here in this place, and that matters. That's because I didn't grow up thinking I'd end up here. But this life, in all its twists, brought me here anyway. The truth is I've never fit neatly into a single box. I'm a qualified electrician and a lawyer, a former publican, a father and now a parliamentarian. I am not one thing, but it is the sum of my experiences that brings me here and gives me the insight to do this job.

I come from working-class stock. I've poured beers, pulled cables, written briefs and represented workers. I've stood on job sites and picket lines, and I've heard more excuses from bosses than beats in a Ramones song. But the common thread, the baseline that has carried me, has always been a love for people, a belief in fairness and a commitment to opportunity, equity and the dignity of work—values at the very heart of the Labor movement. People often ask me how I went from being an electrician to being a lawyer. I tell them it's actually a pretty straight line. Being a sparkie got me into the Electrical Trades Union, the union got me into politics, and politics eventually led me to law. Somewhere along the way I realised I might be better at making laws than enforcing them. Not many lawyers wear steelcaps, but, then again, not many sparkies wear robes. Turns out whether it's a switchboard or a courtroom, the job is the same: keep calm, stay grounded and pray nothing catches fire!

Maybe that's why I've always tried to make sense of the chaos—to understand how things go wrong and what can be done better. That drive comes from seeing people slip through the cracks. In the Fair Work Commission, on job sites, over the bar, it's knowing someone has to be willing to speak up. Being an electrician taught me more than how to run a cable or wire a switchboard, and working in pubs taught me more than how to pour a beer. Both jobs taught me how to read a room—not just for voltage but for people. They taught me how to stay calm when things went wrong, how to think on my feet, how to de-escalate a situation before it kicked off, how to finish the job even when it was raining, the plans were wrong and someone was shouting at you from across the bar.

I didn't grow up dreaming of conduit or cable trays, but, once I put on the hi-vis, I found a trade that made sense. It was practical, tangible and essential. I still remember the buzz of finishing a job and knowing that when you flicked a switch something lit up because of you. There's a deep satisfaction in that—the kind of pride that comes from using your hands, your brain and your back all at once. It's not glamorous work, but it's good work, honest work, and I'll always carry that with me. Being a tradie taught me that nothing stays the same for long. One year you're an apprentice; the next you're mentoring one. One week you're on night shift; the next you're looking for a new contract. Change isn't a theory in industry. It's reality. You learn to adapt, or you don't last. That ability to change course, take a risk, back yourself and try something new is something we don't talk enough about in politics. But it's baked into the lived of working people. Whether it's retraining, recovering, starting over or just picking yourself up and turning up again on Monday, that's resilience.

I've met sparkies who became small-business owners, painters who became nurses and publicans and chefs who became teachers. There's no straight line through life, and we should stop pretending there is. I'm standing here because I took a few detours. I've changed careers, cities and expectations. I've gone from live wires to legislation, from wiring offices and mines to writing laws. And every shift, every fork in the road, added something to who I am, because your story doesn't have to be polished or perfect to be powerful.

Before I found politics, or even law, I found music, particularly alternative music—the soundtrack of share houses, long drives and cheap guitars. It didn't always offer solutions, but it made you feel seen. That music has shaped how I've seen the world. It gave working class kids like me a voice, even when no-one else was listening. In preparing for today, I kept returning to a lyric from Everclear: 'the hand you hold is the hand that holds you down'. It's a confronting line, but it's always stayed with me, because sometimes the people or the systems that claim to support you are the same ones holding you back. Recognising that, learning to stand up anyway, is how many of us from working class backgrounds find our voice. It's how we learn to fight for something better.

Years later, I found another kind of anthem, in an unlikely place. Now, I'll be honest: I never listened to a musical until I met my partner, Clare. But she introduced me to Hamilton, the perfect crossover of great music and great politics—a story about someone who wasn't meant to be in the room but wouldn't take no for an answer. There's a lyric that's stayed with me ever since: 'I am not throwing away my shot!' This is my shot—my shot to fight for my community of Moore, a community that stretches along Perth's northern corridor, from Trigg in the south to Iluka in the north, a stretch of coastline patrolled by volunteers from our local surf lifesaving clubs at Trigg, Sorrento and Mullaloo.

Our community spirit isn't just in the sand; it's in the suburbs. It's a region defined by families juggling work, school runs and weekend sport, a place where ambition is measured in early starts, late finishes and long drives to footy training and back, a community built on hard work, hope and determination to give the next generation more than we had. The spirit is old school: help your neighbour, back your mates, speak your mind.

Joondalup is the urban heart of Moore. It's a city that grew from vision, shaped by planning, migration and opportunity. For decades it has been a place where new suburbs rose from the bush and new Australians built their lives. There's a time capsule buried near the train station; it was buried in 1999, and it's to be opened in 2029. This is a reminder of just how fast the future arrives and how bold the original dream was. That capsule reminds us, though, that bold ideas take time, but they also take commitment. We owe it to the people who planted those dreams to see them realised.

I see the future for Joondalup as a cultural capital, a city that doesn't just house people but is a place that inspires them, a place where kids can learn, play and perform, and a home for live music, local talent and big ideas. We must turn the Joondalup Performing Arts and Cultural Centre into reality, a venue that'll put our city on the map for every touring band and school orchestra. Music, theatre, libraries: these are bridges between people. Culture is infrastructure, too—the stages on which identity is built, because culture isn't just something we consume; it's something we create. And it doesn't belong just to the elite. Some of the most honest stories ever told came from local pubs and backyard jam sessions.

Moore's suburbs have their own voice: raw, honest and full of life. It's time we gave them a proper mic and a proper stage, not just in backyards or pubs but in venues worthy of the talent we're growing, so the next generation doesn't have to leave Joondalup to be heard. My family's pubs gave music a home, a stage, a sticky carpet, a chance to be heard—my mum's thinking, 'Oh no!' But that's where I learned that music isn't just entertainment; its protest, it's poetry, it's belonging. Music taught me to question authority, to speak out, to feel. Songs remind me that we govern not just with laws but with stories. Music has been the highway of my life, and now, in this place, I get to help build the on-ramps so others can find their way. I want kids in Connolly to pick up guitars. I want teenagers in Duncraig to choreograph dance routines. I want mural art in Craigie, punk gigs in Heathridge and poetry in Padbury. I want working-class kids to see their own lives reflected on stage, not just once a year but every weekend.

Every life has off-notes, and sometimes those are what gives a song its power. At 25, just before starting my electrical apprenticeship, a routine prework medical found something wasn't right. They told me to follow up with my GP, who sent me for more tests and referred me to Professor Neil Boudville. That's when I first heard the words 'chronic kidney disease'. I'd barely picked up a set of tools and already I was carrying a health condition that shadowed me for more than a decade and led to me having a kidney transplant in 2020. I wasn't special; I was just lucky—lucky to have the support of a great family, lucky to have Medicare, lucky to live in a country that didn't put a price on my future. That's why I will always defend Medicare.

But health isn't the only battle working people face. We continue to see apprentices being treated poorly, pushed too hard, paid too little, left without support. They're vulnerable, and some people exploit that. I've stood beside apprentices who were threatened when they raised safety concerns or were too scared to say they didn't understand a task. That's not training; that is exploitation, and every time we fail an apprentice, we fail our future. If we want a country that builds things, fixes things, invents things, it starts with backing our apprentices, not breaking them.

I believe in public education. I believe in a strong union movement. I believe in workplace rights, fair wages, free TAFE and safe jobs. I believe in art, in music, in laughter and, to the horror of my staff, in dad jokes. I've been part of campaigns where we've changed safety procedures after an injury. I've represented health and safety reps who've stopped unsafe work. I've stood with families after injury, illness and injustice and then gone home to change nappies at 3 am, because I'm a dad before I'm anything else.

People ask why I ran. The truth is that once you've stood beside someone on the worst day of their life after a workplace death, a failed workers comp claim or a wrongful dismissal, it's hard to unsee that. It gets in your blood. I didn't run because I wanted to be a politician; I ran because I've seen too many people get shocked by the systems that were meant to shield them. I couldn't keep drawing up briefs and crossing my fingers. I was tired of trying to restore power without the switchboard. I didn't want to just survive the system; I wanted to rewire it.

I know people say, 'Politics will change you,' and maybe it will, but I'd rather try and fail than never try at all. And as Hamilton put it:

Legacy! What is a legacy?

It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see

I'm here for that garden, full of song, a fair go and opportunity for my kids, for yours, for the next band that plays in Joondalup, for the kid in Edgewater who dreams of studying medicine, for the worker in Beldon who just wants a fair deal. For 35 years, Moore hasn't had a Labor member. That ends now.

There weren't many people who thought I could win Moore back. In 2022, I was almost good enough! But here I am and I'm not going away. I'm not here just to hold the seat; I'm here to make it sing, to make sure the voices of our suburbs ring out in policy, in parliament and maybe even in the distorted guitars and social perspective of punk. There will be challenges—of course there will—but I've stared down worse and I know what it means to fight and I know what it means to lose. But I've learned that courage isn't the absence of fear; it's doing it anyway. It's holding your kids close and then standing up to speak. It's pressing play when everything inside you says pause.

There's a poem that hangs on the wall of my office, Martin Niemoller's 'First They Came', a stark reminder of what happens when good people stay silent. Its message is simple: if we don't speak out for others, there may be no-one left to speak out for us. That poem is a compass, a reminder that silence helps the powerful and hurts the vulnerable. Every time I look up at the grass above this building, I remember why that matters. Parliament House was built beneath the feet of the people to remind us we serve the people, not the other way around.

That belief has guided every step that brought me here, but I didn't take those steps alone. To my partner, Clare—for your love, your honesty and your fierce belief in me—you are my home. Now, Clare has always been known for her wise investments. She picked me up when I was 38, an electrician with a dodgy kidney, two tool bags and a dream of being a politician that sounded more like a punchline than a plan. Some invest in shares or property; Clare invested in me. I reckon she's still waiting for the dividend, but I'm working on it! My boys aren't here—chaos! They won't remember this speech, but hopefully one day they read it and feel proud.

To my parents, John and Mary: look what you have done! You raised the kid who asked too many questions, challenged everything and somehow turned that into a job. You taught me the value of hard work, doing the right thing when no-one's watching and backing yourself when the odds aren't in your favour. If I stand a little taller today, it's because I'm standing on the shoulders of your sacrifice and love.

To my brother Joe, who saved my life by donating his good kidney: I carry that with me every day. To my other brothers, Greg, Kieran and Dominic: Joe set a pretty high bar. But in all seriousness, I'm proud to call you my brothers.

To Professor Neil Boudville, who oversaw my care and transplant for more a decade: I wouldn't be standing here without you. Thank you.

To Adam Woodage and Michael Wright from the Electrical Trades Union: you've always had my back, and I'll never forget it. To the United Professional Firefighters Union: thank you for giving me a chance to learn a new profession and trusting me to represent your members. To the RBTU and the AMWU: your support has meant more than you know.

To the member for the Kingsley, Hillarys and Joondalup branches: thank you for your dedication, your energy, and your belief that Moore could be won.

To Kim Young, Sue Hearn and Greg Wilton: your guidance, political education, belief and hard work made all the difference.

To my colleagues and friends in the WA parliament, Caitlin Collins, Emily Hamilton, Jess Stojkovski, Stuart Aubrey and Mark Folkard: thank you for your friendship and support.

To my campaign director, Tim Grey-Smith: thank you for believing. You ran a campaign that was smart, steady and full of heart. To my campaign team and staff: thank you for backing me. I'll do everything I can to make you proud.

And to my oldest friends, Murray, Logan, Scott, Andrew and Cameron: thank you for keeping me grounded, honest and moving forward.

But to the people of Moore: thank you for your trust. I won't waste it. I'll work hard, I'll listen, and I'll fight for the things that matter to you. You've put your faith in me, and I intend to repay it one conversation, one vote, one outcome at a time.

To the Prime Minister: thank you, Albo, for your support, for your example and for proving that a love of music and a love of people are not just compatible to leadership—they're essential. To my WA Labor colleagues Pat Gorman, Matt Keogh, Madeleine King, Anne Aly and Josh Wilson: you've known me since this journey began back in 2016. Thank you for your guidance, advice and encouragement. You've shown me what it means to lead with purpose and serve with purpose. I'm extremely proud to stand alongside you.

To the members of this House: I look forward to working with you, learning from you and occasionally debating with you, loudly.

I'd like to finish on this. To the young people out there who feel like they don't belong: maybe this place is for you, too. Maybe one day you'll be here, not because you fit the mould but because you didn't. Sometimes the hand that you hold doesn't hold you down. Sometimes it lifts you up.

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