Category Archives: The Public Bar

Traditional Leed’s piss-up!

13 Thursday Aug 2009

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Leeds Pub ( Duck and Drake?)

Traditional Piss up.

Perhaps those gloomy faces on the subway are only a sign of the looming day’s struggle ahead, to try and make the best of it, to overcome and conquer daily battle, to steel oneself against adversity. In any case, it explains the typical urge by the English, if all else fails to go for the ‘piss up’. The ‘piss up’ is the relief valve for the English what the mistress is for the French or the ‘tavola en casa’ is for the Italians.  Leeds has a famous Cricket ground and a Fish and Chips shop that, according to the locals is not to be missed, ever!   I am  ignorant of the game of Cricket and I must have insulted my hosts of not showing due interest in wanting to see their famous Cricket ground. I made up though by shouting them to a nosh-up of Fish and Chips from their world famous Leeds shop. Indeed, at the arrival there was already a formidable queue of keen Fish & Chips addicts.

It was a Saturday night and Leeds was loaded with expectations. When it was our turn, we ordered the Fish and Chips and duly collected the butcher papered steaming parcels and drove past the famous Cricket grounds. I murmured admiration and mentioned the names of a few Australian cricketers. That seemed to have satisfied my hosts and as soon as the fish and chips were consumed, the husband suggested we now go for a Saturday night ‘piss up’ at the local.  Unfortunately I have forgotten its name. Could it have been the ‘Bricklayers Arms’ or was it the ‘Duck and Drake’?

In any case after arriving, we got a beer and the evening started at a gentle pace, no sign of anything outrageous. The pub started filling with more and more people and I noticed the same habit of drinking as in Australia. For the most part, people stood up instead of being seated and drank fast and as the evening progressed the level of noise became louder. It was almost as if the evening was going to run out before one could get all words or ideas off one’s chest. The drinkers were mainly men but a few women as well. The girls for the most part would be sitting down and the drinking was a little less hectic or hurried. The host that had invited me had become embroiled in a discussion about how tough married life was and his drinking friends could be seen to nod and agree in an almost vehement fashion.

The third beer was now being consumed and things were well on the way. I was still on my first but thought it wise to show good manners and shouted the little group beer number four. The conversation was now almost impossible to follow unless one was within about thirty centimetres of the mouth of the speaker which most drinkers were doing. The din was now becoming overwhelming and I decided to gentle break loose from the group to sit down and observe this ‘piss up’ cultural phenomenon.

The man pulling the beer was now starting to become more alert in case of trouble and saw him cautioning a few young drinkers who were trying to crack on to some of the girls. I would have thought that the girls were there to be cracked upon but apparently the blokes were already known by them and perhaps a little déjà vu for the evening.  The make-up was rather heavy with thick mascara and lots of blush hiding valiantly an age more advanced than at first glance.

The ‘piss up’ was now gathering pace and caution by my host seemed to have gone to the wind. He was now in full stride with his tirade against the evils of being tied down in a marriage with a woman who did not understand him; neither did the wives in his entourage of men friends. They now started looking at the girls with the mascara and exchanged meaningful if somewhat cross eyed glances and smiles bordering on licentiousness, if a smile after 8 beers can be called by that word. The girls, who had drunk a couple of gin and tonics, were suitably impressed and responded by smiles and coyly cackling to each other.

https://i0.wp.com/www.freefunnypixs.com/images/media/11/drunk_people_6.jpg

The whole pub had now taken on a din of such proportions that nothing could be heard or made sense off. The ‘piss up’ was now at its zenith and our group had now become pissed, totally drunk. My host and friends had all sunk on their knees and proceeded to waddle towards the girls that were still seated on the other side of the bar; they all broke out in laughter with mascara running and the pink blush blooming bright red now. It was time for men to confess and conquer. The seduction of a woman with alcohol fuelled lust was coming to the fore and with thick tongue and  tear stained face, the host on his knees was confessing how the wife did not really, really understand him. The matrimony was lagging and the conjugal promise had faded, he wanted to just have someone understanding.

The next thing he was holding her hand and asking her for forgiveness.  My host, full of fish and chips with ten schooners of beer was almost catatonic. The girls were now hooting with mirth, the evening was exactly as they had hoped and for another gin and tonic, the men were asked to sit around and join.

However, the peak had passed and the alcohol in the men was now churning their stomachs a little.  The Fish & Chips were out for revenge. The queue to the toilets was growing and many now were seen to go and splash their boots outside. Our friend started to look decidedly seedy and he mumbled something of having to go for cheddar. I asked what cheddar meant. The girls did a good imitation of puking.  All seduction plans were off and he had also lost his keys now to get back in. This did not look good as I had my luggage at his place and intended to sleep there before catching the train back to London in the morning. He was now well beyond hope of recovery before heading back to his place and I could envisage a tricky situation trying to get back inside. I searched his pockets but no car or house keys. Was the zenith turning into its nadir?

The car was parked not far so I decided to go and see if the keys were there. They were. It took another ten minutes to drag him to the car and I took over the drive home with also giving a lift to one of the girls who lived near him. She fortunately was sober enough to guide me and as we got to the host’s place she even helped me drag him to the door. The wife was there but with a smile, she told me that this was his Saturday night outing and she knew the routine. The girl blinked at the wife and me and walked the rest of the distance back to her place. Next morning we got up and the husband was somewhat grumpy, but the wife was kind and full of understanding.

It was just a ‘piss up’, she said!

Wombat calling.

11 Tuesday Aug 2009

Posted by in The Other Side of the Carpark, The Public Bar

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The most baffling aspect of the wombats is the way they communicate with those that happen to share their domain. We have been here over 13 years and each time we go somewhere it involves a drive to the front gate and a laneway that have poplars growing on both sides. Perhaps two hundred in total which we planted some 12 years ago  but which have at least tenfolded in hight during that time.

The laneway is not straight and with some imagination and squinting eyes, the poplars in full leaf, the laneway  could resemble a Vermeer painting.

When we arrive at the gate,which has to be kept open by a flat piece of stone to  prevent is from swinging back, never having invested in a fancy solar powered electric motor that will open gates remotely without the need to leave the car, this flat piece of stone always has the wombat’s calling card in the shape of green almost square nuggets of shit.  Why does it do this?

Is the wombat extending a hand of friendship or is it more sinister and telling us to bugger off?

They are capable of digging enormous homes underground with large dykes around it preventing flooding during rain. The previous owners have tried by ramming old vehicles and complete bogies into the holes to try and resettle them away from fences or dams. All to no avail. They simply dig back in the same spot and the fence posts will once again be dangling in mid air and the dam will start to lose its water again. 

We have never bothered them and the numbers are now huge. At night, and with the help of a moon you can sometimes see them sauntering by on their way to matings or just to the front gate, perhaps to drop another one on the flat stone.  They also insist on doing the same on the stump that remained after we cut a tree near our house. They love to shit on elevated surfaces.

 Is it their calling card to say hello?

The Hermitage (with intestinal hurry)

07 Friday Aug 2009

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A Super Realist view of the Hermitage

A Super Realist view of the Hermitage

The Hermitage Museum with The Winter Palace defies anything that I had seen so far. Not just the buildings but the space in front of it. The sense of what space can add to buildings in nowhere as clear as that of the Red Square in Moscow and the huge square in front of The Hermitage Museum. So, by the time you reach the front of the buildings you are already in awe of whatever there might be inside.

I suppose, this is also when you approach Sydney’s Opera House when viewed from the expanse of the Harbour.  The Hermitage Museum houses over 3.000.000 pieces dating from the Stone Age to the 20th century and presents the development of the world of culture and art throughout that period. You cannot possibly do justice in spending a few tourists’ hours but, alas, that is all we had time for.

I have always suffered from a kind of anxiety that breaks out in, what a doctor once described’ as ‘intestinal hurry’. It means that once you have ‘to go’ you have little time for contemplation or reflection. I virtually ran past dozens of Picassos and Rembrandts, even the Mona Lisa was forsaken for my urgent pursuit of a toilet, any toilet anywhere! After, what seemed like entire acres and miles of huge rooms were passed, final relief. I sighted the sign of ‘Toilets’.

At that time, this was the essence of what I needed more that all the Chagall’s or Van Gogh’s or Mondrian’s could provide me. The ‘intestinal’ hurry had well passed the critical stage of concentration on art or absorption of Stone Age culture in any shape or form. Finally, it came in sight, the toilet I mean. It was a huge toilet with dozens of cubicles where by many were visible on the ‘throne’. This is what I liked so much about Russia, the overnight sleeper train with the mixed sex compartments and now toilets with doors that many did choose not to close. There we were, all united in our common ablutional needs. Some behind, others with open doors, so many nationalities and all doing what we all do, at times.

At the corners of this huge public toilet, the obligatory ladies sitting on their chairs made the experience memorable as much as Rembrandts ‘The Prodigal Son’ which I still had time for to visit afterwards.

“The Prodigal Son” was surrounded by dozens if not hundreds of viewers and one could only wait and shuffle towards it whenever a space became vacant. Oddly there were no catalogues in English available. I came within about four metres of The Prodigal Son and I was sure that when I finally tore myself away that his eyes  continued to follow me. This is of course always proof of great art!

The collection and size of the gallery means that some tourists get so lost in time and space that buses have been known to leave without some and the lost souls then have to somehow find their own way back to hotel. It would take at least 4 or 5 days to just see the essence of what The Hermitage holds and the few hours that we spent there were totally inadequate, even so it afforded me to at least the opportunity to have seen some of it.

I must say, that many times I have returned there, even though just in my mind’s eye.  In getting older or better to say ‘old’, a reflective mind’s eye is better than an unreflective and boisterous blind eye.

* Conditions Apply

06 Thursday Aug 2009

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Jetstar Plane on its way to Bali to pick up stranded passengers

Jetstar Plane on its way to Bali to pick up stranded passengers**

As Mike tidies up the final preparations for the Eurotrip, he reflects on how not dodgy, not underhanded and downright not unethical the travel industry and carriers have become.

On the front page of Tuesday’s SMH (Tuesday 4th August 2009), there’s a footer advertisement for Jetstar’s Sale – Bali – Denpasar for $779.  But that’s not the $799 that you fork out, it’s the one with the asterisk.  It’s $779*.  So, keen on getting into the richness of this offering from Jetstar, he pulled out his Mike-O’scope and read on.

It turns out that it’s a one way ticket.  Hmmmn. Helpful.  So the immediate question is “how much is a return ticket ?”.  Well, you could phone up to find that out.

But wait !  The fine print says that if you make a booking over the telephone, it’s an extra $25*.

And did I mention that you can’t travel on just any old day.  There are three prohibited periods – nicely cutting out holidays and schoolies peak travel – and leaving you the freedom to go to Bali when the monsoon is on.  Thoughtful !

I know how you like flexibility to deal with life’s little inconveniences – like dealing with Swine Flu or recovering from Shingles or motorcycle accidents, and I’ll bet that you’re mightily relieved to learn that changes to the ticketing ARE permitted and that Sale fares are refundable.  Of course, being a reasonable person (as all our readers are. hahahha) you won’t mind learning that charges will apply.

Of course, these are not stated, but you will trust that they’re not punitive – like the difference between this asterisk sale price and full fare.

And when you might want to rebook, the generous $779* fare might not be available.  AT least you were told – provided that you have a Mike O’scope.

If the Australian government travel advisory says it’s OK then rush right in and book.  And if they change their mind because of a little spot of terrorism, and you’ve already taken up Jetstar’s generous asterix offer, then it’s f&ck you, Charlie !

So $799* might be a great deal – except that you can get to Europe one way for $760*.  But  a lot will depend on the cost of the Euro asterisk.  Bring your own oxygen, perhaps ?  Only 47 stopovers and 3 legs with Trans Yak Airways.

Mike needed to book a flight from Heathrow to Belfast.  Great Internet deal !  The fare is only £12.95 !  Plus £33 for taxes and surcharges.  Plus £8 for his bag weighing less than 20 kilos.  Plus £4 or choosing a seat ! Plus £3 for using a credit card – interesting when there’s no other way to pay.   Total cost for a £12.95 ticket ?  A$129.  Need a new currency converter that builds in a rip-off automatically ?  Sure do !

* There’s the little added thing of shelling out $5 for a credit card usage.  And the alternative way of paying over the internet to avoid the $25 phone call surcharge might be ?

** Read about the 300 or so Jetstar passengers who got stuck in Bali here ……

http://images.google.com.au/imgres?imgurl=http://www.abc.net.au/reslib/200703/r132131_440038.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2007/07/23/1986185.htm%3Fsection%3Dbusiness&usg=__cT0UpOIvLseWk1vRD8ljfWzARZE=&h=562&w=840&sz=67&hl=en&start=4&tbnid=_jSAAbjFfFC7oM:&tbnh=97&tbnw=145&prev=/images%3Fq%3Djetstar%2Bplane%26gbv%3D2%26hl%3Den

New York, NEW YORK, NEW FREAKIN’ YORK

30 Thursday Jul 2009

Posted by in Susan Merrell, The Public Bar

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An intimate NYC tete a tete

An intimate NYC tete a tete

On her first visit to New York, Susan Merrell expected to love it – and she did.  If only they’d turn down the volume.

Having been in Academia now for more than a decade, I’ve learnt to guard against stereotyping. So on arrival in New York, I had not given a thought to the loud, brash New Yorker of legend. I wasn’t expecting to encounter clones of Eddie Murphy, Sylvester Stallone or Jerry Seinfield. Yet, they were all there, en masse. New York is full of …well…New Yorkers. And boy, are they loud?

On our first night in New York, we were content to leave the ‘city that never sleeps’ to its own devices and to climb under the covers for an early night. We didn’t expect to be disturbed. Wrong

Around midnight, we were woken by a voice. There was no one there. Was it the radio? The television? No. It was coming from the next room

Believing the walls to be unusually thin we sat patiently while the voice gave a critique of Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler. Not finished, it then went on to explain the parallels between West Side Story and Romeo and Juliet – hardly drawing a breath. The monologue was punctuated by a second person’s intermittent “uh-huh”. The oration was long, the breath control and voice projection awesome. And the voice was thorough. Not a stone was left unturned. Luckily, it was not in possession of any insights on other Broadway shows – at least none that were shared that night. Uh-huh.

But the walls were not thin. The theatre critic had a voice that could penetrate twenty metres of wet cement and it wasn’t a unique skill in New York. What’s more, they don’t have dialogues. You know, conversations – where speakers take turns. It’s most noticeable when they are on the phone (and they’re always on the phone). There are just no gaps.

Taxi drivers are serial offenders. I’d often make the mistake of thinking the driver was talking to me and attempt an answer. My joining in never bothered them. They just kept talking on that phone as if I wasn’t there. And I thought only my children had that talent.

Walking along Broadway in the Financial District we were privy to a mobile phone conversation that went on for more than ten blocks. The speaker was loud. And was he indiscreet? HELL, YEAH. If only I knew the identity of the listener (I knew most everything else) blackmail would be almost obligatory.  (But only if one has criminal tendencies – and everyone knows writers don’t have those.)

Yet, not for a minute am I suggesting New Yorkers are impolite – insensitive to those around them, yes. Impolite, no. In fact most service providers had obviously been schooled in polite key phrases and told to use them often. ‘You’re welcome,’ was the polite retort to everything that was said, be it the appropriate response or no.

Inappropriate responses are known as non-sequiturs. They’re my husband’s preferred mode of communication. In his case he is listening but is as deaf as a post. Not something to which he’ll freely admit. To cover up his deafness, he guesses. He answers what he expects a person to say.

‘Which stop are you getting off at?’

‘No.’

What’s worse, since being in New York getting him to admit he’s hearing deficient is impossible. He’s heard every word that has been uttered while in New York – even through walls, hasn’t he?

Interestingly, people speaking at high decibels did carry some rewards – in restaurants, for instance. While Hubby and myself quickly gave up on our own mealtime conversations (competition being too fierce), eavesdropping became mandatory and a bit of an art. If you chose your dining neighbours wisely there was all sorts of interesting stuff you could pick up. One man was planning to move to Korea to take up a teaching post. He got the job during a ‘speed interview’. Akin to speed dating, he had gone to a jobs fair where one moved from employer to employer and had five minutes to convince the interviewer to hire you. Imagine that.

Conversely, you could be unlucky and just be privy to a mealtime of whining about the “FREAKIN’ ECONOMY.” Should I have interjected with a question over American culpability, do you think?

All of the New Yorkers we encountered were real people, not stereotypes. Nevertheless they were eerily familiar. I think that in our endeavours to be politically correct sometimes we fail to understand that stereotypes are formed from particular and prevalent types. To ignore this is as misleading as to imagine that every one of a type will conform to a standard.

First Published by Eureka Street  http://www.eurekastreet.com.au/article.aspx?aeid=12704 July 1 2009

A Walk in the Park – and it’s Koala Moon !

25 Saturday Jul 2009

Posted by in The Other Side of the Carpark, The Public Bar

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Simulated Park

Stimulated Park

by …. Jules

A couple of news items caught my eye this week. Well three actually. And somehow they all muddled together, when I was walking the dogs.

First there was an article in The Courier Mail, headed, “Koalas doomed”, by Brian Williams, Environmental Reporter.

According to Williams, Andrew McNamara, a former sustainability minister, was warning that, Koalas were on the road to extinction, because of their habitat destruction. This destruction of course, was not for fun, but because of the continuous growth of the human population. The article quoted him as saying that, “The more of us there are, the fewer of everything else there is (or will be)”. And he also went on to say how difficult it was to discuss population growth, or get it on the government’s agenda. He said, “It’s a massive blind spot”.

The reporter then referred to a 1994 report by The Australian Academy of Science that envisaged a population of 23 million as being a comfortable limit. Although an eminent Australian Scientist, Tim Flannery has mooted 8-12 million as being this nation’s carrying capacity.

(In the same newspaper were articles promoting the growth of SE Queensland ; and how it will become the fifth largest city, of Australia.)

Well that was one thing that got me thinking; and then driving to the park with dogs in the car, ‘a man came on the radio, telling me more n’ more’, asking listeners where they were when the Apollo Spacecraft landed in 1969 .

I remember clearly: I watched it on a black and white TV in a bar in Plaza Gomila Mallorca, where I was living at the time. I also remember where I was when I heard about Kennedy’s assassination, but that’s not relevant here. Nor is my location at the time of John Lennon’s shooting or Elvis’s demise.

However, digressing slightly, there was a man interviewed, who was part of the Apollo Mission Ground Team and he was lamenting the fact that there hadn’t been another effort to land on the moon. In fact he blamed it on the safety factor now and the drive to eliminate all risks. There are so many laws and regulations now, that there are virtually no serious attempts made to promulgate a new plan for planet exploration.

Then there were all the comments on the latest ABC Unleashed, religious article, with bloggers going hammer and tongs, without any resolution. In fact getting so befuddled that they were agreeing with each other, from what I could discern. Intelligent people arguing about an invented invisible God! I didn’t have a go. I mean what’s the point? Will I resolve it?

So after I got the dogs out of the back of my CRV and started walking toward the lake, my mind wandered.(By the way there are no Koalas in The Monaco Street Park- and there won’t ever be- so I have stopped looking now. I just think!)

I got to dreaming, that, if we could solve (get over) this nanny hurdle, for deeper exploration- and occupy another world- we could remedy our overpopulation of The Earth- and help the koalas. Not only that but we could start a new life without religion, one of the major stumbling blocks to meaningful discussion on population control.

Another bonus is that we should be able to eliminate terrorism, since it would be hard to smuggle explosives into a spaceship and then on to The Moon.

The problem with religion is that it could be smuggled in, in the mind.

 But, leaving that aside-isn’t it great to be an optimist?

Third Vatican Council

22 Wednesday Jul 2009

Posted by in Politics in the Pig's Arms, The Public Bar

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'Vin's New Threads

'Vin's New Threads

The front door of the Saloon bar swings wide and in romps Kev, wearing his latest costume.

“Wassup ? Wings swing, shwoo, feng shui cool cats and cooler kitties ?”

“Dig the threads !”

Merv continues polishing a glass.

“I got dis when I wuz rapping with ma opposite number in the Vatican.”  We wuz goin’ artillery.

I sez  “Ratz, my man, Dude, I’m here about the canon”.  He sez “Yo ain’t got no canon, ‘Vin, my man”.

I sez to him ” Thassright, your badass pointed-hatness.”

“We’s due a canon.  I means, I was seriously put out when you made the first Canadian canon St Dudley Dooright !  He’s filth, man.  You know.   Stuffed AND mountied”

So Ratz sez “Who is you thinkin’ is gotta be yo canon, then bro’ ?  That Mac Killer woman ?”

And I sez “No way, Happy Jack.  I’s talking about me !”.  “No Way !”  “Way !”  “No Way, man.”

And Ratz sez “Look”, wot I can do for ya, is that I can get you one of dees” and he lifts his lid and he gives it me.

I sez “Cool”.  He says “WAY cool”

I sez “’S a miracle, man”

He sez, “No for dat you gets a canon”

Digital mischief c/- Warrigal

Is Vic Bitter over Trotters Ale ?

27 Saturday Jun 2009

Posted by in Mark, The Public Bar

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Trotters Ale Pic 2

Thumbing through Vic Bitter’s “Essential Guide to Beer Drinking, Australia – Vol 375” this article appeared in the chapter called “Boutique Brews” and reviews Trotters Ale – the beer that’s queer.

The Pigs Arms offers a unique experience with beer drinking. Brewed on the premises by the owner/publican “Merv”, Trotters Ale is a life changing experience.

I meet Merv who is a tall thin man with a pot belly wearing pink shorts and a t-shirt with “I didn’t see YOU in Vietnam 73” emblazoned on the front. Merv had black boots on with the words “Manne 1” on the right and “Manne 2” on the left written in white-out across the toes, how strange? Merv tells me Manne likes to have a kick around sometimes. On his arm he has a tattoo, a heart with the words “I love Blenda” curved around one side, when pressed Merv tells me he was dating Belinda but half way through getting the tattoo Belinda broke it off, so he started dating Glenda, “Had to have something there” he says. Some patrons are sitting in the courtyard around a wood oven, Merv informs me that they’re the “unleashed” and assures me they will speak about Trotters Ale.

A sign hangs over the bar that reads “If you order Trotters Ale leave your health insurance details with the barmaid”. I’m both puzzled and nervous. Belinda, the barmaid, pulls two glasses. She’s wearing a soggy sombrero and looks nervously at the window. The beer itself has a red glow and is served cold in a curvilinear glass. It has a small but notable vapour. My heart is racing. The glass is saying “drink me, drink me”. The ale has a unique aroma that is a cross between dead fish and the durian fruit. I take a deep sip. My mouth wants to cave in. In my head I hear a piercing scream of some wild creature in pain.

The mouthfeel is somewhat chewy and I was unsure as to whether I would live or die. I smile feebly however Merv is looking at me, grinning, “Bootiful idn’t it”. I try to drink more to impress Merv, I mean I’ve sampled thousands of beers this one wasn’t going to beat me. I feel as though some form of exchange is happening between me and the beer and Merv orders some wedges. Flashes of colour seem to be bouncing off the walls and the floor starts to shift. The wedges arrive and I eat some. “Their granny’s hot chilli” I’m told. My chest is pounding now and waves of nausea are crashing over me. I’m swallowing the beer like nothing on earth. More wedges, yes more wedges. The nausea starts to recede and my heart rate slows, the room returns to focus and I’m finished my drink. I’m starting to feel better but I’m incapable of speech. My lips move and the words “My round” stroll out of my mouth and across the bar and into Belinda’s ear. Two more beers are poured and we consume more wedges.

I’m feeling really good now, yeah, this is good beer. A peculiar smile appears on Merv’s face and he shows me into the courtyard where the “unleashed” are eating mushroom pizza’s and wedges. “This is Vic” Merv says “He wants to talk about Trotters”. I ask the group about what they think of Trotters Ale. A man called Emmjay says “Look old chap, the by-product of maltose, sacchyomyces and H2O is always welcome in my digestive tract”, hmmm, a scientist. The man next to him called Hung, thrusts out his glass and pleads “More?” Another, Warrigal, tells me “The’ beers are goo man, weawy goo”. The comments are coming now, the unleashed are off the hook. “Beware the DNA of Medea”, says atomou as his voice evaporates and his eyes narrow, “It’s okay but its not shiraz, anyone seen my chasseur? From Doncherry you know, cost a fortune” declares Gez, “You don’t think a stunning looking woman like me would drink beer do you?” replies Helvi, “I’m too busy cleaning up shit from child care” utters Glenda, “I think it illustrates that Lenin had a point in delivering the Goelro plan as part of the communist manifesto” states Voice. A voluptuous looking woman enters and sits next to Hung, it’s Tutu “Pink drinks for me, although since Merv has started putting tomato juice in the brew it’s good on a hot day”, tomato juice in beer, surely no one puts tomato juice in beer! The last one in the group is Jayell. I ask him about Trotter’s, “Well Yes, what a Wag, nah, not for me”

My phone rings, it’s Danny, “Hey Vic, I got you that ute”, ah yes Trotters Ale, very queer indeed. In the background I hear the faint sound of a guitar and a tune floats across the air just like rocks don’t, “Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay , Si, Si, Signora , My sister Belinda She pissed out her window on top of my new sombrero”

….. as told to Hung One On….

Warrigal Drops Into the Pig’s Arms

18 Thursday Jun 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar, Warrigal Mirriyuula

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Black Eye

Brickwork cratering, exploding. Shit!! my face, then hear shot!

(Shotty?)

Face stinging, shit, left eye, swallow hard, GOGO GO! Low fool!! Twoshot! Fuck! Torn carpetlefthand and I lit outa there as fast as I could.

“I only came for a fuckin’ beer and some of them wedges.! What’s with this? Myall Creek again?”

Toohard shout and run, BLAMthreeshot TOOclose whizzzzzfzzfzzfzz by my ear and blew a wad outa the dart board as I flew by. If I can just make it into the lounge I stand a chance, almost there, crashthrough swingingdoors, ??occurring to me?? Is this sport??. Shit! He couldn’t miss me from across the bar, FUUUCK!overbarstool, drinkers look notfussed. “Fuck me!” Who is this guy? What’s with the cannon? Why me?

My mind begins to race. I knew this pub was weird when I saw that bearded guy tie that alpaca up outside. What was that about? And the collection of oil dropping British marques in the car park; and that Black Series III Zephyr 6, (?) Chief Inspector Barlow must be about.

I go down, I hurt bad, in places. I’m goin’ nowhere!! justGOprone…. Armsoutspreadeagle….

“Get up ya bastard!” He kicks my ankle.

Keeping my hands out all the time I roll around, I’m staying on the floor. My ribs hurt where I crashed over the stool. I mean they really hurt, crackedbroken? I can’t see properly outa my left eye and the back of my left hand has a spray of pellet wounds. Shit!!

I go for comedy.

“Ya got me….,” big smile and a happy shrug but he’s not buying any of it.

“Get up ya bastard, I said!”, and not to leave it out, to finish his routine, kicks me again and I get another sharp pain to worry about.

Gingerly, ??noticing?? several aches sprainpains!! Left hand throbbing, slowly stand uuupp…

(You should see this. I mean really; I may be battered and broken but this guy is seriously fucked up. Stick with me right, because this is how it looked as I slowly lifted my head……,

The mad cannoneer has grubbywhite socks under cheapplastic sandals, cheap polycotton pants, beige; white belt. Knitted??, NO! Crocheted!! yellow polo shirt with a “Jaguar Drivers Club” cloth patch over the left tit! Sorry, saggy tit. Seriously! Who is this guy? Why does no-one but me see this whole thing as seriously twilight zone.

“I really did only come in for one beer and some wedges. Honest mate, I seriously dunno what’s going on here. You coulda killed me!” a little too hysterically, but you’ll forgive me I’m sure.

“If I’d wanted ya dead, y’d be dead already. Quit whining!”

Then I see it! Casually but firmly held, as though it’s just part of his arm, is a hand tooled Purdey, Side by Side, All the Gods of Gunpowder! it’s a beautiful thing, perfectly balanced in his grip, both sinister blue steel gleaming barrels pointed at my guts. He had my full attention.

(No, fuck, there it goes…, )

What’s with that screamin’ pink drink and all the umbrellas in his left hand? I’m mad, must be! No, I’m dead! This is some outer circle of hell. I look him in the eyes.

Whatever…….

He fixes me with those rheumy gimlet eyes, the Purdey doesn’t waver, “Wha’did ya say to that bloke?” the “Best‘n’Less” spectacle indicates the punter I was talking to before the wall exploded.

“All I aid was, “Owning a collectable Jag is like standing up ta ya hips in a bath of used sump oil burning $100 bills one at a time”, it was a simple enough proposition and all too true, “I should know. I’ve had a few in my time.” I tried to extend my left hand, morepain!!! I pick out a pellet and flick it on the floor.

The Purdey wavered, did it droop? YESssjustslightly!!

“What have ya had?” his head drops on one side and he gives a dog like look

“Well over the years, many; but just at the moment I’ve got a 1987 Series III 5.3litre Sovereign, white with red; and a 1976 Series II 4.2L Coupe, red softtop with velour. Though I covered the velour with custom sheepskin.”

“The coup; carbs or injected?”

“Injected”

“That Sov.’s a beautiful thing to drive, (A deep sigh), lovely balance.” suddenly all the bluster’s gone from him. He slumps and breaks the Purdey, takes out the still smoking spent shells. “I’m sorry mate, really I am.” He’s trembling, lookin’ at the floor, “I just get so sick’a people taking the piss all time. I really do! I love me Jag, I love m’ Purdey. So I got this thing for British shit…, so what?”

He lifts his head and is just stood there, sobbing silently, shaking a bit. The old woman from behind the food bar comes out and puts an arm over his shoulder. Taking the empty, broken gun she hands it to this other dude who’s been standing around like some kinda factotem. First I’ve really noticed him.

The old woman turns to me and says, like this whole thing, it’s my fault!?!, “Merve didn’t mean no harm. Why’d ya gotta go and say them things in ‘ere? That’s just spiteful that is.” She takes “Merve”, apparently, out through the doors that say “Staff Only”

And I’m thinkin, I’m lucky to be alive, and lookin’ around the bar I see that all these other people are just lookin’ at me, like they think it’s my fault too. Well fuck that for a game of fuckin’ soldiers, “That bastard just shot at me!” I shout at no-one in particular, “Three fucking times for chrisake!”, I’m really mad now.

This grey haired guy stands and says, in a very final tone too, “Sit the fuck down you whining nonce, finish ya wedges and beer,. He didn’t hit ya did ‘e? (show him left hand), “Naaarh, that’s nothin’. Fuckin’ scratches” and he gives me his hankie to wrap round my wounded hand. My blood redly oozes through the pressed white linen, obscuring the monogrammed MJ in the corner. (So he’s MJ) “Thanks MJ” I say without really enough thanks. I go and sit down.

I need to put my poo in a pile. I take a long pull on my beer. Relaxing, my heart rate dropping as the adrenalin washes away, I look around. There’s a guy at the end of the bar reading Sophocles while he’s fillin’ ‘is face w’ wedges. So I stuff a few wedges in me gob for good measure.

“The’ wezzes are goo, weawy goo.” I say, mostly to myself through a mouthful of half chewed wedges,. More beer and wedges. “These wedges are fanfuckingtastic!” I spray at the same guy I’d warned about Jag’s. “I mean, they’re really great!” He smiles slowly and nods like the penny shoulda dropped by now, but I’m too busy yaffling more wedges.

I swallow my last wedge and go over to the food bar. The old woman’s there and I say, “Can ya tell, Merve, is it?, yeah? Merve, that I’m really sorry. It was all my fault. I was a fool. Will he ever forgive me? Will ya tell him that?” (She smiles knowingly. She’s obviously played this scene before.)

“And can I have another plate of them wedges?”

“Of course you can dear, and I’m sure Merve won’t hold it against you.” She smiles that winner’s smile, hands me my wedges, “You can call me Granny when you come again.” She winked at me, the old biddy winked at me.

But she’s right, Granny is. I’ll be back and probably soon too. Merve could ride a warthog round the lounge in the nude singing “Friday on My Mind” shooting every second drinker in the place so long as none of ‘em was me and Granny kept makin’ those wedges.

(I swear, seriously, she winked at me.)

Now I gotta go and find outa ‘bout that Alpaca.

Lion Pic borrowed from the inspirationroom.com – Buenos Aires Zoo Lion