Great Australian Beer Yarns

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Great Australian Beer Yarns Page 1

by Peter Lalor




  EPIGRAPH

  He was a wise man who invented beer.

  Plato

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  EPIGRAPH

  CONTRIBUTORS

  YARNS

  A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY

  A NEW EXPERIENCE

  A THIEF’S HOBBY

  AUNT BERTHA’S CURE

  BALLARAT BERTIE

  BANK INSPECTOR

  BANNED FROM THE WOODYARD

  BEER AND MARRIAGE

  BEER AND SKITTLES

  BEER DRENCH

  BLACK DAYS

  BOGANS AND BEER

  BORN IN A PUB

  CAR WENT THE OLD WAY HOME

  COUNTING SHEEP

  CROCKET

  CURLY

  DRINK RIDER

  ERNIE

  FALSE TEETH

  FLY IN BEER

  HEAD BANGER

  HORSE-PITELL-ITY

  HOW’S ABOUT A KISS?

  HUMPTY DUMMIES

  I SAW THE LIGHT

  IT AIN’T HEAVY …

  MEDICINAL PURPOSES

  MY UNCLE

  OUCH

  PRAISE GOD AND PASS THE VB

  SCHOONER GRIP

  SINKING A BEER

  THAT COCKY’S DEAD

  THE LOST BEERS

  THERE IS A GOD

  THIS ONE LOOKS ARMLESS

  WATER CLOSET

  WATER POLICE, WARM FEET AND A BEER SHOWER

  WATERING DOWN THE BEER

  WATERING THE GARDEN

  WRONG NUMBER

  FROTHY FACTS

  A SAD END

  BARMAID BANS AND THE BEER UPRISING

  BOB HAWKE’S RECORD

  BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

  CRICKETERS

  DEAD DRUNK

  FISHY STORY

  MEATY DROP

  PUB WITH NO BEER

  RUSSIA AILED BY BEER

  WAR STORIES

  A BELLYFUL

  A CASE OF VD

  A FOSTERS OR AN ABBOTTS

  BEER PYRAMID

  KOREAN HOPSICLES

  UNOPENED BEER AND DUNNY DOORS

  HOME-BREWERS

  A BEERY CONFESSION

  BAD OLD DAYS

  CAT-A-TONIC

  EXPLODING BEER BOTTLES

  HARD TO SWALLOW

  HOMIES

  LOLLYWATER

  MOTHBALLS

  NIGHTCAP

  OH DEAR, NO BEER

  THE POSTIE

  AUSSIES ABROAD

  A BLESSED LIFE

  BLIND DRUNK

  COLLECTING GLASSES

  COLOUR BLIND

  FOR GOD’S SAKE

  GUINNESS FOR MOTHERS

  ON PARADE

  RASKOLS

  RUSSIAN LIGHTS

  THE TASTE TEST

  JOKES

  EPIGRAPHS

  ABOUT PETER LALOR

  COPYRIGHT

  CONTRIBUTORS

  June Benson

  John Bogan

  Kevin Bradley

  Mark Bressington

  Butch Brown

  Paul Cairns

  Louise Carr

  Marcia Carr

  Neil Chippendale

  Kevin J Crouch

  Mark Dennis

  Bruce Dowling

  Chris Dwyer

  Paul Egan

  Ken Evans

  Fred Fortescue

  John Gibbins

  Glenn Gilbert

  Neil Gillies

  Hillary Greenup

  James Hamilton

  Ray Hardes

  Terry Hayes

  Kevin Hole

  Chris Horneman

  Jaak Jarv

  Elaine Johnston

  Bill Jones

  Maurice Kealy

  David Keane

  Peter Lalor

  Winston Lau

  Paulene Lowe

  Hayden MacKellar

  Ray Mason

  Andrew McCarthy

  Barry McKiernan

  Gerard Meares

  Martin New

  R T Noble

  Brian Noyes

  Lloyd O’Brien

  Garry Phipps

  Dudley C Pye

  Jim Ratcliffe

  Greg Rieper

  Mike Sadler

  Mrs E Shelley

  Bernard Skitt

  Carole Smith

  Mary Smith

  Paul Staunton

  Peter Stehr

  Ed Tonks

  Penny Turner

  Max van den Berg

  Brian Wallace

  Barry Williams

  Garry Williamson

  Norm Woodcock …

  … and many, many more

  YARNS

  A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY

  Mike Sadler

  It was a hot day — a bloody hot day, in fact! We had been working the whole day on the mate’s extensions — digging, levelling the dirt and mixing and pouring a tonne of concrete. Hot work. Thirsty work. It was getting late; the sun was well over the yardarm.

  Mine host was a well-known tippler and so we had no fears that we would not be suitably rewarded for our sterling efforts on that day. Finally, it was time to down tools, stick our heads under the tap and hold out our hands in the time-honoured manner.

  There is nothing like the expectation of an icy cold beer at the end of a long, hot day — and did we deserve it! (Has someone already said that?)

  Our mate went to get the beers.

  The minutes dragged on.

  We’d heard the fridge open and close in the shed. What was he up to, slamming doors and that?

  Then suddenly we heard curses, and the blue heeler, who’d been holed up in the cool of the shed, ran out yelping, followed by a cursing, spitting, red-faced bloke with murder in his eyes.

  ‘Well, she’s bloody done it this time!’

  Dismayed, we listened and heard the sorry tale of last night’s blue and his cringing appeasement that ‘he really would give it up this time — no sweat’.

  Of course, he didn’t mean it, and had said the same thing many times, but nothing had ever come of it — who would take something like that seriously? The woman was obviously stark raving mad to empty a fridge full of grog on the one day when she knew he would need it and to replace it with bottles of water.

  And to think we’d all said ‘Bye’ to her nicely when she drove off a few hours ago.

  In a cupboard behind some motoring magazines he’d found a six-pack of fancy beer, left behind by some smarty at the big Hawaiian do we’d had a while ago (had a volcano at that one!). Even his teenage son — a chip off the old block if ever there was one — wouldn’t come at it, so it had just sat there, gathering dust.

  One of the blokes (he was a boy scout) chucked the water bottles onto the ground and shoved the six-pack into the remaining ice in the Esky, to take with us on the trip to the next house where, we were assured, there was a fridge full of grog just waiting for us.

  Now, we are talking back in the bad old days here, when Sundays were as dry as a mother-inlaw’s kiss. The pubs were all shut.

  Full of anticipation, we drove off chatting and laughing and hanging out for that cold one. We pulled up and strode confidently into his shed. He yanked the door open, talking over his shoulder to us, and I’ll never forget his face when he saw the look on our faces as we saw inside. Shaking, he turned around and picked up the note from inside the empty fridge.

  ‘She said you would come here. He needs help with his drinking, and so do you!’

  A bit cheeky that, I thought.

  So we piled back into the car and headed off to my place. The journey was made in grim silence. It was with a cold and sinking
heart that I stopped in my drive. It was getting late by then and the house was shuttered and dark.

  There was a faint glow from the shed at the back. We staggered like shipwrecked sailors towards the light.

  She’d left the fridge door open and it wasn’t until I’d wiped the tears from my eyes that I realised the note didn’t say ‘Up yours too’ but ‘You do too’.

  Funny what a man’s mind will do in extremis, isn’t it?

  Silently, Scout (we call him Scout now because of that night) went back to the car and handed us each a bottle of the foreign muck. The only word we could read on the label was ‘Bier’ and we had half an idea what that translated to.

  We sat huddled in front of the open fridge, like worshippers of some ancient cargo cult, and sipped the semi-warm liquid. Had it been nectar of the gods, it would have been as ashes in our mouths.

  But the last word goes to Baghdad (as in Baghdad — bombed all night).

  ‘Well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It certainly is a long way to Tipperary!’

  A NEW EXPERIENCE

  Barry McKiernan

  My future brother-in-law, who had recently arrived from Holland, and I went to the local hotel for a drink. I bought the first round of drinks and future brother-in-law then went to the bar for his shout.

  He came back a short time later with two beers and said (with a strong Dutch accent), ‘What is this beer? There is Old beer and …?’

  I answered, ‘New.’

  He said, ‘I wondered why the man laughed when I asked for two Young beers.’

  A THIEF’S HOBBY

  Bernard Skitt

  The landlord of my local pub, Tom Collett MC, ex-RSM, Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders, was standing behind his lounge bar polishing glasses as he watched a lady customer surreptitiously sliding beer mats from the table into her handbag.

  ‘Would Madam care to come to the bar? I will happily supply her with a complete selection of my beer mats rather than she clears them from the tables,’ he called across the crowded bar.

  The rather embarrassed lady made her way to the bar and stood before Tom, thanking him for being so kind.

  ‘There must be a name for a collector of beer mats such as myself,’ she said.

  ‘There is, Madam,’ Tom replied in a stern voice. ‘A common bloody thief.’

  AUNT BERTHA’S CURE

  Marcia Carr

  In the 1950s, my favourite relatives were Aunt Bertha and Uncle Bill. They were a happy couple, but Aunt Bertha was bothered by Uncle Bill’s beer drinking.

  Every weekend he would bring home a sugar bag of bottled beer and have a binge. But Bill was a fit man and a happy drunk, always cracking a joke and slipping me (a ten-year-old) two bob.

  Then someone showed Aunt Bertha this ad.

  She sent for this Eucrasy and when it arrived started putting it in his beer.

  Like a lamb to the slaughter, he noticed no difference, but soon we all started to notice a difference in Uncle Bill. His hair started to fall out, he lost weight, he became morose. The doctors said he had stomach ulcers. Sadly, he died twelve months later.

  People said, ‘That’s what the drink does to you,’ but those of us in the know, knew it wasn’t the beer but what was being put in it!

  Heartbroken, lost, guilty — who knows? — Aunt Bertha died six months later.

  BALLARAT BERTIE

  Ed Tonks

  About sixteen years ago a friend returned from Ballarat with a couple of bottles of CUB’s Ballarat Bitter featuring Ballarat Bertie on the label. By this stage I was becoming well known for my willingness to try different beers. After sampling a bottle with some workmates the question was asked, ‘How do we obtain some of this stuff, short of going to Ballarat?’

  Taking up the challenge I phoned the local CUB depot at Cardiff. The reply was negative at best. ‘No market for that stuff here and you have no liquor licence so we can’t get it for you. You’ll have to order it from Ballarat yourself.’

  Undaunted, I consulted the Ballarat phone book and jotted down a few numbers. Ballarat Cellars was the first I rang and it proved positive. ‘No worries,’ said the proprietor, ‘I’ll send you ten cases and I’ll look after the transport this end.’

  The beer duly arrived, the cost being shared by the number who were prepared to try the Ballarat drop.

  Blokes being blokes, quite a number of bottles were shared by those who ordered it. The initial curiosity about this unfamiliar product was prompted by the Ballarat Bertie label, but the creamy smooth taste of the product produced more than a favourable reaction.

  In about two months pressure mounted for another order, this time for twenty cases. Ballarat Cellars again delivered the goods.

  In one quality control session the question was asked, ‘How about ordering a pallet? How do you think that would go?’

  I replied, ‘No problem, as long as we have most of the money up front. By the way, how many cases in a pallet?’

  I found out it was sixty-four.

  I started to mobilise the order. With a firm commitment to fifty cases I ordered the pallet. Thus began a more serious association between my group and Ballarat Cellars which was to last for quite a number of years until CUB stopped making Ballarat Bitter.

  I would like to think that our orders had an impact on CUB making Ballarat Bitter for as long as it did.

  Shortly after the initial pallet order it was extended to two pallets which became the standard order, except for Christmas when we ordered three pallets.

  The unloading of the beer truck was quite a social event. A group of blokes would converge on my house about twenty minutes before the scheduled arrival of the truck. It’s amazing how quickly a job can be accomplished when the workers have a common motivation.

  I can only guess at the number of people who obtained Ballarat Bitter as a result of my orders. As I mobilised the larger order each person in turn could mobilise their own order of five to ten cases.

  As I mentioned, the Ballarat Bitter deliveries became a great social focus; they also gave a reason to keep in touch with former work colleagues and to broaden the network of friends.

  For at least five people Ballarat Bitter was the only beer they purchased. Often the initiative for an order would come from members of the group itself and not from me.

  Two pallets of Ballarat Bitter, 128 cases each containing one dozen long necks, carefully stacked and arranged in a suburban garage is an impressive sight, but alas, that is the past!

  More recently a group of five people formed the Adamstown Heights Gentlemen’s Club. It was formed at the suggestion of a friend and comprises three lower-middle-aged adult males and two young blokes in their early twenties.

  The aims of the Gentlemen’s Club are to enjoy each other’s company whilst expanding one’s knowledge of beer in order to appreciate the range of different tastes and styles.

  At each meeting a member takes it in turn to invite a ‘special guest’ and tastings are held on a special themes basis. Themes to date include: Australia, Germany, United Kingdom, North America, Asia/Pacific, General Europe, Belgium … Bertie, look what you started!

  BANK INSPECTOR

  Bill Jones

  When a bank inspector called on a small country branch for a surprise audit he found the banking chamber deserted and the staff drinking beer in the manager’s office. To teach them a lesson, he crept behind the counter and set off the hold-up alarm.

  Much to his surprise, a barman from the pub next door immediately came running into the bank bearing a tray of fresh beers!

  BANNED FROM THE WOODYARD

  Peter Lalor

  Harry M was your classic old-school publican. His mother was a publican, his wife was, his father-in-law was and by now his son, Spud, is probably following in the old man’s footsteps.

  You may have seen Harry; for a brief time back in the 1960s he was Australia’s own Marlboro man. And so you’d have thought Harry would have had more sympathy for a thirsty horse.
r />   One of the first family pubs Harry ran was Melbourne’s Lord Newry (coincidentally, the Lord Newry in question was an equerry to the Queen or somebody like that) at the bottom of Brunswick Street in North Fitzroy.

  It was a working-class suburb in those days and the Newry had an honest working-class clientele consisting of bank robbers, SP bookies, assorted ex-cons and the odd bloke who pulled a wage. Okay, maybe the latter outweighed the former but it was a colourful place, at least until the trendies moved in.

  Anyway, it was a pretty busy pub, especially on a Saturday when Fitzroy (now the Brisbane Bears) were playing at home. The oval was about 100 metres from the pub and at half-time a desperate pack of footy fans would flock to the bar where 7oz glasses were filled at an astonishing rate by bar staff armed with the sheep-drench-type guns that were fitted to the end of a hose and allowed them to fill a glass anywhere within about two metres — or squirt anyone obnoxious within five.

  One group of Harry’s regulars were the guys from the woodyard on the other side of the footy ground.

  These blokes could get a bit rowdy at times and occasionally a bit silly. One day the boss of the yard had the delivery horse out the front of the pub and decided he’d bring it in for a drink.

  Despite earning a quid on the back of the Marlboro horse, Harry couldn’t see the funny side of this and promptly barred the woodyard boss, who we’ll call Joe.

  Now, it can get pretty cold down in Melbourne in winter and the pub of course got its wood from you know who.

  When the first chill winds blew down Brunswick Street, Harry sent the barman down the road to buy some wood, but he came back empty-handed. Harry decided to go and see Joe who told him to f—k off out of his yard because he was barred.

  For decades to come Harry would tell the yarn and boast that while he’s met many a man who has been barred from a pub, he’s never met another who was barred from a woodyard.

  BEER AND MARRIAGE

  Winston Lau

  In 1995, I was living by myself and I saw a cooking program on television. They were making ‘Fish and chips with a twist’. The ‘twist’ was adding a can of your favourite chilled beer to the batter. They also showed you how to make the side salad.

 

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