by Peter Lalor
A Trappist monk would have felt at home in my cell-like bedroom, while anyone lucky enough to find the bathroom could have been inspired to write a treatise on the history of plumbing. I moved closer to the bar with the hesitant anticipation of an occasional drinker trespassing on private ground.
He was the only occupant of the Public Bar. He squinted at me from beneath bushy eyebrows that sprouted haphazardly like the whiskers of a mature walrus. His greasy, greying hair receded from a furrowed forehead and cascaded untidily into a ponytail.
The fragrance of his pomade was intriguing and not one with which I was familiar; a member of the Salvation Army might have recognised it. I use ‘Sensation’; in an instant it suggests masculinity without the obtrusive biceps, and culture without an overtly gay label. I have also found that a little ‘Power’ on the cheeks after shaving encourages women to be more attentive. It hints at hidden wealth without fostering undue extravagance.
His clothing was what I would describe as bush or weekend Australian. He wore a tee shirt that stretched optimistically but not entirely successfully over a sagging stomach. It clearly had only a nodding acquaintance with the laundrette and I could not possibly repeat its illustrated caption in mixed company.
The pungency of his sun-dried sweat reminded me of Moroccan camel dung; not entirely unpleasant in the thin night air at a Berber encampment on the edge of the Sahara Desert but somewhat overpowering within the confines of a Public Bar. The leather belt supporting his jeans was only narrowly winning the battle of decency. His muddy sneakers added to the unwashed aura that surrounded him.
Although sartorial elegance is not a noticeable feature of the Australian outback, I believe my outfit on that occasion would have found favour with my tailor. After a long bath liberally dosed with essential oils, I chose neutral colours. My silk tie, reminiscent of ripening corn, accompanied a cream shirt and a fetching sleeveless pullover in Nile Sand that my Aunt Edith had given me at my request the Christmas before. My cotton trousers were Inca Stone, a popular choice in London that year, while pale tangerine socks contrasted rather well with shoes in a nice shade of African native brown. (There, I have remembered not to use that other word.)
He said nothing, but gazed pensively into his empty glass as I approached the bar. I detected stale tobacco smoke and instinctively looked for his nicotine-stained fingers and matching teeth to confirm his addiction to the weed.
I am not an intolerant man but I do dislike tobacco smoke. It assaults my senses and permeates my clothing; it lingers like a malevolent spirit, abroad long after it should have been laid to rest. I sniffed the air sensitively in much the same way that a prairie dog assesses imminent danger in the Arizona desert; against all odds, my craving for beer kept me moving forward.
As I stood at the bar I inclined my head towards him. Experience has taught me that presenting a friendly disposition to the natives does no harm, however unsavoury strange bars may be. However, in my opinion, too much familiarity breeds contempt and should be avoided at all costs.
I believe that an Englishman’s self-sufficiency in foreign lands can be traced back to the Norman Conquest and the conquerors’ penchant for constructing castles; I plan to write a monograph on the subject on my return to England.
He did not return my glance at first. In the light of subsequent events, he may have been shy or perhaps just suffering from the early stages of dipsomania. A slight twitch of the hand holding his empty glass did suggest that drink was uppermost in his mind.
The first words he uttered were indistinct. They sounded like ‘Pommy bastard’. He might have said ‘Tommy Custard’, although that’s not my name.
Perhaps Tommy was the barman.
The next words were clearer. ‘Have a beer, mate.’ My moment had arrived. I beamed at him in a manner calculated to put him at his ease. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said as I sat down on a bar stool beside him. ‘I’ll have a Four Kisses please.’
I think he misunderstood me. With an agility that surprised me and would probably have alarmed his doctor, he reached the exit in ten seconds flat.
As the door swung shut, his parting words echoed like thunder across the bar. ‘Pommy bastard’ was clearer this time but I was unable to recognise everything that followed.
The barman later told me that he had never before heard such a fine range of Australian expletives expressed in such a short space of time. I consider myself fortunate to have been present.
HUMPTY DUMMIES
Paul Staunton
While I was travelling around Australia with a mate we stumbled across a pub in Humpty Doo in the Northern Territory. With the locals just being their bizarre selves, we decided to sit for a while.
We got talking and drinking cold ales from the tap after a great but stinking hot day, when the locals told us that the fishing club was having a do on that night.
We stayed, but at the end of the night had to drive two kilometres to a camping spot for the night. There was a policeman outside the pub waiting for the first person to take off for home as everyone in the pub was drunk (and driving).
One person in the pub was not drinking so I suggested that he walk outside, pretend to stumble to his car, and drive off very quickly in the opposite direction to which most of us were going.
He took off in his car. The policeman gave chase and everybody piled out into their cars and straight home. Everyone got home alive, well, and without coming across the constabulary.
One of the funniest sights was watching all the people run for their cars as if there was a breakout at the prison.
We called back the next day and they were still laughing; I think they were still drunk too.
I SAW THE LIGHT
Bruce Dowling
One Friday night in 1983 I’d had a long session at the Drummoyne Rowing Club. Then one of my mates asked me if I wanted to go with them to Vaucluse. I figured they were going to a party so I said yes.
There were four of us in the car, but one bailed at Double Bay because the driver was a maniac.
When we got to Vaucluse my mate (no names) in the front of the car got out and I figured he was just checking out how the party was. After a while I asked the driver why he was taking so long and his answer led me to believe that the guy was doing a break and enter.
Now, I wasn’t so keen to hang around, but in my condition I wasn’t able to go too far. It was a very windy night and with all the beer I’d drunk I soon needed to go for a piss. The only place I could see that would give me shelter was a house under construction down the street at a T intersection.
After I’d had a leak I stepped up from the clay in the front of the yard and saw searchlights in the sky and straight away thought that the police helicopter had been called in to search for my mate.
I couldn’t hear the helicopter because there was a gale blowing, but it was hanging around so I went back to the house and waited. I kept checking, but the helicopter was still there and I was too scared to go back to the car in case I was seen.
Next thing I knew I woke up with floorboards inches from my face … I’d fallen asleep under the house. It’s amazing where you can sleep after a few beers. Anyway, I climbed out from under the house, covered in clay and trying to remember what had happened the previous night.
As I stepped up onto the footpath and lit a cigarette it all started to come back. Then I looked up to where I’d seen the helicopter, feeling relieved I hadn’t been caught up in the mess, only to find I was looking at the South Head lighthouse!
IT AIN’T HEAVY …
Martin New
My wife and I were recently invited to my sister’s home for Christmas dinner.
My brother-in-law Len is a keen beer lover and for Christmas we had bought him a 24-bottle case of ‘Celebrate the Millennium’ Crown Lager.
I had planned to drive from our home on the Central Coast to Lorraine and Len’s place at Jannali, but my wife, knowing that I like a celebratory drink myself, insisted we trave
l by train for safety.
I had to lug the heavy case of beer over two kilometres to our nearest railway station, sit it on my lap for safekeeping on the one and a half hour journey to Central Station, carry it again for what seemed like miles to the train platform for services to Jannali, and hold on to it for the forty-minute journey to Jannali and then walk from the station, finishing with the climb up a steep hill to our destination.
To ease the burden I sang a song on the way: ‘It ain’t heavy (well, it was, but you know what I mean), it’s for my brother.’
I was so relieved when I touched down at my sister’s, and just found enough strength to grab my first coldie for Chrissie.
Len was overjoyed with this thoughtful gift, which made the effort worth the while.
Imagine my surprise upon opening my Christmas present from Lorraine and Len to find — you guessed it — a 24-bottle case of ‘Celebrate the Millennium’ Crown Lager.
Of course, I took it home with me on our long return journey. There was no way I was going to leave ‘my’ carton with beer-loving Len.
MEDICINAL PURPOSES
Glenn Gilbert
In the late 1980s my family owned a small holiday home on the northern Central Coast of New South Wales. Situated in an ideal location close to the beach, lake and local watering hole, it was the venue for many memorable weekends shared amongst a large circle of friends aged in their mid-twenties. We would regularly travel from our homes in northern Sydney on a Friday evening to spend our leisure hours surfing, fishing and of course partaking of the odd ale.
As one particular weekend approached the usual sojourn was planned. On the Thursday before, I was approached by a friend named Mark who was overjoyed at having a half work day on Friday; he asked if he could have the house keys to travel up early with another friend to get a head start on the weekend. Mark was a trusted friend; therefore I could see no reason to deny this request. Arrangements were made for him to pick up the keys from our house at lunchtime on Friday.
The following day Mark arrived on time, perched upon his preferred mode of transport — the beloved Suzuki 750cc motorcycle. Surprisingly, another friend, Chris, who at the time was unemployed, had made a spur of the moment decision to travel with Mark as a pillion passenger. They were leaving early to enjoy the fine weather, and spent a short time with my mother before heading off with sleeping bags and luggage attached to the rear of the cycle.
I arrived home around 3 p.m., and within an hour was joined by the others who intended travelling that afternoon. Just prior to our departure I received a phone call from Chris. They had come off Mark’s motorcycle on the F3 Freeway, and he had been transported to Hornsby Hospital by ambulance with some minor leg injuries. Mark’s whereabouts were unaccounted for; however, Chris assured me he was not badly injured. Despite our concerns, Chris assured us he was okay and would soon be discharged into his mother’s care (she was already there).
I made a few phone calls, but in those days before the mobile phone if someone wasn’t home it was anyone’s guess as to what they were up to. I did establish, however, that Mark was not taken to hospital. So with that unexpected delay we commenced the hour-long journey north.
On the way the conversation centred on Mark. What had happened? How was he? Where was he? We need not have worried, for our minds were soon to be put at ease. As we neared the holiday house I saw the blinds were parted and the wooden front door clearly open behind the mesh door. Our convoy of vehicles stopped out the front and the group slowly congregated outside the front door. Someone was certainly home. Most of us assumed that Mark had somehow managed to continue his journey.
However, several hard knocks on the door failed to draw any response. We circled round the back through the old steel gate and as the rear yard came into view I saw a sight I will never forget.
Mark had managed to ride his somewhat worse for wear motorcycle to the house and park it in the rear yard. He had then grabbed a full carton of cold beer stubbies and a beanbag from the house. He had placed the beanbag in the middle of the back yard, cut the bottom out of the beer carton, exposing the base of the stubby bottles, then placed the carton upside down in the bean bag. He had then positioned his red raw rump, complete with gravel rash and lacerations, squarely in the centre of the beer in an attempt to alleviate the pain of the road rash he suffered in the accident. His shredded and bloody jeans were draped across the crashed motorcycle.
So there he was, sunning himself in the middle of the yard with his bum on a slab. He looked at us and said, ‘See, guys, I told you the beer is strictly for medicinal purposes.’
The rest of the weekend was just as interesting, but this memory is priceless and permanently etched in my mind.
MY UNCLE
Terry Hayes
My favourite beer story concerns my cousin’s wedding, which occurred in April 1955 when bottled beer was very scarce.
Having frequented the local pub for the major part of his working life, my uncle was able to talk the publican into parting with a few bottles of the precious liquid.
The future groom, with the help of his intended father-in-law, ended up with ten dozen large bottles which they stored under the uncle’s bed. A very safe place to keep it, for the wedding was only two weeks away.
Although not yet retired from work, my uncle took a few days off to get things ready for the wedding.
The beer was purchased on Tuesday; the following Monday my uncle came out in the morning complaining of being a bit crook. ‘And rightly so,’ said his daughter. ‘You should be dead, you bastard; you’ve drunk all the grog.’
Upon investigation the ten dozen were ten dozen empty bottles as well as three whisky, one brandy and one Pimms bottle. Fair enough, a good drink for a little under a week; however, he still managed to carry out his regular sessions at the local every day.
The same uncle came home after a big session with his mate and realised he had no keys to get inside. After a lot of discussion, they decided to get in through the laundry window. Using a ladder from under the house, and after much difficulty, the window was opened and uncle slid in, into a tub full of soaking washing. Naturally, when they came to open the door they found that it had not been locked.
My uncle’s drinking bouts are a legend in an unbelievable family history.
OUCH
Louise Carr
We were holidaying on the Central Coast several years ago. Dad was planning a big Australia Day party and had been buying stacks of beer which was all stored in an old fridge on the verandah of the two-storey house where we were staying.
Mum and Dad were staying overnight in Sydney and my sister and I were alone in this strange house. We heard a car pull up nearby and, spying through the blinds, we saw two youths heading for the house, apparently up to no good.
Downstairs was well locked but upstairs the verandah area was quite open. To our horror one of them started to climb the tall timber pole leading to the verandah.
‘They’re after Dad’s beer,’ we whispered.
‘Never!’ we agreed.
I told my sister to ring 000 and to ring Dad while I grabbed some cold tinnies and started throwing them at the invader. I’m a netball player and I didn’t miss with many.
The climber was taking a battering but still seemed to be coming up.
We knew the police were a long way away and would take ages to get there and the other thief had started to climb up the other pole.
We were just about to give up the attack and retreat to the bedroom, which had sturdy locks, when we heard a siren. No, not the police, it was an ambulance coming to the would-be thieves’ rescue.
Apparently, in her panic my sister had been giving the operator a blow by blow description. ‘Ooh! She’s hit him on the head … Ooh! She’s hit him again!’
The woman thought the intruders needed an ambulance more than we needed the police.
Fortunately the siren’s noise was enough to scare the robbers and they took off.
> We saved Dad’s beer.
Dad said we deserved a medal, but we settled for a trip to Surfers.
Oh, the party was a great success and probably resulted in a few more sore heads.
PRAISE GOD AND PASS THE VB
David Keane
Here is my favourite beer story. It sounds like a tall tale, but I can assure you that every word is true, because it happened to me.
I had just come out from a church meeting and was attempting to start my car. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get the engine to come to life.
It seemed that it was out of petrol, so my pastor took me for a ride to the petrol station to fill up a tin. We came back and emptied the tin of fuel in the petrol tank and tried again, but still nothing.
By now we had three pastors and some friends surrounding the car.
Two friends of one of the men present were walking along the road, after having consumed several longnecks of VB. Each was carrying a bottle as they walked. They approached us and watched for a couple of minutes while we poured some petrol in the carburettor and tried to start the engine, still without luck. (It turned out later that the fuel line was blocked.)
Soon one of these two piped up and said that he had a solution. He downed the rest of his beer and poured some petrol into the bottle. He instructed me to keep turning the key and pressing the accelerator, while he continued to pour petrol from his bottle into the carburettor.
This seemed to give it some life for a few seconds, and then suddenly I saw a huge flash from where I sat in the car. The petrol had caught alight and this bloke was holding a ‘Molotov cocktail’.
To make things worse, the engine bay had caught alight as the petrol spilt out of the bottle.
It was like an inferno. What happened next occurred over a couple of seconds, but it seemed like an eternity.