by Peter Lalor
‘That’s the one,’ says the bartender.
‘What would a frigging plasterer do at a circus?’ asks the wombat.
A greyhound has just ordered a beer from the bar and is walking back to his seat when he overhears a group of racehorses talking.
‘You know, I was at Flemington yesterday and the strangest thing happened,’ says one. ‘I was ambling along at the back of the pack, getting those bastard owners back for chopping off my you-know-whats, when all of a sudden I felt this red hot sensation up my dot like somebody had shoved a burning poker up it. Next thing I know I’m four lengths in front and I’ve set the bloody race record.’
‘Same thing happened to me,’ says another horse. ‘I was at Randwick right at the back of the field when all of a sudden I got this incredible burning penetration up me bum and before you know it I’d won the race.’
The third says that the same thing had happened to a couple of his mates.
The greyhound then chips in and says, ‘Sorry to intrude, guys, but exactly the same thing happened to me when I was racing a fortnight ago. I was coming last as usual, thinking they’d have to retire me after this effort, when all of a sudden I got that red hot poker feeling up me out chute and whammo I’ve won the bloody race.’
The horses all went silent, so the greyhound continued on to his table.
‘Can you believe that?’ said the horses when he’d gone. ‘A talking greyhound!’
Three English backpackers were in a bar and spotted an Irishman among the locals.
One lad said he was going to get this guy worked up. He walked over to the Irishman and said to him, ‘Hey, mate, your St Patrick was a bastard and a wanker.’
The Irishman put down his drink and the Pom backed off a bit, but then the bloke just turned away and said, ‘Oh really, didn’t know that. There ya go.’
The Englishman walked back to his mates quite crestfallen. ‘I told him St Patrick was a right bastard and he didn’t seem to care!’
‘I’ll show you how it’s done,’ the second Pom said and walked over and tapped the Irishman on the shoulder. ‘I hear your St Patrick was a gay homosexual.’
The Irishman again put his drink down, thought for a second and replied, ‘Oh, I didn’t know that, there you go.’
The Pom walked back to his mates and said he couldn’t get a rise out of him.
The third Pom decided he had the right stuff and told his mates to watch his form.
‘I hear your St Patrick was an Englishman!’ he said to the Irishman who replied almost immediately, ‘Yeah, that’s what your friends were trying to tell me.’
Which reminds me of the old joke about the Aussie, the Pom and the Scot. All three were drinking a beer outside in a beer garden when three flies flew down and landed in the beer.
The Pom said, ‘I’m not drinking this, it’s got germs in it.’
The Aussie just picked the fly out and kept drinking, while the Scot pulled his fly out by the wings and said, ‘Spit it back, you wee thievin’ laddie.’
An Irish bloke walks into a bar one Friday and asks for three beers. The bartender serves him and then watches as the bloke takes a sip from one glass, then another and then another, until he has finished all three.
The Irishman then goes back and orders three more.
The curious bartender asks him why he doesn’t drink one at a time like everybody else.
The Irishman tells him that he’s got a brother in Australia and one in America and they made a pact that on this day every year they would go to a pub in their respective parts of the world and drink a round or two to remember when they were together. It seems that they had been very close and had a drink every Friday since they were eighteen.
So, the Irishman comes back every Friday and does the same thing and everybody in the pub becomes acquainted with the strange ritual.
Then one Friday the bloke comes in and only orders two drinks.
There’s much speculation in the bar about why he’s done this and everybody feels a bit sorry for him, thinking one of his brothers must have died.
The barman walks up and passes on their feelings, but the Irishman just smiles and says not to worry.
‘Nobody has died,’ he says. ‘It’s just that I’ve joined AA and don’t drink any more.’
A father and his underage son were sitting in the pub one day having a drink and the old man was teaching the young bloke a little bit about drinking etiquette.
‘A gentleman never drinks too much,’ said his dad, who had had quite a few himself. ‘It brings shame on the family and loss of face.’
‘How can you tell if you’ve drunk too much?’ asked the young bloke.
‘Well,’ said the old man. ‘You see those two women over there? If you had disgraced yourself with the drink you would see four.’
‘But, Father … there’s only one lady sitting over there,’ said the son.
This bloke gets rotten drunk one night at the pub and can’t get his keys out of his pocket when he gets home.
Fumbling around, he spills all the coins onto the doorstep before finally getting the key out.
He’s too drunk to pick them up and figures he’ll get them in the morning, but when the sun comes up he is woken by his wife who yells out, ‘Come and look at this, the milkman has left twenty-two cartons of milk here!’
A bloke walks into a country pub and sees a sign with the letters WYBMADIITY above the bar. Confused and intrigued, he asks the barman what the letters stand for.
Barman replies: ‘Will you buy me a drink if I tell you?’
Bloke says: ‘Sure, but what do the letters stand for?’
Barman again replies: ‘Will you buy me a drink if I tell you?’
Bloke says: ‘I said that I would, so what is it?’ Barman replies: ‘Will you buy me a drink if I tell you?’
Bloke says: ‘Yeah, yeah, just tell me what the letters stand for.’
Barman replies: ‘Will you buy me a drink if I tell you?’
Bloke says: ‘You’re a bloody broken record with bad hearing. What is it?’
Barman replies: ‘Will you buy me a drink if I tell you?’
Bloke says: ‘I give up.’
And then the barman came clean and explained to the bloke what WYBMADIITY means … again.
A shearer walks into a pub and says, ‘Give me a f—ing beer.’
The barmaid says she will not be spoken to like that and refuses to serve him.
‘Look, lady, I don’t give a flying f—k what you think, just give me a f—ing beer!’
Again she says that she will not serve him if he uses language like that.
‘For f—k’s sake, I want a f—ing beer, right f—ing now or else!’
The barmaid takes a deep breath and says she is going to show him some manners. She tells him to get behind the bar and she will show him how to order a beer.
They swap places and the woman says, ‘Excuse me, kind sir, could I have a beer, please?’
‘No, you can go and get f—d,’ says the shearer. ‘You wouldn’t give me a f—ing beer, so f—k off!’
Two Victorians had popped up to southern New South Wales for a holiday and found themselves in a shearer’s bar staring at this big bloke opposite them.
The barman noticed their fascination and warned them not to look at the man because he hated people staring and had a foul temper.
Still, the southerners could not take their eyes off the guy and sure enough he came stomping over to them, red-faced and furious.
‘What the f—k do you think you’re looking at?’ he demanded.
‘Ah, nothing,’ said one before adding nervously, ‘it’s your perfect teeth, I have never seen such perfect teeth.’
‘Yeah, well, they are nice, but stop staring or I’ll rip your head off,’ said the big bloke before going back to his beer.
Unfortunately the two Victorians continued to stare, unable to look at anything else for too long.
The big bloke came stomping
over again.
‘I told you, now you’re going to get it!’ he bellowed.
‘No, wait,’ said the one who had commented on his teeth. ‘It’s just that you, well, you have great teeth, but your eyes are even better. They are the most amazing eyes.’
‘Yeah, they’re pretty good,’ said the big man coyly.
‘Bet you have never worn glasses,’ said the Victorian.
‘Nah,’ said the big bloke.
It was then that the other Victorian, feeling more comfortable with the situation, decided to put his two bob worth in.
‘Nah, you would never need glasses with eyes like that, so who cares if there’s nothing for them to hang on to.’
A big, bulky abattoir worker called Bob was renowned for his love of beer and the quantities he could consume.
The bloke was a legend in the small Hunter Valley town where he lived and was said to put away about twenty schooners a day.
One day he took a bit crook and was talked into visiting the local doctor for a check-up.
The doc asked him the usual questions and then got onto his lifestyle.
‘Do you smoke?’ asked the doc.
‘Nah, mate,’ said Bob proudly.
‘What about the grog?’ asked the doc.
‘Yeah, mate, might have a few,’ said Bob.
‘How many?’ asked the doc.
‘Geez, I dunno,’ said Bob.
‘Well, how many would you have in a day?’ asked the doc.
‘Ahhhh … it’s hard to say,’ said Bob.
‘A couple of schooners?’ asked the doc.
‘Well …’ squirmed Bob.
‘Five?’ the doc persisted.
‘Mmm …’ the big fella said.
‘Bob, if you’re drinking more than five schooners a day you’re drinking far too much,’ the doctor warned.
‘For f—k’s sake, doc, give a man a break. I’d f—ing well spill more than that!’ exclaimed Bob while taking his leave.
EPIGRAPHS
I feel sorry for people who don’t drink.
They wake up in the morning and that’s the best they’re going to feel all day.
Dean Martin
You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.
Joe E Lewis
The problem with some people is that when they aren’t drunk, they’re sober.
William Butler Yeats
Reality is an illusion that occurs due to lack of alcohol.
Anonymous
A tavern is a place where madness is sold by the bottle.
Jonathan Swift
The answers to life’s problems aren’t at the bottom of a beer bottle, they’re on TV.
Homer Simpson
The difference between a drunk and an alcoholic is that a drunk doesn’t have to attend all those meetings.
Arthur Lewis
Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.
Benjamin Franklin
Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.
Ernest Hemingway
The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind.
Humphrey Bogart
When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading.
Henny Youngman
Work is the curse of the drinking classes.
Oscar Wilde
I am a drinker with writing problems.
Brendan Behan
I drink to make other people interesting.
George Jean Nathan
I know I’m drinking myself to a slow death, but then I’m in no hurry.
Robert Benchley
They who drink beer will think beer.
Washington Irving
A woman drove me to drink and I didn’t even have the decency to thank her.
WC Fields
About Peter Lalor
Peter Lalor is one of those fortunate individuals who has managed to reconcile his love of beer with the need to earn a wage.
He has worked and drunk his way around the world as a journalist, eventually managing to erase any dividing line between beer and journalism. In mid-1998 he began to write a weekly and extremely popular column for The Daily Telegraph in Sydney, succinctly titled ‘Beer’.
In 2001 he added the ‘Bar Reviews’ to his CV and now describes himself as a workaholic who is hard at it twenty-four seven, as they say. If he’s not at the computer, he’s at the bar and if he’s not at either then he’s at home with his wife, Sue, and two children, Lucy and Harry.
The proudest moments in his life are as follows. The time two-year-old Lucy asked her dad if she could get him another beer from the fridge and the day Harry announced the pub was more fun than the playground.
Peter is a professional storyteller with the gift of the gab, especially when lubricated by his favourite beverage. He discovered over the years that many of The Daily Telegraph readers are similarly skilled and decided to combine their tales with some of his own for your reading pleasure.
He wishes to thank everybody who contributed to this book and warns some that he has handed their stories on to the authorities and either the police or health authorities will be in touch with them. You know who you are.
Sue did the hard yards coordinating the project and reminding Peter that he should try and stick to the English language.
Harry and Lucy were no help at all, although they have contributed greatly to Peter and Sue’s need for beer and humour.
Peter is now the Chief Cricket Writer for The Australian and its Beer Editor.
COPYRIGHT
The ABC ‘Wave’ device is a trademark of the
Australian Broadcasting Corporation and is used
under licence by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia.
First published in Australia in 2002
This edition published in 2014
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
harpercollins.com.au
Copyright for this collection and arrangement © Peter Lalor 2002, 2014
Copyright © and moral rights in individual stories remain with the contributors.
The right of Peter Lalor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Cover image: ‘Bushfire fighters days later at a rigged up pub at Airey’s Inlet’ © Rennie Ellis Photographic Archive
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