a cultural experience of sorts

I’ve spent more nights than I care to remember in pubs, public houses, bars, taverns, saloons, TABs, casinos, dives and holes. You name it, I’ve been there, sat on a stool and emerged blinking into the outside world some blurry hours later. In fact most of the period between 1994-97 and 2000-2004 was spent in one particular “authentic” venue in sunny Brunswick.

That accounts for my individual level of athletic prowess, short-term memory and scintillating social skills.

Anyway, for one reason or another, it’s been quite some time since I’ve spent quality time propping up a bar. Last night I managed to remedy the situation.

Yesterday’s working hours were spent getting myself keyed up to watch the Soccerroos disintegrate under the crushing force of the Qatari blizzard of mixed metaphors at the Telstra Dome. Sadly, the powers that be decided this pleasure should be restricted to people who pay for TV. Eh? Pay for TV? Who pays for TV? What a crazy idea that is!

So I adjourned to my local reputable public house - Daisey’s Hotel - and mingled with the common herd for a couple of hours.

I’d forgotten how much fun it is in the TAB: not much. There’s the barmaid who’s more fed up with her job than I am, the talkative drunk who knows less than zero about the game but knows what he likes, and the compulsive gamblers who may as well empty their pockets when they enter the room.

The only good thing about sports bars these days is that, sometime in the last few years, they seem to have banned smoking. Without the pall of ciggie smoke you have plenty of opportunity of studying the depression, wasted dreams, and dodgy decor in great detail.

Fun.

Oh, from memory Australia won at a canter, but don’t quote me.