Drinking (When in Rome…)
Despite the famous Australian drinking culture (or, more
accurately, because of the famous Australian drinking culture), state
governments have introduced some draconian legislation, collectively known as
the Lock-out Laws. In New South Wales
(the state with Sydney in it), these mean that almost no pubs or bars open
after midnight, and off-licenses (“bottle shops”) close at ten.
We are told about these laws, while in a bar, at one in the
morning. So, I’m confused, but still
spit out my beer in outraged shock.
WHAT POSSIBLE REASON COULD THEY HAVE FOR THIS MEDIEVAL
NONSENSE?!
When someone later mentions it, I realise I’d barely noticed
the early closing, even though we’d been in town nearly a week. I must be getting old…
The laws were introduced after a spate of high-profile
violent incidents, including one or two deaths.
The state government/s decided that the best way to avoid violence was
to make everyone stop drinking and leave the pub at the same time, with
virtually nowhere to go, and no alcohol available anywhere. That’s bound to make people less violent.
The consensus is that it’s killing the Sydney live music
scene and nightlife generally.
Apparently, the state government of Victoria (the state
Melbourne is in) trialled a similar rule.
It lasted six days.
The consensus is that Melbourne is way cooler than Sydney…(but
more on that later).
Despite these infantilising regulations and their pernicious
effect on the live music scene in Sydney, I play my first ever Australian
gig. So, I am now an experienced
international touring musician, with three continents’ worth of shows. And I can safely say that 100% of Australian
audiences like my shit. 100% of people
who commented made positive comments. I
am an old school friend of 10% of that audience, and am going out with 5% of
the audience. But the first number is
the important one, isn’t it?
(Quality>Quantity) It was a
good gig, I like the ones where there aren’t too many people there. I wore a Smiths t-shirt, and E-Girl took a
photo to prove it really happened.
Massive Thanks to KC for putting the show on. It was in a craft beer bar.
Craft beer is big in Australia, and there is some ruddy good
beer here. I make it a mission to try as
many as I can. You see, I am not simply
on some kind of junket or jolly – perish the thought, Dear Reader; I am your
intrepid reporter, bringing you vital dispatch from the opposite side of the
globe.
When in Australia, drink heavily and indulge in casual,
culturally-accepted racism and chauvinism.
I only enjoy one of these things, so, you know….#wheninrome
So, we’re on the other side of the world hanging out with a
kid from Lockleaze I used to play football with. (He wants to say Horfield, bless him, but I
remember it well. It was definitely
Lockleaze.) He and McG , another old school friend, (who is from Yate) tell us
all about Australia; however, they tell us all about it over some very good
Australian craft beer, so I can’t remember most of it. The upshot is, Sydney is nicer than Lockleaze
or Yate (apologies, residents of Lockleaze and Yate. (Congratulations, residents of Oz.))
(If I was a younger, less mature man, I would say something
here, like “I’m not sorry about the slight, I’m just sorry you live in
Lockleaze or Yate.”
But I am too old and mature for that kind of jibe. Turns out some of my best friends at school
were from Lockleaze or Yate.)
KC tells me that he is thinking of becoming a stand-up
comedian. It’s working, as I prove by
finding the idea very funny. I like
Stewart Lee, he likes Jimmy Carr. We
have always been different people.
(Well, we probably wouldn’t be friends if we were the same person.) We break from our catch-up with its
soundtrack of KC’s witch-like cackle (presumably a result of his own wit), so I
can note for this report the fact that we agree that the combination of peanut
butter and chocolate is humankind’s greatest achievement.
“That and war” adds KC, cheerfully.
Looking for a bar exempt from, or
flouting, the reprehensible lock-out law, we head down Crown St. Spotting a place open, KC nods toward it in
suggestion. The place is rejected out of
hand; the red neon and desperate atmosphere make it seem seedy, like a
brothel. As opposed to seedy like a cool
late bar. We can see/sense just enough
to see why we won’t be going in.
Drinking in bars in Australia is not all that different from
doing it in Britain. However, most pubs
have apparently gone a bit shit, and often have a separate room full of fruit
machines, like those gambling arcades back home. The kind that are strictly for gambling
addicts. Bars are good though,
especially in Melbourne. Rooftop bars
seem to be all the rage here, and as it’s the height of summer, we get round a
few, and get some great views.
When in Rome…persecute Christians.
Beer in Australian bars usually comes in two (or three)
sizes. The names and the actual amounts vary from place to place, but the
smallest is about two gulps and not worth talking about. The next up is Schooner, and then there’s the
good, old-fashioned pint. A schooner is
about 2/3 of a pint. At first it’s a
treat to get a pint in the odd place, but after a week or so I start to see the
value of a schooner: it’s hot here, and if your beer is smaller, it doesn’t get
warm and flat. (Insert 20th century “if you’re a man you just drink
your beer quicker” joke here, and rest assured you are the funniest person in
the room.) Also, I want to try All The
Beers, preferably without puking up my lungs on a foreign copper’s shoes. (Insert 20th century “old man
can’t hack it anymore” joke here and your place in the comedy hall of fame is
guaranteed.)
When in Rome… go mad with decadence and hubristic power.
There seems to be a real trend in Sydney – and Melbourne –
for playing a lot of really good 90s Hip Hop.
I strongly approve of this trend.
I don’t really know how big Hip Hop is here (it’s big everywhere, I
suppose), but I’m sure I hear Tribe Called Quest, KRS ONE, Mos Def, De La Soul,
Dead Prez, and other favourites in nearly every place we eat or drink of an
evening. Maybe I’m just lucky. Well done, Australia. Props.
Also, I can’t remember the last time I heard Waterfalls (by
TLC) before this trip, but I swear I hear it more times in these three weeks
than the previous ten years. I quite
like it. (Ask me about my fondness for
trans-Atlantic black female vocal groups of the 90s sometime, if you like. #destinysstillreignsupreme)
One thing I swore as a younger man was that I would never
again queue to get into a bar or club.
But we’re on holidays, so fuck it.
Anyway, we’re waiting rather than queueing. Which isn’t as bad. I was a bit surprised when G took us into a
sandwich shop just after we’d eaten a top-notch Vietnamese meal (possibly the
best I’ve ever had. But more on that
later). We hover awkwardly by a fridge
door, which suddenly opens to reveal a bar behind it. Secret bars are big in Melbourne, even though
drinking is legal. It’s fun.
When in Rome…conquer most of Europe.
(Our) Melbourne nights out, especially, are mostly about
eating. (We like eating.) There are a lot of good restaurants, and
everyone has a recommendation. None of
them fail. Brunch is a big deal, as is
coffee, and we hit both pretty hard. We
also find time to drink our bodyweight in local booze. (But more on that later.) The Asian food is amazing, especially Thai
and Vietnamese – but we also find time to eat at a Malaysian place, which is
also very good.
Mind you, back in Sydney, we eat some pretty outrageous
stuff, including fried Nutella. You
heard. It’s only one component of
dessert called Stoner’s Delight.
#nostalgia
I put on a stone or so, and really enjoy it.
On nights out on our own, we find Australians in bars
friendly. It might be just because we’re
on holidays and are temporarily disposed toward conversation with
strangers. It might be that England is
full of po-faced, awkward types who shudder at the thought of speaking to
anyone they haven’t known for years, and grudgingly tolerate those they have
known for years. I’m not judging: most
of my friends are po-faced, awkward types.
Maybe I am one as well; it would explain a lot. Still, holidays are for doing fun things you
wouldn’t normally do, aren’t they?
When in Rome…use lead pipes and live to regret it.
On our last night in Glebe (a relatively trendy part of
Sydney we’ve stayed in for a week), we sample the “local” (Lebanese) cuisine,
which is superb, and there’s a bar next door with some dudes playing Delta
Blues. It’s all very cool, but without
that too-cool-for-school-cold-shoulder you get some places (you know,
London). Everyone is friendly and it’s a
good laugh. People always ask where we’re
from, how long we’re here, where we’re heading next and all that.
We also try some local cider, and, well, this is awkward:
It’s really, really good. Sorry, West
Country crew. Importing cider to the
southwest of England from Switzerland or somewhere seems exactly the kind of
perverse nonsense that makes global capitalism such an infuriating way to
conduct ourselves. It would be as
redundant and brainless as to export imperial arrogance to the USA.
(I’ll never understand importing cider and cheddar cheese to
a place that (probably) invented them and (probably) makes the best
around. It’s maddening. It would be like importing weird sexual
fetishes into Japan.)
However, while we’re here, it makes perfect sense to try the
cider here, which they make here (quite well, it turns out) instead of making
them import Thatcher’s or whatever.
The bar gives out free popcorn, which we politely decline so
as not to spoil our dinner. And, also,
in my case at least, because popcorn is shit (THERE, I SAID IT). It’s like polystyrene and it sticks to the
teeth.
The restaurant is called Thievery, and is as trendy as the
name implies. The food is amazing, mind. The food here is amazing – every place we go
to is good. Like Britain, Australia is
not known for the quality of its own traditional food, but it’s getting better,
and also like Britain, you can get good food designed somewhere else, somewhere
people are used to flavours.
When in Rome…take over the Christian faith you had
previously persecuted.
Coming back to our billet, we happen upon a crowd of young
Spanish “revellers” (that’s what they’re called on the news, isn’t it? Almost always in a sentence with the words
“hundreds of” and “turned ugly” – in fact, you almost never hear the word
“revellers” except in a news report, either about an “illegal rave”,
Glastonbury Festival or a riot after a US college sporting event) and fall into
step with them. I strike up a casual
conversation, just like normal people from other countries where people talk to
each other. Countries like Spain and
Australia. (YES, I’ve been drinking) Anyway, we follow the young Spanish party up
to their flat and are given wine.
This. This is a holiday.
I nip in on the laptop to play DJ (or “stereo fascist”, as
some would have it) and put on Nothing But Flowers by Talking Heads. Because it’s one of the best songs ever. And I dance round the living room, much to
the amusement of our hosts. I don’t
remember exactly what I did, so assume it was all Really Fucking Cool. Good times are had by all, until eventually
we head upstairs to bed.
Later in our trip, we head out with KC again, and it’s your
classic holiday all-day drinking session, punctuated with good pizza and pool
(including a game of Killer full of controversy; KC performs dreadfully, I not
much better).
And then “the best” gelato in Sydney. A small but spirited argument ensues: last
night’s “best in the city” gelato may have been even better than tonight’s
“best in the city”; opinion, as it tends to be, is divided. It’s all ice cream, isn’t it?
Well, no: it’s gelato.
(Last night’s was in another famous place that A&A
assure us is award-winning and the queue at 10 o’clock on a Monday night – on
an otherwise quiet street – would also attest to the quality. To be fair, tonight’s place is also
busy. For the record, they are both
very, very good.)
We bid a fond farewell to KC, and he tells me he is a
regular reader of this blog. He hopes
this blog will be kind to him.
Fuck you, KC.
Hahahahahahahahahahaaa….#jkz.
After KC heads home to his sweet life in the war Sydney
‘burbs, we head for “one more” (ah, the familiar smell of self-deception) over
the road, as we’re not sure how to get back.
On our second “one more”, a fella sat near us blurts out suddenly:
“Where you from?”
It’s the type of slightly aggressive friendliness I’ve come
to love from Glasgow.
The fella is from New Zealand (a “Kiwi”, if you will. Will you?) who is drinking with his
sister. (To be more accurate, his sister
has very recently stopped drinking, and excuses herself (with surprising
politeness) to nip off and vomit.)
Our new friend – NP – is a drummer, a chef and some kind of
cage fighter (I don’t really know what kinds there are, and don’t ask too much
about it because I’m not really bothered about fighting men in cages).
They take us for “one more” (there it is again) down Crown
Street. He’s a chef, and will be
starting work at the place soon. After a
quick stop at his flat for supplies, we rock up at the bar in question. It’s got a red neon thing going on, which
looks pretty cool, and….it’s the same bar we rejected before because it looked
seedy(!) That was two weeks ago, but it
seems like more. The place is pretty
cool, once we get inside.
When in Rome…etc blah blah.
NP is effusive, gregarious – ebullient, even. He buys a round, and then a second, when I am
halfway through my first drink. I almost
have to wrestle him to get the next. A
friend of his arrives, and we are introduced.
The friend is a “bloody good” butcher.
He tells me his friend has three kids.
“Four” the butcher corrects.
“Four kids?! Get a
TV, cunt!”
(Kiwis say “cunt” a lot.
Or, at least, these ones do. It
belies the image of the downbeat, reserved New Zealander in a fun way I
reflect, knocking back yet another beer I have not been allowed to buy.)
NP and his sister are Maori, which we didn’t clock, to be
honest. (Probably more to do with their
light complexions and our heavy drinking rather than us being totally cool and
colour-blind and post racial. (If you lie
about these things, you will get found out.))
They are not fond of their (“shit, cunt”) Dad, and we get
some glimpses of why, but we’re all having a good time so don’t go too far down
that dark road. We don’t have time for
my life story, but NP’s is much more interesting anyway.
We are in a booth and it’s all good fun, getting a bit
messy. In retrospect, I am glad I
decline the offer to “check out the toilet”.
Still, this is the most fun we have had with strangers in a while.
Due to the magic of facebook, we are now acquainted and
promise to check out each other’s musical projects.
On our way home afterwards, we enjoy a really interesting
piece of live satire: our cab driver is Somalian, and he doesn’t trust the
Chinese. I don’t remember how we got on
to the subject of “the Chinese” (never takes long with a cabbie, does it?), but
our driver is a well-travelled, educated young man; he speaks five languages;
he has lived in several different countries, including China for five years; he
is an engaging, urbane character, and has extensive experience of the culture
and people he is traducing.
So, he definitely does not fit into the usual two
stereotypes for cabbies in the English-speaking world: embittered, racist,
right-wing white working-class stereotypes and foreigners speaking
heavily-accented English.
(The staff Christmas parties for cab firms must be a great
laugh.)
Anyway, the man is adamant that the Chinese are not to be
trusted. In business dealings – it’s
nothing personal, he assures us, it’s just the way they do business; they’re
not honest, apparently. He prefers
Americans: “they can help you they can hurt you, but they have more humanity.” He describes Chinese culture as “cruel”.
Despite knowing little of Chinese culture, I cannot agree
with his generalisations. Despite the
fact that he lived in China for five years, and I have never even been there, I
respectfully decline to agree with him, not wishing to consign whole
cultures/groups of humans to indifference with a blithe and simple assertion,
however well researched and genuinely honest the assertion might be. I probably don’t put it quite that cogently,
because I have been drinking all day.
Either way, it’s been an educational day. But more on that later.
This man is the most interesting racist cabbie I have ever
met, by the length of the Sydney – Melbourne coastal road.
So there you go.
When in Rome…um, distrust the rest of the world…?
Drinking wasn’t the only thing we did in Australia, but they
were good on their own and also went perfectly with a lot of other things we
did. But more on that later.
The day after one of our (relatively) epic nights out in Sydney,
we travel down the south coast for the real reason we are on this side of the
world….but more on that later.
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