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 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.
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.