The City Holiday
Ever wanted to disappear in your own city? That desire
was the origin of the city
holiday. Back in 1981 Buttshit and Darkie were taking a break from the hard
swot leading up to their end of year law exams.
In the backyard of their Newtown terrace, as they poked the dying embers
of a burning rubbish heap, they got to thinking, what
would be the ideal break to help them unwind post-exams.
Some way to get away from it all, girlfriends, parents, all the
hassles of their daily routine. Perhaps a road trip;
but there was all that daunting planning and organization in preparing for it.
No, something else was needed, something that required no preparation,
no travel, and carried no responsibility.
Indeed, something that was positively irresponsible.
Something poetic yet vernacular.
An extended pub crawl, a few days on the
streets central Sydney, just fifteen minutes by public bus
from where they then stood.
Living low, uncontactable, no need to pack anything but
beer money. What a great idea, but, they asked themselves,
"which of our friends is fucked enough to want to join us?
Old Shand of course!"
I took to city holidays with a passion. For me the city holiday
became an annual event from 1981 to 1987.
Over the years their form, and the cast of characters, evolved,
but they never failed to generate great memories.
City Holidays, where does one begin? Even without the beer
the memories would be a jumble.
When did El-arse first join us -- well it was the year, the very
night in fact, that he learnt he got the university medal
in computer science, but what year was that? And old Gedarse
did he first come along with Brucee or had he already been once by then.
To be sure he stopped when he went to Berkeley. I guess that was 1986.
Details! What's matters is that we did do the blue-to-blue and
that bridge probably does weigh half a ton.
So the first year, it must have been late-November 1981.
If so, I was still living in
Wesley College and it was the end of the first year of my PhD.
One of Darkie's mates came along.
I can't remember his name
right now, let's call him Greg, maybe it was Greg, maybe it was Davo,
it wasn't Kev, I would've remembered that. I didn't know Greg
real well, but he was a good guy, liked a beer and made a fine city holiday
compagnion.
Now you've got to understand Buttshit and Darkie were studying law.
Study of the law makes a bloke think about the law a bit more than most of us
are wont to.
In the case of Buttshit and Darkie
it had implanted some curious ideas, for instance that we were only
to carry cash: drinking money, but absolutely no IDs; as if somehow
that would grant us imunity from a vagancy
charge being linked to our names and haunting them in their future careers.
Enough! What about those stories.
You and your stories ...
See this fist ...
We were in this pub, mid-town, maybe the Civic, but in my memory
its dark inside, none of the piss on 'em an' hose 'em down dunny decore
and those big picture windows that its elevated position allowed.
Anyway there's this old bastard at the bar. He's sitting facing
the barman, we are all four lined up on the edge counter. I'm
closest to the old guy. He starts talking to us.
``See this fist,'' he says holding his fist under
my nose, ``its the biggest fucking
fist in Australia.'' Starts telling us about various times he's had to
use this fist. He takes a drink, shakes his head and snorts like a horse.
``Whadda ya drinkin'?'' says one of my mates. ``Double sweet sherry,''
Comes the resonse, quick as flash, as if to say ``Who's asking'? Com'on
I'll have ya.'' At every word my mates at the far end of the bar
try to lean closer to hear, at every wave of the biggest fuckin'
fist I lean back trying to avoid its wavering passage through the air.
He's telling us about when he was in Marble Bar, in this pub. ``I
says to this guy, `See this fist ...' '', ``He says, `alright, I'll
'ave ya' '', ``I says `Alright step outside,' '' At this point
the barman reaches from behind the bar and grabs the old guy's
distended, veined, ruddy nose between his thumb and forefinger,
waggles it and says ``you and yer stories.''
Louie's at the Loo
World Famous for Steaks
Louie's at the Loo was our standard Woolloomooloo early
opener. A banner on the first floor proclaimed, ``World
Famous for Steaks.'' We imagined weary travellers arriving
at Kingsford-Smith, tumbling into taxis and saying to
their drivers, ``Take me to Louie's for one of their world famous
steaks.''
At 6am wharfies and deros would be milling outside
waiting for the doors to open. During the first few minutes of trading
two barmen would work, one to serve the schooners of Reschs and the other
to sell bottles of sweet sherry in brown paper bags
to an orderly line of waiting deros.
Ok, who wants to play pool?
6:15am Louie's at the Loo.
There is an big islander playing pool. His opponent says or does
something that he doesn't like. He punches him in the face and the
guy slumps to the ground unconscious. The islander turns to the silenced
bar. ``Ok, who wants to play pool?''
Couple o' Bullwagons
Its 6:30am.
we're on the street outside Louie's at the Loo considering our next
move, not really wanting to be invited to play pool.
We're eyeing the Tilbury down the end of Nicholson St. An old
guy observes us. ``I wouldn't go down the Tilbury if I
was you boys. Been a bit of a blue on. Couple 'o bullwagons. Look sideways
it'll be on again. Give it 'alf an hour.'' ``Oh, uh thanks mister.''
Eegs
We're at Louie's (again). They serve some kind of breakfast.
Good greasy eggs and sausages, some grist for the beer enzymes.
Our food arrives. The eggs are scrambled, not poached.
We look at the paper on which our order had been scrawled.
Eggs is spelt ``eegs''. I guess if the bartender can't spell, there's
no reason to expect the cook can read.
I'm evil
At the Ship Inn, and early opener at the Quay.
(Its the early eighties before that area
behind Circular Quay Station got yuppified.)
Its the morning after our second night out.
We're in the back of the bar near the pinnies
nursing our Reschs. There's this guy, bit too
talkative. He's talking about the breaking and
entering he did the night before and all the stuff
he stole. He keeps repeating this phrase, ``I'm
an evil cunt, oooh I'm an evil cunt.''
More Stories ...
that I'll get around to fleshing out sometime.
That good green carpet
You know you can sleep here
Gedarse's birthday cake
Boyd on a leash
Couldn't get bread that year
but he had an onion.
Seven sevens of Reschs
that must be all of a schooner and a middie
You know statistics
Baiting Scientologists was always fun.
Q: If you could do anything in the world what would you do?
A: Stand around on the street asking people questions.
Q: If you could have anything in the world what would you have?
A: That clipboard.
Q: If you could change anything in the world what would it be?
A: The answer to my last two questions.
Reckon it'd put a dog off his choclate
Windjammer