7. Subiaco – dirty old town.

We made straight for one of the three local pubs, an Irish theme pub called Paddy McGuire’s, but known locally as Stinky’s. It had a log fire, plenty of pictures of Co. Cork and a large terrace with a wonderful view of the car park.

John hated Irish theme pubs and I concurred. But there wasn’t much choice and after the hypnomonotony of the streets and bookstore, it didn’t seem so bad. They served a local lager that was cold and gassy. We sat back and waited for the liquor to take affect.

I spoke briefly to Jim, a part-time trolley collector from the local supermarket, and asked him about the local scene. He remembered “the good old days when the Subiaco hotel was a man’s pub, where you could easily get into a fight out the back for wrongly using a pool cue. Back when Henry’s Africa bar was still open. All its animal print couches were worn and soiled, but unreplaced since they were installed in the 80s. So popular was it, that it used to attract has-been radio celebrities and ex-game show hosts. Nobody went home alone. Now its all poncy stuff. The Subi is for lady boys, the beers too expensive and you cant tend to your thoughts. Young people, they just want to look good. They don’t want to have fun anymore.”

A couple more pints in, the sun long set and the pub was starting to fill. John was getting a bit rowdy by now and starting to scare off the girls at the pool table by coaching them too closely on the trick shots and spilling beer over the change they had stacked up on the edge of the table. A number of young men began dragging amplifiers and instruments inside through the front door.

“Ramon, looks like a band is going to play. Lets stay and have another beer.” I hadn’t seen such a wild look in anyone’s eyes since I had interviewed Richey Edwards.

Staying had seemed like a good idea at first, but quickly proved a mistake. John was on the brink of getting lucky with a secretary called Tracy from a local real estate agency, when suddenly the band started up. We instantly lost all ability to communicate to each other and he to his prize. Tracy detached from John’s arm and drifted onto the soggy space in front of the stage that was the dance floor. She whooped with joy and beckoned for John to come out and join her. He stood rooted to the spot staring up at the band in belief. They were working through a cover of ‘Dirty old town’ that would have made Shane McGowan weep.

“I take it you are not engorged Giovanni?” I shouted at him, but he couldn’t hear a word.

We started to drink quickly. As the opening riff of ‘Sweet child o’ mine’ started we hit the door.
Jim had given me directions to the old Henry’s Africa site, now a franchise of Clancy’s Fish pub, which was only a short walk away. It was another mistake. We paused outside the door. Inside we could here the sounds of a band just winding down their own version of the Pogue's classic.

“How can eat listening to that? Why do they all play the same songs? I can’t deal it with it Ramon. Let’s go to the Subi.”

Another short walk to disappointment. It was early evening, but there was an enormous queue outside the door, guarded by big biker-like bouncers chatting to a couple of sixteen year old girls in short skirts.

“They must be cold in all that Lycra. It reminds me of Colchester, or that time I went to Newcastle to try out for the Magpies.”

“Ramon?” He sounded very distressed.

“Giovanni?”

“I can’t handle it.”

“What? What cant you handle?”

“It is against what I believe to line up for a pub.”

“Why? Do you not want to drink?”

“It is not that. I am thirstier than Oliver Reed. But to line up to go inside a pub? It is madness. To think it may take an hour to get inside, an hour waiting for a drink at the bar. It is only a pub, after all.”

“I see your point, but there is nowhere else to drink.”

“What about that club the Red Sea over there?”

“No, you can tell all those people going in were from the same class in high school. Look they all have their leaver jumpers on. We wouldn’t fit in. What about the Llama bar? At least it had a rating as one of the best drinking spots in this town.”

“Let’s try the Llama Bar then Ramon.”

We lined up for a good hour. It was close to eleven now, but at least the bar was open until 1am. Like the Subiaco Hotel, there was a high lycra component to the waiting crowd and the smell of aftershave and perfume was thick and nebulous. A drunk man walked passed us, being helped by a friend. ‘Muddies! Muddies!’ he yelled out at us all in disgust. At last we reached the front of the queue.

“I’m sorry but you fellas can’t come in. Your not dressed enough.” It was another broad, intimidating bouncer, looking like some sort of cyborg with his Bluetooth ear piece jammed in one of his cauliflower ears.

“I have pants and a shirt. That is dressed to me. Sometimes I make it out without my pants, so you are lucky.” I said to the bouncer.

“Your shoes mate. We have a strict no trainer policy.”

“They’re not trainers, they’re Campers.”

“Sorry mate.”

“These are the finest Spanish leather. I bought them personally in Palma de Mallorca where they are made.”

“Sorry mate.”

“This is the twenty first century. How can you deny me…”

“Move along or I’ll smash your head in. Be warned. There’s no film in that CCTV either, so don’t think I wont do it. Come along please ladies.” He ushered two fine young fillies inside and left us out on the pavement with nowhere else to go but back to the hotel. Giovanni was inconsolable and ended up drinking himself to sleep with the contents of my mini bar. For all its promise, Subiaco had failed to induce a State of Excitement.