It puts me in mind of similarly white-washed beach-front boozers in Brighton, England and St Kilda in Melbourne. I feel lucky that we can enjoy both.
Surely, a pint is a pint. And I, governor, vote for the big one. Port and the Bulldogs are playing on multiple screens. Unable to quickly get some neck tatts we slinked off to the front bar and the gentler magnetisms of cricket. Later came Midnight Oil and Dylan for his 21 st we gave him a book with the entire collected lyrics of his Bobness and Nick Cave.
Claire enjoys her butter chicken while Chris and I each settle upon the lime-infused squid. Who forgot the apostrophe? Mick or Keith? I prefer the later, imagining a mythical party hosted by the Rolling Stones somewhere like, say, Tangier in Morocco. The music of Satan is not, as many might attest, heavy metal or any of its more ridiculously camp variants. His accompaniment, of course, is something much more seductive.
Underpinned by congas the music is a samba: hypnotic, sexual, inescapably charismatic. Worship, and not cheap parody is driving the pick-up. It was part of the Showgrounds, but the building is now demolished. A short Par 4 from where I work, and commuting past, I envisage flickering black and white footage and screaming.
Shrill, teenaged, screaming. But then, Mum and Dad both remember the Stones being booed and jeered. They played eight songs with competent energy, but it was too late.
