Mine Host recently detected & dealt with a severe breach of etiquette which occurred within the walls of the Wayside Tavern.
A representative of another establishment in town, the "Tosspot Cricket Club" (hesitate to use the word "rival" establishment) .... entered into the Wayside Tavern & spoke to one of Mine Host's staff, offering her a job at their cesspit bloodhouse.
There are very few things which cause Mine Host's blood to boil properly. Poaching staff directly from someone else is close to as low as one can go. The only thing which saved this lady (for it was a female) was that she ran out the door as soon as she saw Mine Host approaching bearing a look of thunder!
She is unlikely to be back, & the Tosspot Cricket Club can rot in hell, *scoundrels*
There are certain rules in this world, & direct poaching of staff is justifiable grounds for flattening someone... & flattening them properly!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Unhappy hour
One of the trials of a publican's life, oft lamented by Mine Host, is abuse from an ungrateful public.
One of the disappointing aspects of society is just how many people will speak to shop staff in a manner in which they would never dare speak to anyone else.
Abuse, threats & ranting are not uncommon. There is an unhesitating expectation that there will be no response, & no consequences.
This abuse can be most unreasonable, quite vitriolic, even violent at times.
Over time this treatment can have quite an effect on people, especially those who are paid relatively lowly to provide a good service to the public.
Mine Host had pondered in vain how to reduce the amount of abuse. Perhaps give more to the customers? A free drink each day for every regular customer?
No matter what was tried, the abuse continued to grow steadily.
The solution, stunning in its simplicity, came from one of the suppliers, Mr. Welsh. Elderly, he wore braces & a cloth cap (a very rare sight in the tropics).
He operated a vending machine run, & called to the Wayside Tavern monthly.
A lifelong member of the Showman's Guild, Mr. Welsh had been raised on the fairground circuit. At each of his visits Mine Host would experience the privelige of being allowed to peer through a window into another world, and be allowed to listen enthusiastically to tales of a childhood spent repairing merry-go-round horses, & other exotic events from the show circuit.
The pearl was dropped unexpectedly during one of these conversations. "You know young fellow" spoke Mr. Welsh "you should NEVER give anybody anything. If you give them something you only get abused for it."
"Always charge full price & do not compromise on this, it makes the public more polite.”
This policy was immediately adopted as gospel by the Wayside Tavern.
In the years since, with a firm policy of no free drinks, no bar draws, no discounting, & no happy hour, Mine Host has lived a relatively stress free life.
Drinkers in the bar greet him by name, offer to buy him drinks, no more does the sour chant of "shout c**t, shout c**t" commence when Mine Host enters the bar.
Never again will Mine Host be foolish enough to give anything to drinkers. All else aside, it is bad business!
One of the disappointing aspects of society is just how many people will speak to shop staff in a manner in which they would never dare speak to anyone else.
Abuse, threats & ranting are not uncommon. There is an unhesitating expectation that there will be no response, & no consequences.
This abuse can be most unreasonable, quite vitriolic, even violent at times.
Over time this treatment can have quite an effect on people, especially those who are paid relatively lowly to provide a good service to the public.
Mine Host had pondered in vain how to reduce the amount of abuse. Perhaps give more to the customers? A free drink each day for every regular customer?
No matter what was tried, the abuse continued to grow steadily.
The solution, stunning in its simplicity, came from one of the suppliers, Mr. Welsh. Elderly, he wore braces & a cloth cap (a very rare sight in the tropics).
He operated a vending machine run, & called to the Wayside Tavern monthly.
A lifelong member of the Showman's Guild, Mr. Welsh had been raised on the fairground circuit. At each of his visits Mine Host would experience the privelige of being allowed to peer through a window into another world, and be allowed to listen enthusiastically to tales of a childhood spent repairing merry-go-round horses, & other exotic events from the show circuit.
The pearl was dropped unexpectedly during one of these conversations. "You know young fellow" spoke Mr. Welsh "you should NEVER give anybody anything. If you give them something you only get abused for it."
"Always charge full price & do not compromise on this, it makes the public more polite.”
This policy was immediately adopted as gospel by the Wayside Tavern.
In the years since, with a firm policy of no free drinks, no bar draws, no discounting, & no happy hour, Mine Host has lived a relatively stress free life.
Drinkers in the bar greet him by name, offer to buy him drinks, no more does the sour chant of "shout c**t, shout c**t" commence when Mine Host enters the bar.
Never again will Mine Host be foolish enough to give anything to drinkers. All else aside, it is bad business!
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Happy Hour
Happy Hour has long been absent from the Wayside Tavern. It is an institution which Mine Host mourns no more than he would mourn a certain prime minister who reigned from 1972-1975.
Progress has finally caught up with the advances made by the wayside Tavern, "happy hour" now experiences the same wowser backlash as does smoking.
For happy hour at the Wayside Tavern went west years ago. This piece of Ozzi social fabric has holds the same fondness in Mine Host's heart as does 6 o'clock closing in the hearts of his clientele.
Mine Host shall explain his rationale in the next posting, however for an alternative view see Slattsnews.
Progress has finally caught up with the advances made by the wayside Tavern, "happy hour" now experiences the same wowser backlash as does smoking.
For happy hour at the Wayside Tavern went west years ago. This piece of Ozzi social fabric has holds the same fondness in Mine Host's heart as does 6 o'clock closing in the hearts of his clientele.
Mine Host shall explain his rationale in the next posting, however for an alternative view see Slattsnews.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Take the long way back...
Richard Cranium sits at the bar, sipping his 1st drink & giving a fair bit of lip to 4 robust men at the next table. They take it without comment, but are itching to give something back.
This is Mr. Cranium's 3rd visit to the Wayside Tavern, it will also be his last. His behaviour on both previous visits resulted in him being thrown out before he even ordered a drink.
Mine Host is perfectly happy to allow nature take its course. Richard Cranium is 19 years old, feeling strong, nothing can touch him. His aggressive attitude to others is being directed onto the 4 men at the next table.
After considerable bad language & obnoxious behaviour, Cranium finishes his drink, demands another & is refused service for reason of disorderly conduct.
Becoming even more obnoxious, both to staff & the 4 men at the next table, Cranium grabs a bottle of cordial from behind the bar & runs. Nobody does anything to stop him.
Note: Nothing is theft until the stolen object has been removed from the premises.
The 4 men who have borne the brunt of Cranium's insults watch him run, the instant Cranium crosses the threshold onto the street the oldest of the 4 says to his companions... "Get him boys"
The 3 Constables do as their Inspector orders.
Cranium is running & laughing, waving the cordial bottle. Seeing 3 strong young men in hard pursuit, the look of glee evaporates, the cordial bottle is dropped & he runs for his life, fear lending wings to his feet.
The 3 off duty police swiftly overtake Cranium. One grabs him by the waist & uses Cranium's own momentum to drive him into a handy brick wall. Cranium collapses face down onto the concrete footpath.
The next constable launches himself from several feet away & lands with all his weight, knees first, onto the back of Craniums prone torso.
There is no cheek left in Richard Cranium.
Two of the pursuers now take an ankle each, & drag Cranium face down along the footpath, & accross the street.
None of them even look back to see how Cranium is coping with being pulled by the ankles face down accross a bitumen road & along a concrete footpath.
Nobody even checks that Cranium is conscious.
A mobile phone call is made, a police car arrives, Cranium is thrown into this car.
The police station is the opposite side of the block to the Wayside Tavern. Mine Host can make it there at a trot in 45 seconds.
The police car (containing the prisoner) sets off in the wrong direction. It takes 45 minutes for the prisoner to arrive at the station.............
Richard Cranium, in the years since, has never given any trouble or done anything to bring attention to himself.
This is Mr. Cranium's 3rd visit to the Wayside Tavern, it will also be his last. His behaviour on both previous visits resulted in him being thrown out before he even ordered a drink.
Mine Host is perfectly happy to allow nature take its course. Richard Cranium is 19 years old, feeling strong, nothing can touch him. His aggressive attitude to others is being directed onto the 4 men at the next table.
After considerable bad language & obnoxious behaviour, Cranium finishes his drink, demands another & is refused service for reason of disorderly conduct.
Becoming even more obnoxious, both to staff & the 4 men at the next table, Cranium grabs a bottle of cordial from behind the bar & runs. Nobody does anything to stop him.
Note: Nothing is theft until the stolen object has been removed from the premises.
The 4 men who have borne the brunt of Cranium's insults watch him run, the instant Cranium crosses the threshold onto the street the oldest of the 4 says to his companions... "Get him boys"
The 3 Constables do as their Inspector orders.
Cranium is running & laughing, waving the cordial bottle. Seeing 3 strong young men in hard pursuit, the look of glee evaporates, the cordial bottle is dropped & he runs for his life, fear lending wings to his feet.
The 3 off duty police swiftly overtake Cranium. One grabs him by the waist & uses Cranium's own momentum to drive him into a handy brick wall. Cranium collapses face down onto the concrete footpath.
The next constable launches himself from several feet away & lands with all his weight, knees first, onto the back of Craniums prone torso.
There is no cheek left in Richard Cranium.
Two of the pursuers now take an ankle each, & drag Cranium face down along the footpath, & accross the street.
None of them even look back to see how Cranium is coping with being pulled by the ankles face down accross a bitumen road & along a concrete footpath.
Nobody even checks that Cranium is conscious.
A mobile phone call is made, a police car arrives, Cranium is thrown into this car.
The police station is the opposite side of the block to the Wayside Tavern. Mine Host can make it there at a trot in 45 seconds.
The police car (containing the prisoner) sets off in the wrong direction. It takes 45 minutes for the prisoner to arrive at the station.............
Richard Cranium, in the years since, has never given any trouble or done anything to bring attention to himself.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Come in Spinner
"Can you come out to the lounge" through the intercom came the melodic Irish speech pattern of Mike, highly competent Irish lad, "there's a bloke just come in, he's goin' totally crazy, & I'm not sure I can handle him" (If Mike can't handle him he MUST be a handful)
By the pool table was a crazed Cook Islander, incongruous in stockman's hat & shirt with torn off sleeves, in one hand gripping a pool cue by the thin end, eyes enlarged & crazed, biceps bulging, neck & jaw clenched. A fearsome sight. Backed up to the wall in fear is a semi-circle of customers. Despite the miscreant not having been seen at the Wayside Tavern for many years, Mine Host knew him as a former regular, who had moved out of town ages ago.
"This could be tricky" thinks Mine Host
"Mr. Esmond!" bellowed Mine Host, as hearing their own name often shocks troublemakers into calming down, removing their anonymity is very effective, as running off into the dark will no longer be an effective escape.
However Maori, when drugged or drunk, know no reason. Mr. Esmond dropped the pool cue, & made as if to calm down (known as "dummying"), then from the side he threw a tremendous "king hit", which landed perfectly on Mine Host's lower jaw. Reeling, (but to the amazement of all, including himself, still standing) Mine Host braced for the flurry of follow up punches, as the first one was quite a beauty.
But there was no follow up, through bleary eyes Mine Host saw Mr. Esmond, Mike & one of Mr. Esmond's sons grappling, then the 2 Esmonds ran.
Mike had moved in behind & caught the backswing of the follow up punch, however Esmond Junior then (from behind) threw a couple of punches at Mike, who had his hands full, hanging onto one thug whilst avoiding blows from another.
The 2 Esmonds ran into the night. From the back door Mike bellowed into the dark "Running are Ye? Scared are Ye?"..... Whilst Esmond Jnr was smart enough to keep running, Mr. Esmond himself fell for it .. (Come in Spinner!) & marched back into the light, announcing loudly what he was going to do to us, etc etc.
His escape thus delayed, Mr. Esmond was still on the scene bellowing with sufficient belligerence for the police to collar him immediately upon their arrival.
Upon sighting the police, Esmond underwent the usual metamorphosis from belligerently challenging all comers to sitting quietly in a chair & acting totally surprised as to why the police would want to grab him.
The sergeant later reported that in his pockets they had found "something which should not have been there..." They had then released him & told him to come back at 10pm the following night (sometimes we wonder if they actually have to fail an intelligence test to get into the force) But they expected that they would issue him with a fine for failing to leave a pub when asked.
In exasperation Mine Host then set about (vainly) trying to talk knuckle-headed cops into actually charging the thug with assault. After all, a room full of people had seen it, & almost been victims themselves.
........
The following night the same 2 police came to the Wayside Tavern, Mr. Esmond had not appeared for his interview & now he was going to be charged with "serious assault", affray, disorderly conduct on licenced premises. etc etc...
When Mr. Esmond had done nothing more than belt a few people around (because he could) the police had only a most minor interest, but now that he had failed to do what a cop told him, they were going to throw the book at him. Mr. Esmond subsequently pleaded guilty to all charges at a special hearing in his new home town.
Several weeks later Esmond Junior crossed the threshold of the Wayside Tavern, accompanied by a sexy young thing. "You can't come in here" Mine Host said, with palm outward. Blank look from Esmond Jnr, as if he had no idea why he was being refused entry. "Anyone who throws a punch at the staff, never comes back inside, not for the rest of their life."
"I haven't hit anyone"
"Correct sunshine, you missed! But you were man enough to take a swing at someone from behind"
"Don't know what you are talking about"
"Tell you what sunshine, how about we look at the video, & if it ain't you in the starring role, then the subsequent police interview is going to make me look a real fool, ain't it?"
Esmond Junior turned & went, thus confirming Mine Hosts version of events. Shamed (in his own eyes) in front of girlfriend & mates, indisputably the type who hits from behind.
By the pool table was a crazed Cook Islander, incongruous in stockman's hat & shirt with torn off sleeves, in one hand gripping a pool cue by the thin end, eyes enlarged & crazed, biceps bulging, neck & jaw clenched. A fearsome sight. Backed up to the wall in fear is a semi-circle of customers. Despite the miscreant not having been seen at the Wayside Tavern for many years, Mine Host knew him as a former regular, who had moved out of town ages ago.
"This could be tricky" thinks Mine Host
"Mr. Esmond!" bellowed Mine Host, as hearing their own name often shocks troublemakers into calming down, removing their anonymity is very effective, as running off into the dark will no longer be an effective escape.
However Maori, when drugged or drunk, know no reason. Mr. Esmond dropped the pool cue, & made as if to calm down (known as "dummying"), then from the side he threw a tremendous "king hit", which landed perfectly on Mine Host's lower jaw. Reeling, (but to the amazement of all, including himself, still standing) Mine Host braced for the flurry of follow up punches, as the first one was quite a beauty.
But there was no follow up, through bleary eyes Mine Host saw Mr. Esmond, Mike & one of Mr. Esmond's sons grappling, then the 2 Esmonds ran.
Mike had moved in behind & caught the backswing of the follow up punch, however Esmond Junior then (from behind) threw a couple of punches at Mike, who had his hands full, hanging onto one thug whilst avoiding blows from another.
The 2 Esmonds ran into the night. From the back door Mike bellowed into the dark "Running are Ye? Scared are Ye?"..... Whilst Esmond Jnr was smart enough to keep running, Mr. Esmond himself fell for it .. (Come in Spinner!) & marched back into the light, announcing loudly what he was going to do to us, etc etc.
His escape thus delayed, Mr. Esmond was still on the scene bellowing with sufficient belligerence for the police to collar him immediately upon their arrival.
Upon sighting the police, Esmond underwent the usual metamorphosis from belligerently challenging all comers to sitting quietly in a chair & acting totally surprised as to why the police would want to grab him.
The sergeant later reported that in his pockets they had found "something which should not have been there..." They had then released him & told him to come back at 10pm the following night (sometimes we wonder if they actually have to fail an intelligence test to get into the force) But they expected that they would issue him with a fine for failing to leave a pub when asked.
In exasperation Mine Host then set about (vainly) trying to talk knuckle-headed cops into actually charging the thug with assault. After all, a room full of people had seen it, & almost been victims themselves.
........
The following night the same 2 police came to the Wayside Tavern, Mr. Esmond had not appeared for his interview & now he was going to be charged with "serious assault", affray, disorderly conduct on licenced premises. etc etc...
When Mr. Esmond had done nothing more than belt a few people around (because he could) the police had only a most minor interest, but now that he had failed to do what a cop told him, they were going to throw the book at him. Mr. Esmond subsequently pleaded guilty to all charges at a special hearing in his new home town.
Several weeks later Esmond Junior crossed the threshold of the Wayside Tavern, accompanied by a sexy young thing. "You can't come in here" Mine Host said, with palm outward. Blank look from Esmond Jnr, as if he had no idea why he was being refused entry. "Anyone who throws a punch at the staff, never comes back inside, not for the rest of their life."
"I haven't hit anyone"
"Correct sunshine, you missed! But you were man enough to take a swing at someone from behind"
"Don't know what you are talking about"
"Tell you what sunshine, how about we look at the video, & if it ain't you in the starring role, then the subsequent police interview is going to make me look a real fool, ain't it?"
Esmond Junior turned & went, thus confirming Mine Hosts version of events. Shamed (in his own eyes) in front of girlfriend & mates, indisputably the type who hits from behind.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Quiet, polite customer
Jim drank at the Wayside Tavern for years. He sat at the end of the bar, & never made a noise. His large size & early middle age looks helped his face to appear serene.
In all this time Mine Host only ever spoke to Jim to serve him a drink. Jim was quiet, had a sense of humour, held down a high paying job, occassionally took a bottle of Kahlua home with him.
"Chilly tonight" "Yea" was the extent of several years of conversation between Jim & Mine Host. On nights when Jim was in, Mine Host wistfully wished there could be more customers such as Jim.
One evening Jim stood, walked behind the bar to & placed one hand on Mine Host's shoulder. "Jim, how can I help you?"
With the speed of a striking cobra, Jim violently wrenched Mine Host into the coldroom wall.
On the backswing Jim flung Mine Host, by now with torn shirt & trousers, like a rag doll into the corner below the sink. Jim then landed on Mine Host with both knees, then taking a hand full of hair with one hand, began belting away with his right.
Mine Host could not have been in a more helpless position.
A 70 year old bystander, half the size of Jim, came around behind the bar & dragged Jim off by the neck, using his forearm to crimp Jim's windpipe. Jim was suffocating, turning blue, approaching the point of unconsciousness. "Good, that will slow him down" thought Mine Host
Jim was released, his windpipe revererted (slowly) to it's original shape, & he began to gasp out of his catatonic state. All present were incredulous at this uncharacteristic display by Jim.
Still gasping, Jim turned slowly, sighted Mine Host, & began to flail away most violently, with arms like twirling sledgehammers. The elderly samaritan once again put his forearm around Jim's neck & cut his windpipe. Jim gasped folornly without noise (hehe, can't make gasping noise unless at least a little air is coming in!) Slowly he starved for oxygen & toppled to the floor.
Jim would weigh 140-150kg.
Mine Host & his saviour dragged Jim (quite an effort) through the foyer & toward the street. However he slowly became lucid & commenced again to struggle.
Just then 2 police officers (females both) arrived, summoned by alarmed customers. One officer remained outside, & did not enter the Wayside Tavern. The other berated Mine Host's saviour, stating that "choking someone" could land us in serious trouble.
Mine Host leapt to his feet & pointed out in a most undiplomatic tone of voice, that he had been in trouble, & now was not. Furthmore, Jim's state of health was of little concern, if Jim didn't like being knocked out, he could only blame himself!
Due to his mild drunken state , the police refused to interview or arrest Jim at the scene, telling him to go home. Then proceeded to berate Mine Host & his saviours about "using violence"
Mine Host acidly pointed out that the police had delivered no such diatribe to Jim.
Some months later the police informed Mine Host that "nothing can be done" about the "alleged assault" by Jim, as they had arrested Jim at the scene & charged him with public disorder.
Subsequently, and without Mine Host's knowledge Jim had already been found guilty of public disorder.
He cannot be tried twice on the same evidence. Thus no assault charge could now be pursued. The police took the opportunity to deliver a further sermon on the evils of using violence to defend oneself, stating that instead Mine Host should have "called the police".
Having had enough of this rot, Mine Host thundered most direspectfully at the officers that if someone had not dragged Jim off, the only call being made would be to the funeral director.!
Mine Host will go to his grave without any comprehension of why Jim attacked him, nor without any idea of why the 2 police were not only unhelpful, but were downright hostile to the victims of crime.
In all this time Mine Host only ever spoke to Jim to serve him a drink. Jim was quiet, had a sense of humour, held down a high paying job, occassionally took a bottle of Kahlua home with him.
"Chilly tonight" "Yea" was the extent of several years of conversation between Jim & Mine Host. On nights when Jim was in, Mine Host wistfully wished there could be more customers such as Jim.
One evening Jim stood, walked behind the bar to & placed one hand on Mine Host's shoulder. "Jim, how can I help you?"
With the speed of a striking cobra, Jim violently wrenched Mine Host into the coldroom wall.
On the backswing Jim flung Mine Host, by now with torn shirt & trousers, like a rag doll into the corner below the sink. Jim then landed on Mine Host with both knees, then taking a hand full of hair with one hand, began belting away with his right.
Mine Host could not have been in a more helpless position.
A 70 year old bystander, half the size of Jim, came around behind the bar & dragged Jim off by the neck, using his forearm to crimp Jim's windpipe. Jim was suffocating, turning blue, approaching the point of unconsciousness. "Good, that will slow him down" thought Mine Host
Jim was released, his windpipe revererted (slowly) to it's original shape, & he began to gasp out of his catatonic state. All present were incredulous at this uncharacteristic display by Jim.
Still gasping, Jim turned slowly, sighted Mine Host, & began to flail away most violently, with arms like twirling sledgehammers. The elderly samaritan once again put his forearm around Jim's neck & cut his windpipe. Jim gasped folornly without noise (hehe, can't make gasping noise unless at least a little air is coming in!) Slowly he starved for oxygen & toppled to the floor.
Jim would weigh 140-150kg.
Mine Host & his saviour dragged Jim (quite an effort) through the foyer & toward the street. However he slowly became lucid & commenced again to struggle.
Just then 2 police officers (females both) arrived, summoned by alarmed customers. One officer remained outside, & did not enter the Wayside Tavern. The other berated Mine Host's saviour, stating that "choking someone" could land us in serious trouble.
Mine Host leapt to his feet & pointed out in a most undiplomatic tone of voice, that he had been in trouble, & now was not. Furthmore, Jim's state of health was of little concern, if Jim didn't like being knocked out, he could only blame himself!
Due to his mild drunken state , the police refused to interview or arrest Jim at the scene, telling him to go home. Then proceeded to berate Mine Host & his saviours about "using violence"
Mine Host acidly pointed out that the police had delivered no such diatribe to Jim.
Some months later the police informed Mine Host that "nothing can be done" about the "alleged assault" by Jim, as they had arrested Jim at the scene & charged him with public disorder.
Subsequently, and without Mine Host's knowledge Jim had already been found guilty of public disorder.
He cannot be tried twice on the same evidence. Thus no assault charge could now be pursued. The police took the opportunity to deliver a further sermon on the evils of using violence to defend oneself, stating that instead Mine Host should have "called the police".
Having had enough of this rot, Mine Host thundered most direspectfully at the officers that if someone had not dragged Jim off, the only call being made would be to the funeral director.!
Mine Host will go to his grave without any comprehension of why Jim attacked him, nor without any idea of why the 2 police were not only unhelpful, but were downright hostile to the victims of crime.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
islam
Having lived his entire life in the bush, Mine Host had enjoyed a life free from (amongst other things) Islam.
This is not to suggest that Mine Host was ignorant of Islam. On the contrary it is Mine Host's belief that country people are by far the best informed on current affairs & the world around them, being scrupulous readers of newspapers & devourers of all sorts of books & magazines.
Islam remained a foreign & irrelevant thing which nobody ever imagined they would come in contact with, or have any practical use for. (Thus putting islam on a par with a university education)
However when economic reality forced Mine Host's career path away from cattle-punching (& ultimately into pubs) he began to rub shoulders - unknowingly - with adherents of this faith.
Much of Islam held great appeal to rural folk, and were it not for the grog-free aspect, (a guaranteed recruiting blooper) the faith would be almost revered among the humble farming folk of the inland.
For Islam is seen as one of the few places where toughenss on villany can still be found. A Fair Dinkum attitude toward crooks is percieved to be most definitely absent from the Australian judiciary, & with do-gooders campaigning in favour of criminals & other bad eggs, there seems little hope for improvements.
For much of Mine Host's young life many a conversation was had accross the sawn timber bar of a country pub: "See that blank pansy judge in Brisbane/Sydney/Melbourne acutally let off some thug/rapist/murderer/burglar, .. christ.. in Saudi Arabia the bastard would've had his hand chopped off... maybe even his head... .. christ! I wish we had laws here like that.. stop all those dole bludgers in SydBrisMelb from running amok & bashing grannies I tell you... sigh.."
When years later Mine Host was as far from the bush as an ex-stockman can get, running a halal kebab shop in the far western suburbs of Sydney, he sold to Turkish, employed Turkish, was supplied by Turkish, recieved detailed advice, help & follow up support from operators of Turkish kebab shops in his area. These people are the salt of the earth, Mine Host will go to his grave still a defender of the Turkish people of western Sydney.
When one day in the office of the kebab factory, Mine Host made a positive comment about a photo on the wall of a big round mosque, & said how nice it looked, & how it would now be difficult to imagine Sydney without it on the skyline... and they were off!! This comment was taken as a desire to be converted!
For the record: Mine Host will never become an adherent of islam. Ever since the day he discovered fine Barossa reds, he was never going to forgo the grape!
However the teaching went on, & every visit to collect kebabs now included a lesson on islam. However, much to the distress of Mine Host, no mention of chopping of hands or heads of wrongdoers was ever made. This main selling point of Islam was explained as being "not representative". The "do-gooders" had reached the Turkish immigrant community years in advance of Mine Host, & the damage was now irreversable.
This is not to suggest that Mine Host was ignorant of Islam. On the contrary it is Mine Host's belief that country people are by far the best informed on current affairs & the world around them, being scrupulous readers of newspapers & devourers of all sorts of books & magazines.
Islam remained a foreign & irrelevant thing which nobody ever imagined they would come in contact with, or have any practical use for. (Thus putting islam on a par with a university education)
However when economic reality forced Mine Host's career path away from cattle-punching (& ultimately into pubs) he began to rub shoulders - unknowingly - with adherents of this faith.
Much of Islam held great appeal to rural folk, and were it not for the grog-free aspect, (a guaranteed recruiting blooper) the faith would be almost revered among the humble farming folk of the inland.
For Islam is seen as one of the few places where toughenss on villany can still be found. A Fair Dinkum attitude toward crooks is percieved to be most definitely absent from the Australian judiciary, & with do-gooders campaigning in favour of criminals & other bad eggs, there seems little hope for improvements.
For much of Mine Host's young life many a conversation was had accross the sawn timber bar of a country pub: "See that blank pansy judge in Brisbane/Sydney/Melbourne acutally let off some thug/rapist/murderer/burglar, .. christ.. in Saudi Arabia the bastard would've had his hand chopped off... maybe even his head... .. christ! I wish we had laws here like that.. stop all those dole bludgers in SydBrisMelb from running amok & bashing grannies I tell you... sigh.."
When years later Mine Host was as far from the bush as an ex-stockman can get, running a halal kebab shop in the far western suburbs of Sydney, he sold to Turkish, employed Turkish, was supplied by Turkish, recieved detailed advice, help & follow up support from operators of Turkish kebab shops in his area. These people are the salt of the earth, Mine Host will go to his grave still a defender of the Turkish people of western Sydney.
When one day in the office of the kebab factory, Mine Host made a positive comment about a photo on the wall of a big round mosque, & said how nice it looked, & how it would now be difficult to imagine Sydney without it on the skyline... and they were off!! This comment was taken as a desire to be converted!
For the record: Mine Host will never become an adherent of islam. Ever since the day he discovered fine Barossa reds, he was never going to forgo the grape!
However the teaching went on, & every visit to collect kebabs now included a lesson on islam. However, much to the distress of Mine Host, no mention of chopping of hands or heads of wrongdoers was ever made. This main selling point of Islam was explained as being "not representative". The "do-gooders" had reached the Turkish immigrant community years in advance of Mine Host, & the damage was now irreversable.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Wedding Bells
This post triggered by comment on the preceding post:
Mahmood Al-Yousif said...
is this story real? I know that some people (regardless of religion) are arrogant to excess, even surpassing your Ali, rather than keeping quiet about the impending "problem" I would have first "shamed" him with his family, refused to marry him and then bludgeoned him to death, thus reducing the asswipes in the world by one.And Allah, being mercyfull, would have condoned my actions.But then, that's only me. A male Muslim talking.
To clarify: All posts in this blog have happened to me, in a pub I was running, every word is true (excepting chronological & other small changes, to preserve my anonymity).
To address Mahmood's comment: Yep! This story is real.
Shaming "Ali" to his family was the advice I gave to Iris.
After cooling off, she didn't want his money, didn't want anything from him, & never wanted to hear from him again.
At his wedding to a nice decent Turkish girl, it would be great her take the child to see his/her father being married. This revelation should cause all the revenge Iris could ever want.
Especially if the Turkish bride-to-be has lots of brothers & other able bodied male relatives.
Mahmood Al-Yousif said...
is this story real? I know that some people (regardless of religion) are arrogant to excess, even surpassing your Ali, rather than keeping quiet about the impending "problem" I would have first "shamed" him with his family, refused to marry him and then bludgeoned him to death, thus reducing the asswipes in the world by one.And Allah, being mercyfull, would have condoned my actions.But then, that's only me. A male Muslim talking.
To clarify: All posts in this blog have happened to me, in a pub I was running, every word is true (excepting chronological & other small changes, to preserve my anonymity).
To address Mahmood's comment: Yep! This story is real.
Shaming "Ali" to his family was the advice I gave to Iris.
After cooling off, she didn't want his money, didn't want anything from him, & never wanted to hear from him again.
At his wedding to a nice decent Turkish girl, it would be great her take the child to see his/her father being married. This revelation should cause all the revenge Iris could ever want.
Especially if the Turkish bride-to-be has lots of brothers & other able bodied male relatives.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
paternity/maternity
Iris came to work at the Wayside Tavern from down south. She arrived in style, by rail, & lasted 18 months, becoming the Wayside Tavern's all time longest serving backpacker. (Iris is a New Zealand citizen, for the information any immigration staff who may be aghast at the thought that an employer has so blatantly breached the conditions of a 417 visa)
She was quite friendly & very hardworking. Even though she was often a trial for Mine Host & her co-workers at the Wayside Tavern, Iris always turned up for work, worked quite hard, & was not afraid to throw her weight around when confronted with those who tended toward rowdy behaviour.
As is usual for backpacker females (who each have their own room upstairs in the Wayside Tavern) Iris formed a series of short friendships with local males. Her choice of quality in males was similar to all the Wayside Tavern backpackers, that is: varying from the mildly unsuitable to downright no-hopers.
As the months wore on it became apparent that Iris was seeing someone seriously. All were shocked when it transpired that the "serious boyfriend" was Ali. Hailing from way down south, although a native of Turkey, Ali had blown into town a year or so before and taken over a vacant Turkish kebab shop.
Ali was flash, albeit a somewhat budget version of "flash" (due to the impecunious nature of the kebab shop's trading figures) He was one of the Wayside Tavern's best customers, sitting all night drinking, playing poker machines, & most energetically trying his luck with the lovelier looking of the female staff & clientele.
Mine Host, though allowing that Ali was a regular & hassle free customer, never had respect for him. Occassionally, when a more pushy lady was trying her luck with him, Ali would decline, stating that his religion (islam) would not allow him to have anything to do with the "sort of girl" who would pierce her ears or allow herself to be tattooed!
Wryly Mine Host noted that liquor, gambling & casual sex (well, at least attempts at the latter!) were habits which Ali pursued to excess, despite his religion viewing such pastimes at least as seriously, if not more so, than girls with pinprick ear piercings or hidden tattoos.
Shaking our heads, we all watched as Ali (businessman with his own shop) & Iris (backpacker with lowly paid pub job) carried on their affair. Iris bought a fancy car stereo for Ali's car, at the same time installing large & expensive speakers. In return the charming Ali allowed Iris to ride in the car with him while he drove fast. As the affair progressed Iris' wage allowed Ali to present himself as a flasher & flasher version of a rat than ever before.
Iris became pregnant, possibly her only tangible gift from Ali.
Suddenly Ali became difficult to find. Iris could not get him on the phone, or find him at the shop. In exasperation she left a message with his staff, to the effect that if she didn't hear from him very soon, his precise role in her predicament would be brought to the attention of his sister-in-law (a very Bossy Turkish Lady.)
THIS brought Ali out of hiding quicksmart. He was pathetically desperate that his family not find out that he had been dabbling with a blonde "anglo-saxon" girl.
In an act which demonstrated that his character was as weak as Mine Host had always suspected it to be, Ali told Iris that if she was Turkish he would marry her, however as she was not, he could never have anything to do with her (rather a bit late for that old chum) & she had better get rid of "it" soon as possible. Not understanding how the dynamics of the relationship had altered, he then crassly delivered what he imagined was an ultimatum: he would not be "getting it on" with Iris until she had gone & got rid of "it".
Shocked to the core, Iris left the discussion without a further comment, & never spoke to him again. Arrogantly Ali believed Iris would carry out this latest directive (remove the "problem") with the same degree of compliance with which she obviously had carried out his previous directives ("buy me a car stereo", "spend all your salary on me" etc etc).
Far from being being only a clinic visit from resuming sexual relations with Ali, Iris was quite likely to coldly, calmly & perfunctorily kill him. For some time he avoided the Wayside Tavern, although he was occassionally seen driving past, with his car stereo cranked up to full volume.
Iris declared that she was going to keep the baby, begged Mine Host to be allowed to work right up until the last possible moment, as she "needed money" & hadn't been able to thus far save any. At the exact moment she said this, Ali drove past with his car stereo booming.
Over the following days Iris glared daggers in the direction of Ali's shop, her return to New Zealand to give birth all planned, she was ready for her new direction in life, & unforgiving in her hatred now that she had reviewed her relationship with Ali through suddenly more mature eyes.
Getting into the spirit of impending motherhood, Iris arranged to tag along to ante-natal class with the expectant daughter of one of the barmaids.
Ante-natal classes must paint an accurate & earthy picture of the realities of giving birth. The day after her ante-natal class Iris failed to show up for work, having had to make an urgent appointment with a specialst on the coast. She surfaced later that week down south in Brisbane, having "lost" the baby. She returned to the Wayside Tavern only to collect her things.
Ali continues at the Wayside Tavern, simultaneously drinking & gambling to excess. Still chasing every piece of skirt he can, he occassionally rejects a girl who displays traits (usually pierced ears) which offend the sensibilities of "him & his religion"
She was quite friendly & very hardworking. Even though she was often a trial for Mine Host & her co-workers at the Wayside Tavern, Iris always turned up for work, worked quite hard, & was not afraid to throw her weight around when confronted with those who tended toward rowdy behaviour.
As is usual for backpacker females (who each have their own room upstairs in the Wayside Tavern) Iris formed a series of short friendships with local males. Her choice of quality in males was similar to all the Wayside Tavern backpackers, that is: varying from the mildly unsuitable to downright no-hopers.
As the months wore on it became apparent that Iris was seeing someone seriously. All were shocked when it transpired that the "serious boyfriend" was Ali. Hailing from way down south, although a native of Turkey, Ali had blown into town a year or so before and taken over a vacant Turkish kebab shop.
Ali was flash, albeit a somewhat budget version of "flash" (due to the impecunious nature of the kebab shop's trading figures) He was one of the Wayside Tavern's best customers, sitting all night drinking, playing poker machines, & most energetically trying his luck with the lovelier looking of the female staff & clientele.
Mine Host, though allowing that Ali was a regular & hassle free customer, never had respect for him. Occassionally, when a more pushy lady was trying her luck with him, Ali would decline, stating that his religion (islam) would not allow him to have anything to do with the "sort of girl" who would pierce her ears or allow herself to be tattooed!
Wryly Mine Host noted that liquor, gambling & casual sex (well, at least attempts at the latter!) were habits which Ali pursued to excess, despite his religion viewing such pastimes at least as seriously, if not more so, than girls with pinprick ear piercings or hidden tattoos.
Shaking our heads, we all watched as Ali (businessman with his own shop) & Iris (backpacker with lowly paid pub job) carried on their affair. Iris bought a fancy car stereo for Ali's car, at the same time installing large & expensive speakers. In return the charming Ali allowed Iris to ride in the car with him while he drove fast. As the affair progressed Iris' wage allowed Ali to present himself as a flasher & flasher version of a rat than ever before.
Iris became pregnant, possibly her only tangible gift from Ali.
Suddenly Ali became difficult to find. Iris could not get him on the phone, or find him at the shop. In exasperation she left a message with his staff, to the effect that if she didn't hear from him very soon, his precise role in her predicament would be brought to the attention of his sister-in-law (a very Bossy Turkish Lady.)
THIS brought Ali out of hiding quicksmart. He was pathetically desperate that his family not find out that he had been dabbling with a blonde "anglo-saxon" girl.
In an act which demonstrated that his character was as weak as Mine Host had always suspected it to be, Ali told Iris that if she was Turkish he would marry her, however as she was not, he could never have anything to do with her (rather a bit late for that old chum) & she had better get rid of "it" soon as possible. Not understanding how the dynamics of the relationship had altered, he then crassly delivered what he imagined was an ultimatum: he would not be "getting it on" with Iris until she had gone & got rid of "it".
Shocked to the core, Iris left the discussion without a further comment, & never spoke to him again. Arrogantly Ali believed Iris would carry out this latest directive (remove the "problem") with the same degree of compliance with which she obviously had carried out his previous directives ("buy me a car stereo", "spend all your salary on me" etc etc).
Far from being being only a clinic visit from resuming sexual relations with Ali, Iris was quite likely to coldly, calmly & perfunctorily kill him. For some time he avoided the Wayside Tavern, although he was occassionally seen driving past, with his car stereo cranked up to full volume.
Iris declared that she was going to keep the baby, begged Mine Host to be allowed to work right up until the last possible moment, as she "needed money" & hadn't been able to thus far save any. At the exact moment she said this, Ali drove past with his car stereo booming.
Over the following days Iris glared daggers in the direction of Ali's shop, her return to New Zealand to give birth all planned, she was ready for her new direction in life, & unforgiving in her hatred now that she had reviewed her relationship with Ali through suddenly more mature eyes.
Getting into the spirit of impending motherhood, Iris arranged to tag along to ante-natal class with the expectant daughter of one of the barmaids.
Ante-natal classes must paint an accurate & earthy picture of the realities of giving birth. The day after her ante-natal class Iris failed to show up for work, having had to make an urgent appointment with a specialst on the coast. She surfaced later that week down south in Brisbane, having "lost" the baby. She returned to the Wayside Tavern only to collect her things.
Ali continues at the Wayside Tavern, simultaneously drinking & gambling to excess. Still chasing every piece of skirt he can, he occassionally rejects a girl who displays traits (usually pierced ears) which offend the sensibilities of "him & his religion"
Saturday, May 14, 2005
You can't tell me what to do!
Growing tired of a cook always arriving late for work, Mine Host delivered "a right bollocksing" when the cook arrived 15 minutes late for work, (the 11th consecutive late start for this person)
So many written warnings for being late had been issued to this cook that one saved copy of each may have been near enough to clog the office hard drive!
The following morning was another late start (a quarter of an hour, despite the rather unforgettable nature of the previous day's "reminder").
Actually it wasn't a start at all, Mr Slow Coach was sitting outside in a car. Mine Host went out & inquired ever so sweetly if Mr Slow-Coach would be starting work this morning?.. Or was his heart not in the job, in which case he should go home?
"What do you mean?" asked Slow Coach
"I mean get into the kitchen & start cooking, or go home, as you are of little use here."
"Go & get blanked, you can't tell me what to do!"
Without pause Mine Host reached into the car in which Slow Coach was sitting & removed the ignition keys...
"Come to think of it" drawled Mine Host, "I rather think I shall go & get blanked, & another thing sunshine, you get out of my car & walk home, staff priveliges just ended for you 3 seconds ago, you're sacked!"
Having dispensed with a liability, Mine Host went did breakfast the only reliable way, himself.
Later, in the midst of mid-morning scrubbing of the kitchen, a shadow was noticed out of the corner of an eye... with a double take it was seen to be the recently terminated staff, (Mr Slow Coach) moving around the kitchen as if he were still on the payroll.
"Excuse me sunshine, staff only in the kitchen!" exclaimed Mine Host in disbelief.
The ex-staff cum intruder turned, in what he imagined was a slow, deliberate & tough manner. Brandishing an ever so sharp, long & nasty chef's knife, he spoke slowly & ominously:
"Don't try to tell me what to do or else I'll stick this into you!"
Not doubting for an instant the seriousness of this threat, Mine Host pondered his options.
Mine Host has no shortage of experience in dealing with people who refuse to acknowledge that they have been sacked... for this is a characteristic of a certain demographic, however never before has he encountered one who is prepared to enforce with a sharpened blade the annulment of their termination.
Faced with the choice of being tackled for possessio of the knife, with the unfortunate consequences of losing said possession, Mr Slow Coach chose discretion over valour, walked home, vacated his room & booked an airfare south.
So many written warnings for being late had been issued to this cook that one saved copy of each may have been near enough to clog the office hard drive!
The following morning was another late start (a quarter of an hour, despite the rather unforgettable nature of the previous day's "reminder").
Actually it wasn't a start at all, Mr Slow Coach was sitting outside in a car. Mine Host went out & inquired ever so sweetly if Mr Slow-Coach would be starting work this morning?.. Or was his heart not in the job, in which case he should go home?
"What do you mean?" asked Slow Coach
"I mean get into the kitchen & start cooking, or go home, as you are of little use here."
"Go & get blanked, you can't tell me what to do!"
Without pause Mine Host reached into the car in which Slow Coach was sitting & removed the ignition keys...
"Come to think of it" drawled Mine Host, "I rather think I shall go & get blanked, & another thing sunshine, you get out of my car & walk home, staff priveliges just ended for you 3 seconds ago, you're sacked!"
Having dispensed with a liability, Mine Host went did breakfast the only reliable way, himself.
Later, in the midst of mid-morning scrubbing of the kitchen, a shadow was noticed out of the corner of an eye... with a double take it was seen to be the recently terminated staff, (Mr Slow Coach) moving around the kitchen as if he were still on the payroll.
"Excuse me sunshine, staff only in the kitchen!" exclaimed Mine Host in disbelief.
The ex-staff cum intruder turned, in what he imagined was a slow, deliberate & tough manner. Brandishing an ever so sharp, long & nasty chef's knife, he spoke slowly & ominously:
"Don't try to tell me what to do or else I'll stick this into you!"
Not doubting for an instant the seriousness of this threat, Mine Host pondered his options.
Mine Host has no shortage of experience in dealing with people who refuse to acknowledge that they have been sacked... for this is a characteristic of a certain demographic, however never before has he encountered one who is prepared to enforce with a sharpened blade the annulment of their termination.
Faced with the choice of being tackled for possessio of the knife, with the unfortunate consequences of losing said possession, Mr Slow Coach chose discretion over valour, walked home, vacated his room & booked an airfare south.
Friday, May 13, 2005
You can't please 'em all
Recently the Diver’s Arms suffered “Mr. Tosser”, a problem diner, 2 nights in a row. This man is impossible to please.
In an attempt to deflect any possible criticisms from the diner, the Bistro manager gave undivided personal attention to Mr Tosser's table.
University educated, in a high powered government job as regional director with the health department, mixing with the cream of the up & coming public service, one would expect Mr. Tosser to have some manners & be able to conduct himself in a social setting. (Haha...)
However nothing pleased Mr Tosser, (as usual). The drinks were "too long coming", meals were "off", were "cold", & were "not what we ordered" etc etc.
Each & every complaint was delivered in a most unreasonable, brusque & rude manner.
Before long we had:
Refunded all payments made for drinks
Bought a further round of drinks
Replaced all meals
Refunded all monies paid for meals
Still Mr Tosser demanded that we satisfy him.
The Bistro manager explained:"I am sorry Mr Tosser, we have given you everything free & replaced everything. At this point there is absolutely nothing more we can do for you. We have done all that we can."
Glaring at all of us, Mr Tosser departed with his entourage, but without the emotional victory for which he had been hoping.
Later, on a day off, the Bistro Manager of the Diver's Arms, stopped for a cold one at the Bosun’s Tavern.
"Right you *redacted bad word*, now we are going to smash you for what you did to me the other night!"
The Bistro Manager turns at these words & sees Mr Tosser, accompanied by a half dozen or so brawny types, his cousins.
In an attempt to deflect any possible criticisms from the diner, the Bistro manager gave undivided personal attention to Mr Tosser's table.
University educated, in a high powered government job as regional director with the health department, mixing with the cream of the up & coming public service, one would expect Mr. Tosser to have some manners & be able to conduct himself in a social setting. (Haha...)
However nothing pleased Mr Tosser, (as usual). The drinks were "too long coming", meals were "off", were "cold", & were "not what we ordered" etc etc.
Each & every complaint was delivered in a most unreasonable, brusque & rude manner.
Before long we had:
Refunded all payments made for drinks
Bought a further round of drinks
Replaced all meals
Refunded all monies paid for meals
Still Mr Tosser demanded that we satisfy him.
The Bistro manager explained:"I am sorry Mr Tosser, we have given you everything free & replaced everything. At this point there is absolutely nothing more we can do for you. We have done all that we can."
Glaring at all of us, Mr Tosser departed with his entourage, but without the emotional victory for which he had been hoping.
Later, on a day off, the Bistro Manager of the Diver's Arms, stopped for a cold one at the Bosun’s Tavern.
"Right you *redacted bad word*, now we are going to smash you for what you did to me the other night!"
The Bistro Manager turns at these words & sees Mr Tosser, accompanied by a half dozen or so brawny types, his cousins.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
surveillance cameras
One of the more helpful technological advancements is the "surveillance camera". Several of them point in a comforting manner to most parts of the Wayside Tavern. (Or point in a sinister manner if you are a baddy)
One cannot help but notice how thugs, toughs, king hit merchants & the like, all of whom claim that when riled, they can be stopped by "nothing", will when they realise they are within view of a camera, exhibit no such uncontrollable urges.
Most inconveniently for wrong doers, deeds performed in view of a surveillance camera are not subject to the previously known rules.
That is: Events recoreded by the camera are indisputable. Lack of, or presence of, human witnesses is irrelevant. The naked & unprovoked aggression of the culprit can be seen by all, in living colour, months afterward.
None of the usual concocted tales will get you off, ("I was only a bystander, it wasn't me at all, I wasn't there, he hit me first, I only hit him once, it was an accidental bump, etc etc")
Police investigation time is slashed, no time is wasted investigating claims made by witnesses who are in collaboration with the offender.
Mine Host watches benevelontly as the town ruffians behave like choirboys when under cameras.
For it is my face upon which they would be most likely to practice their trade, & I am perfectly happy for their natural urges to go unfulfilled.
One cannot help but notice how thugs, toughs, king hit merchants & the like, all of whom claim that when riled, they can be stopped by "nothing", will when they realise they are within view of a camera, exhibit no such uncontrollable urges.
Most inconveniently for wrong doers, deeds performed in view of a surveillance camera are not subject to the previously known rules.
That is: Events recoreded by the camera are indisputable. Lack of, or presence of, human witnesses is irrelevant. The naked & unprovoked aggression of the culprit can be seen by all, in living colour, months afterward.
None of the usual concocted tales will get you off, ("I was only a bystander, it wasn't me at all, I wasn't there, he hit me first, I only hit him once, it was an accidental bump, etc etc")
Police investigation time is slashed, no time is wasted investigating claims made by witnesses who are in collaboration with the offender.
Mine Host watches benevelontly as the town ruffians behave like choirboys when under cameras.
For it is my face upon which they would be most likely to practice their trade, & I am perfectly happy for their natural urges to go unfulfilled.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Can you smell smoke part two
Wearied from police paperwork that is tied to the arson incident in the previous post, Mine Host lurches back inside the Wayside Tavern. Only to be told by one of the barmaids: "There is someone attacking the pub truck!"
Keen to meet the one who may be person who has just burned his truck, Mine Host looks out the back window. A young buck, stripped to the waist, is pacing up & down in a most agitated manner beside the burned pub truck, & is kicking it with lots of vigour.
"Kick away bucko" gloats Mine Host, from a distance.. "that is a 1979 Toyota Landcruiser, a survivor of 10 years worth of carpark prangs in the shopping centre, & there is not a mark on it.. better still, why don't you head-butt it.. heheheheh"
Suddenly there is the sound of smashing glass, & accompanied by one of the house guests, Mine Host breaks into a sprint of pursuit.
Converging with the police, who had just happened to witness a brick go through the truck window, Mine Host & the house guest leap fences, dash accross roads, & run the fugitive to a standstill in a back alley. (Sort of like a proper Darwin police foot pursuit)
Not realising he has the irate owner of the truck on his hands, the fugitive snarls & advises his pursuers to "clear off & leave me alone"
Salivating at the chance to get square with the arsonist, Mine Host advances. Before anything can happen the Sergeant, from 100 metres distant, calls out "Police, get face down NOW!"
Obviously experienced at the rules for arrestees, the fugitive complies!
Suddenly there is a meaty smacking sound, the house guest has decided to take matters into his own hands and is laying the boot into the prone fugitive, sort of like soccer practice, except with the suspect's head!
The kicking/beating continues until the police arrive & handcuff the suspect. Even Mine Host is shocked at the ferocity of the attack, (although not complaining about it, Mine Host has limited sympathy for crooks)
As he is being loaded into the police car, the Sergeant dishes out another small "reminder". Later he apologizes to Mine Host, "I would have given him a 'bit more', but wasn't game to with you watching"
He had to be kidding?
Keen to meet the one who may be person who has just burned his truck, Mine Host looks out the back window. A young buck, stripped to the waist, is pacing up & down in a most agitated manner beside the burned pub truck, & is kicking it with lots of vigour.
"Kick away bucko" gloats Mine Host, from a distance.. "that is a 1979 Toyota Landcruiser, a survivor of 10 years worth of carpark prangs in the shopping centre, & there is not a mark on it.. better still, why don't you head-butt it.. heheheheh"
Suddenly there is the sound of smashing glass, & accompanied by one of the house guests, Mine Host breaks into a sprint of pursuit.
Converging with the police, who had just happened to witness a brick go through the truck window, Mine Host & the house guest leap fences, dash accross roads, & run the fugitive to a standstill in a back alley. (Sort of like a proper Darwin police foot pursuit)
Not realising he has the irate owner of the truck on his hands, the fugitive snarls & advises his pursuers to "clear off & leave me alone"
Salivating at the chance to get square with the arsonist, Mine Host advances. Before anything can happen the Sergeant, from 100 metres distant, calls out "Police, get face down NOW!"
Obviously experienced at the rules for arrestees, the fugitive complies!
Suddenly there is a meaty smacking sound, the house guest has decided to take matters into his own hands and is laying the boot into the prone fugitive, sort of like soccer practice, except with the suspect's head!
The kicking/beating continues until the police arrive & handcuff the suspect. Even Mine Host is shocked at the ferocity of the attack, (although not complaining about it, Mine Host has limited sympathy for crooks)
As he is being loaded into the police car, the Sergeant dishes out another small "reminder". Later he apologizes to Mine Host, "I would have given him a 'bit more', but wasn't game to with you watching"
He had to be kidding?
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Can you smell smoke too?
It is midnight Saturday night, the Wayside Tavern is quiet, very few customers.
There is definitely smoke in the air, electrical type smoke, (not cigarettes) nor it is the smell of Mine Hosts coffee burning (a not unknown occurrence). As we wonder where it may be coming from, the pacific atmosphere of the Wayside Tavern is shattered by a customer dashing in the back door...
"The pub's truck is afire!" exclaims the panting midnight visitor, & without pausing he races behind the bar, grabs a fire extinguisher & disappears again out the back door.
Electrified out of his somnabulent state, Mine Host stumbles along behind. Once outside the smell of smoke is very strong, & there is the pub's delivery truck, clearly the victim of arson.
Someone has opened the quarter-vent & tossed in something to start the fire, which has begun on the drivers seat, the inside of the cabin is a mess.
All the plastic bits, including the steering wheel are dripping like melted cheese! The fire extinguisher has given everything the colour of ash/snow. The seats are burned back to their frames.
Fire Brigade & Police arrive too late, but not too late for the police to keep Mine Host tangled up for a good half hour with their paperwork.
There is definitely smoke in the air, electrical type smoke, (not cigarettes) nor it is the smell of Mine Hosts coffee burning (a not unknown occurrence). As we wonder where it may be coming from, the pacific atmosphere of the Wayside Tavern is shattered by a customer dashing in the back door...
"The pub's truck is afire!" exclaims the panting midnight visitor, & without pausing he races behind the bar, grabs a fire extinguisher & disappears again out the back door.
Electrified out of his somnabulent state, Mine Host stumbles along behind. Once outside the smell of smoke is very strong, & there is the pub's delivery truck, clearly the victim of arson.
Someone has opened the quarter-vent & tossed in something to start the fire, which has begun on the drivers seat, the inside of the cabin is a mess.
All the plastic bits, including the steering wheel are dripping like melted cheese! The fire extinguisher has given everything the colour of ash/snow. The seats are burned back to their frames.
Fire Brigade & Police arrive too late, but not too late for the police to keep Mine Host tangled up for a good half hour with their paperwork.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
respect the judge
Strolling between the Diver's Arms & the "No-Holds-Barred" Tavern, Mine Host was bewildered to be passed in the street by Sammy.
Sammy, who possesses some notoriety, is someone Mine Host did not expect to see in public for some years to come.
Having been in steady employment, cellarman at the Angler's Rest, Sammy had been staying off the grog. He had on occassion been quite a help to Mine Host, by walking him home through the teeming crowd of muscular young natives who pour onto the street at closing time, thus keeping Mine Host safe.
Recently a house guest at the Angler's Rest, (ie, one who is booked into a room) had been enjoying the convivial atmosphere in the public bar, when Sammy for inexplicable reasons had struck him from behind, with what is known as a "king hit". The constabulary took Sammy away in their truck-mounted cage, the ambulance took the hapless hotel guest to hospital. (Quite a king hit thinks Mine Host)
Iin the morning concerned citizens are told that the victim's condition is too serious for visitors to be allowed, the hospital is attempting to stabilise him sufficiently for aerial ambulance to fly him out to better hospital facilities in the south.
"Sammy will serve serious time for this" Thinks Mine Host.
Hah!! Should have known the Queensland justice system better than that!
It transpires that at the time of the assault Sammy had been on temporary release awaiting sentencing for a serious assault, for which he had been convicted the previous year.
One would presume that in light of the serious & unprovoked assault upon the hotel guest, that Sammy would be dining on bread & water in the remaining interim between conviction & sentencing.
Passing Sammy in the street, Mine Host pondered both Sammy's greying goatee (an indication that he is old enough to know better) & the fact that committing serious crimes and being a threat to public safety seems so often to be insufficient reason to get one locked up.
Mine Host would once have said that the colour of Sammy's skin would keep him out of gaol, but he has seen plenty of white thugs who also for the fun of it bash people into near mash, & never see the inside of a prison.
Sammy, who possesses some notoriety, is someone Mine Host did not expect to see in public for some years to come.
Having been in steady employment, cellarman at the Angler's Rest, Sammy had been staying off the grog. He had on occassion been quite a help to Mine Host, by walking him home through the teeming crowd of muscular young natives who pour onto the street at closing time, thus keeping Mine Host safe.
Recently a house guest at the Angler's Rest, (ie, one who is booked into a room) had been enjoying the convivial atmosphere in the public bar, when Sammy for inexplicable reasons had struck him from behind, with what is known as a "king hit". The constabulary took Sammy away in their truck-mounted cage, the ambulance took the hapless hotel guest to hospital. (Quite a king hit thinks Mine Host)
Iin the morning concerned citizens are told that the victim's condition is too serious for visitors to be allowed, the hospital is attempting to stabilise him sufficiently for aerial ambulance to fly him out to better hospital facilities in the south.
"Sammy will serve serious time for this" Thinks Mine Host.
Hah!! Should have known the Queensland justice system better than that!
It transpires that at the time of the assault Sammy had been on temporary release awaiting sentencing for a serious assault, for which he had been convicted the previous year.
One would presume that in light of the serious & unprovoked assault upon the hotel guest, that Sammy would be dining on bread & water in the remaining interim between conviction & sentencing.
Passing Sammy in the street, Mine Host pondered both Sammy's greying goatee (an indication that he is old enough to know better) & the fact that committing serious crimes and being a threat to public safety seems so often to be insufficient reason to get one locked up.
Mine Host would once have said that the colour of Sammy's skin would keep him out of gaol, but he has seen plenty of white thugs who also for the fun of it bash people into near mash, & never see the inside of a prison.
Friday, March 18, 2005
no internet service
Mine Host has for the past 2 weeks been visiting to the Diver's Arms, where technical difficulties with the in-house telephone system kept him offline for the duration of his visit.
Whilst there Mine Host attended a liquor licencing meeting, held by the licencing inspector & the police, attendance is voluntary, however if you hold a liquor licence & are called to such a meeting, be rather a good idea to turn up.
We waited 15 minutes for the manager of the "No-Holds-Barred" Pub & Nightclub, when she failed to appear, liquor licencing phoned to the pub (the sort of phone call it is recommended licencees answer),and the answering machine was what they got. (This is during trading hours). They then called her mobile phone, once again answering machine. The meeting proceeded without her, Mine Host is glad he is not in her shoes, for there won't be much flexibility on compliance issues with her pub.
The meeting was otherwise a dud: The new licencee in the town waffled on considerably, with constant reference to "my solicitor's advice" (remember, he is a Victorian, never even been in retail, nevermind the liquor industry, and is not yet adjusted to the real world) while everybody else listened bemused by the legalese.
Were he to consider "solicitor's advice" before engaging in daily commerce, Mine Host wouldn't get the doors open in the morning.
We thought in the past few weeks he had learned some of the hard lessons of the pub trade, seems there are a few to come.
Whilst there Mine Host attended a liquor licencing meeting, held by the licencing inspector & the police, attendance is voluntary, however if you hold a liquor licence & are called to such a meeting, be rather a good idea to turn up.
We waited 15 minutes for the manager of the "No-Holds-Barred" Pub & Nightclub, when she failed to appear, liquor licencing phoned to the pub (the sort of phone call it is recommended licencees answer),and the answering machine was what they got. (This is during trading hours). They then called her mobile phone, once again answering machine. The meeting proceeded without her, Mine Host is glad he is not in her shoes, for there won't be much flexibility on compliance issues with her pub.
The meeting was otherwise a dud: The new licencee in the town waffled on considerably, with constant reference to "my solicitor's advice" (remember, he is a Victorian, never even been in retail, nevermind the liquor industry, and is not yet adjusted to the real world) while everybody else listened bemused by the legalese.
Were he to consider "solicitor's advice" before engaging in daily commerce, Mine Host wouldn't get the doors open in the morning.
We thought in the past few weeks he had learned some of the hard lessons of the pub trade, seems there are a few to come.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Gimme Free Water Now!!
While all the people were happily enjoying the previously mentioned $3 gourmet meals. Mine Host was quietly pleased to note that most people were having a drink with each meal.
Goody! He exclaims, we are actually making a small quid from this whole cheap meals programme. Still, lots of work & lots of money handled for not much return, but at least the Wayside Tavern is making a small bit out of it.
However, a dreadful feeling began to creep up on Mine Host, something was not right! Perplexed he investigated and found that almost everyone who was availing themself of the $3 lunch, was drinking water with their meal. Instead of making a dollar, Mine Host was funding staff member who was doing nothing but serve glasses of chilled water, then clearing the empty glasses, & washing them.
Gasping with the shock that comes to all of us when we discover a hole where our wallet had been, Mine Host added up the cost, about $26,000 per year to fund the free water at mealtimes.
"I don't know how much most people in this town are paid, but $26,000 out of my salary is a bit too much." bleated Mine Host in a manner most forlorn. "There be a limit to altruism, & $26,000 a year out of my pocket is a shade too much."
So the Wayside Tavern joined the ranks of those pubs which charge for water. A fine bottled product was made available, & a glass to drink it from.
Naturally there was resistance from all to *ugh* paying for water. Mine Host was steadfast in his resolve. A drink of water supplied has the same costs as soft drink, beer, or orange juice, & he had to charge for it or face the prospect of eviction. For the Wayside Tavern has flint-hearted creditors of its own.
"No, I don't want the bottled stuff, just pour me a glass from the tap" was the cry from all who had been greedily slurping at Mine Hosts water trough. "Certainly" came the reply from Mine Host "However the service charge for pouring water will be the same price as a bottle"
The resulting stream of invective was as water off a duck's back to Mine Host, for what choice did he have? He was perfectly happy to pour a glass of water for someone, however he was paying someone to perform 6 hours of free water service, every day of the year.
Then came the expected scream about "charging for what the council gives free" & "I'll sue you" etc etc... Never mind that the council water rates were of an amount to render Mine Host parsiminous, he explained to the angry hordes that "This is not the american south, is not the 1840's, & this girl is not anyone's negro slave, it is The Wayside Tavern, the 21st century, & if you want her to pour you a glass of water, you shall pay her for it"
In a strongly trade untion town, this very powerful choice of words ended the matter with all seeing Mine Hosts' point of view & firmly agreeing with him.
However the complaints about "paying for water" never stopped, so Mine Host, seeking a stress free life, adjusted the price of meals from $3 to $14 ,watched as the budget driven water guzzlers decamped to the supermarket for $2 noodles, water arrangements reverted to normal & the clientele complimented Mine Host on the wonderful meals at "excellent" prices ($14) whilst ordering a beer or two or three to wash it down. The takings went up, & Mine Host vowed to never again do anything for the public.
Goody! He exclaims, we are actually making a small quid from this whole cheap meals programme. Still, lots of work & lots of money handled for not much return, but at least the Wayside Tavern is making a small bit out of it.
However, a dreadful feeling began to creep up on Mine Host, something was not right! Perplexed he investigated and found that almost everyone who was availing themself of the $3 lunch, was drinking water with their meal. Instead of making a dollar, Mine Host was funding staff member who was doing nothing but serve glasses of chilled water, then clearing the empty glasses, & washing them.
Gasping with the shock that comes to all of us when we discover a hole where our wallet had been, Mine Host added up the cost, about $26,000 per year to fund the free water at mealtimes.
"I don't know how much most people in this town are paid, but $26,000 out of my salary is a bit too much." bleated Mine Host in a manner most forlorn. "There be a limit to altruism, & $26,000 a year out of my pocket is a shade too much."
So the Wayside Tavern joined the ranks of those pubs which charge for water. A fine bottled product was made available, & a glass to drink it from.
Naturally there was resistance from all to *ugh* paying for water. Mine Host was steadfast in his resolve. A drink of water supplied has the same costs as soft drink, beer, or orange juice, & he had to charge for it or face the prospect of eviction. For the Wayside Tavern has flint-hearted creditors of its own.
"No, I don't want the bottled stuff, just pour me a glass from the tap" was the cry from all who had been greedily slurping at Mine Hosts water trough. "Certainly" came the reply from Mine Host "However the service charge for pouring water will be the same price as a bottle"
The resulting stream of invective was as water off a duck's back to Mine Host, for what choice did he have? He was perfectly happy to pour a glass of water for someone, however he was paying someone to perform 6 hours of free water service, every day of the year.
Then came the expected scream about "charging for what the council gives free" & "I'll sue you" etc etc... Never mind that the council water rates were of an amount to render Mine Host parsiminous, he explained to the angry hordes that "This is not the american south, is not the 1840's, & this girl is not anyone's negro slave, it is The Wayside Tavern, the 21st century, & if you want her to pour you a glass of water, you shall pay her for it"
In a strongly trade untion town, this very powerful choice of words ended the matter with all seeing Mine Hosts' point of view & firmly agreeing with him.
However the complaints about "paying for water" never stopped, so Mine Host, seeking a stress free life, adjusted the price of meals from $3 to $14 ,watched as the budget driven water guzzlers decamped to the supermarket for $2 noodles, water arrangements reverted to normal & the clientele complimented Mine Host on the wonderful meals at "excellent" prices ($14) whilst ordering a beer or two or three to wash it down. The takings went up, & Mine Host vowed to never again do anything for the public.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
How to Spend Poker Machine Profits
Mine Host, flush with poker machine income, was one day overcome with altruism, & sought to return some of the filthy lucre to the public, by way of doing good deeds.
He sharpened his pencil, & calculated that he could sell very decent meals for Three Dollars, thus soothing some of the guilt he is supposed to feel at fleecing the public via the vile medium of eletronic gaming machines.
So the Three Dollar Lunch & Three Dollar Dinner programme was commenced.
All went well, the kitchen staff were fully employed, the kitchen more or less broke even, & the people of the town recieved restaurant quality meals for the price of a scratchlotto ticket.
One of the touching moments of Mine Hosts' life came when a pensioner halted him as he strode purposfully accross the dining area. Slightly irritated at the interruption, (Mine Host is after all a busy man, with important stuff to do) but putting on the practiced face of a hospitality provider, & concealing his irritation, Mine Host stopped to hear whatever annoyance the pensioner was going to put to him....
The pensioner then spoke with a humble dignity & a patent honesty which gave the delivery of his words an exceptional poignancy:
..."I would just like to thank you, for what you have done, making meals like this available to people like me, It is a wonderful thing you have done, & I am very grateful for it. There is no other way I could afford food like this."
He sharpened his pencil, & calculated that he could sell very decent meals for Three Dollars, thus soothing some of the guilt he is supposed to feel at fleecing the public via the vile medium of eletronic gaming machines.
So the Three Dollar Lunch & Three Dollar Dinner programme was commenced.
All went well, the kitchen staff were fully employed, the kitchen more or less broke even, & the people of the town recieved restaurant quality meals for the price of a scratchlotto ticket.
One of the touching moments of Mine Hosts' life came when a pensioner halted him as he strode purposfully accross the dining area. Slightly irritated at the interruption, (Mine Host is after all a busy man, with important stuff to do) but putting on the practiced face of a hospitality provider, & concealing his irritation, Mine Host stopped to hear whatever annoyance the pensioner was going to put to him....
The pensioner then spoke with a humble dignity & a patent honesty which gave the delivery of his words an exceptional poignancy:
..."I would just like to thank you, for what you have done, making meals like this available to people like me, It is a wonderful thing you have done, & I am very grateful for it. There is no other way I could afford food like this."
Saturday, March 05, 2005
National Party sides with Criminals
Recent political moves to force pubs/nighclubs to serve free water have confirmed Mine Hosts' belief that common sense & government need not inhabit the same dimension.
A certain National Party member of state parliment has recently been laying the boot into pubs/nightclubs for selling bottled water at $4 or more per "bottle". This ingenuous member of parliament has called for legislation to force nightclubs to provide free water.
The logic used by the good lady member: "Kids" buy ecstasy, then enter nightclubs/pubs where, being as they are high on ecstasy, they don't require or consume much alcohol. Thus "greedy" publicans sell water at "inflated" prices knowing that ecstasy users are extremely dehydrated & will want to consume large quantities of water.
Wryly Mine Host notes that the lady politician should know better. Kids don't get into nightclubs, and it is well known that once inside ALL drinks (not only water) are relatively expensive.
Mine Host has an issue with the mental competence of those who believe that purchasers of ecstasy are somehow forced to buy their essential water supplies from nowhere but nightclubs.
Why should licenced & regulated operators (ie, nightclubs/pubs) be forced to provide the antidote to an illegal street drug? If the street price of ecstasy leaves the user with insufficient funds to purchase water in a nightclub, there are alternatives: Venture to the nearest service station & buy bottled water (for 1/3 the nightclub price) for an even cheaper dose of water go to the park & drink cost free from the duckpond.
What Mine Host would NOT do were he to have a need of water, especially one brought on by an illegal act, is enter a nightclub, knowing full well the price of everything, THEN complain & whinge in the media about the price. If drug users spend too much on drugs & have not enough money left for going to the pub, perhaps revese the order of their purchases? Buy water & entertainment first, THEN purchase illegal drugs, & take up the issue of price with a corner drug dealer?
Mine Host is shocked, nay incensed, that a National Party sitting member has formed a coalition with drug users & is now complaining publicly about the price of water in nighclubs.
The price & sale of ecstasy, however, remains unregulated, unlicenced, illegal, & to date has not been the subject of complaint by either the good member or her "coalition" partners.
A certain National Party member of state parliment has recently been laying the boot into pubs/nightclubs for selling bottled water at $4 or more per "bottle". This ingenuous member of parliament has called for legislation to force nightclubs to provide free water.
The logic used by the good lady member: "Kids" buy ecstasy, then enter nightclubs/pubs where, being as they are high on ecstasy, they don't require or consume much alcohol. Thus "greedy" publicans sell water at "inflated" prices knowing that ecstasy users are extremely dehydrated & will want to consume large quantities of water.
Wryly Mine Host notes that the lady politician should know better. Kids don't get into nightclubs, and it is well known that once inside ALL drinks (not only water) are relatively expensive.
Mine Host has an issue with the mental competence of those who believe that purchasers of ecstasy are somehow forced to buy their essential water supplies from nowhere but nightclubs.
Why should licenced & regulated operators (ie, nightclubs/pubs) be forced to provide the antidote to an illegal street drug? If the street price of ecstasy leaves the user with insufficient funds to purchase water in a nightclub, there are alternatives: Venture to the nearest service station & buy bottled water (for 1/3 the nightclub price) for an even cheaper dose of water go to the park & drink cost free from the duckpond.
What Mine Host would NOT do were he to have a need of water, especially one brought on by an illegal act, is enter a nightclub, knowing full well the price of everything, THEN complain & whinge in the media about the price. If drug users spend too much on drugs & have not enough money left for going to the pub, perhaps revese the order of their purchases? Buy water & entertainment first, THEN purchase illegal drugs, & take up the issue of price with a corner drug dealer?
Mine Host is shocked, nay incensed, that a National Party sitting member has formed a coalition with drug users & is now complaining publicly about the price of water in nighclubs.
The price & sale of ecstasy, however, remains unregulated, unlicenced, illegal, & to date has not been the subject of complaint by either the good member or her "coalition" partners.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Street Violence
Reading news from the big smoke, of such happenings as strangers knifing a doorman, or belting a pedestrian into a state of quadrepelgia, the perpetrator then disappearing into the anonymity of an urban crowd, Mine Host reflects in puzzlement on the supposed causes of this violence.
"Irresponsible service of alchol!" cry some, "We'll close pubs early!" bleats Premier Beattie, "More liquor inspectors!", "More Taxis", "More Free Water" chorus others, & so on & so forth...
By Gosh! Exclaims Mine Host, there are hooligans out of control in the deep south (Brisbane) & the blame is being laid at the feet of publicans & nightclubs. Can this be true? Could Mine Host's southern counterparts collectively be responsible for the mayhem of the front pages? Murder for a pair of sandshoes, mindless violence in taxi queues, punch ups in the mall, etc.
Is the answer so simple as to stop pouring grog down the gullet of people who are already incapable of standing unaided?
Can the answer really be so simple? His competitive nature coming to the fore, Mine Host prowls the room, brow furrowed, wondering if he is doing something wrong: "Surely none could be pumping more liquor into their patrons than I, & none could have customers who be greater morons than the flatheads frequenting the Wayside Tavern?"
"If street violence be the inevitable consequence of excess alcohol sales, why are my patrons not creating their own brand of fear among the local population?"
Recalling that after dark the streets surrounding the Wayside Tavern are noted for their tranquility, Mine Host wonders if there may not be other factors influencing the spread of violence in faraway places such as Brisbane.
"If abuse of alcohol is the main contributing factor in savage violence," thunders Mine Host "with the per capita consumption here, my town should be a 'Baghdad-in-the-mulga'"
"For sure, if there is violence to be had, these drop-kicks around here will be up for it. However, despite me rendering them legless with record quantities of Rum, a fluid noted for it's aggression enhancing properties, in this town there is nary even an instance of fisticuffs between consenting adults"
Mine Host believes that the alcohol supplied to him by various breweries, distilleries, wineries etc, is every bit as potent as that which is supplied to nightclubs in central Brisbane. Furthermore, he is of the belief that hooligans break the law in Brisbane not because they are more drunk than the patrons of the Wayside Tavern, but because they CAN.
The thugs who lurk menacingly near the Wayside Tavern commit what little pieces of mischief as they do, in the full knowledge that they face certain arrest, either on the spot, or if they leg it, before they reach home. As belligerent as they may be when facing the citizenry, these "toughs" are sooks when confronted by police. Fear of consequences (ie: being taken to the cells via the "long scenic route") means none give significant grief to the police.
Mine Host is of the belief that the thuggocracy of Brisbane would voluntarily cease operations if they also faced a 100% chance of being arrested & held accountable for their crimes.
Furthermore if cowardly attacks upon the weak & vulnerable were to have physical consequences for the thuggocracy (ie, being descended upon by several police, wielding batons & ready to use them), street violence would be on it's way to being no more than a memory.
"Irresponsible service of alchol!" cry some, "We'll close pubs early!" bleats Premier Beattie, "More liquor inspectors!", "More Taxis", "More Free Water" chorus others, & so on & so forth...
By Gosh! Exclaims Mine Host, there are hooligans out of control in the deep south (Brisbane) & the blame is being laid at the feet of publicans & nightclubs. Can this be true? Could Mine Host's southern counterparts collectively be responsible for the mayhem of the front pages? Murder for a pair of sandshoes, mindless violence in taxi queues, punch ups in the mall, etc.
Is the answer so simple as to stop pouring grog down the gullet of people who are already incapable of standing unaided?
Can the answer really be so simple? His competitive nature coming to the fore, Mine Host prowls the room, brow furrowed, wondering if he is doing something wrong: "Surely none could be pumping more liquor into their patrons than I, & none could have customers who be greater morons than the flatheads frequenting the Wayside Tavern?"
"If street violence be the inevitable consequence of excess alcohol sales, why are my patrons not creating their own brand of fear among the local population?"
Recalling that after dark the streets surrounding the Wayside Tavern are noted for their tranquility, Mine Host wonders if there may not be other factors influencing the spread of violence in faraway places such as Brisbane.
"If abuse of alcohol is the main contributing factor in savage violence," thunders Mine Host "with the per capita consumption here, my town should be a 'Baghdad-in-the-mulga'"
"For sure, if there is violence to be had, these drop-kicks around here will be up for it. However, despite me rendering them legless with record quantities of Rum, a fluid noted for it's aggression enhancing properties, in this town there is nary even an instance of fisticuffs between consenting adults"
Mine Host believes that the alcohol supplied to him by various breweries, distilleries, wineries etc, is every bit as potent as that which is supplied to nightclubs in central Brisbane. Furthermore, he is of the belief that hooligans break the law in Brisbane not because they are more drunk than the patrons of the Wayside Tavern, but because they CAN.
The thugs who lurk menacingly near the Wayside Tavern commit what little pieces of mischief as they do, in the full knowledge that they face certain arrest, either on the spot, or if they leg it, before they reach home. As belligerent as they may be when facing the citizenry, these "toughs" are sooks when confronted by police. Fear of consequences (ie: being taken to the cells via the "long scenic route") means none give significant grief to the police.
Mine Host is of the belief that the thuggocracy of Brisbane would voluntarily cease operations if they also faced a 100% chance of being arrested & held accountable for their crimes.
Furthermore if cowardly attacks upon the weak & vulnerable were to have physical consequences for the thuggocracy (ie, being descended upon by several police, wielding batons & ready to use them), street violence would be on it's way to being no more than a memory.
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