You won't be so Pretty

The rules as laid down by the Police: "It's your pub, what happens is your problem. Don't call us unless a weapon is used. All the rest of it you'll have to sort out yourself"

A familiar state of affairs.

The usual rough & tumble is easily handled. The pub is crowded with construction workers, mostly tradesmen or labourers. A boomtown pub packed with such types isn't much trouble, as it is peppered with able men just itching for something, anything, to start so they can get stuck in.

In such circumstances most are too wary to start anything.

In a crowded bar one night Mine Host is faced with an unsavoury dilemma.

Somehow he detects through the crowd & the music that something is amiss at the bar. Wending his way through the throng he sees Two of the male staff standing well back from a patron who is breasting the bar.

If ever there was a moment to be frozen in horror, this was it.

The patron, Johnno, with his left hand had one of the barmaids by the shirtfront, pulling her forward over the bar. In his right is a butcher's knife, honed down until the blade isn't much larger than his index finger. It is razor sharp & held to her cheek.

Johnno is a volatile, unstable & dangerous personality at the best of times, tonight he is mixing alcohol with his drugs. He is too far "gone" to talk to. He is a painter & extremely physically fit.

The barmaid is very pretty, with a lovely porcelain "china doll" face. Johnno is saying that if "anyone does anything" he'll slice her face to the bone several times.

A most unpleasant standoff ensues. In the circumstances none of the men mind copping a few slashes, our looks can take a couple of battle scars, but a very pretty girl is a different matter.

Eventually Johnno is talked to by the bar manager, who convinces Johnno that his (drug imagined) troubles weren't caused by the girl, and that "everybody understands" his situation, & nobody minds if he goes outside for a while to think it over.

He does just this, surprisingly he gives the honed down butcher's knife to the bar manager.

It has been the longest several minutes of everybody's life.

The police don't want to listen to the phone call, talking over the top & saying that "trouble in the pub is the pub's problem"

Mine Host strides accross to the Police Station. (At the time it was open at night) The Sgt behind the desk leans back in his chair, puts his arms out in front & talks loudly over the top of Mine Host. "You were told to not bring anything to us unless a weapon was involved, we don't want to know about your little scuffles" (etc etc etc)

When the message finally soaks in (water dripping through limestone would have been swifter) the Sgt becomes most businesslike.

"A razor-sharp concealed knife? Why didn't you say so?"

Within 10 minutes a police car has picked up Johnno from the streets of the town. On his person were Two more similar honed down to index finger sized razor sharp butcher's knives.

How'd you go with him Mate?

Closing time. The crowd is dispersing onto the street.
One fellow, Ron Moore, speaks loudly to another, Witt Complete, bluntly & coarsely putting it that he, Ron, has had intimate experiences with Witt's girlfriend.

Witt has some illegal drug in his system that is reacting badly to alcohol. This gives him a hair trigger & a firm belief in his own invincibility. It wouldn't have mattered what Ron said to him, "hello" would have been sufficient to trigger a violent reaction.

Witt has to be restrained by the guards. Ron is some distance away, talking to a friend & now that he goaded someone for sport, has no further interest in the matter.

A female approaches Witt, urging him to calm down & come home. She is the lady whose repute has been called into question and promises Witt a "good time" if he comes straight home without making any trouble. Hearing this exchange, Ron looks around, takes one look at her & announces that he has made a mistake, that it is someone else's girlfriend that he has been seeing on the sly.

Of course Witt is not soothed one bit by this, the drugs and a sense of outrage tell him to attack Ron. He starts with some verbal abuse. While the guards continue to restrain him this is his only weapon

The name calling & threats continue for a few minutes, eventually the guards release Witt. By this time Ron is sick of the insults, struts over to Witt, cleans him up in a brief flurry of blows, then decks him. It the starkest mismatch Mine Host has seen for quite some time.

Ron then casually departs the scene, disappearing around the corner with a friend. Witt demands to be allowed to go after him. The guards restrain him, but soon tire of saving him from himself.

Mine Host takes the view that Witt is of the age of majority, that the Wayside Tavern is not responsible for the drugs Witt has taken, and besides we are all sick of him by this point. So the guards leave him alone.

Witt beelines for the corner where Ron went.

Mine Host strolls to the other end of the block, in time to see Ron strolling along with his friend, neither with a care in the world.

A glance back along the street shows a crumpled form in the shadows on the footpath. Witt's friends are standing over him, trying to urge him back to consciousness so they don't have to carry him home.

So continues life behind the bar.

State of Distress

A Friday night. Another night of bopping & jiving at the Wayside Tavern. A young lady emerges from the crowd & informs staff that she has been molested (or somesuch).

To speed up the process of getting justice, she uses her mobile phone to call the police herself. Once connected she makes her complaint to the police. In response to a question from the officer on the line, she says:
"Oh, I'm still inside the Wayside Tavern, having a few drinks & so on"
..... ......
"I'm at the bar right now, but by the time you get here I'll probably be out on the dance floor, this music is too good to waste!"

One can guess how fast the police arrived. Come to think of it, they probably didn't arrive at all until their routine closing time visit.

So continues life behind the bar.

H2O

It takes only the smallest touch to transform the most mundane into something that will cause patrons to gasp, exclaim, and take photographs. This is a glass of water as we present it.

Useful Correspondence

Lobbing into Mine Host's inbox this week was a message from the AAA (his industry association, the Accommodation Association of Australia informing which member properties (these were all large chains) would be observing "Earth Hour" this coming Saturday night.

"Earth Hour" is apparently some sort of urban lets-reduce-pollution tokenism, during which the electricity is switched off for an hour or so to (very) faux-simulate what life is like without electricity.

For the most superficial of tokenists, only the lights are switched off (earth hour wouldn't be near the fun without air conditioning & chilled white wine would it?).

Mine Host lived the first part of his life in a tent in the bush, & did not experience the "proper white man magic" of over-the-horizon electricity (i.e. the variety that comes silently from a wire, instead of the noisy variety you make at home yourself) until he was 13 years old.

Furthermore a good chunk of his working life (& childhood) was spent in stock camps or on stock routes, with no electricity. Lighting came from carbide lights, or the campfire. Refrigeration wasn't possible (for cooks, quite a challenge in the torrid/tropical zones).

Thus for Mine Host "Earth Hour" lacks resonance. He is with perfect clarity able to recall life sans electricity. He has no need to switch off light bulbs & instead use smoky candles (N.B. lights off, candles on, reduces pollution?)

Preferring the lift to stairs, ice in his whisky rather than lukewarm water, and to not bark his shins stumbling into pot plants in the dark, Mine Host fired back an email to the AAA, thanking them for the list of properties to not book into this weekend.

Drink it or Harvest it?

People drink all sorts of things once they are in a 5-star restaurant!

While you wait, Mmmmm!

Having drinks in the bar after ordering your meal?
The Chef often sends a little something in for your group to sample in the meantime. As a thank-you.
(Some glasses were encroaching on this photo. Mine Host's editing skills could do with some improvement.)

Mmmmm Breakfast!!

Prodded by the perceived need for some more photo posts, and at the risk of making the Wayside Tavern seem too flash, some photo posts of the grog & tucker will be appearing.

Breakfast is available at the Wayside Tavern from 5.00 a.m. until 11.00 a.m./noon:

The menu choice for breakfast is extensive, and with some adroit ordering it is even possible to have a cooked breakfast without eggs.

(photographing food is a skill, Mine Host believes he does not have this skill. Kim Ong this is your hint to provide lessons)

Have Cake & Eat it Too.

A recent applicant for an apprentice management (restaurant supervisor) position was most eager when telephoned by Mine Host.
Working in the Pilbara, the applicant was a chef, keen to learn new skills & "move into management" (Gee, don't we hear that a lot!)

The job ad clearly listed the salary offered, the duties, & the location.
The applicant was fine with all of this, as he was "sick of" the Pilbara (no trees & very hot) & was looking forward to a coastal Qld location.

So Mine Host emailed a letter of offer, which pretty much matched the job advertisment.

The candidate immediately replied that "your offer does not interest me".

Struggling with this sudden reversal, Mine Host immediately telephoned and enquired why was this?

"I am getting $95,000 per year as a chef in the Pilbara, while your offer is $45,000 so it doesn't interest me."

Biting his tongue Mine Host politely thanked the applicant & ended the call.

For heaven's sake! The salary was in the headline of the job ad.

He expects $95,000 per year + full keep + 8 weeks holiday? (His current package) in an apprentice position for which he doesn't have the skill set? He expects Hardship & Remote Area pay for the Qld coast?

Mine Host's forecast: The fellow will be a chef in the Pilbara for a long time. He's less than 10 years off retirement, so may never again work elsewhere.

Snitching on your Clients

Epic floods in January disrupted much of the state.

A Six-Monthly inspection of the fire extinguishers in the Wayside Tavern occurs every January & July. This is performed by a company named, known here by the uncrackable code name of say, Hubbc.

Due to the scale of disruption wrought by flood, the January Fire Extinguisher inspection did not happen.

In February the Fire Brigade notified 7 days in advance (as they are legally bound to do) that a "Fire Safety Inspection" of the Wayside Tavern would be conducted.

It was at this point that the assistant manager noticed that the fire extinguishers hadn't had their 6-monthly "tagging" done.

A phone call to Hubbc, who said they'd been flood damaged & unable to conduct a lot of their January inspections on time, but they were working frantically to catch up. The day before the scheduled Fire Safety Inspection they sent someone around to inspect & tag all the fire extinguishers.

At the appointed time the following day the Wayside Tavern was ready, all paperwork up to date, all fire extinguishers tagged (just in time), everybody waiting for the Fire Brigade.

The Fire Inspector never showed up.

Zero follow-up communication has been received from the Fire Brigade.

The Fire Safety Inspector is a clerical appointment. He has never fought a fire. He has never held a job in a proactive field, only ever in regulatory reactive fields, say writing tickets for non-compliance of Fire Regulations. He is no asset to the community.

He is from the same mould as parking inspectors.

And someone in Hubbc leaks to him.

It has started Again

Industrial Relations Laws took a retro step a year or so ago. The "Fair Work Act" was voted into being.

Mine Host is now experiencing his first "Unfair Dismissal" claim of the Orwellian-named Fair Work Act.

We'll see how things pan out. Both of Mine Host's experiences of being a victim under the previous Unfair Dismissal legislation were bitterly unfair experiences.

Mine Host at this moment appreciates how the mafia came into being. They filled an essential need.

Fashionable Lady

This photo of a lady from one of those overseas (foreign) countries is published here to contrast with a well dressed & alluring photo (her own press release, by golly) published on Musings, by Kae, one of the better weblogs read by Mine Host.

This other photo of the same lady is a split screen (Mine Host couldn't be bothered snipping the other half off). This mock-up poster is perhaps created by a supporter of the other (better dressed lady). She is actually the predecessor of the sloppily dressed one. Or perhaps it was created by a comedian (some public figures really leave themselves wide open to lampooning).

For a side bet, does anyone know if the better dressed lady ever allowed herself to appear in public looking & acting like a slob?

Nagoya, who'd you ever know in such a big City?

(Gratituous snapshot of Nagoya Castle - Proud of this photo, Mine Host had it blown up to poster size, printed on photographic paper & kept it on his wall for years.)

Dinner hour has come & gone. The bar is full of Japanese youth. A most unusual sight in these parts. They seem to be a group, led by a well built fit & burly Australian.

Mine Host engages the Australian in conversation, who reveals that the group is a Rugby Union tour, from a university in the city of Nagoya.

Conversation with the Australian coach/tour leader is peppered with bursts of Japanese language as the coach answers queries from team members, or gives running commentaries/explanations to the group at large.

It transpires the Australian is a lecturer at the university in Nagoya, has been there many years, & has made a life there.

Mine Host remembers Nagoya, scene of some of his youthful exploits. The Australian-teaching-at-uni-in-Nagoya is garrolous, cheerful, & good conversation, though Mine Host is tempted to mention his own visit to Nagoya.

... Particularly the most culturally memorable part. He visited (at the invitation of the Headmaster) to a private school, Shukutoku girls high school. The visit was accompanied by much surprised gasping by the students & staff.

Apparently boys never visit to Shukutoku. Mine Host has never been (before or since) the object of such unbridled curiosity, or treated as such an honoured guest.

A demonstration of baton twirling was bunged on, & a student detailed to escort Mine Host around the school.

Mine Host, who had never seen (before or since) an inner city school, marvelled at the dearth of open space, dirt (where do the girls play?) & the high rise buildings. The final photo is of the adjacent Shukutoku University.

Ahh... finally people who would be able to appreciate what it meant for a boy to enter a Private Girls School in Japan. ("So What? You visited a High School, is that supposed to impress someone?" is the response most Australians give)

However Mine Host did not regale the tale, fearing it would get some polite nods & feigned interest. Nagoya is a big city. The group finished their drinks & went to bed, their bus left early in the morning.

Two days later an article in the local paper caught Mine Host's eye:

Rugby Union team visits from Japan. Overnighting in town recently, from Nagoya in Japan, was the Rugby Union team of Shukutoku University......... (etc etc)

Some shall be More equal than others

It is reputed that guests, especially celebrity guests, are apt on occassion to make to their hotel some very unorthodox requests.

Mine Host had never encountered this.

Occassional celebrities stay, enough of them that it isn't a talking point. (i.e. there is no gushing of: "Guess who was staying in-house here & checked out just this morning.....?)

Politicians are even more regular. Many Ministers know Mine Host by first name, (nobody has ever asked Mine Host's surname)

Recently Mine Host experienced his first unusual request from a public figure:

Politicians of all levels & all stripes are regular guests of Mine Host's top class hostelry, guess which party (or side of politics) this one is.

The offspring of a professional politician, who at a young age inherited the seat (& fast track to ministry) from their parent.

Some ministerial staff will double or triple check booking arrangements. For higher level public figures protection teams will make advance visits to scout out the premises, for lower level protected politicians phone calls & floor plans suffice.

However for a simple short stay, the staff of this minister made countless phone calls, emails, faxes, etc. All seeking endless verbal reassurance of just the one request:

That due to the Minister's station in life & high rank, the minister must be accommodated in a room on a higher floor than the floor where accompanying staff are booked, and that the staff would be in rooms directly below the Minister's room.

George Orwell's "Animal Farm" has a chapter where the Pigs start walking on their hind legs only. Mine Host has a very clear mental image of this, formed in his childhood when he first read the novel. This image, complete with colour, motion & sound, replays in his head on endless loop whenever this particular Minister's name is heard.

... do they wonder why they are loathed?

Lack of recent posting due to Mine Host being occupied with the ususal busy December trading season......

... Followed by being in the middle of the grandaddy of all natural disasters. (Grandaddy in terms of the financial impact on the world economy)

In past floods in his town Mine Host has noticed the main feature being an over-supply of epaulettes and an under-supply of experience. This is an unhappy combination for the long-term residents of a small town. Nothing quite like knowing that until MacCauley's paddock goes under, the water won't reach to the base of Jacko's tankstand, & then there is another 6 foot for the water to climb before it gets to your yard, so you've got nothing to worry about yet, etc etc etc.

Or so you thought, THEN some numpty wet-behind-the-ears cop turns up & gets all macho about "floods" and how you have to evacuate blah blah blah, when all he knows about a flood is what he's read in some handbook.

Fortunately with most of the state experiencing flooding over Christmas/New Year there wasn't so much officiousness concentrated in the one spot this time.

Mine Host, in the heart of the CBD one night to top up the tanks in his motor vehicles before the servos closed down/ran out/went under (take your pick) strolled accross the road in the darkness to see how far/fast the water was rising (handy intelligence, and natural human interest in how your own personal usually-dry-river now looks)

A small marquee and witch's hats with orange ribbon between them denoted a manned picket line, so the water must be close. Hopefully there would be SES under the marquee who could provide Mine Host with a reliable update on the behaviour of the river.

When still 40 or so yards from the other side of the road a voice rang out from the marquee:

"Right mate! That's as far as you go!"

Yep, the marquee was infested with a cop.
One second Mine Host is strolling amicably, a pillar of the local society taking in the night air, 40 yards from a folorn "emergency-do-not-cross" tape strung out in the dark, intending to make a few seconds polite small talk with the volunteers manning the line, instead, without provocation Mine Host is subjected to the most offensive statement he'd heard for some time.

Taken aback, and pondering for some moments the words to use to chide the policeman on his lack of manners, Mine Host felt the sadness that stings the innocent when their innocent intentions are destroyed by a half-witted bully for no reason other than the bully was able to.

So instead he turned away, disgusted, the peace of the night ruined. (The river height was later ascertained by the usual method one is forced to adopt when police prevent you looking at the bridge or main road, i.e.by proceeding upstream/downstream a short distance to a secluded spot & forging one's way to the water's edge through debris, long grass & other obstacles - much more dangerous)

Cameraderie and unity of Queenslanders in the face of the collective threat of rising floodwaters?
.....Not when the Queensland Police are on the scene.

Lakminichaturi Ashanesinthuja Madakalapuwa

A minor incident had occurred in front of the Wayside Tavern. Police attended.

A young Constable stood on the footpath, interviewing the witness. With notebook open he condensed the witness' observations into the pertinent details, these he wrote down.

In such situation the police will always write in their notebook the details of the witness:
Full name, date of birth, address and telephone number.

The witness, one of the Wayside Tavern staff, was a Sri Lankan national. Who despite sharing our national sport, are an ethnic group previously unknown in this part of the world. His full name was rather an alphabet soup. The name above, though not his actual name, isn't much different.

If one hears the name "Peter Jackson" spoken aloud only once, it can be written down correctly, due to a lifetime of conditioning to Anglo names.

This is not so easy when as an adult, one encounters a set of foreign names for the first time. (Anybody who on their first ever trip to New Zealand has recieved over the telephone a barrage of directions down various farm roads will know what I mean).

Painstakingly the witness repeated his name & slowly spelled it for the officer.

After several attempts at the name, and with the effort of concentration causing the tip of his tongue to protrude from the corner of his mouth, the Constable plaintively looked around, then haltingly spoke:

"Erm... did anybody else happen to witness what just happened?"

Tiger in the Cage

A disgruntled customer is leaving the Wayside Tavern. In the foyer he puts his fist violently (as some are apt to do) through the wall, Twice.
On the street he violently punches and kicks the door frame.
Moving along he savagely kicks & punches every door & window he comes to.

Mario the security boss strolls down to where this citizen is unleashing fury onto a neighboring property. The ploy is to engage the miscreant in conversation until such time as the police arrive.

Mario is quite good at "Jaw-Jaw". To the casual observer it would appear the pair are engaged in quiet discussion.

When the police arrive the miscreant gets quite lippy with them and talks himself into being arrested. This done, he commences a verbal rant against "Blacks".

Much is said, a lot of it a significant dig at Mario ("Black so-and-so should never have been allowed into the country", "Why are black things like that allowed to throw me out of a pub?")
And lots of general comment:
"Black [deleted word] should never be allowed into my country"
"Why do we let 'em in? It makes me puke to come into a pub & have blacks serving drinks"
And so on & so forth. This is all said with a Constable holding him by each elbow.

A voice rich with Melanesian timbre speaks "Just put him in here with me!" This has come from the back of the paddy wagon. It had arrived with a prisoner aboard.

When the door of the paddy wagon opens, the new prisoner who seconds before had been so full of aggression against the world in general and blacks in particular, is overcome with fright. (A condemned prisoner being thrust onto the gallows couldn't have been more reluctant.)

It takes all the effort of both Constables to push the fellow in through the door, which they hurriedly lock.

As the police return to the footpath "to take statements", the paddy wagon begins to rock violently on its suspension. This is accompanied by noises of flesh striking the walls.

The Two Constables, backs to the paddy wagon, take lots of notes and interview many people.

Connections by Phone

Scene: Wayside Tavern. Front Door.
Time: Late Saturday Night.
Cast: Police Officer in distant coastal resort town (voice only), Boss of Security Guard Co, Mine Host.
Props: Mobile Phone.
Action: Mine Host & Boss of Security Guard Co are engaged in idle chatter at front door, mobile phone rings...

Mobile Phone: Ring, ring,

Boss Guard: (bringing phone to ear) Hello, Mario speaking.

Voice on Phone: (audible to Mine Host, due to volume turned up to maximum level) This is Sgt Plod of Distant Coastal Resort town police, my boys have just picked up one of your guards for high range Drink Driving, what do you want us to do with him?

Boss Guard: Can you do something about it mate?

Voice of Police Officer: Easily, it'll never be heard of again, it didn't happen. Bye.

Action: Boss Guard puts phone away, Mine Host (shaking head) shuffles away indoors.

Note: The boss guard & the policeman didn't know each other, the (allegedly) drink driving security guard was on holiday in a different province, several hundred km from his workplace.

Soviet Union Without the Tanks, and just as Inefficient

Like many, Mine Host is no stranger to the frustrations of dealing with Australia's telephone company. Currently named "Telstra", it is the only nationwide provider of landline, internet & mobile phone services. There is no alternative provider.

In most places options are limited to:
a) Use Telstra or;
b) Do without telephone & internet.

Mine Host longs for the day when competition in the telecoms industry extends to areas beyond the Cappucino divide.

Pre-competition Telstra (then named "Telecom") had a customer service attitude that led to it being known far & wide as "Just like the Soviet Union, but without the Tanks". Little has changed.

When the Diver's Arms took over an adjacent motel wing, the acquired operation had 9 landlines accross Two accounts. Mine Host & the vendor filled out forms to transfer the Two accounts to Mine Host's existing account.

The forms were submitted, time passed, the telephones in the new motel wing were cut off. For "non-payment of account".

Extended periods on hold ensued, followed by discussions with the usual round-robin of consultants in various sections of Telstra.
Outcome: Mine Host was requested to resubmit the original forms for transfer of the Two accounts as Telstra claimed to have no record of a change of customer.

Telephone services were restored.

Time passed, the telephones in the new motel wing were cut off. For "non-payment of the account". Telstra claimed no knowledge of any change of ownership paperwork & got quite snippy about the bill. Extended periods on hold ensued, followed by discusssion with consultants in various depts. of Telstra...... etc etc etc.
The change of customer forms were re-submitted, everything "will now be fixed up sir".. blah blah blah.

Time passed, the telephones in the new motel wing were cut off.. etc etc etc..... Again Telstra claimed no knowledge of any change of customer forms, & so on............

.........As time passes Mine Host is armed with an ever-enlarging set of Telstra refernce numbers, consultant's names, and list of special teams that his case has been escalated to.

The change of customer forms have now been submitted Four times in Three months.

It would be false to claim nothing has changed, as;
Two of the 9 landlines have been permenantly disconnected. (Guests now have difficulty phoning out)
One of the landlines has been transferred singly to Mine Host's account.
The original Two accounts are still in the name of the vendor (sans the landline that has made it accross to Mine Host's account)
and;
One of the landlines has branched out onto a new account of it's very own, also in the name of the vendor.

At every step of the way Mine Host has spoken to Telstra staff who come accross as efficient, intelligent, and with a full understanding of their product.

The original paperwork is slowly becoming covered with stamps saying "Submitted to X on date X via means X (Mine Host popped into the newsagent & got a rubber stamp that says "Submitted......." with a space for the date)

You couldn't make it up.

Watch your Tongue !!!

With a workforce that historically has been One-Third native Australian, Mine Host is one of the larger scale employers of (what are currently called) indigenous people.

Surrounded as he is by Government Departments, Mine Host is often amused by the dynamics of public servants pretending to not notice race, whilst knowingly or unknowingly getting themselves into a twist over pandering to perceived racial sensitivities.

This is a phenomenon that exists only in the public service, academia, & other places where tangible results for work done are not important.

The administation manager of the Wayside Tavern was indigenous. On a particular day this Administration Manager received a telephone call from the local department head of a Federal Government Department.

At some point in the conversation the Department Head suddnely realised who was on the other end of the line, & in a mixture of anger & bitterness spat into the phone:
"You're that Black Bastard that's in charge there, you've always been a problem!"

Realising what they had said, a frantic & desperate Department Head arrived a few minutes later, anxious to apologise, appease, or anything to have the matter swept under the carpet.

Well accustomed to racialism, & being called this & worse on an almost daily basis as just being part of the job, the admin manager went through the motions of having a cup of tea & a scone with the frantic Department Head, after which an assurance was made that the matter was "already forgotten".

UPDATE:
Oops! Important error in the above. The racial identities are back to front. It was an indigenous black department head calling a white anglo-saxon a "white something beginning with "C")
But the essence of the story isn't changed, is it?