by Peter Lalor
We must have appeared like a pair of novices for as I was seating my wife at one of the tables a voice from behind caught my attention and I turned around to be greeted by a jovial Irish gentleman holding two pints of Guinness in his hands.
‘Pat McNally’s the name and I saw how you were both visitors [we must have stood out like sore thumbs] and how your lovely wife here is expecting [indeed, she was about six months expecting] so I’d like to say “Welcome to Ireland” and I want you to have a drink on me, particularly as your wife is expecting, ’cause y’know Guinness is good for mothers in child.’
With that he promptly left the drinks on the table and returned to the bar.
This gracious gesture on the part of our new-found Irish friend caused considerable alarm for my wife as she would never partake of anything stronger than the occasional glass of dinner wine and as a matter of course had chosen not to drink any alcohol during her months of confinement.
‘But, Yvonne,’ I protested, ‘Pat would be offended if you refused his gesture of kindness. Look, you’re just going to have to make the effort.’
After much deliberation and staring at the container my wife raised the glass to her lips and took a sip. The expression that came over her face suggested to me that she might be about to give birth right then and there.
‘My God,’ she choked. ‘I’ll just die if I have to drink this stuff.’
That terminated any further discussion on the subject.
Conscious of the need to satisfy custom and keep my marriage on the rails I made the bold suggestion that I would quickly drink my glass of Guinness and while no one was watching attempt the old ‘switch-a-roo’ and exchange glasses with my wife, thereby satisfying all parties.
Unfortunately for me someone was watching, for the next thing I knew there stood good old Pat with two more pints of Ireland’s best.
‘Pat, you shouldn’t,’ I protested. ‘Really, we are very grateful for your kindness but we can’t keep taking advantage of your hospitality like this.’
Pat would have none of this and after placing the drinks in front of us returned to be enveloped in the smoke and din that was being played out at the other end of the bar.
The scenario of the black medicine being good for mother and child routine was to go around two more times before the old ‘switch-a-roo’ was replaced with feelings of ‘straight-to-the-loo’. With the double-barrelled prospect of an allin domestic coupled with acute kidney failure, a joint decision (she decided, I complied) was taken and come hell or high water my wife was leaving.
It was then that the term ‘legless’ demonstrated its true meaning, for unlike my sober wife, whose path didn’t deviate one step as she approached the door, my attempt at navigation resulted in my careering into every conceivable obstruction (including a now barking dog which had been sleeping under one of the tables).
Witnessing the untimely exit our friend Pat raced to the door to bid us farewell and, after the standard practice of exchanging information and addresses, took my hand and shook it vigorously and uttered these words that will live in my mind forever.
‘Well, Max and Yvonne, it’s been a pleasure to meet you and you never know, one day our paths may cross each other’s again. But I’ve got to say one thing to you, Max, before you go — I don’t know about you Australian men, but begorrah your women sure know how to hold their liquor!’
ON PARADE
Ray Mason
I went on a holiday to the USA in 1987, touring with a basketball buddy. We ended up in New Orleans in time for the big parade, only to find the ‘Big Easy’ wasn’t as easy as they made out.
While we were watching the parade, we decided to have a quiet beer, only to find out to our amazement that it was illegal to have bottles or cans on the street.
We received this news from a friendly policeman who proceeded to take us into custody. Despite protesting our innocence and our ignorance of the law, it wasn’t until we reached the police station that we were able to convince someone of the depth of our plight.
The desk sergeant realised that we were Australian tourists and took pity on us, letting us off with a warning and even offering to try to make amends. He was surprised when we declined his offer of buying us a drink.
RASKOLS
Garry Williamson
I arrived in PNG in 1990 for a three-year contract. I enjoyed running and have always enjoyed a beer. Through work I met people from Hash House Harriers, a worldwide social running group. Beer consumption played a big part in the social activities. That didn’t scare me, but the price of beer over there did.
I soon discovered that the way around this problem was to brew my own. I managed to put a kit together and put down my first brew.
A few weeks later I was having trouble sleeping so I decided to watch TV. It was 2.30 a.m. and I was starting to doze off.
Suddenly I was startled by a series of loud bangs followed by the sound of breaking glass. The house alarms were ringing and the dogs were barking.
I was quickly in a state of absolute panic and was lying on the floor trying to turn off the television and the lights.
I thought the local Raskol gangs were raiding the place. I figured they had let off some shots and would soon be coming over the eight-foot barbed wire fences.
Then I had another thought: The Beer.
I went to the back window, looked out cautiously and saw the majority of my first brewing effort running across the patio with glass strewn amongst it. My money-saving exercise had exploded in the most spectacular way.
The next Monday night that the Harriers met I was given a mug of beer to skol for wasting beer. After a few tips my following efforts were more successful and less stressful.
RUSSIAN LIGHTS
Paul Egan
During my tour of Europe in 1990, I promised myself to try a local beer at every overnight stop — not an arduous task at all.
I settled down to a meal at a restaurant in Moscow and, as was my custom, asked the waiter for a local beer. He offered me typical black market goods — caviar, watches, military items — but seemed reluctant to bring me beer.
I persisted. I had been looking forward to a beer; it had been a full day touring and I was parched. ‘Light beer,’ I said, with my best Russian accent.
‘Will you buy watch?’ asked my entrepreneurial waiter — and I agreed.
That did the trick.
He brought to the table a 500ml bottle of Baltika No 9, which I thought was by far the finest light beer I’d tried. So good that I ordered three more. More than satisfied with my waiter’s recommendation and in such a jolly mood, I purchased about $270 of the black market goods from him.
He too was obviously happy and shouted me one for the road.
Later I told our State tour guide that the waiter had put me on to this great light beer, but that it had a kick to it. I probably sounded a little Russian at that stage.
Boris the State tour guide (I kid you not) looked at the bottle, gave me a wry smile and told me that it was light in colour only — it had an alcohol content of eight per cent and then some!
I look back on that night with fond (if a little hazy) memories and to this day I have my Russian mementos (worth about ten dollars) as a reminder.
THE TASTE TEST
Maurice Kealy
During the early 1960s, I was living and working in London as well as playing Rugby Union for the famous London Irish Rugby Club. One evening, a representative from a major brewing company knocked on my door, inquiring about my level of beer consumption as well as choice of brand.
On learning my preferences towards beer, I was asked if I would be interested in taking part in a beer sampling study.
WOULD I WHAT?!?
I was informed that each week a representative from the brewing establishment would deliver twelve large bottles of different beer for myself and selected others to sample. The bottles came unmarked except that each had been inscribed with a letter ranging from A to L.<
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The task was simple. Drink the stuff and on the accompanying sheet mark the beers for levels of taste, clarity, colour and aroma, as well as the all-important alcoholic content.
Every Saturday the ‘free liquid amber’ was duly delivered to my abode and subsequently stored for later consumption. Of course, rugby was the usual agenda of the day (as was partaking in a beverage or two), and the after-match functions were always quite boisterous. As anybody from the era and area (Sunbury on Thames) would know, some of the times had in Fitzy’s bar (The Nissan Hut) were quite an event.
The Rugby Club had built a new stand and bar; however, the concrete monstrosity lacked the atmosphere and heart of a good old London bar. The cold and impersonal stand and bar lay dormant as the parties raged on at Fitzy’s till the wee hours.
Few of the boys owned cars (let alone were able to drive them) so we all had to bum a lift back to North London. The chosen few were invited back to my place for a glass or two of the free stuff, and after all the singing (which invariably included a few Welsh hymns) and dancing (especially after a match against the London Welsh) a drink or two were needed to quench the thirst.
In the words of the great Mr Bazza McKenzie we were all ‘as dry as a pommie’s towel’. And thus the sampling began. As you can imagine, six large Irish lads sampling and studying the finer points of this peculiar drop was a sight to behold (especially at two o’clock in the morning).
Needless to say, I had to spend the rest of the week filling out the form that had accompanied the brew. Hours and hours were spent calculating the high and low points of the flavour, fizz and nose of the last week’s batch.
This frightful experience continued for twelve straight weeks. Handing back the empties, picking up the new and swapping over the information sheets was thirsty work, so as every Saturday rolled by, so did the chosen ones, to participate in tasting the new week’s batch.
As word spread of our existence, the offers for lifts back up to NW2 (North London) became as common as the brew we had to pay for. However, as I was true to my friends, it was still the usual bunch who had the arduous job of polishing off twelve of the best each Saturday night (or perhaps Sunday morning).
It became obvious that our hard work had not gone unnoticed as the unnamed company came to the party, offering me another twelve weeks of their lager, which today has become one of the most popular lagers on the market.
Unfortunately — or fortunately — the rugby season had by this time passed so I was forced to drink the gold on my own. However, each time I decide that I might have a drop of the great stuff, it brings back some of the greatest memories of my time back in the Old Dart.
JOKES
Did you hear the one about the manager of a brewery whose sales were not as good as they could be? If the truth be known, nobody liked the beer.
Anyway, this executive decided that marketing was the way to sell more and he hired Brett Whiteley to paint a new picture that would encapsulate everything that was modern and cutting-edge about the beer.
Dear old Brett scratched a little and then came up with his painting of a couple going hammer and tongs on Bondi Beach.
Brett said nobody could see the picture until the company’s big PR launch.
The manager got everybody together for the big event and the painting was unveiled.
‘What the hell does that have to do with my beer?’ asked the executive on seeing the work.
‘Well,’ said Brett with a laugh. ‘It’s f—ing close to water.’
You heard about the brewery worker who fell into the vat of beer and drowned?
At the inquest the coroner thanked the man’s colleagues for doing their best to save him and told the family it was a terrible tragedy but at least their relative died a quick death.
‘Be buggered,’ yelled one of his mates. ‘It was a very slow death. He got out to piss three times.’
You heard about the blokes out fishing in a dinghy off the coast of Tasmania? One of them got his line snagged on something heavy and after a battle he pulled up a treasure chest. In the chest was an Arabian lamp, the sort that has genies in it.
So, the guy gives it a rub and, you guessed it, out pops a genie.
The genie perches on the bow and cuts to the chase.
‘You’ve got one wish, get to it quick because I don’t like it out here and I especially don’t like boats.’
The fishermen are somewhat taken aback by the genie’s demeanour and are disappointed that it is a bloke; nonetheless, one of the blokes has a bright idea and announces that he wishes the sea was made of beer.
Before you know it the genie is gone, the sea is a frothing mass of amber liquid and his mate is furious.
‘You idiot,’ he yells. ‘Now we’re going to have to pee in the boat!’
This bear walks into a pub and asks the mean-faced barmaid — a real bar bitch — for a beer.
‘Sorry, mate,’ she says. ‘Don’t serve people without shoes on. Bugger off.’
So the bear gets up and walks out but is back in a few minutes with a pair of shoes on. He sits at the table and asks the mean-faced barmaid for a beer.
‘Look, you’ve got shoes on and that’s good, but you ain’t wearing a shirt so bugger off, there’s no beer for you,’ she says.
So the bear goes out and comes back in a tuxedo, with a top hat and nice shoes, and thinks to himself that this time the mean-faced barmaid can’t possibly refuse him service.
‘Can I have a beer now?’ he says.
‘No,’ says the barmaid. ‘To tell you the truth I can’t stand bears.’
So the bear stands up, rips her head off and eats her.
Wiping the blood off his chin he walks up to the manager and says, ‘Get me a bloody beer right now!’
‘Sorry, mate,’ says the manager. ‘Can’t serve people who take drugs.’
‘Never taken a drug in my life,’ says the frustrated and confused bear.
‘Oh yeah?’ says the manager. ‘What about that barbituate?’
These three blokes have been out working on a building site all day when they decide to go for a beer. Unfortunately the local has been yuppified and the bouncer tells them they can’t come in because they aren’t wearing ties.
One of them pulls off his sock, ties it around his neck and fronts the bouncer again who lets him in.
The other grabs the belt from his trousers, ties it around his neck and he’s let in.
The last bloke hasn’t got socks or a belt so he runs back to the car and grabs the jumper leads and ties them around his neck.
The bouncer looks at him and says, ‘You can come in, but don’t go starting anything!’
This bloke walks into a bar and says to the barmaid, ‘I’ll have a schooner of lager, thanks.’ He pays his money, knocks back the whole lot in one hit, burps and bellows ‘Piss’ before walking out.
Two days later he orders the same thing, goes through the same ritual and yells ‘Piss’ again as he leaves.
The next day the manager is waiting for him and before the bloke can order, the manager says, ‘Piss off.’
‘No problem,’ says the man. ‘I’ll have a schooner of your ale then.’
Two little boys decide that they want to be like Dad. They both decide they will ask Mum for a beer and learn to swear. One gets the idea to say bloody while the other says shit.
So, when Mum comes into the room and asks them what they want the first says, ‘I’ll have a bloody beer,’ and is duly beaten and sent to bed.
The second boy is then asked what he wants.
‘Shit, I don’t know, anything but a beer,’ he says.
A bear walks into a bar.
Barman: ‘What can I get you?’
Bear: ‘I’ll have a schooner of … beer.’
Barman: ‘Why the big pause?’
Bear: ‘Dunno. I was just born with them.’
A recent study has found that hormones in beer can turn a man into a woman.
In a control
led situation a group of men were forced to drink fifteen schooners a day. Each put on weight, talked too much, stopped making sense, argued over nothing, became emotional, weren’t interested in sex and had accidents in shopping centre car parks.
Did you hear about the alcoholic who got caught stealing twenty-two beers from a bottle shop?
When dragged before the magistrate he said he should be let off because there wasn’t enough evidence.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the magistrate.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘if I’d taken twenty-four they’d have a case, but I’m not that stupid.’
A particularly drunk bloke was walking home from the pub one night when he found himself near the local church. He entered and sat down in the confessional.
The priest waited for him to start confessing but the man just groaned, so the priest coughed to get his attention. This didn’t work, so he banged on the grille.
‘No use banging on the door, mate, there’s no paper in here either,’ said the drunk.
A couple of blokes were lost up in the snowfields and sure they were about to die. All of a sudden a kelpie came bounding over the pass with a small keg of beer around his neck, in much the same fashion as the famous St Bernards of the European Alps.
‘Look at that,’ said one of the blokes. ‘Man’s best friend has come to our rescue.’
‘Yeah,’ said the other. ‘I think the dog wants to help too.’
A baby seal walks into a bar and orders a schooner of New.
The barman says that he doesn’t get too many beer-drinking seals in his pub.
‘Well, we’re not about to order a bloody Canadian Club on the rocks, are we?’ says the seal.
