My dad loved a drink, but I have no memory of him drinking at home unless there was a party or some visitors. He loved the pub and he loved a punt. Looking back over his life I reckon the grog came in 3rd on his list of fun at the local watering hole (excluding getting laid of course). First and foremost was the stories and the jokes. His nickname was ‘Havachat’ after all. He was a master storyteller, and people would gather around his table to listen and laugh. I reckon the horse racing was more of the reason he made that pilgrimage every weekend than the beer. Although there wasn’t much betting going on during the Friday night benders, so let’s not rule out the pisshead angle completely.
Anyway, this is one of my childhood memories of ‘spending time’ with my dad. He would pick me up around noon; had to be at the pub before the first race you know. Drive to his favourite hangout. Yes, he always drove to the pub, even after the introduction of random breath testing. He was from the last generation that would so often remark “of course I drove, I was too fucken pissed to walk” and then proceed to chuckle heartily.
On arrival at the pub, I would be taken to the child-minding area. A back room near the bistro with 2 tabletop video games. I would meet the other kids who would be corralling with me for the day and dad would introduce me to our chaperone. This was usually one of the bar staff and they would be our liaison to the drunken gamblers in the off-limits rest of the bar.
That room was our little playpen for the afternoon. The machines were 20 cents a go and there was a never-ending supply of coins, kicked off by our fathers and added to by random patrons throughout the day. A hamburger here, a plate of hot chips with sauce there. Endless soft drinks; usually Coke of the beloved Fire Engine, and those packets of Smiths Chips or Twisties ripped open down the middle for sharing.
We could hear the grown-ups carrying on in the main bar and every once in a while, we might sneak a peek into the smoke-filled room that stunk of stale beer. It never looked too exiting to me. It was certainly packed and very loud; I can almost hear that undecipherable noise of so many people speaking at once. The only voice you could hear clearly was that of the race announcer on the telly or wireless.
I don’t remember us having a telly in the back. It amazes me how we didn’t go bonkers out of boredom. Those old video games can only hold your interest for so long, and if we got caught roaming about outside there would be a drunken lecture about ‘dirty old men’. Which is hilarious to think of now, considering the array of drunken wierdos who staggered out to have a chat with the kids. I can’t recall any faces, but I cannot forget the smell of booze and cigarettes. I couldn’t identify any of them, except for maybe the difference between beer and wine or spirits, but they often had their own distinct stink.
I can’t remember ever feeling really threatened though; there was a sense that people knew whose kid’s we were. I have a few indistinct memories of angry voices screaming and sounds resembling a melee. Nothing I can describe vividly though. It’s mostly smells and sounds. Visually I can only see those tabletop arcade machines, packets of chips and lots of smoke; everyone smoked in the pub back then. No ice cream, but sometimes a drunk would stagger over and plonk some lollies or chocolate on the table. Shit! Talk about a sugar rush! How did they expect us not to go roaming the streets?
We eventually figured out that we could go wandering so long as we didn’t all go at once. If an adult walked back there for a sticky beak, he would see a few kids and no suspicion would arise. The same adult never came back twice in quick succession, and they weren’t comparing notes out front. We also had an inkling that they were becoming stupider as time passed. We didn’t understand the effects of alcohol on the human brain, but we knew it made them dumber and less steady on their feet.
Oh, and the smell of course. Booze and durries. Most cigarettes smelled the same and so did the smoker’s breath. Except for Rollies; people who rolled their own had an even stronger smell, and Camels, they were very distinct indeed!
Besides that, it is just the constant hubbub of the pissheads and punters. The sound of the man on the telly or radio calling each race and, in between that, the commentators talking shit. No music, no sport, just horse racing. Every now and then you would hear the joyous cries of a winner or the angry yells of one of the losers.
Some of the more repetitious screams we’d hear would be variations of:
“Go you good thing! Go you good thing!”
“You fucken donkey!”
“That’s fucken bullshit!”
“You little beauty!”
“YESSS!!! It’s my shout!”
“First, second and fucken fourth!”
“You’ve gotta be fucken joking!”
“Ah, fuck this!”
“Fuck you!”
“What are you fucken looking at!”
“You wanna fucken go do ya?”
“You’re a fuckwit!”
“Get fucked!”
And many other golden oldies.
My father used to yell out something I never understood other than he was very pleased.
“Go you cockbird!” Sometimes it was just “cockbird!” or “cockbirdy!”. Fucked if I know.
Oh, one more visual just sprung up. I remember seeing the video game on the other side of the bar where the adults were. My uncle was playing a game with cards on the screen and no joystick in sight; just a row of buttons. I remember a grown up telling me you could win money playing it. Wow, that sounds awesome! Why don’t we have one of those?
Eventually our dads would drive us home (slightly inebriated possibly) and then head back for the evening piss-up to wipe themselves and a large chunk of any winnings away.
It wasn’t a regular thing, but it happened enough for me to remember. I think it was because mum had something on and dad was not going to miss his Saturday ritual just to take care of me. It was adult supervision…sort of.
