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3 Wise Monkeys, Sydney

2003.

They were at Löwenbräu in The Rocks. Everyone got litre steins. They were $17 each. Simmo was trying to force Chewy to do a round ‘cos it was his from before they got to the city but it would’ve been $102 for six — and the rounds at Pymble Pub were only $21 for six. They’d had five there. They didn’t want to go anywhere shit. Nearly everywhere they knew was shit: Wallaby, Pontoon, Cargo, Star City — some of them did want to go to Star City though. No gay Anglican College chicks. Gay just meant shit by the way, not lesbian. Anglican College, where they’d all went, was a boy’s school until the end of year nine and then became co-ed for 10, 11 and 12. The girls were all pretty fucked, because why else would you change school schools halfway through? Either probably because you had no mates at your old one, or you went to an all girl’s school and had too much confidence. They weren’t really mates with any of the girls from school anymore.

Nugget had bought a backpack from home. He wanted to steal one of Löwenbräu’s glass steins.

“Don’t be gay. You’ll spend the whole night carrying it ‘round.”

“Such a fucken baby. You don’t have to carry anything. Fucken relax.”

“Good places won’t let you in with a backpack!”

“Emotions! So fucking emo!”

Nugget unzipped the Mossimo backpack, slid the glass in. They feigned casual as they walked out, but the bouncer knew what was going on and intercepted Nugget before he reached the edge of the roped off area that defined the front beer garden. Nugget pretended he hadn’t seen the bouncer, used a group of tall men in their 30s to shepherd around. Nugget faked left and ran right, the bouncer lunged at him, causing a muscly bald guy to spill a stein over his lavender button-down. The bouncer got a hand on one of the bag’s loose straps, wrenched it out of Nugget’s hand. The stein tumbled and smashed inside the bag.

Nugget ran. The rest tried to down their respective steins before the bouncer circled back to them. The bald bloke in lavender was pissed off. They didn’t care. They followed each other left down George St.

“Orient?”

“Nah, shit.”

“Where else, but?”

“Jackson’s on George.”

“Too early for Jackson’s.”

“Orient’s shit, but.”

They caught up and debated more. They’d go to The Orient, The Mercantile, Shelbourne, Pontoon, St Patrick’s Tavern, Trumps Tavern, 3 Wise Monkeys, Pontoon Bar and Cargo. Every time anyone seemed settled or relaxed they demanded each other scull drinks and move to a new venue. They got refused by bouncers, they begrudgingly paid covers. They hated music everywhere that had girls and anywhere playing music they liked was full of blokes, which — for the purpose of the impossible scenarios mapped in their collective brain — was intolerable.

They didn’t like dance music. They didn’t like R&B. They didn’t unanimously agree on what music was good or bad. They got refused entry for not wearing leather shoes. They got refused entry for having drunk ten beers but saying they’d only drunk two. They got refused entry for admitting to have drunk ten. They got refused for not having any girls with them. They recruited some girls in the queue and failed to realise the opportunity this presented. They drifted apart from the girls once they were through the door. Simmo bought a round, but it was shit here, so they sculled and moved on. Old friends were boring, new people didn’t get it.

Nugget made a wanking gesture at some young Lebanese guys in a done up Pulsar.

“Fake exhaust faggot!”

“Fucken what, cunt?”

The Pulsar screeched still outside the Four Seasons. The back door opened and Nugget bolted, nearly knocked over a woman waiting for a taxi. The car door shut again and the driver and all four passengers laughed at Nugget’s cowardice before taking off again. “Pussy faggot Aussies!”

“Fucken wogs,” said Nugget, under his breath, avoiding eye contact with the others.

They were always moving. It was important to move. They got smaller, they lost numbers. Timmy got the shits and walked back to his sister’s in Crow’s Nest. Smithers went off to buy cigarettes then got lost and didn’t have his mobile. Chewy got a cab to his girlfriend’s in Stanmore. They ended up on the dance floor at 3 Wise, lurking as a pack, encircling the small number of women around. The Proclaimers came on and everyone sung along. Sparrow bought a round of bourbon and cokes — doubles, no ice — and they sculled them and stood in the corner. They watched two guys — both in lavender business shirts — both dancing their way toward the same woman. They laughed and called them lavender cunts, yelling it across the loud room. They got another round of bourbons in and pledged to stay until Macca’s breakfast kicked in at 5:30.

They drank those then another round and then they ran out of steam. So they — there was only three of them left now — walked up to Park Street Maccas. They ate their burgers and wandered over in time for the 4:10am Hornsby via North Sydney nightrider. Going over the bridge, a drunk bloke had a go at them for singing. Nugget nicknamed him emotions and they chanted emotions at him until he got off at Lindfield.

#good

The Crooked Billet, E5

Walking down Upper Clapton Rd toward the pub, there were a group of onlookers out the front, huddled around the bus shelter. I stood on my toes, tried to see over the crowd, couldn't, kept walking.

As we walked through the front door, the pub’s manager had just returned from the crowd and was walking in at the same time.

We asked him what the commotion was.

He said: "Oh, this poor bloke. He's obviously addicted to heroin, and his needle broke while he was trying to inject, and now he's losing quite a lot of blood. I think he'll be okay — paramedics are on their way."

We winced at each other. "Ouch, poor guy." And we walked into the pub and had dinner, and I thought about how the pub manager had spoke about this man in a way that helped me empathise with him.

And I wondered if the pub manager had called him "some junkie," if I would have thought about our new area being a bit dodgier than our old area instead of thinking about our neighbour and his arm and his blood — dark and de-oxygenated — pooled and congealing under a bus shelter on the high street.

Goal posts

It's 1992, it's Saturday afternoon. I'm eating a pie on the couch and Dad's eating two.

NSW are playing Queensland in rugby on TV.

Ben Liddy's not home so I am inside. He lives in Warrabri Place so I can see his house from our balcony. He has black Jordans and Bladelines with three buckles and a basketball ring that's 10 foot. He has a Wigan jersey who are a team from England. He used to have a bike jump but it was asbestos.

Ben's main aim is to dunk on the tree branch in our front yard.

Marty Roebuck is on the TV. He plays for NSW (and also the Wallabies and sometimes Randwick). He is number 15, which is fullback in rugby union and reserve in rugby league.

He gets sand from the bucket and makes a pile with his hands. He puts the ball (Gilbert Barbarian) on top and stands up. One of his socks is down. He does five steps back then two steps sideways. He looks down, then up, then down. He does two breaths and then he's ready to kick.

Marty Roebuck's main aim is to kick it through the posts at Concord Oval.

I'm wearing my soccer uniform and Dad's wearing his tennis clothes. We drew nil all against Mount Colah. Then I got my haircut at Frank's and you get free chewing gum (Juicy Fruit). I don't have the right type of hair to get a flat-top so I got a blended step. In the Christmas holidays I get to have an undercut.

Pete Goulter had an undercut. He's in year 9. He has Guns 'n Roses shorts from Utopia in the city. His room has a red light and a Use Your Illusions II poster. Once when I was there, his friend yelled at a man on a bike out the car window near Macquarie shops.

Pete's main aim is to see Guns 'n Roses at Eastern Creek Raceway.

Next week, I'll do a dunk on the branch in the front yard.

Next month, I'll have metal studs and kick goals from the sideline with one sock down.

Next year I'll go to Eastern Creek Raceway and head bang like on Rage.

And one day, I'll eat two Big Ben's Dome Tops without getting full.

—

I'm taking a break from the pubs, but here's the start of something new.

Clare Hotel, Sydney (by Alex Vitlin)

RIP.

It was your first night at the Clare then. Drunk, 19, and wearing a Mossimo trucker hat. It was the first pub you began to routinely order jugs instead of schooners. It was the first pub your ordered a jug just for yourself.

You stand in the pokies room because the couches sit too deep; you have to yell from those things. You smoke while Piggy Ridell slots one after the siren, watching the 16 inch television above the bar they never use. You joke about Piggy's booze and fag intake. It's not original but it'll do.

The bar girl puts on Bloc Party. She pours a beer then goes and changes it to Outkast. Three years later she puts on Javelin. You Shazam it.

Some team wins trivia. They roar.

Later on, you sit outside on the beer kegs, even though they're not very comfortable. It's commonly accepted that it's "a lot like St Jerome's." Guys are drunk bragging through the toilet window.

Everyone generally agrees that the James Dean pizza was entirely adequate. There were some boosters who rated it higher, and it always started a debate about where the best pizza was. Experts.

A girl shrieks. Some johnson with a pool cue has just done something cheeky. His hair is thick and unkempt and you resent him.

You look at the suits. There's only ever two at a time and they prefer to drink at the bar. Five years later, you prefer to drink at the bar. You think about how much you used to like Jose Gonzalez.

The ATM won't work.

You can't figure out if the pub has weird and changing opening hours, or just doesn't open on Mondays. Maybe Sundays too.

It represents three girls to you. They live in the couches, just outside on the pavement, and in a nervous area near the pool table where you were desperate to be liked.

In the afternoons the summer sun sounds like happy voices.

It's the last night at the Clare now. They're not replacing the kegs as the beer runs out.

By the excellent Alex Vitlin.

Laconic edit of Bill Bryson.

Bill's version:

I followed some rickety wooden steps down to the beach. The rain had stopped, but the sky was threatening and there was a stiff breeze that made my hair and a clothes boogie and had the sea in a frenzy of froth. I couldn't hear anything but the pounding of waves. Leaning steeply into the wind, I trudged along the beach in the posture of someone shouldering a car up a hill, passing in front of a long crescent of beach huts, all of identical design but painted in varying bright hues. Most were shut up for the winter, but about three-quarters of the way along one stood open, rather in the manner of a magician's box, with a little porch on which sat a man and a women in garden chairs, huddled in arctic clothing with lap blankets, buffeted by wind that seemed constantly to threaten to tip them over backwards. The man was trying to read a newspaper, but the wind kept wrapping it around his face."

From 'Notes From a Small Island' by Bill Bryson (pp 104-105)

My version:

I descend some rickety steps.

Sea froths, waves pound, rain threatens. My clothes and hair dance in the breeze.

I hit the beach, lean into the wind.

There's a crescent of beach huts, identical except for 'feature' colours.

They're all vacant but one — where a man and woman breakfast on the tiny porch. They're wrapped in coats and blankets, battered by elements.

The man attempts leisure, but wind wraps the newspaper around his face.

No worries, Bill.

Sebright Arms, Bethnal Green (UK)

We step off Hackney Rd, down a laneway.

Straight ahead, youths stand on concrete, smoke cigarettes. To the right is a pub: English, old.

I push the doorway marked pull, get in someone's way, end up holding it open for four people loading a drum kit.

The bar's full. We stand in a thoroughfare until a kindly mod takes pity, points out a spot next to the vacant DJ booth.

We put coats on the back of chairs, I head to the bar.

I order two pints off the first recognisable tap, mumble incoherently.

"Pardon?"

"Sorry — is there a food menu?"

"Ah yeah, you're looking at it."

"Oh yeah. Sorry, I wasn't focusing my eyes."

"Pardon?"

"Um, I— nothing. Thanks."

I walk back, through the crowd, to our table.

There's a guy in the DJ booth now. He's persisting with dance music, in spite of the melodic hardcore band sound checking downstairs.

It's too loud to talk, I zone out.

Kids in black t-shirts enter and exit the band room in line with their smoking schedules.

Middle-aged guys in Hawaiian shirts collude about drugs.

A girl with a shaved head eats dinner with her mum.

Above the bar is a grid of red, blue and green glass.

Beer flows from kegs, burgers flow from the kitchen.

8pm sun streams through the window, forms a triangle of light on the carpet.

A hundred Saturday nights gain momentum — but I'm just here to watch.

Map

It's part of the new print journal they just launched.

Download the PDF of Issue #1!

TO MODERATION!

The first ever Moderation Hotel t-shirt is here!

Artwork by the legendary Rob McManus AKA Bobby Gelato.

Click the pic above or visit Label State to buy.

Captain Cook Hotel, Paddington

I’m out the front of the Captain Cook.

I stretch my hamstrings. A woman looks through the bin, talks to herself.

I run up Selwyn. Kids scooter the footpaths, parents supervise, drink from stemless Riedels.

I run past St Vincent’s. Patients wheel intravenous drip-stands toward outdoor ashtrays. Short-sleeved nurses laugh amongst themselves.

I run down Bourke. Clothes dry on fence posts, men sit on mattresses. A used syringe lies, upside down in a mostly empty Strongbow bottle.

I run past Boy Charlton. I squint my eyes and look across the dark grey water, where dark grey sharks wait for dark grey clearance divers.

I run toward Circular Quay. On the foreshore people hold hands, compose sunset-tagged shots of the bridge and Opera House.

I run up the stairs at Macquarie St. The lights are still on at my former workplace and, in front of that, floats a party cruise.

I run back, through the city, up Oxford, to the top of my street.

I breathe, put hands on my head.

Sydney smells like dinner and humidity.

I squint my eyes, look up.

Street lamps streak out, stretch behind plane trees.

There are bats in the sky and chewed up berries on the road.

My hamstrings are fucked, but the rest of me feels fortunate.

Map

#good

Century Tavern, Sydney

We walk past Hungry Jacks, up some stairs.

There's a jukebox and a pool table. The woman behind the bar has thin lips, calls us 'darlin'.'

The beer tastes like it's been sucked through a coaster.

Across the room, a courier drinks a middy, rests his bike against the table. His packet of B&H sits on top of a folded Telegraph, obscures Bob Brown's face.

The toilet has a mechanical condom machine. The jukebox has six different Custard songs.

We sit in the corner. Ng's hair is long now and Levins looks younger than I imagined. He's modified his Gerling backpack with texta and whiteout to just say "bling."

They come here all the time and I try not to act too impressed.

Our zine is going to be called 'The Keen.' Levins has drawn some comics and Ng has a bunch of ideas. I don't know what a zine is, but I'm excited to be involved.

I look across the room. The bike courier gestures to the bar lady, then in one movement, flicks a cigarette straight into his mouth. He grins, winks. She laughs, applauds.

I look out the window. There's an air conditioning unit, a Hungry Jack's awning and a traffic jam on Liverpool St.

It's 2003, it's a Tuesday afternoon and we have a table full of dick jokes.

My schoolboy haircut's grown out and I feel pretty cool.

Era

#good

Victoria on the Park Hotel, Enmore (Part 2)

It's Friday. It's sunny and the beer garden is full.

My friends arrive. We order beers.

We talk about weather, buy meat raffle tickets.

I go to the bar.

We put in earphones and record ourselves laughing, showing off.

Nachos arrive.

Someone orders chips, someone else spills beer on my leg.

I go to the toilet.

Darkness replaces sun. Denim replaces high-vis.

Spent raffle tickets stick to the table with condensation.

Mosquitos hover around the plasma screens.

Our table fills with empty glasses and the evening wears on.

Phones flash, friends argue and toilet mirrors grin back.

Moments snap together like magnets until suddenly — without warning — it's changeover time and the buses have stopped.

Read Part 1

Map

#good

Victoria on the Park Hotel, Enmore (Part 1)

It's Friday. It's sunny and the beer garden is full.

A girl showcases a meat tray.

A young family order dinner.

A Jets supporter wanders around, mutters, requests cigarettes.

A group of men in high-vis lean on a high table, half-watch the cricket.

At the table behind them, two teenagers sit obediently, drink cans of Coke.

One of the boys antagonises his dad. The dad takes exception, turns around and clips him on the back of the head.

They spar. The boy tries to duck, gets put in a headlock. His dad messes his hair and kisses him on the head.

The boy smiles. As he turns, the dad clips him on the head again. His Coke spills.

The boy turns around, shoves the man in the chest. The man shoves him back, hard. Arms fly and the boy runs off, crying, toward Enmore Rd.

The man stares at an ashtray while sticky liquid drips through the wooden slats of the beer garden floor.

—

Read Part 2

Map

Get The Moderation Hotel print edition for $6!

#good

There's only a few copies of The Moderation Hotel left!

Thanks to everyone who's bought it, read it, tweeted about it, etc. You are the absolute best.

If you haven't got one yet, here are some convincing reviews by lovely people:

The Thousands

You Only Live Once

Kripy

Cop one of the last copies in the store!

---

Photos: the legend Andy Braithwaite.

Also: Tessa Chong drew the nice pictures.

WE'RE IN PRINT!

So, the first ever print edition of The Moderation Hotel has just shown up. It is a thing of beauty.

Details:

- 24 A5 pages, featuring ten classics and a new, print-only intro piece.

- Designed and illustrated by Tessa Chong.

- Printed on Risograph, in Melbourne by Dawn Press.

- Limited edition of 200.

- $6!

Buy it in THE SHOP HERE!

*If you are in London, I'll be there from this Thursday (6/12)! Let me know and I can hand deliver/drink with you!

**Thank you for reading this stuff over the past 18 months. It fills me with irrepressible joy.

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