In Adelaide, getting the fun into
a person is one thing ... letting
the results leak out is another
by PHILIP WHITE
"You know that laneway in Melbourne?" The celebrated rockstar
Dave Graney tweeted yesterday. "Paris is like that times 1,000,000,000,000. That's the opine of a grade A hick! Me."
I reckon coming from Kanmantoo makes me a triple-A hick compared to one
from Mount Gambier, like the Great Graney, but that's a quibble. I mention it
only to stress that when a country boy like me hits town, like for a serious
night in the gilded palace of sin, the difference between country and city
seems more dramatic.
Like, when I hit Paris, I'm likely to add another three zeroes to that
very long number. Romance rules.
Adelaide, it seems, has finally decided to put some little bars in its
laneways. This is contrary to the idea of Colonel William Light, who designed
Adelaide with wide streets so a coach with horses could do a u-turn without the
need for reversing, but very few laneways, which he regarded as an easy escape
for cutpurses and pickpockets, both types of people he felt his genteel edge-of-desert
burgh could live without.
King William Street Adelaide 1889
Nevertheless, there are a few little lanes here and there, and the
Weatherill government has shown some flair in following Melbourne's tendency to
continue its conversion of said lanes from cobblestone tracks for the night
cart to interesting little trails full of hidey-holes for cutpurses, revelling bibulants
and the hungry.
A current Adelaide favourite is Publishers, on the corner of Franklin
and Cannon Streets. Cannon Street is almost skinny enough to be a lane. While it's no longer the sort of place you'd find a
cutpurse - it was previously a backpacker's joint - I leave this establishment
feeling like I'm the thief, so thorough and intelligent is the repletion
delivered there.
Music has been far too long constricted to most un-musical places like
the Entertainment Centre and Adelaide's many Houses of God. As the horrid epoch
of the doof box seems to be in recline, a little music here and there may chill
the wilder carousers and assist diminish violence and crime.
Then, it's still worth paying tribute to some of the older temples of
discourse and drink. I find it very hard to visit the city without paying my
conversational dues at The Exeter, for example, or risk being mistaken for a
retired porn star at, say, The Old Col on The Parade.
Lion Brewery and Hotel, date unknown
Saturday I dined at The Lion, which continues to impress for its
remarkable standards. The food is as good as pub tucker gets, anywhere, the
staff are polite, patient and painstaking, and the bar is pretty much
brilliant. Like if a bloke gets a sudden yearning to drink something precisely
clean and refined, he can settle down to a pint of Asahi with a Yamazaki 12
year old malt whiskey, just like that.
Where else can you get a front bar with a fourteen-page drinks list?
Where else can you fail to notice the security folks until you realise the big
bloke holding the door open just called you Sir?
The Lion was about to yawn itself off to slumber when I accepted their
kind offer of a lift to The Bakery in O'Connell Street. This is where many
northern suburb partyers call in for a coffee and some pastry on their way
home. It is unlicensed. And it was very busy. It reminded me of the olden days,
when no trip to the city was complete without a very late hamburger with the
works at the Blue and White Café. It was interesting to learn that cappuccini and
croissants have replaced the burgher and Coke for many, and I couldn't help
observing how few drunk people there were.
Still, even if you've danced yourself into a slather, like our plumbing
mate, a few beers have to find their way out of one eventually, and guess what?
Because it's not licensed to sell alcohol, The Bakery has no obligation to
provide a toilet.
Which is fair enough. It's a bakery.
Now I'm sure that somewhere in O'Connell Street, there's a public toilet
hidden so well away that nobody
frequents it for any of the right purposes. But it was strange to be reminded
that to take a leak in this day and age, one pretty well has to enter a place
where alcohol is sold.
Alcohol promotes more leaking, you silly duffers.
In the case of The Lion, its rest rooms are perfectly, frankly palatial, and spotless to match. But that was shut, and it's a fair stretch from The Bakery. Once our plumber was sufficiently busting to wander off down the street to find a discrete culvert, a police wagon pulled across and quietly followed him, waiting for him to commit the crime, at which point they booked him.
Alcohol promotes more leaking, you silly duffers.
In the case of The Lion, its rest rooms are perfectly, frankly palatial, and spotless to match. But that was shut, and it's a fair stretch from The Bakery. Once our plumber was sufficiently busting to wander off down the street to find a discrete culvert, a police wagon pulled across and quietly followed him, waiting for him to commit the crime, at which point they booked him.
I'm no legal eagle, but I thought it was the duty of the police to
prevent crime, not watch, waiting for it to be committed. Three grown men, armed and uniformed, spent half an hour interviewing
and investigating the poor bugger, who til then had simply overflowed with glee
and lust.
Grenfell Street, 1974 ... photo Philip White
O'Connell Street is certainly wide enough for a coach and horses to do a
u-turn, but even those folks were permitted to pee on the rear left hand wheel provided it was parked
close against the gutter.
Whilst reconsidering the rights of musicians to play music and contemplating
the notion of permitting people to drink whilst standing up, I wonder whether
the government might also consider the introduction of the odd unisex pissoir
for those caught short when the bars are shut?
The resplendent and witty pissoirs of modern Paris come to mind. They
even have music.
.
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