Not being a person that likes any of the above, it was even harder to appreciate these dubious delights when Kevin and Tony dragged me to one local Kings Cross pub for my suburban initiation. The draw was karaoke night at the Goldfish Bowl, a stone�s throw from the famous Coca-Cola sign.
My expectations were not high and that was just as well. The notice on the door read, Smart and Casual Dress. No thongs or singlets. Looking in I felt positively overdressed in my silk shirt and linen pants, compared to the patrons in their jeans and T-shirts.
Why this classy establishment was named the Gold Fish Bowl was a mystery to me. Perhaps because the large glass windows that fronted the street allowed passers by to gawk at the human fish behind the glass. Then again, perhaps it simply meant to �drink like a fish�, but I suspected the latter would be too subtle for the average patron in this establishment.
Every expense had been spared inside the Bowl. Old grey carpet lined the floor. Black tables and bar stools were scattered haphazardly around the bar. The only decoration where beer posters on the walls and flags advertising Fosters Lager hanging from the ceiling, which looked like out of place Christmas decorations.
What the bar lacked in colour and character was made up for in bucket loads by the patrons. It seemed every piece of human flotsam and jetsam had managed to drift in off the street. People with as much dress sense as a beer bottle walked, or rather, wobbled around the bar. Shirts with loud designs hit me between the eyes. Pot bellies stuck out at all sorts of angles and barely human speech seemed to emanate from some of the patrons.
People with as much dress sense as a beer bottle walked, or rather, wobbled around the bar. Shirts with loud designs hit me between the eyes. Pot bellies stuck out at all sorts of angles and barely human speech seemed to emanate from some of the patrons.
One middle-aged woman had tried to dress up for a night on the town. Her hair was dyed an obvious mousy brown and she had co-ordinated a set of peals with her dress that would have embarrassed an American in a Hawaiian shirt. To complete this stunning ensemble she sported a pair of white runners. She certainly stood out among the crowd. She was not alone. One man had a nose that would have made Pinocchio blush and belonged more on a Concorde than a face.
The patrons where a sight to behold but this was mere entree compared to what was to come. Karoake night had brought out the local talent who thought they could sing but largely made a spectacle of themselves. The first 'star of the stage' was an elderly and very rotund man. To say he attempted to sing makes a mockery of the word - he throttled it with his bare voice.
The next singer was equally memorable. Short and dumpy she wore coke bottle glasses and what looked like her debutant dress which she first wore 29 years ago. She sang a Seeker's number that the karaoke MC incredibly said was done better than Judith Duran, herself. This comment seemed to suggest that the MC was deaf.
This Seeker�s wannabe was followed by a Neil Diamond look-a-like. Not only did he resemble Diamond in dress, jeans and T-shirt, but his voice was the spitting image. The next few hopefuls included an attempt at a Johnny Cash number and an atrocious try at New York, New York. Liza would have keeled over with laughter at this poor showing. In fact, as the occasional ambulance or police siren screamed up the street you almost couldn't tell the difference between the scream outside and the wail within.
