The reveller�s table sang along contentedly with the singers, even though they were off-key and drunk for the most part. They clapped happily at saccharine hits like �Sugar, Sugar� and barked their approval at any song that suggested working-class solidarity, even when the songs were bad.
Always looking for opportunities to have fun in public, Kevin zeroed in on the inebriated revellers. He is a master at imitating some accents and he does an indigenous country Australian brilliantly. If I had closed my eyes I would not have been able to tell his accent from the others. The following discussion went something like this.
Kevin: "Aye, ow ya goin, sister?�
Reveller: �You a lation?�(i.e. 'relation')
Kevin: �That�s right.�
Reveller: �You look like a gubba (slang for 'white') to me, mate.�
Kevin: In mock anger �Aye! I�m as black as you on the inside, sister!�
Reveller: �Where you from, bro?�
Kevin: �Kick-a-tin-a-long.�
The last comment would have been enough to make me scream with laughter. The revellers where either too drunk or too fooled by Kevin�s demeanour to notice the obvious absurdity of the town�s name.
While Kevin was discovering some faux country cousins on his �indigenous� side I was finding amusement of another kind. However the form of amusement I was experiencing was not as funny. One of the women from the reveller's table couldn�t keep her hands off me! Dressed like the female equivalent of Crocodile Dundee in a ridiculous hat and crocodile vest (no I am not making this up), she continually leant, touched and stroked me. At first it was a simple case of leaning on my chair. But that progressed to bumping me, touching my behind and putting her hand on my shoulder. Perhaps if some handsome man had decided to paw me for the night I might have grudingly tolerated it but I really couldn't get into being stroked by a woman who was old enough to be my grandmother.
Perhaps if some handsome man had decided to paw me for the night I might have grudingly tolerated it but I really couldn't get into being stroked by a woman who was old enough to be my grandmother.
My response to 'granny' was to drag my chair away from her, inch by inch, with every advance. But that didn't seem to work as we just started circling the circular table. Finally, as her petting turned too heavy to ignore, I told her that I didn�t like being touched in public. She laughed and loudly broadcasted to her companions, �'e doesn�t like being touched in public.� Fortunately she finally seemed to have got the message and pushed off to find some other poor victim to bump, lean on, stroke and touch.
Mine wasn't the only 'show' going on in the Bowl. As participants continued to wail on stage we watched with amusement as a rent boy attempted to pick up a pot-bellied man with a moustache. The rent boy tried every trick in his book. He joined the prospect's table while he was getting a drink. He made eye contact, even initiated conversation, but the moustached man remained oblivious to the boy�s charms. Unfazed, the boy made eye contact with another patron and nabbed his man-for-the-night.
By 12am I decided that I had seen just about enough local colour to last me a lifetime. My companions where lost in the pleasures of the bowl: Kevin looked as if he was blood brothers with his new found tribe and Tony was also lost in conversation with several of the others impressing them with his garbage truck maintenance stories. I left as the next fat lady started to sing.
I recently passed by the Goldfish Bowl and noticed that the pub had been renovated. The old carpet and bad decore had been replaced with a smart and trendy look. And the old, colourful patrons had also been updated with yuppies. It just wasn't the same - or as funny.
