After a hectic week with everything in the brewery breaking and Jane finishing up for her travels I finally got my house in order for Phil to dog sit , picked up a pull up banner from our stand at Brewday and made my flight to Melbourne. I ended up sat next to a middle aged Aussie couple who didnt know what a tagine was, agreed it tasted of muck, extracted as much wine as time allowed from the obliging crew and then complained about how it was the worst flight they had ever had whenever they were not in airshot. After a discovering the bus that would take me to St Kilda didn’t run this late I ended up in the city and taking a taxi down to Windsor to the old pub I was staying above. Melbourne was the first place outside of NZ I ever visited. Back in 2005 I accompanied Gareth and Mulchin here on the first leg of their world trip , but I could only afford to come to Melb and spent 10 days dossing on Joe and Ben’s couch. I like Melbourne. In my head it is always as its depicted in He Died with a Felafell in His Hand , dark , gothic and rainy. Even though towns like Dunedin say are probably far more like this I still see bits of that side of its nature poke through. I checked in to a room that certainly could have been a set in Felafell. I headed out and walked down to The Local Taphouse where they had had an English beer tap takeover. They had apparently had Fuller Vintage 2018 on tap, alas when I got there it was not on, all gone I suspect, however the staff had no idea what I was talking about . I ordered a pint of Pride which ran out 1/2 way through pouring. I smiled when I saw they listed London Prides style as ESB. I then spied they had a stillage behind a second bar named the Winchester , a Shaun of the Dead reference I suspect. So I had a decent Stomping Ground Brown Ale straight from the cask , what idiot pronounced brown ale dead again? The Taphouse was a lovely pub but why they felt they had to employ a bloke to stand behind a turntable and blast music at the room I don’t know. Perhaps they were afraid that if the punters could be heard speaking they might be saying something rude.
I retreated back a few blocks past a pub whose front windows and door were all bricked up , a door on the side was open below a single purple neon and young goth girls were queued up along the street waiting to enter. I pushed on to a slightly less noisy pub called the The Post Office Arms , or Hotel or something, it was now simply rendered The Post above the bar. I got a pint of Stone and Wood Pacific Ale and found a table . I was then starting to fade so I retreated to The Windsor Ale House where I was staying , had a pint of Brentspoke Crankshaft, a Taliska and decided food and bed were in order. I went across to the kebab shop opposite. Is reviewing kebabs my true calling? . I ordered something called the stock standard and was surprised to discover this consisted of a mountain of chips , covered in lamb donner and garlic and barbique sauce. Potato and garlic are vegetables, what are you complaining about ? Unlike the English the Aussies do concede that you need a fork to eat such a dish. Thank god. Kebab was consumed in my room and I retired to my surprisingly comfortable bed.