Great Australian Beer Yarns Page 7

  ‘I, I, I, I might have lost me thirst, mate,’ I said. ‘I think I might’ve copped a poison pizza back at the pub.’

  Jim went all strange and quiet. He looked at me, pulled the hammer back on the gun and pointed it at my temple.

  ‘Drink the beer,’ he said.

  Trembling and gagging I raised the glass to my lips and apologised to God for being such a useless specimen, adding that I would never again get drunk, ignore the wife or ogle women if He let me out of this spot.

  God is a bastard and I was forced to knock back the home-brew. Knowing not to sip, I threw it all down in one gulp.

  I started to shake and sweat and everything spun for a while, but somehow I stayed on my feet and, despite feeling like a rat was decomposing in my stomach, I realised I was going to live.

  Jim looked quite pleased about this and seemed to relax.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now it’s your turn to hold the gun while I have a glass.’

  HOMIES

  Peter Lalor

  Hidden in sheds and cellars around this beer-loving country is a strange breed of man, and the odd woman. Like mad scientists they hover over steaming vats, mix strange-smelling exotic potions, and pace the boards anxiously waiting for their creations to take life.

  They are home-brewers and they are not like other people. They’re obsessive, devoted, generally bloated and usually pretty bloody good people.

  Up Bathurst way there is a thriving gang of homies who are so dedicated to beer that you’d think they had discovered a new religion. Come to think of it, the Church of Beer would have some appeal!

  The treasurer of the Bathurst club, Big John, is a man who knows that a good brewer needs to be able to control his fermentation and lagering temperatures. In Bathurst the mercury is up and down more often than a unisex toilet seat and so something had to be done to keep Big John’s brews in good shape.

  Sparing no expense, he went out and bought a top of the range air conditioner and had it fitted to the small shed by the carport.

  The only problem was, Big John’s long-suffering missus had sweltered through the last thirty years in the house with only an electric fan for her comfort! Anyway, she soon got over it and was even allowed to go out and sit with the beer when the heat became too unbearable.

  John, like the others, has converted a fridge into a mini pub. The boys just drill two holes in the door, fit taps and load the kegs inside. It’s the perfect way to serve beer as you don’t even have to open the fridge to get another coldie.

  Another one of the homies, G, who hangs out with the Bathurst crew, bears the scars of his love for homemade beer. One night G was carrying a glass carboy filled with the precious fluid when it overbalanced and began to fall from his arms.

  Now, a true disaster was on the cards.

  No, G wasn’t concerned about getting out of the way of the soon to be shattered glass that would surely explode like a bomb because of the gas inside; he was just keen to save what was apparently a top little ale and so he made a desperate lunge to save the batch.

  Unfortunately, he failed and the breaking glass slashed his wrists and throat and he almost bled to death. Still, greater love hath no man …

  You can imagine what sort of fishing trips the boys from the Bathurst home-brew club take. There’s an absolute s—load of rods, reels, camping gear, food — and then there’s the beer.

  These blokes take two industrial-size freezers, a generator and on average about two kegs per man. Two blokes are on full-time bar duties roster and are expected to keep the beer in tip-top shape and make sure the lines and glasses are clean.

  One of these years the boys reckon they might even catch a fish.

  LOLLYWATER

  Ray Hardes

  A friend of mine, we’ll call him B2 to protect his identity, recently went on holidays and left the keys to his shed with a good friend. We borrowed a bottle of B2’s home-brew, drank the beer and replaced the beer with cold tea and put the bottle back in his shed fridge.

  After B2 had returned from holidays he was telling me that he had taken a few home-brews around to a friend’s place at the weekend.

  He said his friend keeps his beer glasses in the freezer and when he poured the beer it partly froze and tasted like lollywater.

  ‘I don’t know what went wrong, but I could not drink it,’ said B2.

  I managed to keep a straight face during all this and B2 did not suspect any foul play.

  A week later, a group of us were playing cards and I took out a bottle of cold tea from the fridge.

  When I poured it into B2’s glass, he tasted it and said, ‘Hey, the same thing must have happened to your beer.’

  MOTHBALLS

  Paulene Lowe

  Times were pretty tough during the war years for most families and ours was no exception, what with Mum, Dad and five kids to feed.

  My dad always loved his beer, so he took to making his first home-brew. I believe it was a potent brew and we were forbidden to go into the back shed, as Dad would bravely enter each day to check how many bottles had exploded.

  Six to eight weeks later the big tasting took place. Friends were invited in true Aussie tradition — everything was shared in those days.

  There was great excitement as Dad poured everyone a drink and one for himself and Mum. As everybody took a sip a deathly silence descended and then someone mentioned mothballs, then another, then another.

  Apparently in those days, at some stage you had to strain the brew. Mum had got out one of the clean blankets for the process, forgetting that she had stored the blankets in mothballs.

  No one seemed to mind the mothballs taste as every last bottle was opened and drunk. I remember there were some massive headaches, but everyone lived to a ripe old age and kept coming to visit our home.

  Forget the dot coms, the Internet, rockets to the moon. Remember good old Aussie tradition — a good beer, a barbecue and great friends. Our son is carrying on the tradition: he makes his own home-brew.

  A great drop — without the mothballs.

  NIGHTCAP

  Jim Ratcliffe

  We own the Home-Brew Shop (and barbers) at Kincumber on the Central Coast and naturally get some funny tales from our customers.

  Bill, one of our customers, had just started to make home-brew, but he found his first brew was too bitter, so instead of adding one kilogram of sugar he used two. This would achieve nothing, as the sugar converts to alcohol; he should have lowered the amount of hops. So the brew got stronger but not sweeter.

  The beer was still too bitter for Bill so he added three kilos of sugar to his next brew, making it three times stronger.

  When I asked Bill if the beer was any good he replied, ‘Very good, only my wife insists that I put on my pyjamas and sit on the bed before I can have a schooner so she can just roll me over and cover me when I have finished my beer.’

  OH DEAR, NO BEER

  Hayden MacKellar

  What a horrible feeling to be left without beer after a lousy day and, worse yet, being unable to buy any to rectify the situation.

  Recently I had the pleasure of moving house and all our worldly possessions to a new suburb that we did not know very well. The weekend, which happened to be the Easter long weekend, had proved to be ideal.

  I had enlisted two willing friends to help with the worst of the load with a reward of cold beer and a seafood lunch. After several round trips and plenty of effort, we had managed to get the job done without too much drama and all in time for the lunch I had promised.

  All the seafood was ready, as were the appetites, but when I looked in the Esky for some beer to offer my friends I remembered that during all the packing up I had given away the remainder of my beer supply, thinking I would resupply rather than heave it during the move.

  I was stunned and also embarrassed that I suddenly had nothing to offer my hired help. As it was Good Friday afternoon, I also realised I had absolutely no chance of buying any, no matter how despe
rate we were or how far I drove.

  Enter the new next-door neighbour, who came by to introduce herself and had in her hand a plastic bag holding four longnecks of her husband’s home-brew. It had high alcohol, a moderate head and was nice and cold.

  I couldn’t believe our luck. It was a just reward for the work we had done.

  I have since replaced the beer to our generous neighbours and I have taken measures so I am never in that situation again, and I am always looking to extend my collection.

  THE POSTIE

  John Gibbins

  Home-brewing was popular in Sydney in the early 1950s. This was necessary to cope with the yearly Christmas beer shortages due to strike action by the unions seeking pay increases.

  My father was reasonably good at the art, having been supplied with the proper ingredients, recipes and working instructions by a friend who happened to be one of the striking workers from Reschs brewery. Dad was popular with the neighbours, as he became the source of the only amber fluid to be had locally.

  However, his fame was short-lived with the local postman, who said he would have ‘contemplated murder’ if he could have escaped uncaught.

  Let me continue …

  Postmen in those days did not zoom around on little Hondas; they had to make two mail deliveries daily on a push bike with a large leather mailbag over the front handle bars. It was customary for residents to give small Christmas gifts to the likes of the postman and garbage collectors for their diligent service throughout the year.

  You guessed it — my father gave the postman two of his best brews. According to the postman’s report the following day, both bottles exploded in his large leather mailbag after he had travelled less than 200 yards from our front gate. Ballpoint pens did not exist then and the ink-written addresses on the Christmas card envelopes had run.

  The postman said he spent the rest of the day trying to dry out the envelopes and decipher the blurred addresses and NO he did not want the beer replaced. My dad never fails to recollect the story — ‘Do you remember the postman blah, blah, blah’ — as he samples my latest home-brewing effort.

  AUSSIES ABROAD

  A BLESSED LIFE

  Greg Rieper

  I was on my first overseas flight, sitting in economy (a row of three seats). I was in the window seat, next to me was a Catholic priest and next to him was a Pakistani, who was a Muslim. We’d had several conversations when the subject of alcohol was raised and, most importantly, beer and religion.

  The Pakistani asked the priest if he was permitted to drink beer.

  The priest replied, ‘It would be a bloody dull life if we didn’t.’

  BLIND DRUNK

  Mark Dennis

  On a trip to Europe back in 1983 we were staying in a caravan park near Hamburg. After getting settled we went to visit the nearby bottle shop and after much deliberation we decided to buy two cartons of 500ml stubbies of beer.

  There were four of us and we were attracted by the novelty value of a half-litre stubby and the fact that it was the cheapest beer in the shop.

  A party awaited!

  We got back to the caravan park later that afternoon and started drinking and did not stop until the wee hours of the morning when almost all the beer was gone. The beer had contributed to a good night and we all slept like logs.

  On waking the next day, all feeling a little seedy and sheepish, we’d started to clean up the empty bottles when the caretaker approached. We thought we might be in trouble for drinking all night, but the bloke just cleared his throat and said in broken English, ‘Well done, you’ve probably just broken some sort of beer-drinking record. I’ve never seen anybody drink so much non-alcoholic beer.’

  To say there were four red-faced travellers was an understatement.

  COLLECTING GLASSES

  Kevin Bradley

  My favourite beer yarn happened while my wife and I were touring Europe. We’d been travelling all over the continent enjoying foreign beers and, of course, collecting the usually quite decorative glass (as you do).

  Whilst in Rome we went to a quaint little cafe and bar to enjoy a Peroni Nastro Azzurro or three. The glass looked quite collectable and it had my name written all over it. So I told my wife to whack this glass into her handbag, then we quickly left. Quite quickly, I might add.

  Anyway, we’d gone about fifty metres down the road when the waiter came running after us, shouting something in Italian.

  We looked at each other and thought, ‘Should we run or face the consequences? I mean, what could they do? It’s only a glass and we’re dumb tourists who don’t understand.’ So we stood our ground.

  The waiter came scurrying towards us talking very quickly in Italian. We were very worried.

  Then from behind his back he pulled out our camera which we’d left behind in the rush.

  We thanked him in the only Italian we knew — a tip.

  We both heaved a big sigh of relief — but my wife gave me a serve over leaving the $400 camera for a $2 glass.

  COLOUR BLIND

  Gerard Meares

  Being fortunate enough to be twenty years old and travelling Europe, we decided we should not neglect our education. In no time at all we had become experts in all things beer: Czech beer, German beer, Belgian beer, Irish beer. We saw every day as a chance to learn and try something new.

  So there we were in Paris, half a dozen Aussies, well behaved, some may have even described us as pleasant company. Well, someone thought so, as we found ourselves invited to — of all things — a wine tasting.

  We went. We tasted some wines and generally tried to fit in; that is, until Rob decided to ask a question.

  No harm in that, but when he wanted to say ‘Is this a dry or a sweet wine?’ Rob came out with ‘Is this a red or a white wine?’

  We left not long after that, found a pub we hadn’t been thrown out of and enjoyed yet another wonderful evening helped along by good beer and great friends.

  To this day none of us drink wine!

  FOR GOD’S SAKE

  Jaak Jarv

  Back in the middle of the 1970s I was in Belgium starting a new office for the company. Apart from Australia we also had offices in Houston, Texas and Tokyo, Japan at that stage.

  One of the ‘Good Old Boys’ from the Houston office had cause to come over to Brussels for a period and one day we drove to Amsterdam to see a potential customer. We did whatever business we had to do and drove back to Brussels.

  A kilometre or three from where we were living was a typical Belgian pub and we stopped there on the way home for a beer for the two of us.

  The ‘Good Old Boy’ insisted on ordering, which he did in a loud voice: ‘Dieu bieres s’il vous plait.’

  To which the barman replied in excellent English, ‘You have just ordered God’s beer.’

  Quick as a flash the ‘GOB’ was back with, ‘I know — for God’s sake give us a beer.’

  GUINNESS FOR MOTHERS

  Max van den Berg

  The year 1982 was a very exciting time for my wife and me as it represented for us a series of firsts. Our first big holidays since we were married, the first time meeting our cousins and relatives, and the first time we had ever flown in an aeroplane. As one can imagine, we were in a state of great excitement by the time we boarded the plane at Mascot and after some six stopovers and thirty hours in the air we arrived at our destination — Holland.

  This holiday on the other side of the globe was filled with excitement and wonderment and, given the short length of our vacation, we endeavoured to make every post a winner.

  Having come so far, one of the absolute musts was to take a journey to the place of my mother’s people, that being Ireland. Just getting to the Emerald Isle produced more stories than one might imagine, but the one I wish to recount occurred in County Clare.

  Having arrived in Ireland we caught a train to our initial destination, where we established our home base in Mrs B Feeney’s Bed and Breakfast, County Limerick. Foll
owing a minimum rest period we set about planning the best way to approach this fabled County Clare, given the limited resources at our disposal — namely, an empty pot of gold.

  After considering our options it was agreed that we would travel in the most economical (and Irish) way possible: on shanks’s pony. So, with purposeful strides we set off to discover the neighbouring county. According to the locals it was going to be one of those beautiful Irish occasions when the sun was to shine for the entire day, so consequently we were able to travel with a minimum amount of baggage, or in my case, garbage, as my wife would say. We walked for what seemed an eternity and by early afternoon our thoughts were beginning to remind us of the amount of slogging that would be required to complete the return journey.

  On winding our way back to our lodging we passed a rather quaint little inn set well back from the road that had taken our fancy when we had passed it earlier in the day. Since I was yet to experience the sensation of a true glass of Irish Guinness stout I put forward the idea that given the circumstances I might break the drought in the inviting arms of the little tavern.

  ‘But Max, we still have so far to go. Can’t it wait until we get back to town?’

  To this day I’m not sure how, but my body language must have suggested the urgency of my plea for I found myself leading my wife through the wooden doors of the pub without further protest.

  Upon entering the premises we found the interior had both warmth and charm, with its heavily timbered walls and ceilings adding a feeling of grandeur associated with days gone by. A fine collection of Irish males was gathered around the bar, neatly attired in Donegal tweed coats and hats, who, we imagined, were completely oblivious to our presence as they continued on unabated in their various discussions.