Pub night is Friday and/or Saturday. Hazel and I went down to The Commie (Commercial Hotel) where Harry the pub owner and Mark the plumber chivalrously looked after my beer supply for the evening. Gossip topics: Ramelius could be making a move on Doray Minerals, a brothel is opening up in town, three brothels are opening up in town, the Chinese are making a move on Doray Minerals, no they're not, and finally a very long complicated argument about whether or not Patreen's classic Holden (barf green) has original bodywork or not (Meeka blokes are in love with Patreen's old car, which somehow made it across the Nullarbor).
Harry is a great character, full of stories. He got wrangled into working in the Perth film industry for a while, so we shared some hilarious film biz tales. When he first bought the pub years ago, they had a constant problem with blocked toilet drains; he discovered that the main drain was jammed full of gold nuggets! There used to be a set of scales on the pub counter, and the prospectors would pay for their grog and accommodation with their finds. No one knows how nuggets ended up in the plumbing, but Harry is going to put all the nuggets in a display case. I asked if the hotel has a ghost and he kind of looked away and said "Not really...but I don't go in the basement." Maybe when he knows me better I can get the full hair raising story...
The pub is definitely where you need to go for your unsubstantiated rumours, wild stories, tradies and detailed information about your house. Mark knows my place so I got the full rundown on my septic layout and why the kitchen sink makes a glugging noise (he's coming round at some point to "have a look at it"). Everyone knows my place and reckons I've got a great investment on my hands (if the cockroaches don't eat it).
There are three pubs in town, and you gotta choose carefully. The Commercial is kind of your family type / civilised pub and also closest to the motel so you get the miners & truckies as well. The miners live and work in close quarters, then inexplicably all go to the pub together, so of course you get the odd brawl. The truckies mainly just have a meal, a few drinks and try to get a shag, then go back to sleep in their trucks or dongers.
The Royal Mail Hotel (or "YAL AIL H EL" as it reads on the broken neon sign at night), which is just a couple hundred metres up the street from me, seems to be more your toothless yokel clientele as well as more aboriginal people than the Commie. I haven't worked out who frequents the original old Meeka Hotel across the road; it burned down a few years ago and is under repair but open for business. It looks like the kind of place where you would find the skeleton of an old geezer resting dustily at the end of the bar and the bartender still muttering "Owyergoin Fred" to it as he passes by.
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