The Walkabout

I'd heard the Walkabout legend long before setting foot on British Soil - of its inebriating ways and its tacky decor. I'd heard many a tale of drunken debauchery and dark corner fumblings, of loose women and heroic men. And as I made my way down from Covent Garden Station and past some busker strumming out a Springsteen number on a guitar with nylon strings, I knew I was ready.

I was ready to be showered in lager, to boldly down shots of Black Sambuca and have wanton women - fresh from University - wave the wobblier bits of their anatomy close to the ocular bits of mine. I was ready to bask in the camaraderie that unites ex-pats the world over. If need be, I was ready to link arms and pretend to know all the words to Khe Sahn. And as I rounded the corner near the markets, past couples making their way toward the theatres of the West End I knew I was ready.

It's funny how you can build a place up in your mind. How a seed can be planted, watered, nurtured to the point where that seed turns into a giant oak. I was expecting a scene from Caligula, what I got was a pub on two levels that does a half decent bowl of nachos. Not the pit of sin and Australian nakedness I'm sure I'd been promised, more a sapling or a pubescent pine but certainly no giant oak.

It was too late, my illusion was shattered. Hard evidence would be required to change my stand. There would have been fifty people stood around the main bar area, half were in suits, none were on all fours. If it weren't for some crude attempts to make the place seem vaguely Australian it could have been the local in West Norwood.

I found The Kid and a few of his mates standing near the bar. As if he could sense my disappointment his opening words were, 'It'll pick up later Doddo, it's not even seven yet'.
'Not bad and yourself?' I replied.
'Sorry mate, how was your day? Did you have any problems getting in?'
'My day was good thanks Dad. How's Mum?' I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing the particular hell I went through whenever I even thought about the London Underground.
'What are you drinking?'
'Best get me one of them Alchypops, whatever flavour.'
'You crazy thing, Doddo. One girls drink coming up.'

In the circles I mix and if I'm honest, probably any circle of males the world over, if beer is not your drink of choice you are labeled for life. Beer was once my drink of choice. Back at University I drank it like, well I drank it like it was beer, for want of a better word, but nowadays, occasionally I prefer my alcohol a little more on the sweet side. Not a bad thing, just a question of taste, of personal preference.

Sure I can drink beer if I want to and after a hard game of footy or some manly manual labour, one or two ice cold lagers go down a treat, but for the most part I enjoy sweet drinks. No crime in that but unfortunately there is a label. And that label usually has the word girl in it somewhere. So being the cunning tactician I am, I find it nullifies the effect if you call yourself a girl and call the drinks, girly drinks. If you cant beat 'em, join 'em, either that or tell your mockers to fuck off.

'Fuck off', I replied.

So with an Orange Hooch in hand and the Kid back in his place, I glanced a closer eye over the patrons at the Walkabout.