The Common City Worker and the Smell of Excess
Milling about the upstairs bar were pockets of the breed customarily known as, the Common City Worker. You know the type. Dressed in eight hundred quid suits, with mobile phones plastered to their ear, talking at a level merely decibels lower than an Offspring gig. The business lunch crowd. 'Text me', 'I'll pen that in', 'I've got a slot at eleven', 'I masturbate with the ferocity of a Pit Bull with a steroid habit'. Young ambitious, but mostly just loud.
I took a swig of Hooch and quickly placed the bottle back on the bar. I saw no point in advertising the fact.
To the left of our little group stood half a dozen New Zealander lads. I had guessed they were New Zealanders even before I saw them cheering an All Blacks try on the tele. It's not hard to pick your average kiwi male from the pack. There has to be something in the water back across the Tasman Sea. They're fucking huge, for the most part. A friendly pat on the back can turn into a rapid voyage into an adjacent post code.
Then it hit me. It took me five minutes to put a finger on it but it was conclusive all the same.
Have you ever stayed the night at a friend's house after they've had the mother of all parties? Thinking, I'll just get a couple of hours kip on the couch and the world will be a much more cooperative, coherent place. Cast your mind back. Do you remember that particular smell that hits you moments after you've taken care of that early morning scratch and wiped the sleep from your bloodshot eyes? (It usually coincides with the very moment you come to the conclusion that, yes, I really was dancing nude with a saucepan on my head for the best part of three hours.) It's a universal smell that fails to discriminate. A combination of beer soaked carpet, overflowing ashtrays, sweat, vomit and if you're extremely lucky a waft from the toilet where some considerate soul has left the door open. Well the Walkabout smelt a lot like that. Not a pub smell you must understand, far, far more than that. The place smelt of excess.
Now if we take a moment to consider this, I believe this is a definite plus in a drinking establishment. And although the Walkabout was far from heaving, the smell - in my mind at least - gave it the potential to heave. And that my friends, is a good thing.
