Jecca Zane
Sandra 1Hosies Tavern
August 3rd 2007 08:44
At one of the busiest junctions in the city, where the Wurundjeri people would have seen a creek run into the Yarra, long before the first cobble of Elizabeth Street was dropped into the mud is a place with an almost entirely male patronage.
The Wurundjeri might have been primitive, but the men that frequent this place today are just crude tools.
The bar is a sexy disturbing contradiction of the Subway, coffee shop and 7/11 upstairs, even with all its expensive porn and the even more expensive condoms that sit above it at ground level.
Down the stairs on either axis of the grid you’ll find the meaty gate keepers (whose mothers stopped thinking their sons were going to become Rocket Scientists at a very young age), the Tradies that have been here since three, the uni kids hiding erections, alcoholics exuding charm all over the faces of the women behind the bar, the lawyers with the leather satchels and finally the women, with both breasts standing or rather drooping at attention, pouring the beers.
The music; rubbish, the floors; sticky, the toilets; surprisingly clean. But these blokes haven’t come down into the den that is Hosies Tavern for the “Smash Hits Volume 5” complication pumping out of the crackly speakers or to trade witticisms regarding the contents of the Financial Times with their peers, they’re here for the main event, the one that’s one mincing around on stage now, and by the looks of things, this has been going on since lunch time. The entertainment is quite cheap, paid for on a pro-rata basis according to whose turn it is to be doing the entertaining.
Each slot of entertainment circles the room with three jugs before each show requesting change, not unlike a busker except sexier and better smelling. One of the jugs is for beer, but used to hold the fifty cent pieces the men are parting with, the other two are for attracting mates and weaning infants.
The prognosis made by each man of the show and therefore the amount of change he will part in the jug is made just as a man would do when inspecting something at the sale yards.
Once the entertainer has felt validated by the amount of cash in the jug, she takes to the stage, or rather goes through a tattered door right of stage and disrobes. The voyeurs take their seat around the stage like medical students about to observe a complex surgery. The announcer spits a few nonsensical sounds into the microphone before announcing the busker waiting behind the saloon doors with as many syllables as he can.
“Give it up for MA…X….I….NE”
I’m sure the opening of a set of saloon doors never caused a frenzy like this in the Old West. Probably because your Billy the Kid and Sundance Kids never walked into a dusty bar with some pink dental floss knotted up to conceal the essential characteristics of their profession. They probably would have just gone in, shot everyone and buggered off with the jug full five dollar notes and twenty cent pieces without even taking their shirts off.
We were all in luck because MA…X…I…NE didn’t have any six shooters and if she did she wouldn’t have anywhere to stick them.
MA…X…I…NE started with a few Kung Fu moves, mixed it up with a few hair flicks then went straight at the pole like she wanted to tear it off the stage, stick it in her little hand bag along with her see-through plastic stilettos and take them both back to what ever outer suburban realm she came from.
Her outfit fell away like pink polyester leaves in autumn, the cheer averaging between a dull roar and wild animal sounds from the all male crowd.
Next was VAAAAAAAA….NESSA. She must have been Swedish. VAAAAAAAA…NESSA’s tricks included an upside down crab impression, a spinning Yoga position (the one that made the dog downward facing), a traverse of the room by hand and finally finishing off with a naked backflip.
The next entertainer informed me during her pre show fund raising jug shake, that she was half London and half English. I didn’t know what that meant and either did she because she quickly changed it to Half Polish, half English. Her trick was balancing a dollar twenty worth of twenty cent pieces of her nipples.
On my way out I saw a man in his late seventies watching the show with the same interested content he would have watched Gardening Australia with his wife that morning. Then I took the stairs up to reality where unfortunately everyone had all their clothes on and nobody knew what was going on down those stairs.
The Wurundjeri might have been primitive, but the men that frequent this place today are just crude tools.
The bar is a sexy disturbing contradiction of the Subway, coffee shop and 7/11 upstairs, even with all its expensive porn and the even more expensive condoms that sit above it at ground level.
Down the stairs on either axis of the grid you’ll find the meaty gate keepers (whose mothers stopped thinking their sons were going to become Rocket Scientists at a very young age), the Tradies that have been here since three, the uni kids hiding erections, alcoholics exuding charm all over the faces of the women behind the bar, the lawyers with the leather satchels and finally the women, with both breasts standing or rather drooping at attention, pouring the beers.
The music; rubbish, the floors; sticky, the toilets; surprisingly clean. But these blokes haven’t come down into the den that is Hosies Tavern for the “Smash Hits Volume 5” complication pumping out of the crackly speakers or to trade witticisms regarding the contents of the Financial Times with their peers, they’re here for the main event, the one that’s one mincing around on stage now, and by the looks of things, this has been going on since lunch time. The entertainment is quite cheap, paid for on a pro-rata basis according to whose turn it is to be doing the entertaining.
Each slot of entertainment circles the room with three jugs before each show requesting change, not unlike a busker except sexier and better smelling. One of the jugs is for beer, but used to hold the fifty cent pieces the men are parting with, the other two are for attracting mates and weaning infants.
The prognosis made by each man of the show and therefore the amount of change he will part in the jug is made just as a man would do when inspecting something at the sale yards.
Once the entertainer has felt validated by the amount of cash in the jug, she takes to the stage, or rather goes through a tattered door right of stage and disrobes. The voyeurs take their seat around the stage like medical students about to observe a complex surgery. The announcer spits a few nonsensical sounds into the microphone before announcing the busker waiting behind the saloon doors with as many syllables as he can.
“Give it up for MA…X….I….NE”
I’m sure the opening of a set of saloon doors never caused a frenzy like this in the Old West. Probably because your Billy the Kid and Sundance Kids never walked into a dusty bar with some pink dental floss knotted up to conceal the essential characteristics of their profession. They probably would have just gone in, shot everyone and buggered off with the jug full five dollar notes and twenty cent pieces without even taking their shirts off.
We were all in luck because MA…X…I…NE didn’t have any six shooters and if she did she wouldn’t have anywhere to stick them.
MA…X…I…NE started with a few Kung Fu moves, mixed it up with a few hair flicks then went straight at the pole like she wanted to tear it off the stage, stick it in her little hand bag along with her see-through plastic stilettos and take them both back to what ever outer suburban realm she came from.
Her outfit fell away like pink polyester leaves in autumn, the cheer averaging between a dull roar and wild animal sounds from the all male crowd.
Next was VAAAAAAAA….NESSA. She must have been Swedish. VAAAAAAAA…NESSA’s tricks included an upside down crab impression, a spinning Yoga position (the one that made the dog downward facing), a traverse of the room by hand and finally finishing off with a naked backflip.
The next entertainer informed me during her pre show fund raising jug shake, that she was half London and half English. I didn’t know what that meant and either did she because she quickly changed it to Half Polish, half English. Her trick was balancing a dollar twenty worth of twenty cent pieces of her nipples.
On my way out I saw a man in his late seventies watching the show with the same interested content he would have watched Gardening Australia with his wife that morning. Then I took the stairs up to reality where unfortunately everyone had all their clothes on and nobody knew what was going on down those stairs.
| 40 |
| Vote |
Comment by Anonymous
Comment by Anonymous
In the last paragraph did you me 'One your way out" or 'On your way out'....Just Checking!
Comment by Anonymous
Great Article
Comment by Jin
Beautiful piece! Was like poetry...
I applaud your committment to researching the topic and only writing about what you know. But is it really necessary to keep visiting that place? Surely scav hunt 2002 was enough?