In the wake of Australia Day, I’d like to introduce you to someone I met whilst pouring beers at a Bowling Club…
At around 6:30 the Rotarians start plodding in to launch their Schlieffen-esque sub-committee offensive. They approach me at the bar, usually to order a middy of light or a glass of De Bortoli Colombard Chardonnay. They're mostly from that ever expanding generation of elderly Australians; in their 60s and 70s, too young for WWII and The Depression, but old enough to be casually racist and believe that corrugated gherkins and squares of tasty cheddar are a pretty decent canape.
Monty is my pick of the bunch. Standing around 5 foot 9, he is too large for small man syndrome, yet demonstrates most of its characteristics. Moustached and combed over in a short-sleeve-and-tie combination, he resembles an aged, slightly slimmer version of The Office's David Brent.
'Have you pulled one off the light keg yet?' He says.
'Not yet, but it's been on all day. I just got here.'
'It'll be flat then.'
Monty is in Real Estate Sales – which, of course, anyone in the vicinity can read on his enormous name tag. According to him, everything ‘east of the highway’ is his turf. He has twice told me this, while gesturing to his wrist: 'it bought me this mate. Biggest Tag on the market. Solid Gold.'
I present him his middy and he eyes it suspiciously. 'More head than I'd usually expect.' Unbeknownst to Monty, nearly every comment he makes about beer has a better use as sexual innuendo.
'Any less and it'd go flat. $2.60.' I say.
He pulls $15 in 10 cent pieces from his pocket, drops them on the bar and marches off to supervise the setting up of the PA. I'm left to salvage the money in his wake. Monty spends the next five minutes floating around the bar area – at one point embarrassing a man in his 70s by asking if his 'new girl's a good root?' Seconds later I overhear him in a completely unrelated conversation use the term 'young jewess.'
Around 6:45 he returns to his drink at the bar and stares at me for attention, lips slightly parted. 'It's disgusting isn't it?' He says.
'What's disgusting?'
He jerks his head in the direction of a man standing a few metres behind him. 'There's no excuse for being that fat... despicable.'
I draw a blank. 'Everyone's different?'
'Nope.' Says Monty. 'No excuse. He's a pig. A doctor once told me that you can look as good as you like.'
I attempt the high road of silence, but let myself down. 'Right?'
'I reckon I look pretty good for 65 mate.'
'-'
Our conversation was unfortunately cut short. The official gong says that it’s 6:55PM – so the Rotarians repair to their seats to toast themselves and the Queen. Besides, beef stroganoff won’t eat itself. After dinner, Monty enters the meeting in an official capacity, in his role as quizmaster. He takes the podium, announcing that tonight’s topic would be tennis. He looks pretty good, too.