The Charles was a pub in Hornswood which is gone now but thirty years ago was really dodgy. It was rough, known as a hangout for bikies, dealers and tough dudes and back in ’88 for some reason I’d ended up there with a mate. We had been drinking… heaps.

Anyway, nature called. I needed to shake hands with the man so I made my way through the intimidating Charles crowd.

There was a woman in the gents, by herself looking in the mirror. She turned and gave me the old stink-eye. She was not happy to see me at all. Nor was I happy to see her. That place is the last true bastion of manhood.

Angry woman in the men’s – “Wrong fucking place idiot, this is the ladies!”

Her aggressive tone instantly got my back up.

Me – “Actually I think you’re in the wrong… place (I left a deliberate pause where she had used fucking, to take the moral high ground). This is the men’s.”

Angry woman in the men’s – “Why would I be in the men’s?”

My brain was cloudy, but came up with the perfect retort.

Me – “Well… why would I be in the ladies?” It felt good. I now had the moral high ground and the psychological advantage.

Angry woman in the men’s – “Because you’re a drunk fucking idiot!

Me – “Whoa, whoa, whoa! I’m not drunk.”

I was drunk.

I did take a sneaky look around and couldn’t see any urinal, but it could have been around the corner. And the place did smell quite nice. However, I was standing my ground.

Me – “The only way we can settle this is to wait for the next person to enter.”

She sighed deeply.

Me – “If I’m wrong, I’ll admit you’re right and that I’m a drunk fucking idiot. If you’re wrong, you admit that just being angry doesn’t make you right.”

With such high stakes, I was getting a little nervous. We stood silently for a few moments, just two people who didn’t really want to be in each other’s company. I put off shaking hands with the man until the situation was clarified.

Finally the door opened and a large Maori looking BLOKE, walked in.

Me – “YEAH! I KNEW IT.”

I threw up my hand to high-five the big man. He ignored me.

Me – “Don’t leave me hangin’ .” I waved my high-five-awaiting hand around a bit.

Maori looking bloke – “ASSHOLE, you’re in the ladies. Out!”

Damn. I felt like a fool. I obediently started to follow the bouncer. She gave me the stink eye again. This time it really burned.

Me – “I was wrong.”

I started towards the door, which the bouncer held open.

Angry woman in the ladies – “Annnd?”

Me – “And I’m a drunk fucking idiot.”

Angry woman in the ladies – “Thank you.” She turned to the mirror and continued to put on lipstick.

Maori looking bloke – “Drunk hey? Time to leave then.”

Anyway, it took some time, but I eventually talked my way out of being evicted. And an hour or so later… it was time to shake hands with the man again.

I went into the gents this time, and just for a second I thought the two blokes at the sinks were women because the previous run-in still burned fresh in my mind and they both were tending to their long hair. One was flicking his hair and one looked to be tying his back in a pony-tail.

I was so relieved that I hadn’t made the same mistake again.

Me – “Jeez boys, I thought I was in the ladies!” I wish I had thought before I spoke, a common failing for me.

The two men turned. They were massive, scary, bikies! Big men. Lots of neck tattoos, muscles, bikie colours, thick moustaches, the works. They looked ready to bollard me to death.

I knew if I didn’t turn the mood immediately, I was gone. I took a punt.

Me – “THEN I THOUGHT SHIT, THERE’S TWO REALLY UNATTRACTIVE LADIES IN HERE.”

They were huge! I’m not small but these boys both dwarfed me. They didn’t laugh. I had to take one last crack at making them see the funny side. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion.

Me – “Two really unattractive ladies… one of which is carrying a bit of extra weight.” I pointed at the biggest bloke’s gut.

They burst into laughter. It was sweet music to my ears.

One bikie (through laughter) – “Fuck me Felon, I can’t believe he called you a lady. THAT’S A FIRST!” He was struggling to get the words out.

Felon – “And you a fat fucking lady!” They laughed hard.

I urinated (all the while thinking FUCK he’s called Felon) and left, while they still laughed loudly inside.

As the door shut behind me, another bikie approached. Not as big, but equally as scary.

New, equally as scary bikie – “What’s fuckin’ goin’ on in there?”

Me – “Felon’s just having a bit of a laugh.”

New, equally as scary bikie – “Felon’s laughing? Well fuck me.”

I made my way back to my table and my very much out-of-place friend. I sat down quietly. Ten minutes later Felon sent over a whiskey shot.

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Here’s one of the more hilarious things I can remember seeing.

About 25 years ago, eight of us Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby to Chatswood) lads were in a packed Eastern Suburbs bowling club for some barefoot night-time bowls.

At about 8:00pm a MASSIVE storm blew over. Thunder, lightning, bucketing rain, the works. We along with about 60 or so other bowlers all rushed into the clubhouse or under the awnings to get out of the squall. However, our mate Mac (who was completely stoned) was too out-of-it to budge. He was in the bad place of over-intoxication and could not move off the outside bench.

Mac was 110kg, 6 foot 4″ so we physically could not budge him, not in our drunken state anyway. So we left him sitting out in the perfect storm. We stood around with bowlers and watched and laughed at our friend out there, unmoving as wind and rain lashed him.

Finally after an hour in the soaking tempest Mac suddenly sprang to life, got his second wind and wandered into the bowling club looking like he’d just stepped out of a pool. As EVERYBODY had been laughing at Mac on a bench in the hurricane, he got a rousing round of applause. He was wet and embarrassed.

Mac spotted us seated near the only pool table. He looked ridiculous, but relatively with-it.

Me – “Mac, your shot mate. Hurry up! We’re on bigs.” I pointed at the pool table.

Now Mac after his coma/sleep, feeling quite in control of his senses and leaving puddles wherever he stepped, spied our opponents. Two ten-year-old boys.

There’s only one bent, old pool cue in the place. Mac wandered over and confidently plucked the cue out of the overweight ten-year-old’s hands. With a look of complete disdain for the kid, Mac leaned over, water running off his chin and somehow managed to sink the purple twelve. The right ball even.

His success went straight to Mac’s head. He’d gone from the laughingstock of the establishment to the kick-arse pool shark! Mac had his dignity back.

Going a bit over the top with his one-ball success, Mac raised the cue above his head and did a mocking dance in front of the pudgy little kid. He chanted loud and proud, like he’d just won a Grand Final.

Mac – “YEAH!! TWELVE-BALL GONE! YOU THOUGHT I’D MISS IT DIDN’T YOU SONNY. WELL NOT ON MY WATCH. NOT OL’ MAC! WHERE’S THE TWELVE BALL KID… OH… IT’S GONE. EL GONSKI!”

The child just looked up at the massive man. His face a mixture of fear, surprise and… well mostly fear. The kid’s mother then bustled up to Mac. She came up to about his chest and was irate.

Mother – “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING YOU BIG DUFUS? WHY DON’T YOU GO BACK AND SIT ON YOUR BENCH YOU… MORON.” She slapped the cue out of his hands. It bounced on the carpeted floor.

Now Mac even in his inebriated mind knew that his mocking dance had possibly been out of line when playing a child. And he definitely did see fear in the ten-year-olds eyes when he discoed in front of him but come on! That’s what playing pool is all about. He considered telling the mother that it’s just part of the game, to lighten up, but she looked really mad so he didn’t.

Mac wandered back to us lads and we were in hysterics. I can’t ever remember laughing louder or longer.

Mac – “Jeez mum’s a bit touchy.”

More laughter.

Me – “Mac (I put a hand on his shoulder) we weren’t actually playing.“

He froze. It dawned on him. His jaw dropped. We weren’t actually playing. He’s rocked up to this little ten-year-old who’s having a quiet game of pool with his friend, plucked the cue out of his meaty little hands, sunk one of his balls and had done a teasing “in your face” dance. No wonder his mum slapped the cue away.

Mac then stumbled over to the mother, his new-found sobriety having been torn from him and offered to shout them another game of pool or maybe some ice-cream.

Mother – “Keep THE HELL away from my child!“

We laughed. Mac dripped.

PLEASE USE THE BUTTONS BELOW TO SHARE FAR AND WIDE.

Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to be able to claim when meeting a new person at a Hornswood party, that I am in fact… a writer (whereby my wife generally jumps in and proclaims “he’s actually NOT a writer”). If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I write stuff for a few small companies, but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I have set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers