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.

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My wife and I were enjoying a great impromptu dinner, with our amigos, Carol and Johnny “Spiderman” (we all call him by this self-ascribed poker call sign).

Me – “I need to raise an important topic.”

Spiderman – “Oh, here we go, a Cool Hand tangent (most my mates call me by my self-ascribed poker call sign). This won’t be important, it’ll be shit.”

Carol – “Quiet Johnny. This sounds important.” She slapped her husband gently on the back of the head. “Yes Jase, we’re listening.”

Me – “I was driving through Hornswood and I had to stop for road works. I sat in my car, at the front of the cue and I was immediately saddened… no, more than that, I was gutted. And then I was outraged!”

Spiderman – “Yeeees.”

Me – “I realized at that moment that we’d lost an icon, like Polly Waffles, throwdowns and the Tassie Tiger, that’s gone forever. The person operating the stop-sign, was an attractive young woman, wearing a figure-hugging, flouro safety vest!”

Isabel (my lovely wife) – “You pervert.”

Me – “My question is, where have the old stop-signer guys gone?? WHERE?? It’s been a tradition for, oh I don’t know, about the last 150 years, that the stop-signers were always the grumpy old guys who looked like the lovechild of Willie Nelson and a dirty version of Charles Bronson. The blokes with unshaven faces, long greasy grey hair, with a used-to-be-white hard hat, perched on top.”

Spiderman – “Another beer?”

Me – “Where have they gone?? The old blokes, who, stop-sign in hand, used to stare intimidatingly at Hornswood dads snuggled in their BMW’s or Audi’s on their way to work. The dads didn’t dare eyeball, but just waited patiently because the stop-signers had no doubt once kicked a man to death in a bar fight.”

I sipped my drink. “Hornswood dads didn’t dare drive off too early, while waiting for the sign to be turned, and they didn’t ever get any reaction when they give a thank you wave to the hardened stop-signer. They instantly regretted emasculating themselves by waving.

Where have they gone?? The wolf-whistling, wife-perving, swearing, punting, old dude. The skinny, wizened, sign-leaning, craggy old lads with the Tom Cruise reflecto sunnies who have been working the roads since 1976. The ones who have gained enough seniority to not have to dig, pat down molten tar, or get down and dirty in a hole. Where have they gone??”

Spiderman – “I’m ready for another beer. Your shout Cool Hand.”

Me – “The blokes with the rotten teeth and the ingrained dirtiness which is a badge of honour, only earned from working years in he sun and tar-fumes, while smoking 30 ciggies every day. The old stop-signers, who hold the sign as solid as a rock, in any weather, at any time of night or day and in any part of the city. Typhoon, stifling heat, torrential rain, snow, they don’t care, they just work the sign. The last true bastions of manhood. They are the stop-signers.

And what have they been replaced with?? Buxom, attractive, Irish backpackers!”

Isabel – “Pervert.”

Me – “It’s not like the crusty old blokes can walk into a new job at Maccas selling thick shakes. Any big accounting firms going to ship these guys in to start running their audits? Some of those flashy merchant bankers looking for a few more support staff? Unlikely.”

Spiderman – “YOUR SHOUT!”

Me – “The old stop signers need to eat you know! They need to pay rent and buy a shit-load of fuel! They need to finance a pack and a half a day and 6-8 schooners after work!”

Spiderman – “Cool Hand wouldn’t shout if a shark bit him.” 

Me – “It used to be when a Hornswood dad pulled up next to a hardened old stop-signer, he could fart and check in his rearview mirror that he doesn’t have any boogers. Now there’s “Miss Dublin” standing right next to their window, busily checking her text messages while loosely flopping her sign all over the place, Hornswood dads are heading into their offices with potentially boogery noses and full of wind.

Where have the old stop signers gone?  Somebody knows. SOMEBODY KNOWS!” I sighed and looked down at the table.

Not how a flouro-vest is meant to look.

Carol – “You were right Johnny, that really was total shit.”

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I went to an impromptu BBQ about a year ago at one of our really good friend’s houses. It was meant to be just the hosts, Kelly and Luke, and us. At the last-minute Kelly’s brother Trevor asked if he could join us. No problem normally, right? We’d never met Trev but I’d heard plenty about him for quite a number of years. What I’d heard was all bad.

Trev is a… never-bring.

Like most Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby to Chatswood) people, when we go to a friend’s house we bring whatever we want to drink, plus a bit extra for the hosts and a few nibbles as a contribution. However not a “never-bring,” no sir. They turn up with zippo, regularly.

Don’t think the fact they have turned up with nothing, means that a “never-bring” goes hungry or thirsty. Oh no. They drink as if they’re the lovechild of Mel Gibson and David Hasselhoff and they eat like the offspring of 70’s Elvis and George Christensen.

That night (I was admittedly on the lookout for never-bring-shenanigans due to Lukey’s heads-up), it didn’t take long for Trev to oblige. When he helped himself to the first of my beautiful low-carb craft beers, I didn’t say a word. After the second and third of my refreshing beverages were being washed down his throat, I held my tongue. Despite him also turning out to be a major whinger and oozing tall poppy syndrome.

When he got up to go to the toilet, my wife spoke softly to me.

My wife – “Now I know Luke told you how much Trevor annoys him and he has had three of your beers, but remember he’s Kelly’s brother! You brought twelve, you’ve got plenty left.”

Me – “But the freaken never-bring is drinking faster than me.” I was feeling all the brother-in-law-rage poor Lukey had pent up over many years.

The hosts had gone to the kitchen and Trev returned to the table, with a fourth one of my beers. He cracked it open and looked closely at the label.

The never-bring – “Low-carb… this is a fucking girl’s drink!”

Me – “OH FOR FUCKS SAKE. If you don’t like it here’s an idea, BRING YOUR OWN!! You’re a fucking never-bring and you’re complaining about the type of beer which I brought, of which you have drunk four, without even fucking asking. You never-brings have got a hide.”

The never-bring – “What’s your problem Jase? Tight?” The never-bring smirked at me and sipped my icy cold low-carb beer.

Me – “Jesus Christ Trev. Do you not see the irony in you calling me tight? Do you seriously think your company is so wonderful that you don’t have to contribute to the evening in any way? That the beers which your brother and I have provided somehow become shared property amongst the three of us?”

“I bring stuff,” he replied. This was a lie.

Me – “But you don’t Trev. You… don’t… If by some freakish occurrence some bloke happened to be giving away free six packs of beer out the front of Lukey’s house here tonight, and you were given no choice but to bring it in with you, I bet it’d be Tooheys New… and you’d end up drinking his Coronas! YOU’RE A NEVER-BRING TREV. You’re a burden on your family.”

Just then Kelly and Lukey returned to the veranda with the potato salad and garlic bread. My wife, Trev and I sat in obvious silence. Trev had an angry look on his face.

Kelly – “What’s happened?”

Me – “Your brother’s a never-bring,” I stated factually.

Kelly spun around and looked at her husband. “A what?”

Lukey – “Oh no”.

I gave Lukey a nod of contrition, meaning I’m sorry I dropped you in it mate, but what could I do?

I think it’s time, we the good people of Hornswood rise up and unite against the never-brings. They need to know that we are not going to put up with their advantage-taking ways any longer. Be they brother, sister, neighbour, friend or plumber, their time is nigh. If you know any of their kind, you must confront them. Like a writhing, screaming vampire we must drag them out into the sun. NEVER-BRINGS, YOU WILL TAKE ADVANTAGE NO LONGER. Your days are numbered.

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The social kiss “hello” between friends seems such an innocuous social moment, but it can be fraught with real danger.

We’ve all been there.

You’re at the pub with some mates, desperately hoping that the Sea Eagles win and then you see a female friend coming up to say “hi”. You put your drink into your left hand and go in for the kiss hello. Good times.

Despite the fact that the kiss takes but a few moments, there are many things that can go wrong and a number of issues which need be considered:

WHICH SIDE?

I know things can be a little different in Europe, but in Hornswood (the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby and Chatswood) my face is going to the left-hand-side every time. I expect the woman to also go to her left. If she does, it’s all sweet. If she doesn’t it can be awkward and chaotic. If one of us goes left and one goes right, there can be nasal-clashes, mis-kisses, head-butts (in extreme cases) and all-round embarrassment. It’s awful.

What’s nearly as bad as a left/right mix up is when somebody “throws-the-dummy,” whereby through their confident body language, they give me the impression they’re competent in the social-kiss-hello field and they have mastered the perfect technique. Thereby lulling me into a false sense of kiss-security, so I nonchalantly turn to the left.

Then they suddenly do a subtle little hesitant-shimmy at the last second interrupting the coming-in-for-a-kiss body movement, which makes you think they are swapping at this late stage, to the right. It throws the rhythm out altogether and can be a disaster.

Always go the left ladies. Please.

HANDS

Use of the hands during the social-kiss-hello, depends entirely on how good a friend they are. I wouldn’t go putting my hand on the arm of my kid’s Head Mistress, if meeting her for the second time.

If you’re kissing a relatively new friend, hands are only permitted to make contact with the shoulder and at best, the upper arm. With a really close friend it’s permissible to put your hands on their waist, but women will always worry you’ll think they’re fat if you put your hand on that waist area where most normal people carry a little bit of beef.

You of course cannot allow your hand to drop too low and any form of inebriation is not an acceptable excuse. Much care is required.

LIP CONTACT

There can never be any incidental lip-to-lip contact. If your lips end up somehow pursed against your friends, even if it was due to an unavoidable left/right mix-up, then you are pretty much saying “I want you. Any chance?” This is quite often frowned upon by the person you are kissing and possibly their spouse standing next to them.

Even the sides of your lips coming into contact can be interpreted as meaning “I want you… a little. Any chance?” This can still be problematic.

THE LIP ON CHEEK PAUSE

Once your lips hit the Hornswood cheek, you must then decide how quickly to withdraw. Sometimes you hang around there for a full second, but other times you are in and out faster than an irate cobra striking at an annoying little mongoose. However, despite the importance of the length of the lip-on-cheek pause, there’s no way of predicting how long the other person is expecting you to hang around there.

You simply need to be poised, ready withdraw at exactly the moment she does.

THE POST-KISS HUG

Don’t think that once the kiss is over there are no more decisions to be made.

There is then the post-kiss hug to navigate. The difficulty with the hug is that you don’t actually know if it’s going to happen at all. Once the kiss is over, the hug can be initiated by either party and it can be terrible if one person is not ready to reciprocate.

If the hug’s on, you then also have to speculate on how long it’s going to last. There’s nothing worse than unintentionally trying to put a premature end to a hug by pulling away when the person you are hugging is still holding on like Andre the Giant.

The degree of difficulty for the social-kiss-hello of course, is greatly magnified by both participants, only having a few seconds to weigh up all these factors.

How about this?

Maybe we should all slow the social kissing process down dramatically and all pause to prepare. When both parties are ready, like rugby players to the old call of “crouch, pause, engage” we go in, having discussed the expectation/rules. All embarrassment, awkwardness and potential injuries are thereby averted.

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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