The concept of a hotel in Australia is an interesting thing. I’m not talking about your traditional bed-and-breakfast type situation, although they do of course exist, I’m talking about pubs and clubs with some kind of restaurant function, which are known in Australia as hotels for some reason that I don’t fully understand.
The concept is reasonably basic: have a bar, offer food, satisfy the RSA regulations. Food is considered a good way to combat drunkenness, you see. Given the Aussie diet, this has led to just about every bar pasting up large signs outside offering “The $7 steak! (Conditions apply)” or “The $5 steak! (Conditions apply)” or, sometimes, even “The $9 steak! (No conditions!)”. Most bars then provide an eating area, often to do with their licence.
Much in the same fashion that anti-smoking measures are creeping in all over the world, anti-alcohol measures are slowly edging into Australia. All employees of any place that serves alcohol are required to take a one day course called Responsible Service of Alcohol, which covers such topics as how to spot drunks and the hefty fines that you may receive if you serve them. To the customer, what this means is drinking in Australia becomes some kind of secret service operation: you can get drunk provided that you don’t look drunk. Staggering, fumbling with change, and slurring your words are all instant tickets out the door. The bar staff become your enemy, all eager to remove you and save their arses from the inevitable police visit. And the police will visit; the bar I work in is sometimes invaded twice a night by uniformed officers, talking to customers, looking for drunks, and sometimes even demanding to see proof that all of the staff have undergone the all-important RSA training.
[I know I’ve written about the events of this Christmas before, but I wanted to turn it into a slightly more journalistic piece of writing, so here it is for your reading pleasure.]
The Australian Christmas is a strange event for a pasty white British guy like myself. For me, Christmas has always meant bitter cold, the kind of rain that soaks you to the bone in 10 seconds, huge dinners, and wishing you had an open fire. For Australia, however, Christmas happens around the beginning of Summer, so it marks the first trips to the beaches, the firing up of backyard barbeques, and the donning of even more extra-strong sunblock to ward off the obscene amounts of UV light that pour through the hole in the ozone layer.
It’s been a while since I wrote one of those boring livejournal-esque blog posts that doesn’t contain any interesting information but tells all you readers what I had for breakfast, so here we go.
Lately I’ve been eating muesli for breakfast every day without fail. Work is going ok; it’s not the best job in the world but it’s certainly not the worst. There’s a good crowd of people there, I enjoy being on nights and the pay is decent, although it’s only now, after Christmas and New Years have taken their toll, that I’ve managed to start saving any money. I’m saving enough though; I reckon I will manage to avoid starvation and malnutrition through Asia. Thanks to all this money coming in and finally having a kitchen that isn’t shared with 200 people I’ve got back into cooking and I’m absolutely loving it. I’ve finally, after all these years, learned to make omelettes, and I’ve been trying to eat healthily, which has resulted in me losing about an inch off my waistline.
G’day mates! Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas. It was a real pleasure to chat to all of the people who I phoned and who phoned me: you made my evening, and morning!
My Christmas, like all good Christmasses, started in a supermarket, with James and I running around trying to buy anything we could find that featured reindeer or santa while Hamish showed his age and followed us around like a disappointed parent. We eventually left with very few ridiculous purchases (although we did get some reindeer-adorned napkins) and a full Christmas dinner, along with plenty of wine, beer, and port.