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That bloody landlord is trying for a dictatorship down at the Dog and Flea. He has a ladies' room and a snooker room, a music
room and a smoking room, and woe betide any poor sod who accidentally strays into the wrong territory. Too bad for the ladies
who enjoy a bit of music or a game of snooker, or the smoker who fancies a chat with a lady. Any infringement of his designed
territories, and you're out on your ear. The only alternative is the grotty looking public bar, either that or go right across
town to the Stockman's Spittoon, the only other pub in this benighted place.
He employs a sadistic barman, who keeps an eye on potential evil-doers, and if your last drink isn't down your gullet
2 minutes after he calls "Time", then he gets the boss to bar you for two whole weeks. You even have to beg him
for the key before you can visit the little boys' room, and how un-Australian is that? Then you still have to come back and
ask for the bloody toilet roll.
Before this would-be Hitler and his sadistic henchman took over the licence, I used to hang my pictures on the walls,
and the pub would sell them for me for a small commission, but not now. As an artist I'm in danger of starving in the proverbial
garret, thanks to this cultural moron. It saved me the expense of lugging them to the galleries and all the drama that entailed.
People would come regularly once the word got out, just to buy my pictures.
But things won't always be like they are at present. I'm lucky that I have plenty of friends in this neighbourhood, and
even luckier that they all feel the same as I do. So tonight we have a surprise for those little tin Gods.
We organised, not exactly a strike, but something well in keeping with the rules. We're planning to rotate rooms. The
ladies will occupy the snooker room, the smokers will fill up the music room, and we'll divide the usual occupants of the
public bar up into those rooms. We plan chaos! Then the barman will go blue in the face trying to keep us all in our places,
and will have to throw the lot of us out. Then we'll all leg it for the Stockman's Spittoon and boost their profits for the
night. The boss won't like the ensuing loss of business, so won't be too happy with mini-Hitler.
We plan to do this every night until he comes to his senses and decides to do things our way. It shouldn't take too long
before he welcomes us back with open arms and a relaxed policy, or just goes out of business. Either way, with time on our
side, we win. Pity we can't do that with John Howard and Co!
© Sandy Parkinson, October, 2006. Word count 485
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