It’s our big weekend.
My great mate and I are counting the days to our annual celebration of all things Blokey.
If you were reading my ramblings at this time last year, you know what’s ahead. And to both of you, thanks for sticking around.
For everyone else, here’s a brief rundown of what we do.
He’ll fly in on Friday morning, with a thirst you could photograph. We’ll gather with some wonderful lads later in the day, and head to Brisbane’s annual Bernborough Club lunch.
It’s the traditional warm up for Saturday’s Stradbroke Day. One of the great racing gatherings. Cool drinks will settle the dust.
When the tables are cleared, we’ll bid farewell to some of the industry’s finest, and make our way to one of the nation’s most famous pubs.
He loves the Caxton. He gets it. The history of the place, just a decent drop kick from the wonderful stadium up the road.
We’ll watch Friday night footy there. Remind each other how good we were all those years ago. And tell anyone within earshot that the game’s just not the same.
Nothing too late, mind you. We have to preserve our ageing bodies. Because the highlight of the weekend is still ahead.
Eagle Farm on Stradbroke Day is something to behold. The highlight of the Winter Carnival. A few bets. More cool drinks. We’ll celebrate by telling stories we’ve heard a thousand times before. And there’ll be laughter yet again. True mates.
When the races are done, we’ll do what we’ve always done. A Saturday night feast of Chinese.
Same place, year after year. You may laugh, and call us predictable and boring. The staff probably do too. We’ll change when you can find me a better Crispy Beef dish.
I know what you’re thinking. This is all too perfect. There must be an obstacle ahead. Well, you guessed right. Help is needed. We have no idea what to do next.
When blokes are just a trifecta away from turning 50, where do they go to listen to ‘our’ music? You’re laughing at us again.
It’s a legitimate concern. Who is catering for the old blokes out there? Doof Doof and DJs who go by just a single name are useless.
Pubs where the techno beat drones on until sunrise will never host us. Clubs where rap artists spit venom across the dance floor are another world away.
We want a place where we can rest our beer on the table, and listen to some good ol’ boys belting out The Eagles, Credence Clearwater Revival, Fleetwood Mac, the Steve Miller Band and Joe Cocker.
Later on they can throw in a bit of Powderfinger, and The Doors. Maybe Dragon, The Angels and Mental as Anything. And of course, the hits of the great J.R. Cash are welcome at any time.
I don’t think it’s too much to ask. Old farts need to be entertained too. We won’t cause any trouble. Just some foot-tapping, and off-key warbling.
Your suggestions are welcome. Unless you’re a DJ rapper who wears gold chains, and goes by the name of Slide. For everyone else, take pleasure in telling us where to go.