Finding the perfect PubTAB. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.

July 27, 2013

On the surface, having a punt in a pub should not pose too many difficulties.

There’s not much to it. Make your selection, fill out a ticket, place you bet, assume the position and get ready to buy the beers.

I should declare here, that I do have some experience in this field. Over many years. If there was a University of Pub Punting, I would at least be a Professor.

There’s nothing better than relaxing with friends in a place that gets it right. And there’s nothing worse than getting stuck in an establishment where the TAB operator doubles as the footpath sweeper.

You’ve all been there. And it’s a proven fact that it’s all but impossible to win in such joints.

One of my pet hates is when there’s no volume on the monitors. The joyful sound of the racecaller is muted. We must rely on the memory of the colours our good thing is wearing. And hope that our ageing eyes will stay in focus.

Some pubs only have one tote machine. Inevitably, it will be manned by a lovely lady, who was around when Phar Lap was a two year old. She will take her time. Especially when you have four blokes standing in front of you with seconds to spare.

I have been in establishments where the genius in charge decides it’s a good idea to have poker machines on the edge of the TAB area. It’s all gambling, after all. Nothing like those reels spinning while you’re trying to hear Greg Miles. If the sound is turned up.

I place bets on my you-beaut phone these days, but there are still times when I want to fill out a ticket. Maybe a sneaky trifecta or a little saver.

So often, I cannot find a sharp pencil. There will be exactly 1000 identical writing sticks, with not a hint of lead. Ink in the pens ran out the day Kingston Town went back to back.

Why is this? Is it a private joke, that publicans talk about at their annual conference?

One final annoyance. And it’s not usually the fault of the pub. Those places where the resident loudmouth takes centre stage.

He has two modes of operation. The first is to talk extremely loudly, while you’re watching a race. The second is to scream as if stabbed, in support of something he’s had one dollar each way on.

If someone would let me run a pub, he would be the first bloke I’d ban. Jack The Ripper could be at work behind the pool table, and he’d be allowed to stay ahead of this goose.

For all my complaining, there are plenty of places that get it right. The little pub down the road from me has a great feel every Saturday arvo. Plenty of room. Plenty of volume. Plenty of pencils.

My favourite surf club on the Gold Coast has the biggest screen you’ll ever see. You can be parking the car and you’ll still see who missed the start. Somehow, a losing afternoon is made a little more bearable with a view of the ocean. Only just, mind you.

Feel free to let your own publican know what you want, and what you don’t like. We suffer enough as punters. Fom my experience, they take such advice in the best possible way. Just don’t expect to hear a race for the next twelve months. And start bringing your own pencil.

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Memories of schoolboy survival. Why the back of the bus was a dangerous place.

October 4, 2011

Forget having your head flushed down the dunny. It was the bus that terrified me on the first day of high school.

I thought of this, as The Teenager whined to me about her travel habits.

Granted, she embarks on a fair trip. It goes via the absolute longest route, as buses tend to do. And she has to get up early to catch it, which is difficult for one who believes there should be no resting before midnight.

She could catch a train. I drive past the station every morning. But because her friends prefer the road trip, it’s a more social occasion.

Her complaint was more about other passengers. Apparently, ‘weirdos’ find the bus a handy way to travel. I assume this includes anyone over 25, those in suits, and the unwashed.

If only she knew. Back in the day, we risked life and limb just to get on board. Terror for a 12-year-old.

This wasn’t a private school. Public and proud. Rough and tumble. We knew no different.

The bus company had advised that it would no longer carry boys and girls on the same vehicles. Too dangerous, apparently. So while young ladies compared nail polish on one bus, we walked the gauntlet on the other.

Older boys were always up the back. For early morning fun, they would belt the tripe out of the Year 7 kids. A ritual that had gone on for ages.

From day one, we were warned NOT to get on first. Do that, and you were a sure thing to be pushed all the way to the back seat. And that meant you’d be fighting in the opening bout.

The trick was to let someone else get on, while you fumbled for your bus pass. It was always overcrowded. With an ounce of luck, you would end up in relative safety, jammed up the front.

It didn’t always work. So you took your lumps. Character building apparently. I can’t remember anyone complaining. I guess we thought the consequences would be far worse the next morning.

The bus bouts were a good incentive to ride your bike to school. It took a while, but I finally convinced mum it would be safe. If only she knew that dodging morning traffic was a breeze compared to backseat beltings.

My second-hand bike was a beauty. It had high, up-turned handlebars. I thought that was incredibly cool.

What wasn’t cool, was when those handlebars broke. As I was rocketing down a hill. I looked like a trainee unicyclist, waving the former steering device madly in the air.

I crashed, of course. Laughter echoed around the neighbourhood. I had to push my now bent and buckled machine to class, minus large chunks of skin.

A few years later, life became easier. While others had bus battles and bike bingles, I cruised into the car park in my trusty old Kingswood. There’s something very special about a Senior driving to school.

My new mobility had other advantages. It gave me lunchtime options. And every now and then, that involved a quiet flutter.

As ludicrous as this sounds, I would drive a few minutes down the road, to the local TAB. In my school uniform.

It all went well, until the Friday I bumped into a geography teacher, cheering home a favourite. Nothing was said. We were both caught out. He didn’t tell, and neither did I. The education system was different back then.

No need to let The Teenager in on any of this. She has her own problems. Until she gets her licence, she can stick to the bus, weirdos or no weirdos. She’ll be fine. As long as she stays away from the back seat.

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