In defence of the gutter

Well, it is there right under the big fucking slogan that reads: "An Alcoholic's Guide to Modern Life". A further statement. It reads: "We are in the gutter, but some of us enjoy it."

Now this statement, which I am told is a "play" on some sort of thing some prick called Oscar Wilde once said, was not actually something I personally came up with.

It was something that was once said about Carlo Sands by someone who, for reasons that escape me, calls herself "Amy".

The details of how it came to be said are a little hazy, but I believe it involved Canberra and a bad hangover.

And it is an accurate enough summary of the ideology, nay philosophy of Carlo Sands.

But I would, on reflection, go further and state: "We are all in a gutter but some of us DON'T EVEN FUCKING REALISE IT!"

No, some of us live in denial. Some of us think we can escape the gutter. And they think this is an easy task and one to be actively pursued.

The way you do this is you go some place to do your drinking, as we all must, that involves a greater wanker-per-head ratio than, say, some place with no one else there.

These places, for reasons that completely escape me, are usually full of people. And the way you can tell this is a place that its inhabitants think is above the gutter is, as well as the unseemly crowds, that the fucking beer costs more.

And sometimes, it even comes with a twist of some sort. Like if you hand over to the poor, overworked bastard behind the bar twice the cash for a standard beer, they'll kindly throw some fucking tabasco sauce into you beer for you.

You know, just for fucking kicks.

God knows why anyone would drink beer with tabasco fucking sauce in it, unless they were being force-fed it in Guantanamo Bay in the latest horrific torture technique invented by the Land of the Fucking Free as part of its bid to spread democracy one poor fucking tortured concentration camp prisoner at a time.

But apparently, the very possibility of ordering such a monstrosity, such a crime against humanity in blatant violation of the Geneva Conventions, is a sure sign you have taken a step out of the much-maligned gutter.

You know, as opposed to all those places that just serve fucking beer straight without the foresight of offering, for a just few extra hard earned dollars, a dollop of hot fucking sauce that renders your beer undrinkable.

And the worst thing about such places is they are never located anywhere fucking decent. By which I mean, located somewhere not overridden by fuckwits and wankers.

And yet, such places, in locations overridden with prats (to say nothing of very uptight bouncers) are considered, in some way, to be a step up from some dive in nowhere in particular.

That is, nowhere overrun by prats. Or, indeed, much in the way of anyone else.

And seriously, what is it with the bouncers in these areas? All you want is another fucking drink and you can't walk in to some place without being harassed by some meathead asking very impertinent questions, such as: "How much have you had tonight, mate?"

Ah, how about you mind your own fucking business is what you want to say. Or, clearly not enough as evidenced by the fact I am trying to walk into another fucking pub.

But you don't say that, because your chance of another drink is dependent on the goodwill of the giant slab of beef with an earpiece asking the question.

So you try and sound coherent and mumble something about "maybe a couple" and you get refused entry by the coked-up, steroid-ridden monstrosity who sees fit to judge your drug use.

That is the sort of neighbourhood where you find these "beer-with-tabasco-sauce" joints.

And, apparently, this is a step up from the gutter.

Well here is the thing. It really, really isn't. It is still the fucking gutter.

It is no less the gutter than some near-empty squalid pub with an old, drunken, redfaced Irishman behind the bar who insists on playing Kenny Rogers "The Gambler" on repeat on the jukebox.

It is still the gutter, only with more wankers in your way.

You can't escape the gutter. Not by choosing a different joint to try and kill the pain of late monopoly capitalism in.

The gutter is where we live. It is the place we are assigned to by our benighted rulers. Who, by the way, also live in the gutter — only with much more expensive booze and better views.

Or, in the case of those puppets the rulers like to pretend are allowed to rule, in Canberra.

The gutter is life in this society.

And by all means "look at the stars", as that absinthe-drinking Irish bastard once said.

Which means, as Wilde himself spelled out in The Soul of Man Under Socialism, dare to imagine a different society is possible, one in which we are not enslaved to some form of degrading labour, not alienated, not subjected to the horrors of war, exploitation and Justin Bieber.

And by all means, organise to overthrow this fucking system that threatens total destruction of all life on Earth.

Carlo Sands is for that. Hell, I even started the important work of scoping out a potential wall to put the motherfuckers up against.

But, within this nightmare, it is all just a nightmare.

That is why people drink, no matter how many times the government, who are all fucking alcoholics, or the media, who are all fucking alcoholics, warn us about the dangers of alcohol abuse and come up with insane, laughable formulas about four or more standard drinks is binge drinking.

There is no "step up". There is no "better class of joint". There are only more expensive drinks and more wankers in your way at the bar.

What do you need from a pub? You need available booze and a place to sit and talk to a small group of people about shit to in a bid to forget about the nightmare that is the world.

And maybe play a game of pool.

The best thing a pub can be is close. That is the best characteristic a pub can have, after "cheap" and "not overridden with wankers".

The worst argument that can be made is that going to some joint located in the middle of some wanker-ridden suburb is it means you have "more of a social life".

Jesus fucking christ, you want a social life go see the fucking theatre. Go and watch the goddamn ballet. Get up at 6am on a Sunday morning to join a bushwalking society. Go to flower shows.

But if you just want a drink to relax and forget the world, then just go and have a fucking drink. And pick your company with care.

But do not engage in illusions, nay delusions about where you chose to do your drinking.

And if you must enter one of these hubs of wankery, of pratness — let's pick a place at random and say Newtown/Enmore — then it is much more enjoyable if you assault the place in the company of someone, let's call him "Ben", who has been drinking goon all afternoon and is staggering up the street to the pub dressed in a suit for no reason other than he has been drinking goon all afternoon and it seems a good idea.

And, in between some decent, coherent discussion on the relative prospects of the Bulldogs or Bombers in the 2011 Premiership Season, you have to try and convince him that stealing one of those big, moveable heaters is not wise, nor is it advisable to stop random passerbyers to ask whether they like to wear condoms or just shout out, to the beer garden, "Woopha!!!" every half-a-minute.

You get to test out important life-phrases such as "C'mon Ben, don't do that..." and "for christ's sake Ben, SHUT UP!".

And wonder in amazement at how long it takes before the bouncers make their way over to advise that leaving sooner, rather than later, may be in everyone's best interests.

And at the fact it took some bastard at a nearby table to rat Ben out to the bouncers after he hid an empty jug in some bushes to pick up on the way home — especially as he completely forgot he put it there anyway.

And that he scored a free glass when, after the bouncers' "time to leave" message, he staggered out of the premises with half a schooner in hand - only to find out later it got confiscated five metres down the street. But, anyhow, it didn’t matter as he had another stuffed in his inside suit pocket he had forgotten about but discovered to his surprise the next day.

If you must drink in these places, best approach it in such a way.

But ok. I mean, you know, what difference does it make? Drink where you fucking like. It doesn't matter, you know, just drink.

But don't pretend where you drink is any better than anywhere else. It is still just the gutter with some fucking booze on tap. And *that* is all that fucking matters.



"Nine-to-five is eating us alive, eating us alive. We're not kings, we are footsoldiers. We are walking the road to nowhere ... Is there any other place for us to go? Or is there even anywhere we know? No, no, no, no ..."

The right response when the fuckers try and stop you enjoying a drink

We live in a pretty fucked up world. The brutal imperialist war on Afghanistan and Pakistan continues unabated by remote control, the rulers of the world have decided to ignore the dire warnings and to allow ongoing ecological destruction, and new statistics suggest the most influential person online is the devil child himself: Justin Fucking Bieber.

And, in the face of all of this, the approach of those that rule us seems to be to make it as difficult as possible to cope with the horrors of their system by enjoying a fucking drink or twelve. Just to really torture us.

Hell, as well as proposals in some states to raise the drinking age to 21, the Northern Territory has gone ahead and banned the sale of cask wine in quantities of more than two litres!

This is going too far - the four litre goonbag is part of the goddamned national culture. Poor old Tom Angrove, the inventor of goon who sadly passed away last March aged 92, will be rolling in his fucking grave.

If you can't get a four litre cask of the red-coloured goon for about ten bucks, then what the hell is this godforsaken country about? What the fuck are highschoolers and uni students meant to fucking do? At the very least, it is going to require return trips to the goddamn bottlo.

Well, take heart fellow liver destroyers, at this inspiring tale of resistance by prisoners in a British jail.

All the poor fuckers were trying to do is what people have been doing the world over as a new year rolled in: drinking to forget what a fucked-up year it was and to forget how fucked-up the next one will inevitably be too.

An AFP article, entitled Buildings razed in British prison riot, tells the heroic story:

LONDON: Specialist police have quelled a riot at a British prison after inmates set buildings alight when staff tried to breathalyse some of the 200 prisoners amid fears alcohol had been smuggled in on New Year's Day.

Authorities are investigating the day-long rampage involving about 40 inmates which began early on Saturday at Ford open prison near Arundel, in Sussex in south-east England.

Several buildings were burnt to the ground and police in body armour and firefighters were called in. Television pictures showed flames leaping from several buildings at the 1960s-era prison.

And why shouldn't the poor bastards be allowed a fucking drink? Or is getting pissed only for the rich and privileged in Britain, as suggested by a recent study showing high income earners drink the most?

Carlo Sands says good on the prisoners! That is how you fucking do it. We need more of this.

I personally witnessed a smaller version of this type of resistance a week or so ago when I was on the the first floor balcony of the Newtown pub Kelly's at about 3.30am. The pub security guy had been trying to put a downer on people's alcohol-fuelled fun when one young guy from a table of drunks got up and bravely started singing Bohemien Rhapsody as loud as he could.

Inspired, from every table on the balcony people rose as one to join him in his stand - as the security man raced out in a panic, despairing as he tried to put down the Queen Rebellion.

It was a small gesture, perhaps, but it shows the collective power of a group of drunken strangers when they decide to unite, stand as one and shout "Mama just killed a man, put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead!"

It would, of course, been much better had they been singing The Pogues, but you take your inspiration where you find it.



"And in the Euston Tavern you screamed it was your shout, but they wouldn't give you service so you kicked the windows out. They took you out into the street and kicked you in the brains, so you walked back in through a bolted door and did it all again". The Pogues "Sick Bed of Cuchulainn" would have been a better choice for drunken rebellion, but, in a world as fucked up as this one, you take your inspiration where you find it.

No can do this, no can do that, what the hell can you do, my friend, at this ‘community festival’?

“Where there’s a music shall be comin’ out of every car, there is a silence all over downtown. Where community celebrates shall be aroused,I walk the sterile gardens where life is on pause ... No can do this no can do that, what the hell can you do my friend, in this place that you call your town?”

I swear to god Gogol Bordello have been to the annual Newtown Festival. I turned up today to what is self-described as “an iconic Sydney festival, creating an annual community celebration of creativity, diversity, sustainability and inclusion”.

What a load of utter bollocks. I mean, you could argue it is bad enough being in Newtown and that the wanker quota could not but go through the roof. This is true, but misses a bigger point.

Seriously, I mean, for fuck’s sake, why is it that *everything* in this fucking society gets fucking fucked up?

Fucking Newtown fucking festival, you fucking approach it and the streets are hot and packed and there are fucking pigs everywhere (which is just fucking unhygienic) and the cafes are in ceaseless competition with barbeques offering sausages in a roll that cost them probably 30 cents each for $3.50 and I found one offering them for a mere three bucks (though the manager conceded the smokey taste came from never cleaning the BBQ, so they no doubt save on labour costs).

And you approach the “festival” and dodge the pigs that occupy the centre of the roads leading to the park and you get to the park and are confronted with the fact the public fucking park is fucking surrounded by a three metre high fence and there is only a narrow fucking entry point and there is a fucking *queue* to get into a public fucking park!

And you look closer as you approach and realise the fucking entrance you have no fucking choice but to fucking use, along with hundreds of other fucking people at the same fucking time on this hot fucking day, is fucking infested with festival officials with buckets insisting you give a gold coin “donation” before you are allowed enter the *fucking* public *fucking* park!

And then you realise that *beyond* the officials with their buckets and their stupid fucking stickers to stick on those who “donated” lies the official security forces in strong numbers and they are fucking stopping every poor fucker with a fucking bag and searching it for fucking booze so that every single poor bastard who has braved it this far has absolutely no choice but to join a long fucking queue to buy overpriced fucking beer inside the fucking grounds.

And the fucking security that fucking swarm all over the fucking place are fucking keen to ensure no fucking unauthorised fucking material gets distributed or, for that fucking matter, no *authorised* material gets distributed in an *unauthorised* place. (“I’m sorry sir, you have to return to your designated stall area.”)

And it is too fucking hot and there are too many fucking people and it is like a fucking traffic jam on some corners and you can’t fucking move and the only free stuff being handed out are fucking DOG TREATS! What the fuck am I going to do with dog treats?

And, let us not forget what this is: a fucking “community” festival in a fucking public park! Why are their security officials swarming every fucking metre of it throwing hissy fits if you fucking breathe out of line? **

Why are the so many fucking pigs, including the surreal sight of pigs on horses, whose horses take the opportunity to fucking *shit* on the middle of the path in the middle of the stretch of fucking food stalls?

It has gotten worse over the years. I remember a few years back, sure it was overcrowded and too hot, but at least the public fucking park was not enclosed by fucking three metre high fucking fences so you have no choice but to join a queue just to enter the fucking place so the fucking pricks can search your bag to ensure you get price gouged every time you want a fucking drink.

Which, in the circumstances, is straight away and constantly.

And you could distribute or sell newspapers without being harassed outside some officially designated little fucking ghetto at the far end of nowhere.

I am sure there were many nice things going on and some good stalls and tasty food and decent bands. But if I had stayed long enough to find out, there would have been at least one unfortunate machete incident and I just don’t need that kind of trouble when I’ve got drinking to do.

As a great man once said: “The drinks were few and the people were many. It was everything I expected and less! I’m never going outside again, unless I need some place to throw up.”




“I guess you can’t expect much from the hometown. Well, I don’t know if you can even call it your own...” Gogol Bordello frontman Eugene Hutz makes the point accoustically.


** It is worth pointing out that the security official that broke the news to Carlo Sands that he should cease his attempt to sell Green Left Weekly on a shady corner in the middle of the *public* park was actually a really nice guy forced to do so by his boss, who was clearly embarrassed and in disagreement with his orders. The first time he came up and asked whether the paper was official material, and when I told him we had a stall looked overwhelmingly relieved and asked, for form’s sake, where it was over the other side of the festival. I had no idea where the proper GLW stall was so just said yes, which he was more than happy with.

But a minute or two later, even more sheepishly, he returned, completely apologetic, and said “I’m, sorry its my boss, he says you have to distribute material in your designated area”. And then he said, with real spite, “It’s fucking ridiculous!”, thus saving me the effort. Embarrassed, he told me he loves the good work Green Left does, and then conspiratorially, lent towards me and said: “Just sell on your way back, just walk around and sell ... I didn't tell you that that (wink)”

A lovely day

I had a lovely day today. A really great day. The sun was out in a shining, clear blue sky.

True, it is August and this is perhaps a little disturbing, but there is no reason for impending doom to impinge on a pleasant summer day in August in the southern hemisphere.

So, having nothing pressing today, I figured, hell, why not spend a lovely, pleasant day wandering through Newtown? Because I really felt like nothing more on this sunny blue-skied day than getting really fucking angry at all the wankers.

With the warm sun on my face, I stood admiring that park they have there. I forget its name, but it is opposite the Courthouse. That being how I navigate myself through the wide-world, by means of pub-landmarks.

I looked at the park, the green grass, the smattering of trees, so appealing in the sunshine. I thought to myself, how lovely would it be just to go and sit under one of those trees and while away the hours peacefully reading. What paradise!

Then I turned and looked at the Courthouse Hotel.

You can imagine what went through my mind. If you imagined it was “Jesus Christ, the pub’s open early”, you’d be right.

Of course, had you actually been there, which I happen to know for a fact you fucking weren’t, you may well have said: “What the fuck are you talking about Carlo? It is 10.45am! The fucking Courthouse has been open since 10!”

Well, obviously, I know that now. I subsequently made a point of checking its opening times. And if I had actually known this at 10am this morning, then my day would have been ever better.

So I made my way into the premises and ordered myself a schooner of God’s Own Urine (sold under the commercial label of VB).

Exactly what happened with the rest of the day I couldn’t tell you for sure. My memories are few indeed.

All I know is I woke up here, in front of this computer, and decided I had better tell you all straight away what a lovely day it is I have been having.

If you were in the vicinity of Newtown today, and I believe I was mostly frequenting King Street, and you happened to come across Carlo Sands, then I would like to offer a pre-emptive apology and a request as to whether you know the whereabouts of my pants.

I do have one recollection. I entered Gould’s Books for reasons unknown. While browsing innocently, I managed to knock over one of those random piles of books Bob Gould sees fit to leave lying around.

Stooping to repair the damage, I was asked by a man who I can only assume worked there: “Was there anything in particular you wanted?”

Well, yes, actually. I wanted not to have knocked over a large pile of fucking books. It is quite embarrassing and now I feel obliged to pick the fucking things up again. But its too fucking late to do anything about it now, isn’t it, you fucking strange Gould-slave person?

On my way out, I did try to steal Bob Gould’s pants. I remember I didn’t get very far, which, all things considered, is really for the best. Carlo Sands has very few standards, but even I draw the line at wearing Mr Gould’s trousers.

And the bastards actually expect us to live in this god forsaken city

Yes, Sydney.

Good god.

"Socialism or barbarism" said Rosa Luxemburg early last century. Well, a quick trip around Sydney will leave you will little doubt who won that particular battle.

Luckily, you don't actually have to do it yourself.

Here is a wonderful blog called
Tetherd Cow that has done that for you.

And summed it all up.

Brace yourself for the Bad Public Art of Sydney,

And keep a special eye out for the "Newtown bins" section.

What scum.

Short of fullscale rioting, the only solution I can see for those of us condemned to this hellhole/"modern metropolis" ends at closing time.