How the mighty have fallen! The sad decline of the ex-Shannon Hotel

Every day in this late monolopy capitalist hellscape brings fresh horror. It starts to numbs you. 

But as I scrolled thoughtlessly through instagram in a depserate bid to mine some hidden store of dopamine from my social media-wrecked brain, the algorythm produced a reel so blood curdling, I dropped my phone and let out a shriek that startled nearby passengers on the inevitably not-moving Sydney train.

The "Chipo Hotel", the ad proudly declared of the venue on Abercrombie Street in Chippendale, was now Australia's "first 100% fully vegan pub and bistro".

Now I have nothing against vegan options in food and drink. I have nothing against entirely vegan outlets being opened. It is a dietary choice made by many people and should be catered for. 

(I do have an issue with what is actually The Chippendale Hotel giving itself a very presumptuous, overly familiar, "matey" nickname, but that's something every inner-suburban pub does to fake actual public affection and distract from the fact 80% of the pub's floor space and more of its revenue is just pokies.)

No. My blood was chilled because this is hallowed ground.

Long before this was "The Chippo", as they so desperately want to be known, before even that brief unspeakable phase when it was "The Lybrary" and its walls were plastered with fake-book wallpaper, this was The Shannon Hotel.

The symbolism of the decline of human civilisation could not be greater. What is now Australia's first ever 100% vegan pub and bistro was once a dive so great, I wrote my first ever post on this blog 18 years ago in its honour.

Stuck in a then non-glamorous location in Chippendale in inner Sydney (this was before they ethnically cleansed the Redfern Block just up the street), it was a hangover from a brief period in the 90s when Irish pubs were considered a bit trendy. 

The trend ended, leaving Paddy, The Shannon's grey-haired Irish bar manager, to pour beers for what one online reviewer called "drunk losers". 

That critic missed a key point: the very fact it was "filthy" and "a complete dive" meant that the patrons might be drunk losers. but the patrons were few and far between.

In The Shannon, Monday to Sunday, you could have a whole pub almost entirely to yourself. And if you caught a slight whiff of urine from the toilets, that just meant you needed another drink, 

No worries, Paddy would sort you out -- a one-man rebuttal to those who think the "alcoholic Irish" stereotype is unfair, and who remains to this day the only bar manager I have ever seen escorted from his own venue for being too intoxicated. 

And you had to be very intoxicated to be escorted from The Shannon Hotel.

Back then, the place was just up the road from The Resistance Centre, where a bunch of us "radical activists" worked long hours dedicated to building the socialist utopia that the world is today. We did a lot of Palestinian solidartiy campaigning, resolving that conflict once and for all. Transforming the world is thirsty work, The Shannon was close and cheap.

It had entertainment that the "Chippo" will never match. There was a jukebox that Paddy would gladly sling you a bunch of $2 coins from the till to play -- on the unspoken agreement you would always and without fail play "Ordinary Man" by famed Irish folk singer Christy Moore. 

That sad ballad decrying the devastating impact of Thatcherism, told through the eyes of a working-class man chucked out of work, seemed on endless repeat. For a decent chunk of my life, I knew not just every word but ever beat of the song, the despair in Moore's voice as he sung "you stripped me bare!" seared into my soul. 

It had other attractions too.

Wanna play pool? Paddy -- I think he was keen for company -- would chuck you more two buck coins from the till. Once you learned to avoid the cigarette burn pockmarks, you could play a decent game, with most of the balls generally present. 

You could also play darts. 

Very few places these days are willing these days to hand over a half-dozen sharp miniature metal arrows to a bunch of drunks to fling about in yet another example of health and safety gone mad. Not a problem at The Shannon.

Not that Paddy didn't take health and safety seriously.

Once I was there drinking and playing pool with the impish Young Tim (he's older now but he's still Young Tim to me). Having consumed more than the medically recommended daily intake of standard drinks, Young Tim thought it would be a good idea to try to "spear" me by chucking his pool cue half way across the room in my general direction, rather than just taking his fucking shot like I wanted, managing  only to smash his own half-filled schooner, sending glass and beer flying.

When Tim went to the bar, Paddy poured a new beer to replace the spilled one, no charge. 

Then Tim spilled another. And then another. 

Finally, after the fourth beer, a fed-up Paddy shook his head as he poured one more "free of charge" replacement, and said sternly: "Now this is your last one!"

At the end of the night, as Tim staggered towards the door, Paddy thrust a $20 note into his hand to get a taxi home safely. That is a concern for health and safety that I will happily gamble the "Chippo" will never match.

Another time, a bunch of us were there at a table that had those high chairs, and someone poked Emma (who to be fair was already not walking straight when we arrived), causing her to topple off the chair, spilling her gin and tonic.

Paddy rushed straight round from behind the bar, helped her back up into her seat and then returned with a fresh g+t, free of charge.

Now if you've ever seen what a drunk Emma could do when denied a g+t, you would appreciate Paddy's commitment to health and safety of all patrons, and broader society in general,

The Shannon also had it's resident weed dealer, Toothless John. An aging hippy who'd seen better days (he earned that nickname), he would sit in the corner most nights, nursing a beer and doing the crossword. If asked, he'd sell you some really crappy weed, but only in really small deals.

In clearly poor health, surviving mostly on the disability pension, Toothless John taught us how to play the darts games Micky Mouse and Killer. And his weed may have been shit, but he was consistent. You always knew where to find him.

He used to live in a shitty apartmennt not far from The Shannon, struggling with the effort of the stairs as he went to collect what he considered $20 worth of weed scraps. There are no Toothless John's in Chippendale these days.

Even the poor guy's livelihood of selling poor quality weed to supplement the once-sort-of-livable disability pension has been taken by big pharma medicialising recreational cannabis consumption. We no longer get wasted with homemade bucket bongs, instead we pay much higher prices for prescriptions to "treat our conditions".

Ultimately, The Shannon could never survive -- even without the gentrification, giving a bunch of broke alcoholics an endless supply of two buck coins to play Christy Moore songs is not much of a business model.

The decline of The Shannon started long ago. I published an Open Letter on this very blog back in 2008 warning of the inevitable consequences of a bunch of rennovationsthen under way.  This is just the final, inevitable conclusion of a long process.

Are there any Shannons anywhere today? From what I can see, outer-surbuban dives have been replaced as well -- by soulless pokie palaces with a bar attached so they can still call themselves a pub on a technocality.

The scene is bleak. The Shannon Hotel is now 'The Chippo', Australia's first 100% vegan pub and bistro. Jesus fucking wept.

'... I'm just an ordinary man, nothing special, nothing grand'

It gets worse...

Clearly my open letter to The Shannon Hotel has failed to have the desired effect.

Someone suggested nailing to the front door, Martin Luther-style. Something has to be done, because things go from bad to worse.

I walked in last Sunday evening, and — oh good god I wish to hell I was making this up — in front of the jukebox that usually seduces us with Kenny Rogers words of wisdom was... a fucking live jazz band.

Fucking middle class, white males in their mid-to-late twenties looking ridiculously smug and wearing fucking stupid hats.

Playing jazz.

In the Shannon.

Now, I know they are trying to go for a better class of customer, but seriously, hiring a jazz ensemble is degenerating into self-parody.

There they were on the stained green carpet — the bass player, keyboardist, bongo player and jazz drummer. Uttering inanities like: "It's great to see you all here, down at The Shannon!!!"

A sentiment most certainly not returned.

Then, and this is where it gets really horrible, they would proceed to actually play jazz.

Don't get me wrong. I am not against live music in the pub. The Shannon has something of a tradition of it.

However, it usually involves an acoustic guitar and lots of drunken shouting about whiskey in being in the goddam' jar and kissin' yer love by the factory wall. When that belle's down from Belfast City, that is.

Seriously, this is the first live music act in The Shannon's until now quite proud history to not offer up a version of Ordinary Man. I honestly don't think they even knew how to play it.

As that song exists on permanent jukebox rotation, there is little doubt in my mind that a thorough investigation into this incident (which, at the very least, is called for) would establish that the time from start to finish of the jazz ensemble was the single longest time period in The Shannon's history without Christy Moore's classic tale of working class suffering at the hands of Thatcher being played.

I just don't know what can be done. I am rapidly losing hope. If my plea remains unheard, I may have no choice but to consider escalating the campaign.

A threat to liberty anywhere is a threat to liberty everywhere, as Martin Luther King Jnr once said.

Let us also not forget that he also said: “Those who make a peaceful revolution impossible make violent revolution inevitable”.

I have no wish to cause unnecessary trouble or any harm to innocent lives.

However, let this be noted — if the next time I walk into the once great Shannon Hotel, I find a motherfucking jazz ensemble between me and the jukebox, then I cannot be held responsible for the consequences.

Dear The Shannon Hotel: You've changed

This is an open letter to The Shannon Hotel. I can only hope that my voice reaches at least one sympathetic ear within The Shannon establishment, someone who will listen to my plea and seek to act on it, by whatever means are necessary.

***

Dear The Shannon Hotel,

As you know, I have been a loyal customer for many years now, even before I lived in Sydney.

I remember the days when I would come up from the "Australian Siberia" (what crimes saw me exiled to Canberra I of course cannot mention in decent company) for day-long meetings of the Central Committee of the Beer and its Role in Human Development; or Where Karl Marx Went Wrong in His Assessment of the Motor Force of History Society.

And, with the inevitability of one of those iron laws of history, The Shannon would be the port of call to recuperate from the intensity of the polemics and factional wars that mark any organisation dedicated to such an important cause.

In those days, a beer garden, free BBQ on Sundays, and a secluded upstairs area with pool table where all sorts of deals could be concluded in privacy — this made you the loved place you were.

That was before all the renovations.

They have taken some time, haven't they?

Not that I ever complained. Hell no! I stood by you. Because I believed in you and everything you stood for.

And when I moved to Sydney, I made you my de facto home.

The reasons is simple.

You, The Shannon, have been defined, more than anything else, by the absence of other people.

Whereas others recoiled in horror at that stench of urine that did pervade your premises for quite some time, I rejoiced!

Because, like any decent pesticide, it kept away forces that stink much worse — the scum of society.

Which, of course, is most of it.

The Shannon Hotel has been called many things, but a cool nightspot for young happening things has never been one of them.

Your chief charm was that, of the tiny numbers who knew of your existence, the majority went out of their way to avoid you.

Oh the peace and quiet! Oh the joy those days held!

You've changed, man.

I hate to be the one to have to say it, but it has to be said. Consider this an intervention.

These days, your "renovations" are pretty much complete. The place is officially "upgraded".

And, against all expectations, this move appears to be working in its bid to actually get human beings walking through the door.

Now, on any given Friday or Saturday, The Shannon Hotel is full of youths.

And good god, is it horrible.

When I started this blog, my very first entry was an ode to you.

Now, no longer can it be said that The Shannon "is a fucking great place for your modern alcoholic to get away from the mobs of marauding young people with their pierced toenails and stupid ring tones, and enjoy a decent drink."

I have nothing against crowds per se. The Phoenix Hotel down there in Hell, finest pub known to humanity, is often full.

But of the right sort of people.

The Shannon too, on rare occasions, would be packed out. But of drunks. (Or Irish people, as they prefer to be known).

But you invite the average punter and you invite in the average fuckwit.

You get drunken young men who proceed to sexually harass any female under 90 years of age within a 75 metre radius of them.

You attract people, you get scum.

We had to fucking flee your premises the other night, so harassed was a female friend when we were just trying to FUCKING PLAY A GAME OF POOL!

This was in The Shannon.

Hell, The Claire, just off Broadway only five minutes walk and full of students? Well what else would you expect?

But The Shannon? God help us all.

It isn't that I don't approve of attempts to make the place better. I like your new beer garden, I really do. It is quite pleasant out there.

And yes, I know. The Rose and the Lansdowne have more people on a Friday or Saturday than you do.

But that is not the point. (And, while we are on the topic, at least the Lansdowne offers a cheap $5 meal deal for it's customers. Apparently. So I have heard.)

But this is not about them. Seriously, if the Rose offered to jump off a bridge to attract the cool young brigade that take up space with their delusions that they aren't actually irrelevant pieces of shit that get in the way, would you do it too?

I don't blame you for seeking new custom. I understand. We've all got bills to pay.

But c'mon! Don't go selling your soul!

We had something. We never cared for the outside world. With the Guinness flowing and the dart board free, we fucking rocked.

Just think about that.

Yours in abuse of alcohol,

Carlo Sands

Drinking will help your career!

Don't believe those health-freak Nazis.

This article *proves* that the more you drink the more successful you will be, and the more money you will earn. Just think of all the expensive drinks you could buy with that extra money!

Although, strangely, the theory about great career and financial advancement going hand in hand with drinking doesn't seem to apply to me... Maybe I don't drink enough?

Or maybe the regulars at The Shannon don't qualify as the sort of "schmoozing" the article registers as likely to lead the career advancement...


Does Drinking Help Your Career?

A new study has stirred up debate about what role socializing plays in
the workplace.

Peter Hoy
Inc.com

While many were quick to dismiss the findings of a recent study
showing that drinkers make more on average than those that abstain
from alcohol, a number of CEOs cite a direct connection between
socializing and career advancement.

Regular drinkers make 10% to 14% more money than those who do not
drink, according to the study, conducted by the Journal of Labor
Research, published quarterly by the Department of Economics at George
Mason University, and the Reason Foundation, a Los Angeles-based think
tank.

full article

‘Filthy and full of drunk losers ... A complete dive’

This is my first post and my first piece of advice as part of an alcoholic’s guide to modern life is you need to find yourself a good home.


For me there is no question: it is the Shannon Hotel in Chippendale (inner-inner city Sydney).

A lovely review of this delightful drinking hole can be found here

Some of the comments posted include:

"What a miserable place. Filthy and full of drunk losers..."

"A complete dive. Full of pissed middle aged yobos."

"Full of sleazy barman [sic] and low life sad, insecure alcoholic punters."

and

"Great place for squatters!"

But some of the comments are negative.

In other words, it is a fucking great place for your modern alcoholic to get away from the mobs of marauding young people with their pierced toenails and stupid ring tones, and enjoy a decent drink.

There is nothing worse than trying to enjoy the process of getting drunk surrounded by large numbers of people who are a thousand times more attractive and cooler than you. It is simply distracting.

The Shannon presents no such problems. It is a pub that, trying to be nice, the best thing the reviewer can say about it is it has its own dartboard.

But it is a good dart board, and most importantly, almost always available.

It is an Irish pub, which is defined as one in which the bar manager is always drunk. Paddy, god bless his soul, is no exception. Ever.

He is the only bar manager I have ever seen be thrown out of his own pub. When asked about the incident later, he claimed he wasn't being ejected, merely helped to the door.

And anti-smoking laws remain a "nice theory" within the Shannon's walls.

This, no doubt, makes me a "sad, low life alcoholic". I can only hope so.

At least the rest of you bastards are not getting under my fucking feet when I am trying to down my umpteenth schooner and aim for the general vicinity of the dartboard.

All that said, I do have to confess that if I was to offer one point of constructive criticism, it would be that perhaps The Shannon Hotel could be improved by, maybe, the occasional cleaning of the toilets.

Just a suggestion.