Nostalgia

The human needed an outing last Sunday, so I took him along to visit his old local pub, among the smallest and certainly the most hidden in Sydney, named after a bloke who specialised in massacring native populations armed to the teeth with viciously sharp slices of mango. This fine hostelry was also the pre- and post-work watering-hole of one Neddy Smith, continuing in the fine tradition of a suburb named after the legal technicality on which its founder escaped a court-martial.

All these crimes pale into insignificance compared with the small-minded buffoons and other lowlife who revoked their licence to allow people to drink in the park outside a couple of years ago: there are promises, promises of a partial reprieve but I remain suspicious.

The humans seemed to enjoy themselves, though I was a little worried about being kidnapped by the imperious cockatiel that strutted up and down the bar and would share complimentary chips and peanuts with nobody. So much for my offer of a diplomatic posting.

No Dinner Ale to be had, sadly, on tap or in bottles. Another reason the worthless human has to find himself somewhere to move in and set to work brewing beer with bits in it!