Booze Bar and Black

Even if you haven't been to the newly re-opened Beresford yet, no doubt you've heard about its sexy curved bar, its naff wine list (organised into cheap, decent, good), and, of course, its magnificent loos.

You've heard about the loos, right?

First, a word about how I ended up in The Beresford on a Tuesday night. We had gone to The Rocks for a bit of St Pats day cheer, but found the prospect of lining up for 30 minutes just to get into the pub, followed by 30 minutes of queuing for the bar, followed by standing outside and having drunk loud amateur drinker step on our toes just wasn't... cheering. T had noticed that the Columbian served Guinness, so up we trudged to Oxford Street. Now, while technically the Columbian does serve Guinness, it comes out of a can, which is poured into a glass, and the glass is then placed on some sort of sonic device which gives the beer a head. It was creepy.

So we went to the Beresford. Which doesn't serve Guinness at all. So we had two pints of Coopers instead.

The most noticeable thing about the toilets at the Beresford is that they're dark. Very dark.




The next noticeable thing is that they're dark. And also, the hand washing area is communal. I like this. It feels efficient.



And the next noticeable thing is that they're dark. And also, they have Dyson Airblades! It's a shame that more people don't know how to use these properly. They are an absolute revolution in hand drying technology. I couldn't find a really good clip which shows you how to use the Airblade properly (it's all about pulling your hands out slowly, people! Not plunging them in again and again!), so you will have to make do with this Shiny review.



Also, they're very dark. And they pour a rather nice pint of Coopers.



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Ring My Bell

Going for a walk to Kings Cross on Sunday, my pal and I found ourselves at Woollomooloo. It happens. We by-passed the (very famous) Harry's pie cart, past the (very renovated and dull looking) Wooloomooloo Bay Hotel and strolled straight into the Bells Hotel.

How this outback-Australiana-olde worlde-pubiness-pub survives in this location I can't understand. Many years ago some buddies and I drove from Lismore to Tenterfield for reasons which escape me now, but I do remember it involved a 21st birthday at the school at Mummulgum. Anyway, on this road trip, we passed through a town called Drake, a town which was so low-class backwater Deliverance scary that we wound our windows up and sped up just a notch. It was palpably different to all the other rather nice country towns we drove through. I'm not saying that the Bells Hotel is as scary as Drake - but it is completely incongruous in its location.

AND it serves XXXX Gold on tap.

My pal put ten bucks through a poker machine while I read the local Sydney City Council propaganda. The cricket was on. An old geezer took ten minutes to walk from the door to the bar and the barman came round and gave him a stool. The girlfriend/wife/drinking buddy of the barman was wearing short shorts and white sneakers and had hair the colour of skank. It was all I could want on a Sunday afternoon drinking session.

On returning from the gents, my pal said that the toilets were as olde worlde as the rest of the pub.

"Is it a long drop?" I asked.

"No," he said.

"Oh," I said. "Has it got one of those pull chain cisterns?"

He paused. "No," he said. "I guess it's just an old toilet."

Unfazed, I visited the ladies toilets. I was transported back to country towns and school toilets of my youth. Check out these awesome tiles.



The ladies toilets did, in fact, have a pull chain cistern, and also some really poignant graffiti (for 'poignant' read 'pissed').






The graffiti reads

Angelique 07
loves glamma
and goggles

Well. That's nice, Angelique 07.

Someone was so enamoured of this poem they wrote it twice.

AND ALL THE MIRRORS, RUSTED AND FLAKED
ARE SMUDGED WITH HARLEQUIN PAINT
And all the mirrors, rusted and flaked,
Are smudged with harlequin paint

I guess Angelique's friend felt the need to yell it out the first time and then repeat it quietly, sadly, looking down to her left, her hands clasped in front of her. Just for effect.



Thanks Bells. You were a lovely Sunday sesh.









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Water Under the Bridge

It's not often I get to review men's toilets. Swanning into the men's room with a camera and asking the chaps at the urinal to smile would probably land me in an uncomfortable situation. But, hell, maybe if I were drunk...

If you walk around The Rocks, up past the various over-priced but really very pleasant pubs, right up until you're under the Sydney Harbour Bridge itself, you'll find this curious landmark.


Some schoolboys who were walking past when I was taking the photo asked what I was taking a photo of. "It's a toilet," I said. They were amazed.





The Sydney Architecture website tells me that it is a 19th century cast iron urinal. The building is doorless and holds two side-by-side urinals of reasonable cleanliness. My friend took a piss in one and it seemed to perform its function adequately.






I notice, actually, that there's only one cistern for both urinals. That seems a dreadful waste of water. But then - I don't reckon these loos get used all that often.


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