Chapter 7

Truth or Tooheys?

Much has been written and published, in newspapers, internet journals, blogs and bulletin boards about the reasons Lewis and I stopped drinking at the Laurel Hotel in Ascot Vale. I’d like to set the record straight and put paid to the wild rumours and absurd speculation bandied about by various authors who really don’t know their facts.

When the old Prince of Wales closed its doors we kindly decided to stay local and give the nearby Laurel Hotel the benefit of our patronage. What hotel wouldn’t welcome with open arms a hard-drinking, free-spending crew of misfits, drug dealers, SP bookmakers, standover men, their various clients and other ‘good old boys’ – regular but semi-retired types? We had a grand old time at the Laurel for many years, busily transacting business via mobile calls, usually answered as Lewis took three leisurely steps from our bar space to the bitumen outside.

In the late 1990s however, the pub owners saw potential to improve, without us around. The bar crowd in general was a diverse lot. There were tradies, businessmen, students, lawyers, sporting club members, lots of footballers and the like. Most bar meals were around $10 and if you wanted something more upmarket, they did it very well in their bistro. All in all, it was a very well-run and thriving establishment. But little did the regulars know that was all about to change.

Our first couple of nights at the Laurel went fairly smoothly, although there may have been a small scuffle as a few patrons needed to be convinced that our regular positions and stools at the bar were not to be messed with. Overall, we were still quite content. What could be better, we thought, than our blessed Carlton Draught on tap, served in our usual chalice of choice – a six-ounce glass?

So, our crew made it known that we would assume the best possies whenever we were at the Laurel. But over time an old guard at the bar, the pre-Moran patrons, apparently infected the owners with their discomfort at our patronage. Perhaps they were also pissed off because the lights were often so dim it was easy for our boys to lift a few stray wallets carelessly left at the bar. The cash contents were soon appropriated for the Moran social club, the wallet tossed. But as our circle expanded we noticed that various other patrons forsook their usual habits and moved on to other pubs in the area.

Never mind though, we more than made up for the shortfall with an influx of good old boys who flocked to Lewis’s side. Add to that the thrill seekers, the crime groupies and wannabes who could tell their friends that they drank at the same establishment as the Morans. Sometimes Jason or one of his cronies had to mete out some simple punishment when resentment at our takeover from a pre-Moran regular led to a rush of blood to their head. Occasionally an old diehard would need a bit of a tickle if beer had made them braver than they ought to be, and they stupidly challenged the new order.

At times the claret and other more full-bodied reds flowed freely at the Laurel and none so much as the night of Derby Day at Flemington Racecourse, a few kilometres away. Mark and his party, resentful at the outrageous treatment they were given by cops after a wild brawl at the gallops, gave an exhibition to all and sundry and showed by example that you don’t mess with the Morans. Jason was also at the pub, so that was enough for him to join in.

It started outside a marquee specially set up for Derby Night, and then through to the hotel’s inside bar where Lewis and I stood, finally reaching a conclusion in the lounge. That was around 25 metres’ worth of misery for anyone in the path of the Moran crew. They left a trail of broken, squealing bodies. It was messy.

‘Look at that,’ Lewis commented almost casually, certainly none too fussed, ‘I think it’s three broken noses now.’ Probably a conservative estimate, I thought, and that was the damage done before the boys and their cohorts had even reached the lounge. As Mark, Jason and their cronies departed the scene – or decamped in court-speak – Lewis and I clutched our sixers and gave thanks that all was well with the world.

In retrospect, that incident was the straw that broke that camel’s back, in terms of the publican’s tolerance. It wasn’t too long before a plan was hatched by the owners to rid themselves of the pestilence they knew as the Moran crew. Phase one occurred one night when we were told that, unfortunately, the pub had run out of six-ounce glasses, and further supplies were ‘unobtainable’. Unobtainable, my arse, I thought, as did everyone else in our crew. The tone and delivery of the announcement, almost abrupt yet stilted by nervous fear, seemed to imply that our circle was responsible for the breakages. Horseplay by the boys did tend to get a little rough, but we didn’t suffer the indignity of being fingered like that too well.

Our displeasure was obviously sensed by the two bar owners who stood at a safe distance before us, twitching, tugging their forelocks, and grovelling to the beer gods. One bent, or rather swayed, forward, back, then forward again in what seemed to be multiple mea culpas. It turned out to be an offer of pots. We were gobsmacked, struck silent for a few moments as the other bar partner scuttled away.

The immediate thoughts of Lewis and myself hardly needed to be said, our minds were a mirror image on matters of beer. We would have surely drowned if we tried to drink these trendy pots, our usual six-ounce glasses turned into bloody ten-ounce buckets. The bar partner who had slunk away during the great glass announcement was never seen again, as long as we were there. Someone said sometime later that he had gone to a monastery. More like a madhouse, I thought. So back at the bar that night, after the initial shock wave, I suddenly had a bright idea.

‘Fear not,’ I said, turning toward Lewis, ‘I have a friend in the catering caper and I’m sure he’ll get us some six-ouncers. That way this fine establishment here can continue to serve Carlton’s finest as it is meant to be served.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the lone remaining publican clutch his heart with one hand and with the other implore the bar staff for help to steady him. He whispered through his dry contorted lips, ‘For God’s sake, tell me I didn’t hear Bert say that!’

Imagine his consternation the next night when I waltzed in and placed a carton of 72 six-ounce glasses on the bar. ‘There you go,’ I announced, ‘and it’s only 72 bucks for the whole box.’ The publican was so taken with gratitude he struggled to voice his thanks. It was only with the help of his bar manager that he could steady his trembling hand long enough to hammer back a glass of brandy. Then he seemed to recover just enough to mutter his eternal gratitude for our patronage and wellbeing, through clenched lips.

Time passed, perhaps months, at the Laurel, without any real incident. But Lewis and I knew we were doomed. It was only a matter of time before this scheming publican would turn the tables on us. And when he did, it was with a plan so devious it must have been concocted in hell itself. So simple really, but borne out of desperation, it was the only step they could take.

The Laurel turned Carlton turncoat. They did a deal with Tooheys, to us a dreaded NSW brewery that only dealt in misery and the devil’s own piss. Mere mention of the name struck fear into every decent beer swilling denizen of Victoria, nurtured on Carlton and United. How desperate they must have been to rid themselves of this scourge that was the Morans, a presence eating away like a cancer at their perceived pub royalty status. We mounted the only passive rearguard action we could: Lewis and I moved to the packaged Carlton beer still available, he to rounds of Crown Lager and myself to Vic Bitter. But the writing was on the wall.

There was an uneasy truce that could be sensed at the bar as our being forced into the purchase of packaged beer took its toll, both financially and health wise. The inflated prices and quantities of each serve meant that we almost doubled our consumption as we tried to match our order rate to that of our beloved six-ouncers. Lewis was desperate for relief from what he made out to be an overwhelming financial burden, though of course still making a mint behind the scenes, as his grumbles intensified. His visitors were dropping off like flies, his court of crime fans was crumbling. With no Carlton on tap and the gangland war clouds gathering, there were fewer and fewer associates about to help Lewis augment his finances. There were no more large rounds, no more loose change left on the bar, waiting to be scooped up by his arthritic hands. The Brunswick Club, with all its inherent dangers, was looking like an option.

There was one Sunday night in particular when our unease at the Laurel came to a crashing climax. Lewis and I were alone in the public bar, isolated we thought, and I’d had a gutful of the crap we were getting from the pub and its staff. We were getting the cold shoulder from the barmaid when I erupted. She was on the fucken phone, and told me to hang on as I signalled for a round for the third time. Half-a-dozen empty stubbies were on the bar, still not cleared away by this slovenly beer bitch, so I angrily swept them off the bar and scattered them in every direction.

‘Let’s go,’ I said to Lewis, ‘Stuff this place!’ With that, we were gone and the rest is history. We became regulars at the Brunswick Club and there we became casualties of war. Suppose the same could be said of Tooheys, the NSW invasion that failed, because the Laurel had to return to Carlton to survive.