Boyz N The 'Wick
On 'norchy's main drag is a little white tooth in a mouth full of fillings. A shining sanctuary for the cavalcade of lost souls that traipse through days from 9 to 5. A haven to split the shackles that stay fashioned to ankles all the rattling week. Housed within the ornate heritage listed façade is more than just a local watering hole, to these punters it's a place to call home.
During a recent pilgrimage to my former stompin' ground I was eager to exchange pleasantries with some of my old muckers and relive our knock-about antics over an ale or two. The rendezvous was to be the Elwick Hotel, or as the regular bar flies know it, the 'wick. It may look like your average little suburban ale house- old crusties holding court with half pints and cracked smiles on their capillary split faces- but only after sampling the local fare can you truly appreciate the charms of this diamond in the rough. Where else can you enjoy a game of stick over a 10oz of Cascade Draught that has been lovingly served by a barmaid on par with the Gardners, Garbos, Bergmans, Bacalls and Hepburns of a bygone era? Where else can you nosh back a chicken, cheese and chili toasted sarny, with only the occasional bit of plastic, for $1.85? I ask you again... Where?... NOWHERE!
I assume it is these unique qualities and geographical convenience that have made this establishment so popular with my posse. My good friend Pom is the elder statesman of the 'wick. Possessing the same gregarious manner as Norm from Cheers, he is known to the Stubby clad brigade as "Sticks", "Garvey" or just good old fashioned "Will". He can often be found in the lounge or front bar, drowning the sorrows that are par for the course when battling the aftermath of harlotry most vicious. His trusty sidekick, and self proclaimed best mate, Buddha Brown is the TasKeno ticket grasper of the bunch. He sits on the edge of his bar stool, jaw jutted and eyes fixed, muttering encouragement at the dogs or trotters running their circuit. Moz rounds out the trio of Townies turned Tradies with his heart-warming tales from days of yore. You can see the memories of Bill, Trish, Pete, Tom and other note-worthy Arthur luminaries, Billy Hunt and a prisoner called Lang float before his welling eyes as he stares with plaintive nostalgia.
As of January 1, 2006 Tasmania has introduced an embargo on darting in pubs. This is detrimental to all three of our protagonists, as they now have to step outside to enjoy a smoke. They are forced to file out with bowed heads into an enclosure resembling a prison style exercise yard. There is no view beyond the plasterboards and crash barriers; they are forced to stare at the behemoth representative of modern consumerism, Big W. They shuffle about like lab rats in cages, butting their ash into upturned pots filled with sand and shaking their heads at the state of the world.
As Mike Skinner says though, "Dry your eyes mate." head back in for a sanga, game of stick and let that 50's film star ease your world-weary woes with a beer, or a coke for B.
Cheers.
During a recent pilgrimage to my former stompin' ground I was eager to exchange pleasantries with some of my old muckers and relive our knock-about antics over an ale or two. The rendezvous was to be the Elwick Hotel, or as the regular bar flies know it, the 'wick. It may look like your average little suburban ale house- old crusties holding court with half pints and cracked smiles on their capillary split faces- but only after sampling the local fare can you truly appreciate the charms of this diamond in the rough. Where else can you enjoy a game of stick over a 10oz of Cascade Draught that has been lovingly served by a barmaid on par with the Gardners, Garbos, Bergmans, Bacalls and Hepburns of a bygone era? Where else can you nosh back a chicken, cheese and chili toasted sarny, with only the occasional bit of plastic, for $1.85? I ask you again... Where?... NOWHERE!
I assume it is these unique qualities and geographical convenience that have made this establishment so popular with my posse. My good friend Pom is the elder statesman of the 'wick. Possessing the same gregarious manner as Norm from Cheers, he is known to the Stubby clad brigade as "Sticks", "Garvey" or just good old fashioned "Will". He can often be found in the lounge or front bar, drowning the sorrows that are par for the course when battling the aftermath of harlotry most vicious. His trusty sidekick, and self proclaimed best mate, Buddha Brown is the TasKeno ticket grasper of the bunch. He sits on the edge of his bar stool, jaw jutted and eyes fixed, muttering encouragement at the dogs or trotters running their circuit. Moz rounds out the trio of Townies turned Tradies with his heart-warming tales from days of yore. You can see the memories of Bill, Trish, Pete, Tom and other note-worthy Arthur luminaries, Billy Hunt and a prisoner called Lang float before his welling eyes as he stares with plaintive nostalgia.
As of January 1, 2006 Tasmania has introduced an embargo on darting in pubs. This is detrimental to all three of our protagonists, as they now have to step outside to enjoy a smoke. They are forced to file out with bowed heads into an enclosure resembling a prison style exercise yard. There is no view beyond the plasterboards and crash barriers; they are forced to stare at the behemoth representative of modern consumerism, Big W. They shuffle about like lab rats in cages, butting their ash into upturned pots filled with sand and shaking their heads at the state of the world.
As Mike Skinner says though, "Dry your eyes mate." head back in for a sanga, game of stick and let that 50's film star ease your world-weary woes with a beer, or a coke for B.
Cheers.
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