Melbourne beards hate Anonymous (even more than Scientology)

It’s hard enough as it is to follow European football Down Under without bloody daylight savings coming on all hoity-toity with its “I’ll have that hour, thank you very much” and its scant Victorian regard for when the rest of the world decides to fuck with our body clocks.

But there you go, for every smart cafe, friendly face, outdoor bbq and sunny day on offer, there has to be an apple falling onto one’s head at the most inopportune of times to remind you of the world’s imperfections.

So, with Man Utd’s game against Blackburn now technically kicking off at 3.30am and Bruce having agreed to be at Mart 130 for breakfast with visitors from Blighty by 11am, things were always going to tricky. That Fran doubted his ability to remain civil after so little sleep and so many hours of drinking beforehand (with good reason, it must be said) only added to the conundrum.

Being Foxtel-less, the casino was the only option, but within mere seconds the place had almost flipped Bruce’s visitor’s opinion of Melbourne on its head: the hectic conveyor belt of tarted up, teetering 18-year-old bimbos, Jim Beam-swilling, $5 chip-dropping, tracksuited bogans and various other gambling addicted malcontents meant that plan was swiftly abandoned.

A dip into one of the identikit bars lining Southbank merely highlighted their mistake in leaving the safety of the Napier. It was time to head home… but not before Bruce had attempted to reclaim some of Melbourne’s tattered reputation.

“I hope it’s not too far away,” said the visiting Brummie when informed of the plan to hunt down a laneway bar. “I’m pretty tired.”

Big beardy brother

Given his past failures, Bruce was far from certain he could find his way back to Hell’s Kitchen, but he did. Scampering with relief down the graffiti-splattered laneway and up the stairwell where it resides they went and into the comforting arms of some Coopers and Mountain Goat.

“Sorry guys. We’ve got a wedding on here tonight and I’ve only just managed to clear everyone else out,” said the barman.

“Ah come on, we’ve had a funny kind of evening,” said Bruce. “We’ll sit in the corner and keep out of everyone’s way.”

“Oh, alright then,” said the barman. Thank God he opted for hospitality over defence…

Half a pint in and still at the bar rather than the promised corner, Bruce was musing on the works of Anonymous, the internet-based, loosely defined collective heralding from the 4chan series of bulletin boards who have garnered some mainstream notoriety for targeting Scientology with their pranks, including a number of marches, and allegedly hacking into that moron bint’s email account (the hacker claimed affiliation to Anonymous). As he did so, a pair of eyes bore into him from atop a hefty beard.

“Are you a member of Anonymous?” asked the mouth encircled by said hefty beard.

“No. Are you?” asked Bruce, adding: “Because if you are you’re not doing a very good job,” which seemed funnier at the time than it does in the cold light of day.

He wasn’t, but made it clear he thought the group were all wankers. Bruce’s visitor pondered whether their bearded interlocutor was on the payroll of Scientology – one of their spooks who goes around scaring off critics. More likely, he was spoiling for a 2am debate.

He didn’t get one, although did make it clear that he reserved more antipathy for Anonymous than Scientology arguing, it seemed, that, like AFL, the “content” of this fake, money-spinning religion was a harmless molehill and was made into a mountain by the attention lavished on it by others, such as Anonymous. He also added that AFL was the worst sport on the planet so quite clearly was spoiling for an argument.

Still, soon he took his views away and the pints were finished to a backdrop of classic late 80s and early 90s electro (well, except for the Peter Hook Monaco track that sucks balls). It left time to admire the pokey place that is Hell’s Kitchen: the admirably attired guests at the 1940s themed wedding reception, the racecard gambling board converted into a wall-mounted wine list, the tattoos on the bar staff – and to ponder why guests are allowed to smoke in the enclosed stairwell.

Enough, certainly, to forget that the clocks had just gone forward and they’d missed kick off.