Uber-hoppy beer and cinnamon-tinged ales @ Mountain Goat

Mountain Goat have installed Victoria’s first “Hopinator” – a cylindrical machine fastened to the bar that can be filled with anything from fresh hop flowers (as above where their organic IPA is being poured through a load of fragrant Galaxy hop flowers) to cinnamon sticks, coffee beans and fruit. Any of their beers can then be directed through Randy (short for Randall the Handle, apparently, after they stopped calling it the Hopinator out of deference to Holgate Brewery’s not-for-the-faint-hearted 7% Double IPA of the same name) for a last minute burst of extra flavour.

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Lovely people, lovely place: Prince Albert, Williamstown

Fran, were she to be a character in a computer game a la Tekken or Soul Blade, would reward gamers who unlock her special move by pressing X-A-A-UP-L2-B-B-DOWN-LEFT-CIRCLE CLOCKWISE-A-B-hold L1-X by taking both sets of house keys with her to work and leaving said gamer locked in their house for the day.

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Collingwood’s subcultures: Zed’s not dead, baby

“You should come and join us. We’re always looking for new owners.”

“We’re heading to the G,” he said. “The game starts in an hour. Sorry.”

He’ll be back, though. Gimp mask and all.

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The Hoonmobile validated

It took him back to Sunday nights in Nottingham, when the local retards would gather from across the Midlands to parade their modified Vauxhall Novas, Ford Fiestas and Citroen 2CVs around the “circuit” in one of the most pitiful and misconceived attempts at manliness (far less glamorous than its assumed title, the “circuit” was actually a small ring road around an ugly 70s concrete stack car park).

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Richmond: the Clapham of the south?

Worse still, it felt like a night out in Clapham, home to the tiresome boors churned out by the UK’s public school system as they spend their first few years post-university chucking up in the street outside bland, uber-chain bars and restaurants, spending the money they’ve earnt at their respective bank / consultancy firm / marketing department on nights out with friends called Squelch and Tiddles while they wait to accrue enough cash to move to a small mansion in the Home Counties and squirt out children called Squiddles and Bump all the while ensuring class hatred bubbles along nicely.

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